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istorkyou · 2 years

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Hearts Of Glass (Modern!Ivar AU)

Hearts Of Glass (Modern!Ivar AU)

A Modern!Ivar x reader

Warning - language. mentions of death and grief, mentions of suicide. Grumpy Ivar, alcohol use.

Synopsis - Can a healed heart stay healed forever?

To the wonderful @punkrocknpearls who has sifted tirelessly, for hours and hours and hours and hours correcting my terrible punctuation, adding beautiful lines and tolerating my change of POVs

Who has held my hand from across the globe and been a treasured guide in the journey that is my first fic.

Thank you is not enough. You are the tits!

Tag list @smears-and-spots @out-of-the-box-and-into-alchemy @zuxiezendler

Masterpost

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Chapter 2

After a morning of spreadsheets, calls to contractors, and having to crack the whip a couple of times with suppliers you are suitably pissed off and need a drink. The clock says 12.30pm, but you have already had enough of everyone's shit. Balls to it, you think to yourself, it’s 5 o’clock somewhere.

You get ready quickly, the usual jeans with a black shirt and a denim jacket. You can hear music coming from Ivar’s room. You weigh up your options: drink alone like a total sad sack or see if the world's most stoic man fancies tagging along?

You knock on his door.

“What?” is his response. You push the door open and find him propped up on his bed with his laptop.

“Are you working?” He gestures at the laptop and makes an “obviously” face.

“Do you want to come and day drink?”

“Definitely, this day is shit.” He slams the laptop shut, swings his legs over the edge of the bed and starts to pull on his braces.

“I know no good bars so you lead the way.” You say as you retreat to give him privacy to change.

He takes you to an Irish bar not far from the house, you smile at the decor: rough and ready, like the pubs at home. You had him down for a pretentious cocktail bar kind of guy so this choice is surprising.

“I like this place” You smile as you are looking around.

“What do you want?” He asks, a tiny smile plays on the corner of his lips.

“I’m buying, I invited you.”

“Guinness and whiskey, no ice.”

“Guinness doesn’t usually come with ice,” you retort. An epic eye roll comes your way.

Ivar finds a table and sits down before you order. You take the drinks back to the table.

“Cheers,” you say, lifting your beer bottle.

“Skål,” he says, you clink glasses and both drink looking into each other eyes

“Seven years bad sex if you don’t look at each other,” you remind him, and he huffs a laugh.

There is silence for a while, and you look around at the Irish memorabilia and take a gulp from your beer.

“So, what’s your deal?” he suddenly asks.

“Deal?” You drink more beer trying to hide a trickle of panic slipping down your spine.

“Why have you moved here? I've heard you work, and you employ a project manager so you could work from anywhere in the world, you don’t seem to know anyone, don't speak the language so why here?”

“I stuck a pin in a map,” you answer bluntly.

“Ok, but why were you sticking pins in maps to begin with?” Ivar pushes.

“Because.” You try not to get irritated with him.

“I can be just as nosey as you can, so why are you here?” Ivar shifts forward in his seat and raises his eyebrows quizzically.

You study his face, your mind racing. Do you want to tell him? Ivar doesn’t strike you as the type of person who would offer any sympathy in the saddest of situations, so you don't think he would give you the dreaded head tilt, and as you barely speak anyway you won’t notice any change if he does. You knock back your whiskey and let the burn engulf your throat.

“I needed a change. Just temporarily,” is all you offer.

“Ok, but why?” He’s like a dog with a bone. You squirm and he notices, seemingly doubling down to push harder. “You were in quite a state last week, what was wrong? You murder someone?” He narrows his eyes in suspicion.

“Not yet but if you keep pushing this I might,” you say jokingly. Ivar laughs. You haven’t seen him laugh before. His face changes completely. He is suddenly open and his body language blooms, he relaxes. Ivar's face tells you as he resigned to not getting the information out of you. Not today at least.

The rest of the day flows by. He’s surprisingly easy to talk to, and funny. He matches you when you take the piss out of him. The discussions turn to both of your work: you explain your business and he tells you stories of the places he’s visited around the world as a freelance photographer. You’ve lost count of the number of drinks you’ve had but you are feeling pretty drunk now, the whiskey has definitely affected you. You need to get home, eat and sleep before the world starts spinning any harder.

“Let's get a wriggle on then, I'm trollied,” you say to him and it’s clear he has no idea what that means. “Let’s retreat home promptly, I’m very drunk,” you rephrase using a posh English accent the Queen would be proud of.

“Why didn’t you just say that?” he laughs.

“Hey, I’m trying to learn your language, you have to try and learn the way English people actually talk!”

Once at home you make some toast, that probably will not be enough to soak up all the alcohol you’ve had, so a hangover is inevitable.

“Cheers for coming out with me today, I needed it.”

He waves his hand dismissively as he settles on the couch.

You are at the foot of the stairs when you turn to him, look at the back of his head and make a snap decision to tell him. You're not really sure what’s made you decide to tell him, probably the whiskey.

“My husband died. Two years ago. Cancer. That’s why I am here. I needed to change something, I needed to get away.”

Ivar turns towards you. His expression is neutral: no sympathy, no shock, no dreaded head tilt.

“Bet you wish that pin would have landed in the Bahamas or somewhere hot.” His response is so unexpected you laugh so much you snort like a pig.

“Thanks for telling me,” and he turns back to the TV.

“I like you Ivar, I don’t think you’re as miserable as you want everyone to believe. I can see gold in the dirt,” your drunk brain tells him. You don’t have it in you to cringe.

You go to your room, before he acknowledges what you have said. A sense of relief comes over you; you didn’t realise that keeping it a secret was weighing so heavily on you.

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

Ivar wakes up to the memory of her admission.

Dead husband.

Explains a few things really. She took his response well; she's definitely got a dark sense of humour, he thinks to himself. If he was being honest, he found her quite fascinating. Hearing the way she spoke to the people working for her, she was very firm and direct without being aggressive; it’s a hard balance to strike, one that Ivar definitely has problems finding. She clearly takes zero shit.

Her business demeanour was a stark contrast to hearing her on the phone to whomever “Lily” is. Definitely best friend, from a young age he would bet. Ivar has heard her read bedtime stories to Lily’s children in animated and fun voices. A tiny pang in Ivar’s stomach tugs annoyingly at him as he thinks of bedtime stories, but he pushes them away quickly.

Ivar keeps thinking about what she said to him, about her seeing “gold in the dirt” within him. Maybe she sees something in him that others don't. He has become adept at hiding the more vulnerable parts of himself, so how is it that she sees right through him?

Ivars mind travels back to practicalities. She will need breakfast and he is too hungover to cook himself. He sends her a message asking how she feels then drags himself to get showered and dressed.

A message comes back an hour later.

“Brunch after I puke? I am never drinking whiskey again” It says and he huffs in amusement.

Eventually she emerges. She looks like shit.

“You look like shit,” he tells her. Not a trace of makeup, just dark circles and scraped back hair. It was amusing to see. She really doesn’t give a shit what anyone thinks, does she, he thinks to himself admiringly.

“Then the outside accurately reflects the inside,” she groans, rubbing her temples.

“Come on, get a wiggle on,” he teases.

“It’s wriggle, ‘get a wriggle on’, moron,” she retorts, smiling, “and please tell me we aren’t going to some fancy place where they only serve fruit and avocado fucking toast, I need grease.”

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

At the café you sit in silence for a bit. Comfortable silence; neither of you feel the need to fill it. Ivar seems to be someone you can just be around without having to pretend to be happy, or interested, or pretend to feel anything other than how you actually feel, not conforming to people’s expectations.

Everything is going just perfectly until, as Ivar takes a sip of his coffee, he promptly chokes on it. You are about to start taking the piss out of him when the look on his face stops you. You follow his eyes to a pretty blond woman who is floating towards the counter. You smile, you are going to rip him to pieces about this: he likes her, he likes someone! Ha! He’s human after all!

You turn back to him, readying yourself for the fun of teasing, but the words die on your tongue. Ivar has shrunk in front of you, slid down in his seat, eyes glued to the coffee cup in front of him, arms folded across his chest and cheeks burning red. It quickly dawns on you: this must be The Ex. Thora had briefly mentioned a bad break up.

You turn to weigh her up and find her coming towards your table, eyes on Ivar with the sympathetic head tilt. That fucking head tilt you hate so much.

Her face has a smile painted on it, not a genuine smile though, it’s a mocking smile, filled with fake concern. The type of smile that is painted on a mask in a horror movie before it slips and reveals the true face beneath. The kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes but hangs on the face like false skin.

“Hello, Ivar,'' she purrs, voice like silk. Ivar doesn’t say a word. You have never seen anyone look so uncomfortable in your life as Ivar looks right now.

“How have you been?” she continues. You’re not sure if she’s deliberately ignoring how uncomfortable Ivar is or if she’s genuinely so dense as to be unaware.

You’ve picked up enough of the language to know what she’s saying. Still, Ivar gives her nothing. He has turned to stone. He isn’t just stonewalling her though, you think he might have lost the ability to speak in her presence. What on earth did she do to him to render him like this at the mere sight of her. It’s painful to watch, and something inside you snaps.

Oh fuck this, and fuck her!

“It doesn’t seem he is going to introduce us,” she suddenly says, turning to you, “I am Freydis.” She holds her hand out for you to shake.

You shift in your chair to face her and push your sunglasses up to your head. You don't shake her hand, instead you reach across to him and give his forearm a squeeze and look her in the eyes.

“Hey, Freya?”

“It’s Freydis,” she corrects you, withdrawing her hand slowly.

“Uh huh, don’t care.” You flash her the most insincere, false smile you can muster. “Far be it from me to interrupt this reunion, but if you remove your head from your ass for a second you might see that Ivar doesn’t seem terribly happy to see you. His body language is very much giving “fuck off” vibes, isn’t it?”

You wave your hand in front of Ivar’s face, as if giving her a demonstration.

“Now, obviously I can’t be sure, but I don’t think you’re dumb so I can only assume that you recognise his discomfort with your presence, and yet you are still here in front of us, ruining our brunch. The only conclusion I can draw is that you are enjoying making him feel uncomfortable, is that correct?”

Her serene expression cracks for a second. “I was just being polite. We have a lot of history”.

“Polite?” you scoff. “I don’t think there’s anything polite about this situation you have created, and I’m guessing the ‘history’ you share wasn’t all great from his point of view.” You turn to Ivar and he is looking at you with an expression of pure amusement, he has relaxed back into his seat and uncrossed his arms. You give him a quick wink.

“Nice to meet you Freya, now off you pop.” You wave her away with your hand as a headteacher would dismiss a naughty student and turn back to your breakfast. She stays for another few seconds, rooted to the spot. You don’t look at her but start talking to Ivar about the extent of your hangover. She eventually flounces off and you give Ivar a look of regret.

“Sorry, she was just being a snide bitch,” you apologise. “I’m too hungover to contain my own snide bitch.”

“Off you pop?? What is that?!?” He snorts.

“It’s a polite English way of saying fuck off,” you reply with a shrug, taking a sip of your coffee. Watching him out of the corner of your eye, you are worried you’ve overstepped and annoyed him, you don’t know what has happened between them and often these situations can be delicate.

“Thanks for sticking up for me,” he breathes out shakily. You shrug as if nothing happened and go back to your breakfast.

“No worries, Oh gods, I think I'm going to be sick....” You hop up and quickly scurry to the toilets.

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

As soon as the café door opens Ivar knows it’s her. Before she even enters fully, like a Spidey sense tingling from evil nearby. She looks amazing as always, her golden hair flowing behind her effortlessly as she struts to the counter. Her striking looks hide what she really is. Like Wolfsbane: beautiful but deadly. It leaves you with heart problems and paralysis, and that is exactly what she did to him.

Ivar slides down in his seat and avoids her gaze, hoping he can get by without a face to face encounter. She is soon in front of the table, without even looking up he can smell her perfume and his heart picks up the pace, he is trying not to explode into a million emotions. Just hold it together, he thinks to himself. Minimal interaction. He has to consciously manage his breathing.

She says something but he doesn’t catch it, he daren’t look at her, he's not sure what he would do if he looks at her.

“It doesn’t seem like he’s going to introduce us,” she says to Y/N.

Y/N's hand gives his arm a reassuring squeeze. He looks at her, as he hears the words she is saying. She’s getting Freydis’ name wrong, on purpose! He would laugh out loud if he was able to form any sound. Ivar knows how much Freydis would despise that.

Y/N is verbally beating Freydis down and it is the best thing he has witnessed in a while. Y/N turns to him, ignoring Freydis still in front of them, and starts chatting away like nothing has happened. Ivar wants to hug her. No one does that for him. He barely even notices that Freydis has left.

When she hops up to go puke he can’t help but laugh to himself. He’s never met anyone like her before. The way she handled Freydis when he was clearly struggling, she read him like a book. She stood up for him in such an effortlessly dismissive manner without being asked and Ivar had no idea why. It was fascinating. He was certain Freydis had never been cast aside so mercilessly by anyone.

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

Ivar is away for the weekend on a job so you spend some time hanging out with Thora and Hvitserk. Thora let’s slip that Hvitserk is considering moving in with her soon, which is the reason he wanted another housemate, but reassures you they will still be at the house loads as Hvitserk doesn’t want Ivar to feel abandoned.

They are such a lovely couple but your social battery is drained at having to be ‘on’ all the time. You are relieved they both decide to spend the night at Thora’s, so you can just chill and recharge. You are on the couch flicking through Netflix when Ivar gets home.

“Hey,” he says, seeing the top of your head. You reply by sticking your hand up in a peace sign. He dumps his bag down and rounds the sofa and sees the wine glass you've got in your hand, he grabs a glass and joins you, pouring himself some wine without even asking.

“Rude,” you say, glaring at him.

“As if that’s your only bottle,” he snorts in amusement.

You smirk. “You know me so well in such a short space of time. Work good?”

“Yep, scenery shots for a magazine, easy money.” He takes a large gulp of wine.

“Oh hey, so, yeah, tell me about your ex. What’s the deal there?” you ask, totally out of the blue, hoping to catch him off guard.

“No.” Ivar’s tone is hard.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yesssssss. Come on, man! I told you about my dead husband. You owe me!”

“No!”

“Let me guess,” you barrel on, undeterred. “She is an expert manipulator, you fell head over heels and she cheated on you because she’s a cunt. Oh don't look so shocked, I’m English, cunt is part of our everyday vocabulary.” He clears his throat and looks very uncomfortable.

“Bingo,” you announce triumphantly.

“Something like that,” Ivar mumbles, not looking at you. The scowl is back, plastered to his forehead.

“Will you tell me all the ugly details if I get you drunk?”

“No.”

“You so will, come on, bottoms up,” You say cheerfully, as you pour more wine in his glass.

Three bottles of wine later, Ivar has told you all about his legs, all the surgeries, having to learn to walk. He’s shown you them, scarred and boney, not much muscle.

“Do they bother you?” you ask quietly.

“Nah, my pain meds keep everything under control mostly, and I’m not bothered showing them to people anymore. As the saying goes, it is what it is”. He is matter of fact about them.

“So, dead husband, eh? That sucks.” he asks.

“Nah, walk in the park really, super fun. 100% would recommend.” You glance at him and laugh.

“Really sucky actually” you finish after a moment..

You tell him a bit about your history, how you met, your relationship, His diagnosis, the treatments and the end.

“He was truly special, we grew up together, got together when we were fifteen, so we became adults together. I was lucky to have had him.”

You look away, lost in your own thoughts.

“I didn’t deal very well in the year after he died. My best friend Lily and her husband got me through it. She found me one afternoon after I’d taken too many pills. Saved my life. She drove me to all of my therapist appointments after that. She’s my own guardian angel. Although obviously, to her face I just call her ‘bitch’.”

You look in your glass of wine and drain it. You can feel Ivar’s eyes on you, gentle and warm.

“So, that’s the full tragic tale of me,” you announce in an overly airy tone, turn to him and do jazz hands at him and scoff.

“I’ve overdosed before,” he says, taking you by surprise. He glances at you but looks away quickly. “After Freydis”. You say nothing, just give him time.

“I met her eight years ago. We were young and I fell for her hard. She was the first girl who had shown any interest in me, I wasn’t always the confident, incredibly sexy man sitting in front of you now,” Ivar quips.

“Yes I've seen the pictures, your hair looked like an acorn!” You never really did have much of a verbal filter when you were drunk.

Ivar bursts out laughing. “It did,” he nods his head in agreement.

“Anyway, she was like a breath of fresh air, my first love. She helped me accept my legs for what they are,” his brow furrows and his face darkens “but she did something so unforgivable I can barely put it into words.”

“Try” you gently push. “It can be cathartic, believe me.”

Ivar sucks in a deep, steadying breath.

“We had been together for four years and she got pregnant. We were so happy. She had an easy pregnancy and she had a baby boy, Baldur. We were in a perfect bubble, five months later a man turned up at the door telling me he’d been sleeping with her for two years and the baby could be his.”

He pauses to take another breath.

“Freydis denied none of it,” he continued. “I could see from the way she acted around the prick that she loved him, or he had more to offer than me, or whatever. Long story short, a DNA test showed the kid was not mine. Basically destroyed me. She said she thought he was mine, but she didn’t really, I could see it on her face. I wanted to stay together, I loved her and the baby but she ended it with me and took her son to live with his real father. They didn’t let me see the baby after that. Probably for the best for both of us.” He gives an unconvincing shrug and sets his glass down on the table.

Your mouth is hanging open; you can’t believe what you’ve just heard.

“Jesus Christ, we are the biggest pair of tragic cases in the world I’m sure of it,” you exclaim. No head tilts of sympathy for him. “That is horrifically sad, Ivar. I really am sorry that happened.” You reach over and give his arm a squeeze and he offers you a sad smile in return.

“I’m glad I didn’t know this when we saw her the other day,” you scoff. “I might have punched her in the face on your behalf.” He smiles again at you, weakly this time.

“Therapy?” You enquire.

“No.”

“It’s a must my friend. You are a grumpy, sullen, asshole and that explains it. You need some help to process it.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “I think I’ve done pretty well on my own. I’m over it as much as I can be.”

“You aren’t. You might not think about it all the time anymore but you clearly have a steel cage around your feelings. Have you had a relationship since?” You ask him and he shakes his head vigorously.

“Definitely therapy then, if not for your mental health then at least for your bed springs. Despite what the Peaches song suggests you can not actually fuck the pain away, Ivar. Seriously man, you might as well install a revolving door on your bedroom. Where do you even find so many girls?” He dissolved into laughter.

“Tinder, bars, supermarkets…” he replies casually. “Any way, how would you know you can’t fuck the pain away? Have you had anyone since Him?” The wine has clearly loosened his tongue.

“….and that is my cue to go to bed!” You put your glass down and start to get up.

“That’s a no then! Let’s have sex and see if the pain goes,” he jokes.

“Ewwwww don’t be gross. Goodnight, Ivar.”

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

Ivar laughs as she ascends the stairs, but the tiniest part of him is disappointed she didn’t take him up on it. He sits for a few minutes thinking about how he had just opened up to someone he had only known for twelve weeks. How did she do that? He hasn't opened up to anyone about Baldur. Ever. She’s opened up to him so maybe he felt he owed her? Huh, as if that was it, he’s never done anything out of a sense of duty. She is so easy to talk to. No judgement, no falsities. Just say it how it is.

Ivar grabs his phone and calls Hvitserk.

“Hey Brother,” Hvitserk answers.

“I just told Y/N about everything, about Freydis.” Saying it aloud makes him realize the enormity of it.

“Fuuuuuuuck dude, really? That’s unexpected. Why?” Hvitserk sounds confused.

“Trying out this new thing of not being an empty shell of a human.”

“Ok, I’m pleased dude, that's big,” Hvitserk replies; he sounds surprised.

“Did she tell you or Thora about why she’s here in Kattegat?”

“Ummmm no, I just assumed work?”

So she hadn’t told them anything about Him. She had just told Ivar. The realisation sent a warm feeling through his veins.

“We bumped into Freydis the other day, I completely shut down, I was a disgrace, Serk. Y/N read the situation crazy quick and stepped in, basically wiping the floor with her, telling her she was being cruel by talking to me and dismissed her by saying ‘off you pop’ in her English accent. It was epic.”

“Off you pop?!” Hvitserk’s tone is confused.

“Yes, apparently it’s a polite way of saying piss off,” Ivar laughs, “it was savage.” He chuckles proudly.

“You’re in love with her,” Hvitserk states.

“Oh don’t be a twat, Hvitserk,” he spits, and hangs up the phone.

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

That night you dial Lily’s familiar number. You update her on what you’ve been up to the last few days, surprised when she scoffs and laughs.

“So you basically just work for a bit, update the project manager, then hang out with your housemate. You could do that here and hang out with me!” She says sulkily.

“Don’t be jealous, Lils, you are always my number one,” you reply gently.

“I had bloody better be!” Lily exclaims.

“I’m actually really pleased to be here. It’s the first thing I’ve ever done on my own. I feel a sense of achievement that I can be independent, you know?”

“I hear you love,” she says “and I’m proud of you, it’s just hidden under many layers of missing you.”

You smile in appreciation as your heart clenches. Gods know you miss her, too.

“Tell me about your housemate then,” she continues, changing the subject. “Who is this asshole desperately trying to take my place?”

You go on to give all the details of Ivar: his initial sourness, his sarcastic nature, his legs and your mutual love for eating and watching TV in silence. You leave out on the part about Freydis and the baby. That’s not your story to tell, even to Lily.

“Ivar also had the misfortune to witness one of my breakdowns, around His birthday. I really struggled for a few days, Lils. He basically dragged me out of bed and got me moving again,” you admit.

“You’ve told Ivar about Him?!” Genuine shock colours her tone.

“Yeah, he isn’t the type of person that would change his view of me because of it. He just made a joke about it, it was actually pretty funny,” you admit.

“I know how you love an inappropriately timed joke” Lily admits, giggling.

“He’s helping me out really, he’s been through some shit and we just seem to have fallen into a weird comfortable routine quickly. Plus he’s pretty easy on the eye, except for his weird haircut”

“Uh, honey? You are falling for him, I can hear it in your voice.”

“Oh don’t be a twat, Lily” you grumble, and hang up the phone.

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“Come on! It will be fun! We can sing cheesy songs and pretend we are famous singers!”

Thora is clearly very excited about the prospect of karaoke, despite your less than enthusiastic expression.

“Thora, your enthusiasm is wonderful but it’s a pass from me. A hard pass.” You feel almost bad about saying it as her face falls into a pout.

“Ivar….?” Thora asks hopefully. The withering look she receives from him is answer enough. “Come on Y/N, I promise it will be fun, I’ve invited Sigurd, he’s excited to meet you.” Her voice is getting higher and her eyes wider.

“Who wouldn’t be excited to meet me, I’m such a warm person,” you reply sarcastically.

Hvitserk and Thora laugh awkwardly and glance at each other. Ivar catches your eye and raises an eyebrow.

“He mentioned asking you out for a drink, I showed him your picture…..” Thora says excitedly. Ugh, you think to yourself, I am not up for this in the slightest.

“He will fall in love with you,” Ivar scoffs. “He will literally fall in love with anyone that gives him the time of day. They don’t even have to be pretty--” He says. Your head swings to face him immediately.

“He’d fall in love with me even though I’m not pretty, is that what you just said?” Your face is thunderous as you stare at him. Oh this is going to be a fun wind up, you think.

The realisation of what he says is etched on Ivar’s face. He fumbles around for some words “Well, no... I didn't mean it--”

“So what did you mean, Ivar?” You interrupt again with a face like stone.

“Just, uh, it wasn’t meant to be rude to you… Sigurd just falls in love quickly. I didn’t mean--”

“Didn’t mean what, Ivar?” You push him for an answer.

“I don't think you aren't pretty… you are very pretty, I just meant…” Coherent thoughts won’t come to him, it seems, nor a coherent sentence. You try not to crack up laughing.

“So you think I’m very pretty? Do you fancy me Ivar? Do you want to date me?” you ask, a neutral look on your face.

“Whaaat? No… Well… What is happening here?!” He looks to Hvitserk and Thora for help, his face set in heavy confusion. You stay staring at him, a look on your face that demands an answer.

“Gotcha!” your face cracking into a massive smile, you shoot him a teasing wink. “I’m just messing with you, Ivar, I couldn’t give a shit what you think of me, but it was fun to watch you get so flustered though, you're cute when you are flustered,” you say breezily.

She sees his shoulders relax and he starts to laugh in relief. His eyes are narrowed and he wags his finger at her.

“Very funny! Real little comedian aren't you?” he says in a menacing voice but his face is smiling.

“That was mean, but so much fun to watch!” Hvitserk says, laughing at Ivar.

Turning your attention back to Thora, you change the subject back. “Thanks for the invitation, lovely, I’m not really up for karaoke, that’s a personal hell for me, maybe even worse than a visit to IKEA, but I appreciate the offer.” You smile at her genuinely.

“An eternal no from me,” Ivar grunts. “The less time spent with Sigurd the better,”

Hvitserk and Thora head out the door later and you are left with Ivar again. You both head for the couch, as per usual.

“I’m with you on the karaoke and IKEA opinions by the way. Hellish,” he says, shivering at the thought. You offer him a high five in solidarity. He smacks your hand and settles back.

As you grab the controller to choose how to pass the time for the next few hours you can see out of the corner of your eye that he is looking at you with a smile pulling up the corners of his mouth. A tiny butterfly sets off in your stomach.

—————————————————————

When you get home from the gym at dinner time you can hear Thora and Hvitserk laughing and chatting in the kitchen. You are feeling fairly upbeat after the gym, the endorphins are doing their job, so the sound of a social situation isn’t sending your stomach into your shoes as much as it usually does. You walk through to the kitchen to say hi and you notice right away that Ivar is with them. His face blooms when you walk in. There is another person with their back to you; they have long blond hair with small braids on the sides. They swing around to face you, and you’re immediately struck by how much they all look alike. Definitely another brother: similar features to Ivar but not as good looking. His hair at the front is shorter; he is really rocking a power mullet. What is with the hair here, you muse to yourself.

“You must be Y/N, I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says, getting up from his chair and actually lifts your hand to kiss it.

“Alright Romeo, I’m not the Pope, no need to kiss my hand,” you tease him, but flash him a friendly smile. Ivar’s mouth pulls into a lopsided smirk but there is tightness to it. You can see that he is not fully at ease in this company.

Sigurd doesn’t seem put off by your joke “Been to the gym? I do like a girl that takes care of herself,” he chuckles, almost knowingly.

Oh, yuck. From that one sentence you can already tell what kind of person he is: a bit of a sleaze who thinks he is way more charming and funny than he actually is.

You decide to ignore him and give Ivar a little grimace at Sigurd’s words. Ivar’s mouth pulls into a smile he tries to hide from the rest. You make your way around to the sink to get a glass of water. You choose the seat next to Ivar; it’s a bit closer than you realised and as you take a seat your arms brush together, and your stomach does a little flip. He is wearing a basketball shirt and you can see some of his tattoos; you wonder how much of him is covered in them. You thank the gym for providing you with an already flushed face because you feel your cheeks heat up at the feeling of his skin on yours and it takes you by surprise. Ivar doesn’t move away so you just stay seated together, arms touching. As the others chat amongst themselves it dawns on you that you haven’t showered from the gym.

“Ugh, haven’t showered yet, sorry if I smell,” you whisper to Ivar, giving a little nudge with your arm. When he turns his head towards you your faces are closer than they have ever been. His eyes travel down your face to your arms and he leans forward slightly so his nose grazes your shoulder and he inhales.

“You smell really nice,” he says, his breath fanning over your shoulder leaving you with goosebumps, which you see him noticing and smiling at. When he pulls his face back, his tongue licks his lower lip. Your eyes narrow. What is going on here? You look at his wet lips and feel an invisible pull towards them. Thankfully, you are pulled out of the trance he is holding you in by Sigurd’s voice.

“What do you do for work, Y/N?”

“Property Developer,” you reply as you clear your throat.

“An independent woman, hey? Who needs a man, women can really do anything these days!” His vibes are totally off, you aren’t sure if he’s just trying to be funny or if he’s really a misogynist. “Maybe we can go out for a drink and you can tell me more about it?” He is leering at you now. Beside you, you feel Ivars arm tense.

“Probably not,” you reply and Ivar relaxes next to you. Strange, but it makes you happy inside.

“Oh, you have a boyfriend, I get it,” Sigurd says in a tone that suggests he thinks that is the only reason you wouldn’t be interested in going out with him.

“Nope,” you unconsciously glance at Ivar, who moves his hand to the small of your back. A jolt of electricity courses up your spine. Sigurd clocks the look and the touch and a micro expression of disgust passes his face, not so micro that you miss it though.

“Have you been spending all your time with my baby brother since you got here?” He is digging for information now.

“Yep, most of it,” you reply nonchalantly.

“Well, be careful his bullshit doesn’t rub off on you, I hear sourness can be contagious.” His words are laced with venom, he is staring straight at Ivar.

“Well I’ve also heard being an asshole can be contagious so I think I will steer well clear of you,” you retort, without really thinking about it. You look at Hvitserk and Thora, hoping you haven’t made them uncomfortable, but they are both trying to suppress laughter. Ivar doesn’t suppress his laughter, he throws his arm over your shoulder in a gesture of pride. Sigurd looks apoplectic.

“Must be emotionally damaged if you can stand to be around him,” he snarks, his tone clearly mocking you.

“Sigurd, shut your mouth,” Ivar warns him, jaw clenching hard. He pulls you back slightly and puts his arm in front of you protectively. Sigurd’s surveys the scene and a look of realisation slowly crosses his face. He takes his chance to stick the knife in.

“Oh little brother, in love again?!” he says in his mother tongue, and his eyes sweep over you. “She’s not as pretty as the last one, but maybe she wont fuck someone else and try to pass off her bastard child as your own.”

You have no idea what he is saying but the sneer in his face is enough to tell you it’s nothing pleasant. Hvitserk and Thora shout at Sigurd in outrage as Hvitserk rounds the table quicker than you’ve seen him move before. He is headed to Ivar. Everything is happening in slow motion. Ivar's face contorts into pure anger and he jumps up from the island, knocking his seat over. Hvitserk reaches him just in time, attempting to hold him back. They are all shouting except Sigurd whose face shows nothing but pure smug contentment at what he has caused. It’s a disgusting scene.

Before you know it you are grabbing your drink and tipping the contents over Sigurd’s head. The act is enough for everyone to stop in their tracks.

“I don’t know what you just said to him but I’m pretty sure you deserved that drenching. And quite frankly your hairstyle is offending my eyes. I don’t care who you are, you should get out now,” you say calmly. There is stunned stillness in the room now and you look to Ivar.

“Are you ok?” you ask, your voice is full of concern, your hand on his shoulder. This is the second time you have come to his defense, managing to diffuse the situation before they get out of hand. Ivar nods tersely and turns to Sigurd.

“You heard the lady, off you pop,” Ivar says with false friendliness, pointing to the front door. He winks at you, moves his face close enough for you to feel his breath on your cheek.

“Off you pop, I got that right huh?” You giggle and nod.

“You really know how to pick them, Ivar” he spits and looks you up and down “She is no lady!” Sigurd shouts in English before stalking out the house.

You shrug in agreement. “He's not wrong, though,” you mutter, as you and Ivar dissolve into giggles.

“The hair comment, you know that will play on his mind for weeks!” Ivar cackles.

“Just say it as I see it. His hair is ridiculous” you laugh.

Hvitserk and Thora sit still stunned, exchanging a knowing look before turning their attention back to the two giggling people who remind them of teenagers in love.

In love but don’t know it yet.

Chapter 3

#modern ivar x reader #vikings history #ivar x reader #vikings fanfiction #vikings au #modern ivar #ivar vikings #modern ivar au #ivar the boneless #ivar the boneless x reader #hvitserk ragnarsson #modern!ivar x reader

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tpwkjerii · 3 years

Text

feverish

you’re starting to come down with a serious case of the flu and, much to the dismay of your doctor boyfriend, you refuse to admit it. luckily, dr. lee minho (and his three cats) is more than ready to help.

pairing: doctor!minho x reader

warnings: ‘baby’ as a pet name, sickness, like one cuss word

genre: established relationship au, doctor au, tooth-aching fluff

word count: 1.6k+

a/n: minho in a doctor’s coat. that’s it.

“You look terrible.”

Those are the lovely words you hear upon the arrival of your boyfriend as he enters your shared apartment after a long day at the hospital. You turn, hoodie secure on your head and just poking out in the corner of your vision, and glare at him while he takes off his shoes and sets down his black messenger bag.

“Gee, thanks for the compliment,” you mutter, your voice hoarse like you smoked several packs of cigarettes a day for years (or like you’d been coughing the entire day, which you have).

“I’m just saying,” he says lightly as he slips off his white coat and places it onto the coat rack. “Are you sick?” he asks, concern evident in his voice.

You shake your head and push him away as he approaches your spot on the couch. “No, I’m fine.”

He ignores you and gently presses the back of his hand to your forehead, wincing as his cool hands meet your burning hot skin. “Wow, you’re definitely fine,” he mumbles sarcastically. He rolls his eyes when you push him away again.

“I have to finish this report,” you insist, reaching towards your side for your laptop that slipped away from your lap when you shoved Minho. “And I feel perfectly healthy,” you add as an afterthought. Unfortunately for you, right after you say that, you’re met with the familiar feeling of violent coughs building up in your chest.

Minho stares at you skeptically, watching as your face grows red and eyes widen from holding your breath to hold back your coughs. You pray that he leaves the room for his usual shower after work or that he just turns away, but it’s a lot easier for him to look at you than it is for you to hold your breath. After a good forty seconds, you breathe out heavily and cringe as heavy coughs shake your body.

You push your computer off your lap onto the couch and angle your head down as you cough loudly. Minho sighs and gently pats your back until the coughs stop and you’re able to rest your back onto the couch cushions comfortably.

He stands, stating, “The report can wait until you’re feeling better.” You watch breathlessly as he pours you a cup of water from the kettle in your small kitchen. He hisses as he turns the corner and hits the dining table, internally cursing at the cramped space. The larger (but still cozy) home he found was still bookmarked on his work computer, and he actually wanted to tell you about it tonight. But seeing your current state made him decide to wait until you felt better — you would need energy to keep up with the various spreadsheets and documents filled with pros, cons, and budgets that Chan and Jisung helped him create.

You mumble a small thanks while he hands you the warm mug, adding quickly, “My boss will kill me if I don’t hand this report in by Friday.”

He sighs and sits down next to you, pulling you down to lean against his side as his arms wrapped around your upper chest. “You’ve been working nonstop the past three weeks, you obviously have a fever, a cough, and a sore throat, and I won’t be surprised if your body will start aching and your head hurts later tonight.”

“Gee, what are you, a doctor?” you crack jokingly, but it seems that Minho is in no mood to joke as he deadpans, “Yes.”

You sigh and set your mug down onto the glass coffee table in front of the couch. “Look, I know you’re worried, but I really need to impress Dr. Kang if I want that promotion,” you start, pausing briefly to look up into his warm eyes. “I know you want to move out of this tiny place -” you gesture around the small apartment you’d shared ever since his med school days “- and the promotion can really help us out with that.”

Minho curses under his breath. “I’ll be making more after one more year, I prom-”

You shake your head with a soft laugh. “I don’t care about how much you make, Minho, you know that. It’ll be nice in the future, of course, but I don’t mind working harder now so we can move into a bigger place and get our life going.” It’s a lot to say at once, and you suppress another fit of violent coughs as you reach over to sip your water.

While Minho’s heart grows with adoration, his forehead creases in frustration. “Baby, you’re obviously sick. I wouldn’t be a good doctor or boyfriend if I let you continue to work like this,” he states firmly.

“But I -”

“You’re not fine,” he persists sharply, and you shy away at the firm look on his face. “Now give me your laptop,” he demands.

You sigh and hand him your open laptop, which was slightly warm as it ran the many open tabs and a long working document of your report. “You’ll write my report for me?” you ask sarcastically as he places your computer on his lap.

He hums and it only takes a five-second scan over the many paragraphs of your writing, filled with various statistics and phrases he didn’t even understand, for him to shake his head with a firm “Absolutely not.”

You laugh with him (which was really you just exhaling heavily so you didn’t cough again). “Thought so.”

You watch as he opens another tab and logs into his own email. Before you can ask what he’s doing, he explains, “I’m gonna write Dr. Kang an email to give you an extension. I know she loves me.”

You roll your eyes, reading the text that his fast typing produces.

Good Evening, Dr. Kang!

This is Dr. Lee Minho, Y/N’s boyfriend — we met at the Christmas party last year! I’m writing this email to let you know that Y/N has come down with a rather severe illness. Don’t worry, I’ll be treating her from home and ensure she makes a full recovery. I know she has a report due in two days, but as a doctor I insist she recovers and rests before she works on completing it again. I ask that you give her an extension of a few days so she does not strain herself and worsen her condition. I’m confident that Y/N will be able to finish soon after her recovery. If you have any questions please email me or feel free to drop by the hospital.

Kindly,

Dr. Lee Minho

“You know that she’s going to drop by and use this as an excuse to see you,” you mutter as you lean back and to the side on the couch, your eyelids drooping in exhaustion and (just like your doctor boyfriend predicted) your body starting to ache.

“I know,” Minho responds with a shrug, already moving off the couch to give you space to comfortably stretch out your legs.

“Because she’s basically in love with you — you handsome, young doctor, you,” you continue, your words slurred together and barely coherent. A smile graces your face as you feel your boyfriend slide a soft pillow under your head and a blanket over your body, which you didn’t even notice was shaking. Your smile grows as you feel a sudden weight and purring on your chest — one of the cats must have finally woken up.

“Baby, your sentences aren’t even making sense now.” Minho’s soft voice has recognizable fondness laced in it, and you don’t need to open your eyes to know that he’s probably looking down at you and either Soonie, Doongie, or Dori (you would open your eyes to check but they just feel so heavy) tenderly.

You don’t have the strength in you to respond to his remark, but the recognizable ping of an incoming email brings you to ask, “That her?”

“Yeah, I’ll read what she said.” He clears his voice dramatically and raises his voice to a higher pitch, imitating the nasally voice of your middle-aged boss.

Hello Doctor!

Thank you so much for letting me know! Of course Y/N can have an extension! Tell her not to worry about turning it in until next week Friday and please wish her a speedy recovery from me. You’re such a sweetheart to take care of Y/N and let me know on her behalf.

I’ll be taking that offer of visiting you tomorrow so I can write an official report for Y/N’s leave of absence with a doctor’s note. I promise not to take too much of your time, Doctor! Take care!

Warmly,

Dr. Kang

You scoff. “That’s bullshit. Employees on sick leave can just call in and take their time off with no doctor’s note.”

Minho laughs and leans down to kiss your forehead once, twice, and again. “Just sleep, baby,” he whispers as he caresses your head lovingly. You love this side of Minho — as cool as he may seem on the outside, everyone knows that he’s secretly a softie. It’s easy to doze off with his hand massaging the top of your head soothingly and the cats (yes, the other two joined in the group effort to heal you) purring on top of your chest.

Within a few minutes, you knock out. And right when you wake up, Minho (and Soonie, Doongie, and Dori) is right at your side with everything you needed, from pain medications to a warm cup of soup. Even as violent coughs continue to disrupt your sleep throughout the night, you feel incredibly happy and fortunate to have Minho at your side. While you don’t have much (material wise) for now, your small family is already more than enough.

a/n: sorry this is a bit late, finals are kicking my ass lskmfdls but i have a bunch of upcoming releases planned so :’)) I hope you guys liked this shorter one & pls leave notes/comments as they help me improve !!

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wild-aloof-rebel · 3 years

Text

Some Favorite Fics from 2020

Like last year, I want to end 2020 by highlighting some fics that have become favorites over the last twelve months. Before I dive into it though, I just want to take a minute to send some love to all of the authors writing in this fandom.

As of the end of 2019, there were about 8.8 million words of fic on AO3 for this fandom. This year, more than 450 authors have added another 15 million more. That’s so incredibly impressive, especially in a year this difficult. Thank you, thank you, thank you to every single person who contributed to that, whether you wrote one fic or a hundred, a drabble or a novel. Thank you for giving this fandom the gift of your creativity and voice. Your work is so, so appreciated, and you’ve helped to create joy in a year where it was often in short supply. 💗💗💗

Okay, on to the fics. I’ve limited myself to no more than one work for any individual author to spread the love around as much as possible, and I’ve bumped up the number to 25 this time around because there was just too much fic this year for me to cut it down any further.

So here we go. These are 25 fics I loved this year, and what I love about them...

Your heart is keeping time with me by yourbuttervoicedbeau • rated E • 33k+ confession before i start: i’ve never actually seen 50 first dates. but i thought this AU based on it was delightful. patrick’s love for david is so big, right from the start, and i love seeing david lean into trusting himself (and patrick) over and over again

will this ever get old? by startswithhope • rated T • <1k i just like seeing them domestic and soft and happy, okay? and while most of dee’s fics are like that, this particular one is a fave because of them thinking about their future and how they’ll change over the years but love each other right on through

Just to Hold the Hands I Love by DesignatedGrape • rated T • 20k+ it’s like a warm christmas hug, full of musical trolling, gentle pining, domestic nights in, and careful attention to fashion details, which are all absolutely the kinds of things i appreciate

A Case of You by DoubleL27 • rated T • 6k+ patrick is an absolute menace in exactly the way you would expect every valentine’s day. it’s funny and sweet and ends with them in exactly the kind of future we all want for them

Dulce by another_Hero • rated T • 1k+ original characters can be hard to do right. they have to be compelling enough to fit in with these characters we already know so well, and dulce is the kind of character who grabs you from the start. the whole series is lovely, but this first interaction with ronnie is my favorite of them

Tea-Kettle Love by ArabellaStrange • rated G • 5k+ even though this coda to “the pitch” isn’t technically canon compliant now, it still feels a lot like it is. it’s about the sacrifices we are and aren’t willing to make for the people we love, taking the new york discussion into more depth than we get in the show and still arriving in largely the same place

Vanquished by Codswallop • rated G • 3k+ if you’re looking for soft, fluffy sickfic, this is not it, lol. patrick is sick here but won’t let anyone take care of him. he’s stubborn and basically minor chaos ensues. it’s funny and sweet but not schmaltzy. the characterization is 👌, and it feels like the kind of thing that fits perfectly into the world of the show

To Come Out the Other Side by unfolded73 • rated T • 4k+ • warning for major character death i don’t want to read sad things about david and patrick very often, but sometimes the mood strikes. this one is definitely sad right from the start, but there’s hope and resilience through grief, and i think this year especially, there’s something to be said for stories that can make you feel like there is still good to be found after the bad

Hold Me Like You’ll Never Let Me Go by moodlighting • rated T • 21k+ i never would have thought that a fic would make me WANT to be trapped in an airport, but it’s 2020 and anything is possible, lol. this is what meet cute dreams are made of

Your mother keeps a spreadsheet by upbeat • rated G • 3k+ obviously i love a good spreadsheet, so this one was up my alley from the start, lol. but really it’s moira and patrick bonding through the cataloguing of her wigs (and all the stories that go with them) that makes this one an easy favorite

keep me in the pulses, keep me in the sound by dinnfameron • rated G • 2k+ this sweet little slice of a summer vacation made me ache to be with friends. plus, sometimes you just need some overwhelmingly happy david rose. he deserves it, and so do we

eggs and the flour, no higher power by withkissesfour • rated T • 1k+ i’m pretty sure this fic is the definition of sweet, in more ways than one. it’s a short piece, but the writing is lush and indulgent in all the right places, just like the cakes being described

sustineo by rockinhamburger • rated E • 10k+ before i was even done reading this fic, i wanted another 50k words set in this universe. the conversation between david and patrick is sharp in all the right ways, and because this david has such a hard shell to crack after being hurt in such a horrible and heartbreaking way, it’s that much more satisfying watching patrick break through it

All-Natural Care, Locally Sourced by Siria • rated T • 2k+ siria’s fics are always funny, with banter that’s so perfectly on point, and that’s certainly true here. but there are also care packages and photos and just so much love. it’s a perfect balance, just like the show

hold on to me as you go by helvetica_upstart • rated T • 3k+ i love a good look at just how long patrick has been head over heels in love with david and how much he was in this for life all along. this fic does just that through the framework of times that they saw their new house before they bought it, and it’s everything that you would want that concept to be and more

Exposed Brick by swat117 • rated M • 9k+ this is such a lovely look at david and patrick a few years into their marriage, steady in all the right ways, even when old fears try to rise up between them. it gives david a chance to be the solid and supportive one in the relationship, something i never get tired of reading

We Could Turn the World to Gold by middyblue • rated T • 27k+ as someone who also did c25k at one point, i def empathize with david’s plight in this fic, lol. as much fun as that part of the story is, it’s really the house and everything related to that part of the story that makes this a favorite in my book. this was posted very early in s6, so it’s not the house from canon, but it’s beautiful either way to see them so excited about building their future together there

Waiting on the Day by High-Seas-Swan • rated E • 22k+ this is another fic that makes me absolutely ache for things i couldn’t have this year, namely my favorite local brewery and all the nights spent there with friends. beyond that, it’s just a very sweet AU, and the scene with their first kiss and the rest of that night live in my head rent free

Pot o’ Gold by ahurston • rated E • 22k+ where is the leprechaun/love of my life who’s gonna take me out to eat all of the best foods that my city has to offer? this one is a slow burn but their relationship is so much fun to read right from the start that you definitely don’t mind taking your time getting there. also, the palm reading scene. good grief.

there is no design by the_hodag • rated T • 12k+ this fic gives us a look at some of david’s art, and all the loneliness and love that inspires it. it’s poignant and painful and hopeful and sweet in turn, and i think it does a marvelous job of capturing so many of the facets of david’s past that have made him who he is

A Little Broken, A Little New by nameless_bliss • rated G • 3k+ i’ve read this fic several times now, and david and johnny having a conversation about their own relationship through the guise of talking about patrick and his parents never fails to make me cry

Une très bonne table dans sa catégorie by cromarty • rated T • 23k+ just the concept of this one alone would have sold me on it—like, hello? michelin reviewer and chef? sign me the fuck up—but it’s written with the kind of attention to detail i always expect from claire’s writing, and the fact that it practically starts with a first kiss but then pulls back makes for a delicious dynamic as they build a friendship over that foundational attraction, both tempering and intensifying the wait for them to find their way back into each others’ arms

happy golden days of yore by blueink3 • rated E • 17k+ i literally stopped in the middle of this fic, sat down on my kitchen floor, and had a good cry. i hate thinking about them ending up divorced in the first place, but even as exes, they’re so careful and gentle with one another and so, so clearly still in a forever kind of love. that makes it bearable to see them apart because even if it weren’t tagged for a happy ending, there’s such a feeling of inevitability to it, you know exactly how it’s going to end and just get to enjoy the devastating ride it takes to get there

Fifteen Hundred Miles by MoreHuman • rated M • 30k+ this is one of those fics where everything comes together just right and achieves a perfect balance of introspection and action, courage and fear, despair and hope, forthright honesty and cautious reservation... MoreHuman makes it all look easy, which says so much about all the care that had to have gone into the planning and writing. this fic does everything well, and it’s an absolute pleasure to read from start to end

840 Havenwood Road E by Distractivate • rated E • 10k+ we barely see david and patrick’s new house in the show, so it shouldn’t be possible for me to be as emotional about it as this fic makes me, every single time i read it. but it’s the home they chose, the place they decided to build a life together, and getting to see flashes of that life through the years and how much love they clearly had for each other within those four walls just makes me cry again and again

#schitt's creek #schitts creek #fic recs #long post

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thatslikely · 3 years

Text

Fred Weasley’s Day Off (Part 1) - F.W.

Fred Weasley’s Day Off- Fred Weasley x Gender Neutral!Reader [Ferris Bueller’s Day Off AU]

Warnings: only occasional mild language

Word Count: 4.2k

A/N: this is Part 1 of my new 5 part series, Fred Weasley’s Day Off! You can find the series masterlist here. This part is going pretty similar to the movie, but as the story unfolds, I promise it isn’t a carbon copy of John Hughe’s masterpiece. Hope you guys enjoy :)

Just a reminder: Y/N is Your Name, Y/L/N is Your Last Name, and thoughts are in italics.

Taglist: @amourtentiaa @anchoeritic @probably-peeves @horrorxweasley @weasleywh0r3s

if you want to be added to be added to my general (or this series!)’s taglist, send me a dm or ask!

If you haven’t seen Ferris Bueller’s Day off or just need a refresher, HERE all all the scenes included in this part in chronilogical order! I HIGHLY reccomend giving these a watch, for they make the situations a lot easier to understand (and they’re hilarious).

----

It’s a beautiful day today, temperatures in the upper 70’s. You can expect plenty of sun and not a cloud in sight. Right now, it’s 75 at lakefront, 74 at Midway, 73 at the O’hare.

“Arthur!” Molly Weasley screeched, beckoning her husband to Fred and George’s messy bedroom. The walls were plastered with large posters of their favorite bands and sports teams (mainly Fred’s), and an expensive computer sat on the desk in the corner. The door to the room was ajar, a frantic mother feeling a haggard Fred Weasley’s forehead.

“What's the matter?” Arthur asked, briefcase in hand.

“It’s Fred, for Merlin’s sake look at him!”

Fred laid slumped under the hand-knitted quilt like a corpse, his hair tousled and his chin unshaved. She continued, “he doesn’t have a fever, but his stomach hurts and he’s seeing spots!” Fred peeled his pained, umber eyes open, his weak gaze pointed to his suit-clad father.

A sympathetic Arthur reached for Fred’s cold and clammy hands, feeling them with a shudder. He’s got a bad cold, he thought, poor boy needs to stay home and rest.

“I’m fine, I’ll get up. I have a test today.” Fred leaned up slightly, his stuffy nose attempting to breathe. His baggy eyes drifted around the room, glazing the empty bed parallel to his’. “No!” Molly and Arthur Weasley stated firmly in unison, pressing his aching chest into the soft bed.

“I have to take it. I-I wanna go to a good college, so I can have a fruitful life.” Fred kept attempting to get out of bed, only for Molly’s gentle hands to guide him back down.

“Oh fine, what’s this? What’s his problem?” Ron leaned against the untidy bedroom’s door frame, his arms crossed, his face donning an unamused expression tinged with jealousy. He was looking daggers into Fred, who reciprocated nothing but a wink.

“He doesn’t feel well,” Molly stated, not pleased in the slightest with Ron’s distasteful demeanor.

“Yeah, right,” Ron rebutted with a scowl. The tips of Ron’s ears seared with resentment for his brother and anger at his naive and biased parents.

“Ronnie? Is that you?” Fred asked, his blurry vision making the outline of his brother near indistinguishable from the rest of his room. “Ronnie? I can’t see that far.” Fred leaned up in an attempt to see his brother, before falling backward with a dramatic moan.

“Dry that one out, you could fertilize the garden,” the younger ginger spat, tapping his toe furiously.

“Ronald, you get to school!” Molly demanded, vehemently gesturing for him to leave.

“You’re letting him stay home? If I was bleeding out my eyes you’d still make me go to school! This is so unfair.” Jealousy oozed from Ron’s clenched jaw like venom.

“Ron, please don’t be upset with me. You have your health, be thankful,” Fred said coolly. His eyes remained glinted with mischief, causing a furious Ron to storm off in a huff.

The concerned mother and father turned back to a wheezing Fred. Molly tucked him in tighter, cooing, “Now listen, I’ll be showing that new family some houses today, so I’ll be in the area. The office will know just where to find me if you need anything, okay?” A wave of gratefulness swept over Fred’s face.

“It’s nice to know I have such loving, caring parents. You’re both very special people.” Molly caressed Fred’s ashen cheek before planting a compassionate kiss on his warm forehead.

“G’bye champ,” Arthur said to his son before carefully shutting his door and walking to the garage.

They bought it.

Incredible. One of the worst performances of my career, and they never doubted it for a second. Fred peeled back the curtains blocking the beautiful view from his large windows with a smirk. He looked out the panes, admiring the gorgeous weather. How could I be expected to go to school on a day like this?

This is my ninth sick day this semester; it’s getting pretty tough coming up with new illnesses. If I go for ten, I’ll have to barf up a lung, so I’d better make this one count. Fred carefully adjusted his extortionate stereo, his fail-proof plan slowly piecing together.

Fred then stepped over to his desk, reaching for an old, hefty soccer trophy of his and some rope. The key to faking out the parents is the clammy hands. He started knotting the rope around the shiny golden award methodically. A lot of people’ll tell you to go for the old ‘phony fever’, but if you’ve got a nervous mother, you could wind up in the doctor's office. That’s worse than school.

“It’s a little childish and stupid, but then, so is high school.”

He scrupulously placed the trophy contraption behind his door with a satisfied nod, proceeding to the bathroom dressed in his grey and maroon striped bathrobe. Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

Fred undressed and stepped into the steamy shower, quickly shampoo-ing his ginger mop into a spiky mohawk. He gave some thought about his plans for the leisurely day before removing the showerhead, gripping it like a microphone, serenading an imaginary audience, “I recall Central Park in fall. How you tore your dress, what a mess, I must confess…”

----

“Spinnet?” A greasy Mr. Snape drawled, spectacled eyes darting around the dingy classroom, illuminated with corporate fluorescent lights. “Spinnet?”

“Here!”

“Smith?” Silence. “Smith?”

“Present.”

“Weasley?” Snape asked, scanning the room for any signs of the irresponsible redhead.

“Weasley?” he repeated, uninterested and monotone. “Weasley?”

“Um, he’s sick,” a perky Cho Chang cut through the tense silence with a smile, “my best friend’s sister’s boyfriend’s brother’s girlfriend heard from this guy, who knows this kid who saw Fred pass out at Florean’s last night! I guess it’s pretty serious.”

“Thank you, Cho,” Snape said impassively.

“No problem, whatsoever!”

----

A robotic ring emitted from the phone next to Lee Jordan’s bed, disturbing the perturbed ambiance of the inert bedroom. The hypochondriac occupying the sheets clicked the silver ‘answer’ button with a shallow sigh.

“Hello?” George Weasley asked, his voice deep and groggy.

“Georgie, babe, what’s happening?” Fred’s exuberant voice questioned from the other end of the line, starkly contrasting his twin’s nonbelligerent energy.

“Very little,” he responded in a trance-like state, eyes spacing out at the blank ceiling, his mind nearly detached from his aching body.

“How do you feel?”

“Shredded.” Half-empty pill bottles and antihypertensive drugs lined the bleak nightstand to his left.

“Get dressed and come on back home. I’m taking the day off,” Fred imposed. He sat in a lounge chair, next to the turquoise pool, soaking in the bright morning sun, which starkly contrasted George’s dark atmosphere. He held a Brick to his ear, sipping an iced Hawaiian drink from a swirly straw. The only thing covering his body was a pair of floral swim trunks; plastic sunglasses rested in the ginger nest atop his head.

“I can’t stupid, I’m sick. I think I got food poisoning from Lee’s awful cooking.”

“It’s all in your head, George, come back home,” Fred said more firmly, taking another sip of the fruity drink in the souvenir cup.

“I feel like complete shit, Fred. I can’t go anywhere.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Now come on over here so I can have a fun day off!” Fred demanded, hanging up the phone promptly. “Sheesh.”

George remained stiffly on the sheets, still as a statue, muttering, “I’m dying.” The phone chimed again with another call. Click.

“You’re not dying, you just can’t think of anything good to do!” Fred’s voice echoed through the dimly-lit room before the tone of an ended call took its place.

“Pardon my French,” said Fred to no one in particular, “but George is so tight, that if you stuck a lump of coal up his ass, in two weeks, you’d have a diamond.”

Fred quickly abandoned the pool deck, instead continuing random antics around the vacant house, whether it was (horribly) playing his centuries-old clarinet, or prank calling gullible freshmen claiming he had an impending kidney transplant. This was the life.

“I’m so disappointed in George. Twenty bucks says he’s sitting in his car debating whether or not he should go out.”

Fred had hit the nail on the head. George sat in his four-wheeled hunk of junk for minutes, muttering to himself, “He’ll keep calling me. He’ll keep calling me until I go home. He’ll make me feel guilty. This is ridiculous! Okay, I’ll go, I’ll go, I’ll go, I’ll go.” He turned the key of the run-down car, only for the engine to cough and heave. “Goddamn it!”

----

“Molly Weasley,” Molly introduced herself to the caller from her desk at the local real estate office. She held the landline phone in one hand, the other scratching numerals and figures onto some spreadsheets.

“This is Dolores J. Umbridge, Dean of Students. Are you aware that Fred is not at school today, Miss Weasley?” she asked punctually, her voice laced with irritation.

“Yes, I am. Poor Fred is home sick.”

“Are you also aware that Fred does not have what we consider an exemplary attendance record? He has missed an unacceptable number of school days.” Umbridge looked icy and collected on the outside, but deep down she was fuming with anger. “I have no reservation whatsoever about holding him back another year.”

“This is all news to me,” Molly replied, taken aback by Umbridge’s blunt threats.

“It usually is.” Dolores turned her attention to the hunky computer opposite her, ready with Fred’s academic profile, scanning the pixels signifying his number of absent days. When she finally opened her jaw to announce the number to Mrs. Weasley with a devious grin, she was horrified to see the number of days slowly ticking down to two.

“I asked for a car, I got a computer,” Fred said with an unamused but smug smirk as he typed lines of code into his computer back at the Weasley household, “how’s that for being born under a bad sign?”

“I can appreciate how this time of year, children are prone to taking the day off. However, in Fred’s case, I can assure you, he’s a very sick boy.” And with that, Dolores hung up on a sympathetic Molly, her tight brunette curls gradually frizzing from aggravation.

“I don’t trust this… Fred Weasley,” Umbridge confided to her secretary, Augustus Filch. “What’s so dangerous about a character like Fred is that he gives good students bad ideas. The last thing I need is fifteen-hundred Fred Weasley disciples running around these halls. He jeopardizes my ability to effectively govern this student body.”

“Well, he makes you look like a bitch is what he does, Dolores,” Filch said with a smirk.

“You’re wrong,” Dolores asserted, fiery gaze piercing through Filch’s soul.

“Well, he is very popular. The sportos and motorheads, geeks, wastoids, dweebies, dickheads, they all adore him. They think he’s some righteous dude,” Filch said astutely.

“That is why I’ve got to catch him this time. Show these kids that you can’t just skip school nine times a semester like he has and get away with it!”

----

Mr. Binns, a prehistoric-looking man with novel-thick glasses, stood at the head of the classroom, giving his usual dull lecture. While he etched utter nonsense onto the chalkboard, you couldn’t help but release a bone-cracking yawn.

After years of sitting in your uncomfortable plastic chair, drowning out Mr. Binn’s boring babble, your saving grace arrived in the form of a grave Nurse Pomfrey.

You quickly slipped on your pale, leather jacket and stuffed your blank notebook into your backpack at the sight of the frail woman donning white scrubs like a dove, eager to escape class. Nurse Pomfrey had on a solemn face as she quickly whispered something into Mr. Binns’ ear before announcing to the uninterested class, “Y/N, Y/L/N, may I have a word with you?” You painted a look of surprise on your face before stepping into the hallway with the disturbed grey-haired woman.

“My dear, I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad tidings,” she said sorrowfully once out of the earshot of the small lecture hall, “your father called. Your grandmother has just passed.”

Your eyes welled with artificial tears, face drenched with heartbreak.

----

The landline echoed through Umbridge’s dreary, pale pink office.

“Dolores Umbridge,” she said pseudo-cheerfully into the handset held by her thulian claws.

“This is Phil Y/L/N,” a middle-aged man said, his voice slathered with a thick Chicago accent.

“How are you today, sir?” Dolores asked suspiciously.

“Well, today we’ve had a bit of bad luck. It’s been a tough morning,” he croaked, “now if you wouldn’t mind excusing Y/N, we have a lot of family business to attend to.”

“I’d be happy to, just produce a corpse and I’ll release Y/N. I want to see this ‘dead grandmother’ firsthand.” She peeled the phone away from her face, smiling valiantly at a mortified Filch, saying slyly, “It’s okay, it’s Fred Weasley. I’m setting a trap for him.”

“Dolores, I’m sorry, did you say you wanted to see a body?” an ill-tempered Mr. Y/L/N questioned in disbelief through the speaker.

“Yes. Just roll her old bones up here and I’ll gladly retrieve Y/N for you. That’s school policy.” Dolores looked so pleased with herself, a devilish smirk resting on her lips. The telephone in Filch’s office chimed, and he quickly dashed to answer it.

“Hello, Dolores Umbridge, Dean of Students’ office,” his gravelly voice answered.

“Hi. This is Fred Weasley. Can I speak to Miss Umbridge, please?” Filch’s mouth went desert-dry in horror, his aged, grey eyes bulging out of his skull. He dashed to a taunting Umbridge, jumping and waving for her to shut up.

“I’ll tell you what, if you don’t like my policies, you can come down here and kiss my-”

“Fred Weasley’s on line two, Dolores!” Umbridge’s eyes went as wide as saucers; her whole face, even her bright fuchsia lipstick, turned as white as a sheet.

She was quick to switch to line two, listening to Fred Weasley’s voice which filled the otherwise silent room.

“Miss Umbridge, I’m not feeling too well today,” Fred started, a smug and valiant grin on his face. He adjusted his clean and gelled hair, which perfectly complemented the perfectly-tailored suit he donned. “Would it be possible for Ron to bring home any assignments from my classes? Have a nice day.”

The only sound left in the office was the droning disconnect tone.

The ‘line one’ buttoned flashed bright red like a siren. With a shaky, wrinkled pointer finger painted with a coat of magenta nail polish, she hesitantly pressed the button, sucking in a breath.

“Mr. Y/L/N, I-I think I owe you an apology,” she said, mortified.

“I should say you do!” the deep voice on the other line boomed. Umbridge peeled open her lips for an apology, only to be cut off with, “Well I think you should be sorry for Merlin’s sake! A family member dies, and you insult me! What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“W-well I really don’t know. I didn’t think I was talking to you, I thought you were someone else,” Umbridge barely managed to spit out. “You know I would never deliberately insult you like that!”

“Find out where she is!” Umbridge hissed to an idle but nervous Filch, her palm covering the phone’s mouthpiece. He promptly scrambled around the surrounding metal filing cabinets, reaching for various binders and manilla folders.

“This isn’t over yet, do you read me?” The infuriated voice’s threat yelled into the frantic principal’s ear.

“Loud and clear, Mr. Y/L/N!” she responded while scouring the various sets of drawers for Y/N’s schedule.

“Call me sir, goddammit!”

“Yes sir!”

----

“That’s better. Mind your P’s and Q’s buster, and remember who you’re dealing with!” an exasperated George Weasley shouted into the kitchen’s phone, his voice at least an octave lower than usual. His look of fury was soon replaced with a smile from ear to ear, quite proud of the convincing-ness of his impression.

A dashing, suit-clad Fred Weasley soon strutted into the lemon-yellow kitchen, charismatically introducing himself, “Weasley, Fred Weasley.”

George held his palm over the mouthpiece of the phone, asking, “I’m scared. What if she recognizes my voice?”

“Impossible. You’re doing great.”

The self-conscious redhead brought the phone back to his ear, shouting “Umbridge!” furiously. Groaning echoed from the other end of the line. “Umbridge, calm down!”

“I don’t have all day to bark at you, so I’ll make this short, and sweet. I want my child outside of the school in ten minutes by themself!”

Fred gave George a harsh tap on his shoulder, hissing, “That’s too suspicious! She’ll think something’s up!”

“You do it then!” the other twin whispered back.

“Talk.”

“You!”

“Talk.”

“Fine!” he fizzled. “Umbridge! Pay Attention!” The magenta-suited principal was scuttering around her office, frantically searching for your schedule and something to repair the escalating situation.

“Umbridge! Changed my mind. I want you out there with them, I’d like to have a few words with you!” Fred swiftly slapped the phone from George’s clutches, causing it to fall on the tile carelessly. The identical gingers both scrambled for the phone, ending up in George’s grasp once again.

He yelled to the mouthpiece rapidly, “On second thought, we don’t have time to talk right now! We’ll get together soon and have lunch!”

Fred kicked George’s rear hard, causing a small yelp to escape George’s lips. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he spat at Fred, who quickly slammed the phone back to the base.

“Where’s your brain?” he harshly asked his irritated brother.

“Why’d you kick me?” George retorted, hurt.

“Where’s your brain?”

“Why’d you kick me?”

“Where’s your brain?”

“I asked you first!”

“How are we gonna pick up Y/N if Umbitch is out there with them?” Fred rhetorically asked, seething.

“I- I said for them to be alone and you freaked,” George stated, reverting back to his timid tendencies.

“Now, I didn’t… I didn’t hit you. I lightly slapped you.”

“You hit me.” Tension sliceable with a butterknife filled the kitchen.

“Look, don’t ask me to participate in your stupid antics if you don’t like the way I do it. You make me get out of bed. You make me come over here. You made me make a phony phone call to Dolores Umbridge? That woman could expel me, expel us, and then, you deliberately hurt my feelings!”

“No… I didn’t deliberately hurt your feelings,” Fred said, his words tinged with guilt. “What’re you doing?” George grabbed his red hockey jersey and keys that previously laid on the island.

“I’m going back to Lee’s, Fred. I need some rest. Have a nice life.”

“No, no, c’mon. Don’t do that, George,” Fred pleaded ruefully, “George, come back. I didn’t mean to lose my temper. I’m sorry.”

“You serious?”

Fred gave a slow and sincere nod. George swiveled back around, setting his belongings back on the counter, his face lightened slightly.

“Now, to fix the situation, we’re gonna have to do something you’re not going to like.”

----

Fred and George peeled the sliding glass doors of the luxurious garage apart, revealing the interior, which was mainly lined with thousands of dollars worth of vintage car memorabilia, save for the treasured vehicle in the center.

“The 1961 Ford Anglia 105E Deluxe,” George said, his eyes pointed down at the prized pompadour blue car resting idly in front of the duo. Fred's eyes were also fixed on the vehicle, though his’ were illuminated with awe and mischief.

“Dad spent 3 years restoring this car,” he continued, hands behind his back, not daring to leave fingerprints on its shiny surface, “it is his love, it is his passion…”

“It is his fault he didn’t lock the garage,” Fred smirked, sauntering around the exterior of the automobile, slobbering all over the surface like a dog with fresh meat.

“Fred, what are you talking about?” George asked nervously, already knowing what Fred was plotting, “Dad loves this car even more than he loves you!”

“Fred, no.” Fred swiped his fingers over the perfect coat of paint, occasionally posing with the car as if he was a model on the front cover of a magazine.

“Que Bella!” he said with a chef’s kiss, still drooling over the car’s magnificence.

“Remember how insane he went when I snapped my retainer? And that was a tiny piece of plastic!” Fred paid an anxious George no mind, instead continuing his admiration for Arthur’s most valuable possession.

“George, I’m sorry, but we can’t pick up Y/N in that piece of scrap. He’d never believe Mr. Y/L/N would drive something like that!”

“It’s not a piece of scrap.”

Fred opened the driver’s side door, slowly sitting down in the comfortable cushioned seat, his umber eyes never breaking contact with George’s identical ones.

“He knows the mileage, Fred.”

“Look, this is real simple. Whatever miles we put on, we’ll take off.” Fred said, barely giving George the time of day.

“How?”

“We’ll drive home backwards.”

“No,” George said firmly, almost like a mother. Fred turned the key of the Anglia, its restored engine roaring ten times better than George’s hunk of junk’s.

“How about we rent a nice Cadillac, my treat!” He yelled as Fred slowly drove away, the revving of the vintage engine drowning out his voice. George stood frozen in disbelief, before Fred slowly backed up, beckoning George to join him.

With a heavy heart, George warily climbed into the back seat of the vehicle. And with that, Fred floored the gas, speeding off towards the Shermer High.

----

“I had a grandmother once,” Umbridge awkwardly stated, in an attempt to soothe your heart overcome with (fake) grief. “Two, actually.”

The suburbs outside of the Windy City lived up to their name today; Umbridge’s frizzy brown curls swayed in the strong breeze. The temperature today was the best it had been since last Autumn; it was a given that Fred would skip.

You patiently waited on the concrete steps outside the school, Umbridge continuing her “comforting” words, attempting to stitch the wounds caused by your grandmother’s staged death. You weren’t focused on the thulian tyrant, however, instead, your eyes waited on the road for the sight of a ruby-red-haired boy.

“Between grief and nothing, I’d take grief,” Umbridge said flatly.

“Great,” you replied softly, eager to shut the toadish old lady up. She opened her magenta-tinted lips to add something else, but she decided against it, promptly shutting her mouth without a sound escaping.

The stentorian roaring of the engine residing in cerulean Ford Anglia filled the silent air and idle parking lot, lightening your spirits instantly. While you didn’t doubt that Fred would’ve shown up eventually, his timing was impeccable. It didn’t hurt that he showed up in a killer ride, either.

A tall, lanky man drenched in a long beige trench coat, horn-rimmed sunglasses, and a businessman-looking fedora, which masked his fiery orange hair, emerged from the car, leaning against its body.

“Oh Y/N honey, hurry along now,” the stranger in disguise bellowed, his voice slightly higher pitched than ‘Mr. Y/L/N’s’ from the phone, a thickly-slathered Chicago accent present nonetheless.

“I guess that’s my dad.”

You grabbed the annoying principal’s wrinkly, cold hand, reciting, “Miss Umbridge, Dolores. You’re a beautiful woman, I wanna thank you for your warmth and compassion.”

A furious Ron watched from the scene play out from the large front windows of the school, immediately recognizing Fred and his infuriating antics with a scowl. Why should he get to skip while the rest of us have to stay? I’ve gotta catch him.

Umbridge looked near disturbed at your counterfeit words on thankfulness, before you eagerly stepped down to the car, giving ‘Mister Y/L/N’ a quick hug.

“Do you have a kiss for Daddy?” Fred jokingly asked with a smirk.

“Are you kidding?” you replied, leaning into his soft lips for a passionate kiss, which maybe would have escalated a little further if he didn’t drag you in the passenger seat of the Anglia.

“So that's how it is in their family,” Umbridge uttered as she watched the nearly-French kiss perched from her spot at the top of the stairway. She swiftly pivoted around walking to the front entrance to the school, when Fred floored the Ford again, its loud engine roaring off into the distance.

“Hi Georgie, you comfortable?” you asked, eyes towards the crampted back seat.

Once the three of you were out of Umbridge’s eyeline, a compact George sprung up from the lonely backseat, saying, “Hi, Y/N. No.”

“So, what're we gonna do?” you asked the dashingly handsome driver next to you with a smile.

“The question isn’t: What are we going to do? The question is: What aren’t we going to do?”

“Don’t say we’re not going to take the car home. Please don’t say that we’re not going to take the car home,” George mumbled, hopeful that Fred would comply, though he already knew that Fred would be doing the exact opposite.

If you had access to a car like this, Fred mentally narrated, gesturing to the amenities-rich Anglia, would you take it back right away? Me neither.

And with that, Fred recklessly rounded the bendy road, speeding off towards downtown Chicago.

103 notes · View notes

pickalilywrites · 3 years

Text

a mikahisu au inspired by one of my favorite shows~ please enjoy ^^

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

Do You Still Dream of Me?

MikaHisu. Hotel Del Luna AU.

Like the Moon Loves the Ocean Series: Chapter 1

13252 words.

Read on Ao3!

Armin Arlert hunches over a stack of documents, nibbling on the end of his fountain pen. The pen costs more than his entire outfit — an oversized suit that Armin had fished out of a bin at his local thrift store when he was trying to find a respectable ensemble to wear for the interview that snagged him his current job. Even now, Armin isn’t sure how he managed to get a job as a finance manager at one of the most expensive hotels he’s ever seen in his life. Actually, this might be one of the most extravagant places Armin has ever stepped foot in. He still feels out of place when he arrives in the morning, his polyester suit looking even cheaper against the marble floors and gilded staircase, but nobody ever seems to pay him any mind when he sneaks through the door and scurries away to his office at the far end of the lobby.

His brow furrows as he looks at a particularly confusing set of numbers, numbers that don’t add up the way that they should. Or, well, they’re not adding up in a way that will be satisfying to the hotel owner when he reports the new estimated budget for next month. They’ll have to cut spending once again. At the very least, they need to stop splurging on unnecessary decorations for the hotel and personal luxury expenditures. It’s the same report he’s made every month since he’s been here, but always surprises the hotel manager nonetheless. And she’s never happy to hear it. Armin highly suspects that it’s a major reason why he’s her least favorite hotel staff member even though he’s really just the bearer of bad news.

Ah, how do I break this to her? Armin wonders, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his face tiredly. He lets his arms fall to his sides and sits in his chair, his head tipped back and his eyes closed as he contemplates his next move. On one hand, the woman can’t possibly fire him because her assets would be entirely in the negatives if he weren’t here to keep her in check. On the other hand, the glare she shoots him as he delivers the bad news is enough for him to wish an abyss would appear and swallow him up on the spot. He briefly wonders if he can lie his way out of it - maybe fudge the numbers so that the woman can live as extravagantly as she desires - but that just seems like a disaster waiting to happen. There really isn’t any way out of it.

Armin sighs once more before opening his eyes ... only to see a set of cold, dead eyes staring back at him.

He’s not sure what kind of noise comes out of his throat as he jumps out of his chair, knocking over the stack of papers he’s been working on and tripping over his chair. He’s still shrieking as the thing approaches him, its hand outstretched as it walks toward him even as he crawls backward up against the wall. Armin can hardly look at it - this ghost of a person, a bloody wound across its neck where it had been decapitated before its untimely death - and he shrinks against the wall as it comes closer and closer.

The door opens just then and the sound of footsteps alerts the ghost, making it turn its head to see who has just entered.

“Excuse me, miss,” a voice says. A woman appears, completely calm even though Armin still sits huddled in the corner screaming. She ignores him, her focus entirely on the ghost, to which she offers a warm smile. The woman gestures towards the opened door. “I’m afraid you’ve stumbled into the office of our financial advisor. If you can step into the lobby, our receptionist can assist you in checking into a room at the front desk.”

The ghost looks slowly from the woman and then to Armin. After a long pause, the ghost woman slowly bows to Armin — her form of an apology, Armin supposes — before departing, the door swinging shut behind her.

The woman stares at the closed door for a moment before shifting her attention to Armin. Gone is her professional smile; it’s replaced with an amused expression, laughter stifled behind lips closed in a thin line. She offers a slender hand to Armin to help him up. “I thought you’d be used to our clients by now. Hasn’t it been almost a year since you started working here?”

“Er, yeah,” Armin says sheepishly, the tips of his ears turning pink in embarrassment. He drags his feet to his desk, collecting his papers and dropping them into a messy stack on his desk before collapsing in his chair. Face in hand, he says, “I probably should, but it’s still weird. I can probably see a million ghosts for the next few years, but they’ll always make me jump in my seat. Maybe if they didn’t stop phasing through the walls of my office and sneaking up on me …”

The woman only laughs, and Armin feels a little more relaxed. Mikasa Ackerman, the assistant manager of the hotel, is one of the only hotel staff members Armin feels comfortable around. While the other staff members either roll their eyes or laugh when Armin encounters their ghostly clientele, Mikasa has always been patient with him.

“The next few years,” Mikasa muses, a lopsided smile on her face. She takes a seat in a chair across from him. She leans her elbow on the armrest, her cheek pressed up against her hand. Eyebrow raised, the manager asks, “You really think you’ll be working here for a few more years? Do we not pay you well enough?”

“You’re really underestimating the cost of student loans these days,” Armin sighs, slumping lower in his chair. He reaches for the mug on his desk, bringing it to his lips, and takes a long sip of coffee. It’s cold as it hits his tongue and slides down his throat, and he shudders when it hits his stomach. On second thought, caffeine probably isn’t the best decision considering the fact that he was almost scared shitless only a minute ago. He returns the mug to its coaster, an unsatisfied frown on his face.

“Poor, poor you,” Mikasa coos, eyes crinkling as her smile widens. She sits back, legs crossed and hands placed on her knees. She looks so comfortable here, so much like she belongs in her wool suit, the golden badge that lists her name and title pinned against her breast. If she weren’t so nice, maybe Armin would feel inferior. “It’s kind of your fault for going for a Ph.D. What do you need a doctorate in finance for anyway?”

“I don’t really know what I was thinking, to be honest. I thought maybe I could teach at a university somewhere down the line. Hoped the salary I earned down the line would make the investment worth it, but obviously I didn’t learn anything in my undergrad.” Armin waves his hand around the room. “Anyway, here I am now working at a ghost hotel so that I can pay off my student loans.” It’s probably the biggest mistake of his life next to taking a job at this hotel. Obtaining a Ph.D didn’t give him the salary bump he hoped it would and this was the only place that paid him nearly enough for his years at school.

“Could be worse,” Mikasa says with a shrug. “At least you don’t age while you’re here.”

“Ah, right,” Armin says. That was mentioned as an added perk when he had started to work here, but he hadn’t really believed it at first. Sure, some of his coworkers claim to have been working at this hotel for decades, although most of them look well under the age they say they are. Armin’s not even sure how that’s possible considering the demanding boss they work under. He supposes he’ll find out if it’s true in a few years, assuming he’s still paying off his student loans by then. Armin sits up a bit, eyebrow raised. “How long have you been working here again?”

Mikasa grins. “A little over twenty years.”

The answer isn’t anything new, but it’s always a punch in the gut whenever Armin hears it because it never makes sense to him. Mikasa can’t be older than twenty-seven — and that was pushing it. If she really were working for twenty years, she would have been a child when she had first been employed. Armin thinks she must be joking with him just like the other employees are, but Armin finds that strange too. Mikasa is always friendly with him, but she’s not the type to tell strange jokes.

“Right,” Armin says. He looks at Mikasa cautiously, but her expression tells him nothing.

“Don’t worry. It’s not so bad after a while,” Mikasa says. She leans back, staring back at Armin. Even though she doesn’t look at him threateningly, Armin still shrinks under her gaze.

“How’s your work going, by the way? Any good news for the boss?” Mikasa reaches over, a finger tapping on Armin’s stack of papers.

Armin groans, burying his head in his hands, although it’s more because of the mention of their boss rather than the work itself.

Historia Reiss is the hotelier of the Blutmond, the phantom hotel which Armin finds himself unfortunately employed. Her appearance is anything but intimidating. She wasn’t even close to being five feet tall. With hair of spun gold and aquamarine eyes, the petite woman could be mistaken for a life-sized doll if it weren’t for the terrible scowl on her face. In all of Armin’s time at the Blutmond, he doesn’t think he’s seen her smile once. She glowered the entire time during his interview, never opening her mouth except to ask whether or not he’d be able to balance her account in time for her to buy the latest model Porsche. The woman didn’t even congratulate him when she and Mikasa came to visit him with the news of his new job, only telling him that she expected him to come to work on time and not to make any mistakes with her finances or she’d have his head. He completely believed her and has always double-checked his work at least three times before finalizing his spreadsheets. His other coworkers have insisted that the woman isn’t nearly as frightening as Armin believes her to be, but the way they cower and scurry to put everything in place whenever she steps into the room doesn’t fool him. He’s also heard a curious rumor about her. His coworkers always mention that she’s been here the longest — over a thousand years — although he’s not sure if it’s just a way of them calling her an old hag because the woman doesn’t look a day over twenty-five.

“It’s really not going so great,” Armin says with a pained expression. He flips through some of his papers, pulling out a small stack that documents Historia’s personal expenses. Most of the page is highlighted in bright red. Armin thought the severe color would help convince their boss about his budgeting suggestions at the end of the week. Handing the papers to Mikasa, Armin says, “It’s only been half the month, but Miss Reiss is spending way too much on her credit card already. At this rate, she won’t have enough to buy that caviar that she likes so much.”

“It’s fine. Historia doesn’t actually like caviar that much. She just likes how rich she feels when she eats it,” the manager says absentmindedly. Mikasa flips through the papers, an eyebrow raised, but she doesn’t seem surprised as she reviews Armin’s findings. Once through with them, she straightens them out on the desk. “Maybe I can convince her to get sashimi next time.”

“I’m serious. She really needs to cut down on her spending habits.” He hates how whiny he sounds, but it’s difficult for him not to whine when he’s imagining how infuriated his employer will be when he timidly suggests that she not buy anymore jewelry for the rest of the month. “I mean, does she really need to have twelve different sports cars lining her garage? Where is she even going?”

Mikasa sits with her fingers steepled, a pout on her lips as she looks down at the papers again. She reaches over to thumb through the papers once more before sitting back again. “I guess I can talk to her about it.”

Armin sits up, his mouth shaped in a perfect “O.” “Would you really?” His mind is already going a million miles a minute, thinking about everything he has to review with Mikasa before she presents the information to their boss. Maybe he can show her the presentation slides he prepared in advance. He thought having his notes on an elegant Powerpoint would be much better than him stuttering through his notes while Historia glared at him. A little more energized now, Armin is already clicking through his computer, pulling up the presentation slides for Mikasa to look at. “If you’re really serious, I have some materials that can help you-”

“I’m not,” Mikasa says, an amused smile on her face. She laughs when Armin visibly deflates. “Ah, I feel a bit bad seeing you so disappointed, though. Are you really that scared of her?”

Armin thinks about the little woman, the blue flames that ignite in her eyes whenever he so much as hints at the fact that her shopping sprees should have a cap on them. He shudders. “I’m terrified.”

The woman nods sympathetically. “Alright, I’ll try to talk to her. No promises, though. You know how she feels about these things.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” Armin breathes, collapsing against the back of his chair with relief. He knows that most of Historia’s ire will be directed towards him, but he hopes that having Mikasa deliver the news will somehow soften the blow.

“Mhm. You’re going to get used to being in her line of fire though. It’s unfortunate, but it comes with the job of being her finance manager. She’ll always be bad with money no matter how much you tell her not to spend,” Mikasa tells him with a wry smile. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, the sound making Armin jump in his seat. She looks at him, snickering, and pulls her phone out. Mikasa glances at her phone before turning it so that Armin could see the name flashing across the screen - Historia. “Unless you’d like to practice right now.”

Armin, eyes wide and throat closing shut at just the sight of the hotelier’s name, shakes his head.

“Alright, alright,” Mikasa laughs. She stands up, straightening out her blazer. “I’ll stop teasing you and leave you to your work then. And don’t worry about Historia; I’ll take care of her for you.” The manager returns to her phone, swiping across the screen and taking the call.

“Thanks, Mikasa,” Armin says. He didn’t mean for his voice to come out as a squeak, but he finds that he can’t speak knowing that his employer might hear his voice on the other end.

Mikasa simply waves at him, walking towards the door. “Yeah, I’m free, but I’m surprised you’re not calling Levi for something like this,” she’s saying. She pulls open the door, her voice fading as she’s walking out. “No, the work is fine. It’s perfect, actually. I was hoping we could talk about your finances. I just talked to Armin …”

Armin winces at the mention of his name and, as much as he knows he shouldn’t because it’ll only make him feel worse, strains to listen in on the conversation but the wooden door proves too thick of a barrier to let him eavesdrop. Just as well, he thinks as he rests his forehead against the cool surface of his desk. He’ll just get back to work estimating next month’s budget. And, he thinks as he squeezes his eyes shut, praying that he won’t have any more unexpected paranormal visitors today.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Historia sits in the passenger seat of a slick blue Bentley, one of the many luxury cars that line her parking garage. Mikasa has tried to convince the hotelier that one car should be enough, has even tried selling them behind her back only for Historia to buy twice as many cars to replace them. Looking at Historia now, Mikasa understands why the blonde gravitates so naturally to high-end sports cars. In the passenger seat with her golden hair falling behind her back in waves, Historia looks like she could be a model for the luxury brand. Her pastel dress, one that Mikasa is fairly certain has been flaunted on a runway at some point in the past year, is probably worth just as much as the Bentley if not more. Mikasa doesn’t even want to think about how much jewelry that adorns the woman’s neck is worth, although she knows she should probably ask.

“What took you so long?” Historia asks, her scowl breaking the illusion of her pixie-like appearance. She sits up, holding her matching clutch purse in her lap. Her bottom lip sticks out, making her plush pink lips look even more like a doll’s. She looks cute, Mikasa could even say, but she knows the words would only cause Historia to narrow her blue eyes in an irritated glare.

Mikasa slips into the driver’s seat, fishing the car keys from the inside of her breast pocket. “My apologies. I was speaking with Armin before I came here,” she tells Historia. She turns the ignition, the engine purring as the car starts up. “He had some interesting things to say about your finances.”

At the mention of the man’s name, Historia hisses, tossing her hair over her shoulder. It seems to be a common reaction whenever the finance manager is mentioned in the hotelier’s presence. “I don’t want to hear anything he has to say,” Historia sniffs, as if not speaking about it will somehow help her avoid her financial issues. She reaches for the remote, clicking the garage door open so that they can make their exit. “He never has anything good to say to me. All he ever does is bring me bad news. I don’t even know why we hired him.”

“Because you’re terrible at budgeting,” Mikasa answers easily, ignoring the glare that she receives. After working at the hotel for decades, she’s quite used to being at the receiving end of Historia’s scathing looks. She doesn’t take her eyes off the road as she drives, maneuvering out of the parking spot and onto the driveway easily. “He mentioned that you might not even have enough money for an ounce of caviar at the end of the month.”

Historia whips her head so quickly that her neck might have snapped if she were a normal person. Mikasa doesn’t have to look at the woman’s expression to see that she’s horrified at the thought of not eating the overpriced salt-cured fish eggs. “Should I just fire him?” Historia murmurs, sitting with her back against her seat. She shakes her head, her brows furrowed as she considers letting go of her financial manager. “Or maybe we can cut his pay. I’ll have more money if I cut his pay, right?”

“If you cut his pay, he’ll be working here for longer to pay off his student loans,” Mikasa reminds her employer. “You could try hiring someone else, but he was the best in his class. Harvard.”

Historia’s bottom lip wobbles and, for a moment, it looks like she might even cry. Instead, she lets out a frustrated shriek like a spoiled child. “Ah, that kid! I hate him, you know. Out of everyone here, he’s probably my least favorite.”

“I know,” Mikasa says with a sympathetic nod, trying her best to keep her face stoic even though all she wants to do now is burst into laughter at the childish outburst.

These words aren’t new to Mikasa. In fact, she’s heard different variations of the same words over the years that she’s been here. Sometimes it’s Levi, the current general manager of the hotel. Other times it will be Pixis, the elderly but sweet bartender, or Colt, the receptionist at the front desk who looks barely out of his teens. Quite a number of times it has been Connie, the room manager, for swiping too many snacks from the kitchen in between mealtimes. Mikasa’s even been the least favorite every once in a while, although Armin has been given the title these past few months because he’s come in the way of Historia and the thing she loves the most - a luxurious lifestyle.

The funny thing is that Historia has not always been rich. It’s something that the woman likes to remind everyone, Mikasa included, every now and again. Mikasa doesn’t doubt that, but she does find it amusing that Historia turned her back on her past lifestyle so much so that she doesn’t have an ounce of frugality in her body.

“Who’s the client today?” Mikasa asks just as they’re about to hit the main road.

“Some man named Reiner Braun,” Historia says with a click of her tongue. She flips idly through her phone before inserting coordinates in the device. “His grand-niece reached out to us, but she couldn't tell me how rich he was. Don’t you think that’s ridiculous? You’d think someone so close to him would have a sense of how much money he has.” Historia frowns as she inspects her pearly pink nails.

“Children these days,” Mikasa tsks wryly, but Historia doesn’t seem to pick up on her sarcasm.

“They’re terrible. Terrible, terrible. Stupid and spoiled, all of them.” Historia clicks her tongue disapprovingly. The irony of calling someone else “spoiled” while she’s wearing a diamond choker around her neck hasn’t yet reached Historia.

“And I suppose you know what being spoiled looks like?”

It takes a moment for Historia to realize what Mikasa is saying. She sits up, clearly insulted. “I worked for this!” Historia says indignantly, smoothing out her skirt to prevent wrinkles. “I’ll have you know that I worked for every single cent that pays for my lifestyle. I earned all of this.”

“Of course,” Mikasa says with a nod. Beside her, Historia begins to settle down in her seat. “I’m sure the exorbitant prices you charge your clients also helps.”

Historia gives Mikasa a scathing side glare, one that would have made Mikasa flinch in her early days but now it’s like watching a kitten get angry after hiding its toy. She tosses her head, her golden tresses flying back in the wind. “I should have just brought Levi with me,” she mutters under her breath.

Mikasa remains unbothered. “You probably should have,” she replies in a sing-song voice.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

“You know,” Mikasa says as they stand on the doorstep of a sprawling mansion fit for a lord, “you would think his grand-niece would have mentioned that he was loaded.” She reaches over to ring the door, frowning when she’s unable to hear its chime through the thick mahogany door.

“This?” Historia asks, gesturing around the estate. She shrugs, unimpressed. “This is nothing.”

Earlier, they had been stopped at the gate and asked for their identification. Mikasa had thought they would have been stopped there after Historia had gotten into a shouting match with the guard over the intercom until someone else popped on the screen — a young woman with thick dark hair tied half-up in a messy bun — and said they were cleared to come through, pressing open the button for the visitors despite the guard’s protests. As Mikasa drives up the road to the house, Historia hardly looks up at the sprawling green lawn, the freshly trimmed topiaries, or the sparkling fountain. The petite woman doesn’t even blink when Mikasa parks at the front of the house, throwing open the door and stepping out of the car without glancing back even as a valet hurries forward and asks Mikasa for the keys. Although not a fan of letting other people drive around in Historia’s cars, Mikasa grudgingly left the keys in the valet’s hand, chasing after the blonde woman because Mikasa knew Historia never likes to wait for anyone.

“I suppose since he’s living so shabbily we shouldn’t take any commission from him,” Mikasa says dryly. She doesn’t flinch when Historia smacks her sharply on the arm. “Or at the very least offer him a discount. I’m not sure he can afford our services otherwise.”

“Don’t joke like that,” Historia snaps. She reaches up to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Money is money, so we’ll take what we can get.”

The door opens just then, the same young girl who was on the intercom with a bright smile waiting behind it breathlessly. She looks to be just thirteen or fourteen. Her hair is falling out from its little bun and her clothes — a ratty t-shirt and some cutoff denim shorts — look out of place in the mansion. Historia is no doubt looking at the girl’s outfit in disapproval, but the girl doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she sticks out a hand towards the pair. “Hi, I’m Gabi! I spoke to you on the phone,” the girl says, oblivious to the maids and servants panting behind her that are trying to pull her back. “You’re Mikasa and Historia, right? From the Blutmond?”

“Miss Braun,” a butler hisses, grabbing at Gabi’s arm. “The guests haven’t been properly screened. You can’t just allow anyone to enter the Braun estate.”

“Relax. Uncle Braun said I could invite my friends over whenever I want,” Gabi snaps. She shakes the man off, scowling at him before turning back to Mikasa and Historia. “And these two are my friends, right?” She looks at them expectantly, silently begging them to play along.

Historia and Mikasa exchange a look, not confirming or denying anything. After a moment, Historia sighs, her arms folded across her chest. “For the duration of this visit, yes, we are Miss Gabi Braun’s … friends.” She looks as if the word leaves a sour taste in her mouth, but Gabi looks smug, happy that she’s managed to dupe the mansion’s staff members even though the majority of them look unconvinced. Of course, none of this bothers Historia, who just charges forward, looking around and not hiding the fact that she’s inspecting every inch of this place.

“Oh, um, let me show you around a bit,” Gabi says, shutting the door behind Mikasa and hurrying after Historia. “It’s easy to get lost here because it’s so big.”

“It’s not that big,” Historia snorts.

“Excuse me,” Mikasa mumbles as she pushes past the staff. It seems that they’ve either given up or just don’t want to bother with the Braun girl anymore because most of them just sigh before returning to their assigned tasks.

Although Gabi is supposed to be giving the tour, Historia is the one that leads the way while Gabi and Mikasa follow behind. Historia hardly says anything as she closely inspects the many statues and paintings that decorate the corners and walls of the various rooms they visit, but Gabi fills the silence with needless chatter of the art pieces. Every now and again Mikasa expresses some admiration for all the historical and artistic knowledge Gabi displays and the praise has the girl puff her chest out in pride, but Historia will sigh under her breath or roll her eyes at times. It really may be that nothing in this mansion really interests her because she never lingers on a painting for longer than a second or two before moving onto the next art piece.

“So, Gabi,” Mikasa says after a moment, making sure that the group was out of earshot of any eavesdropping maids or busboys that might have followed them. She makes sure to keep close to Gabi, her voice low as she speaks. “You called about your great uncle, is that correct? Can you tell us a little bit more about him before we meet him?”

Gabi bites on her lip and fiddles on a loose thread on her faded shirt. She nods before looking over at Historia, who’s halfway across the room frowning at a grand piano. “Er, yeah,” the girl mumbles. “I can … I can tell you about him.”

“You can talk from there,” Historia says without looking up. She presses a finger to an ivory key and a note rings out, echoing across the room. It seems that the note is unsatisfactory though because her frown deepens after hearing it. “I have impeccable hearing.”

Gabi looks unsure, but Mikasa puts a reassuring hand on the girl’s shoulder and smiles. “Go ahead, Gabi.”

“Okay,” Gabi says. She takes a deep breath, but she’s already shaking. Tears already forming in her eyes, she looks up, swallowing hard. “Uncle Reiner … he’s been strange for a while now. Maybe a few months. My parents say it’s just dementia because he’s so old but … I don’t think that’s it.” Tears roll down her cheeks and she’s looking down now, stubbornly wiping them away with the back of her hand.

“Take your time,” Mikasa says gently, rubbing soothing circles on the young girl’s back.

Historia is a little less sympathetic. She strides over, taking a seat on a nearby chaise lounge and sitting back like it’s an appropriate time to relax. “And what makes you think we can help? I don’t typically enjoy doing business with doddering old men.”

“Ignore her,” Mikasa tells Gabi, shooting a look at Historia. Historia simply sticks her tongue out in reply.

“N-no,” Gabi says with a shake of her head, sniffling. “I h-heard you could h-help people. That you h-have a special business. My uncle … I don’t think the th-things he’s seeing are hallucinations. I th-think what he’s seeing … they’re ghosts.”

Historia looks a little more intrigued now, sitting up on the chaise with her legs crossed instead of lounging back. “What makes you think that they’re ghosts?”

Gabi hesitates. “Well … he mentions these names sometimes… Bertholdt, Porco, Marcel…,” she says, brow furrowed. “He hardly ever talked to me about them, but sometimes their names would slip. Whenever I asked about them back then, he would just tell me that they used to be friends back when he was younger. He always looked so … sad whenever he talked about them like … like he couldn’t see them anymore.”

This story is enough for Mikasa to offer their services or at least give Gabi an offer to look at her great uncle, but Historia simply lets out a huff, pushing herself off the chaise and making her way out the door.

“An old man haunted by his old, dead friends,” Historia says with a toss of her head. She beckons for Mikasa to follow her, ignoring the horrified look on Gabi’s face. When the young girl runs forward, barring Historia from leaving, the haughty woman only sighs once more. “Look, if you’re worried he’s getting haunted by ghosts, why don’t you just run over to a church and get some holy water to splash on him? Or just buy some salt to sprinkle around his bed.” She waves her hand, gesturing for Gabi to move out of her way, but the girl refuses.

“I’ll pay you!” Gabi says. She stands resolute, her arms spread wide even as her lower lip trembles.

Historia raises an eyebrow. She steps back, a hand on her hip. “You’ll pay me?” she repeats. “You’re thirteen. What could you possibly offer me?”

“I could give you … my inheritance,” Gabi says. She sticks out her bottom lip, jutting her chin out and lifting her head. Her eyes are still red from crying, but tears have stopped falling down her cheeks. She clears her throat and continues, “Uncle Reiner hasn’t told anyone … but he’s made me the sole heir of his estate … among other things. I can … give you this mansion and everything in here if you just please help me.”

Mikasa wants to tell Gabi that it’s not necessary. Their services aren’t nearly worth that much and, even if it were, it’s illegal to make such a transaction with a minor.

Historia, of course, doesn’t care. She’s looking at Gabi with more interest now, her blue eyes shining as she looks at the girl. The woman isn’t even thinking about the logic of such a promise — when she would be able to collect the inheritance or what she would do with it. Her mind is occupied with calculating the worth of the estate and the many statues and paintings that decorate it. “I hope you know,” Historia says, her eyes glittering, “that any contract you make with me is binding.”

“You really don’t have to do this,” Mikasa begins to say, but Historia cuts her off with a snarl.

“No, I’ll do it,” Gabi says with a shake of her head. “All of this stuff … it doesn’t mean anything to me. I’ve never been very materialistic. All I really want … is for my uncle to be okay.” She lowers her arms, looking at Historia with uncertainty.

“How very noble of you,” Historia says, but she isn’t really listening. She’s busy fishing something out of her clutch purse, reaching in and pulling out a document filled out in the tiniest font. Even though the contract could have never fit perfectly in Historia’s purse without being folded up, there isn’t a wrinkle in sight when the woman presents the document to Gabi. The woman fishes out an expensive-looking fountain pen, one that Mikasa is only half-sure had originally been in the hotelier’s purse although it might be more likely she had snatched it off of a desk from the mansion when nobody was looking. Historia holds up the contract with a lipsticked smile, a perfectly manicured nail tapping at against the line where Gabi should sign. “Just sign your name here, darling.”

Gingerly, Gabi takes the pen from Historia, staring at the document with uncertainty. The pen sits uncapped in her hand, hovering over the dotted line where her signature should be. Her eyes scan the document, but the words begin to blur and she begins to gnaw at her lip.

Mikasa steps forward, lowering the document from Gabi’s face. “You don’t have to sign it.”

“Mikasa,” Historia hisses. An angry glare flashes across her face for half a second before switching to a more composed, reassuring smile directed at Gabi. “Don’t listen to her. Just sign it, sweetie. It’s harmless.”

Gabi looks from Mikasa to Historia, her expression uncertain, but she glances once more at the document and grips the pen in her hand with more conviction. The tip of the pen hits the paper and Gabi scrawls her full name — Gabrielle Mariella Braun — in an illegible, childish print before handing the fountain pen back to Historia.

“Perfect, perfect,” Historia says in a sing-song voice, squinting as she inspect’s Gabi’s signature. She turns her head slightly to Mikasa, lowering her voice a bit but not enough as she asks, “They don’t teach children cursive these days, do they? This girl’s signature is terrible. It’s like a toddler let their crayon wander across the page.” Historia takes another look at it before rolling up the contract and stuffing it into her purse.

“Cursive?” Gabi repeats with a knitted brow.

“It’s just connecting all the letters with a line, really,” Mikasa tells the girl, patting her on the shoulder to show that it’s not that big of an issue. A small part of her regrets not talking Gabi against signing the document, but she figures Gabi’s at more of an advantage than Historia is since the former is a minor and any contract she signs could be deemed void. She’ll just leave the problem for later, preferably when Armin is at her side so he can drive Historia mad enough to leave the poor girl and her inheritance alone.

“Right then!” Historia says, a lot more lively than she was a few minutes ago now. She flicks a lock of golden hair away from her face and smiles brightly at Gabi. “Be a dear and show us where your grandfather is. We’ll help him in any way we can.” It’s become quite obvious to Mikasa that Historia has long forgotten Gabi’s name despite being introduced to the girl a little while ago and having just seen her name written on a document not a minute before. Gabi doesn’t seem to have noticed. She’s more taken aback by Historia’s change in character. Mikasa can’t really blame her. The hotel manager had seen the woman do a complete 180 after being offered a yacht for her services once and thought new yacht-owner Historia was a completely different person from the usually crotchety hotelier.

“Er, yes. If you follow me, right around here …,” Gabi says, her voice trailing as she leads them out of the room and into the hallway.

Mikasa and Historia follow the girl, Historia with a new spring in her step as she lets her fingers trail against every vase and statue that they pass by with renewed appreciation for the artwork. As they walk, Historia hums a song that Mikasa almost knows by heart, but she knows it’s a song that hasn’t been sung in centuries.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Gabi leads them to a room at the end of the east wing. The room is much smaller than Historia and Mikasa anticipated. Historia had almost walked ahead and yanked open the largest double doors in the hallway before Gabi hurriedly pulled the woman away and rushed them over to her great uncle’s quarters. The door was considerably less extravagant — a single mahogany door with simple square panels and a gilded doorknob — and Mikasa could see the frown returning on Historia’s face.

The girl opened the door just a crack, leaning in to whisper, “Uncle Reiner? I brought some visitors for you. They’re … friends of mine. They said they might be able to help you.” She waits a bit for an answer. Even when Mikasa strains her ears to hear, she can’t hear a thing. It seems that Gabi does, however, because after a pause, she finally opens the door, allowing Historia and Mikasa to enter before her.

Mikasa isn’t quite sure where to look when she steps into the room. The bedroom is every bit as lavish as the rest of the house, the furniture all in deep reds and browns with highlights of gold here and there. There’s a noticeable lack of decoration, the walls instead adorned with photos of an elderly man with a wide jaw, snowy white hair, and milky white eyes. In most of the photos he stands alone — many times posing next to some art piece that he has lying around the house — but other times he’s seen with other members of his family including his grand niece. Mikasa is so busy looking at the pictures that she almost doesn’t see the man himself buried under a mountain of pillows and blankets in his bed. He looks so still that there isn’t much difference between his real self and the version of him in pictures. The ghosts that stand beside his bed look livelier than he does, Mikasa thinks.

“Uncle Reiner,” Gabi says, her voice quiet so as to not disturb her great uncle too much. She approaches his bed, Mikasa near her side while Historia wanders around the room unbothered. “This is Miss Historia and Miss Mikasa. They come from a special place … the Blutmond Hotel. They help people like you … people who can see ghosts.”

The man’s eyes flutter open but he struggles to keep them open. He sits up and his head turns towards Gabi, following the sound of her voice, but his gaze is fixated on something past her. It’s not a ghost, Mikasa knows, because there are only three in the room right now. One is currently hovering around the old man, unsure of what to do with his ghostly hands even as his face is filled with worry as Gabi’s great uncle sits up. The other two stand on the other side of the man’s bed eyeing Historia warily as she carefully inspects the room for any valuables.

“Ghosts? Have your parents been talking about me again?” the old man asks before coughing violently into his hand. He hunches over, his whole body heaving with every cough. He pounds his chest pitifully with his other hand as he wheezes. He shakes his head when Gabi runs over with a tissue box from his nightstand. One hand is clutched to his chest, but he’s still breathing heavily when he tells Gabi unconvincingly, “I’m fine. They just worry about me because of my old age.”

The man at Reiner’s side kneels down next to the old man. His ghostly blue hand reaches out to touch Reiner’s, his taut young skin such a stark contrast from the old man’s thin, veiny hands. All of the ghosts are significantly younger than Reiner, Mikasa notices. If she has to guess, they were probably in their late twenties when they passed. Judging from their military garb and the bloodstains that bloom across their chest, they died in a war. She wonders about their relationship to the old man, why they’ve stayed with him so long when it must have been decades since their death.

“Your names are Historia and Mikasa?” the old man asks, a tired but polite smile as he looks from the two women. He sits up in the bed, his back resting against the headrest and his hands folded in his lap. Unbeknownst to him, the ghost who had held his hand earlier sits beside him, gazing cautiously at both Mikasa and Historia. “I’m sorry to say that my relatives have a habit of spreading unnecessary rumors. They seem to have worried my grand niece.”

“They’re not untrue,” Gabi insists. She tugs on the elbow of Mikasa’s suit, her lower lip trembling dangerously. Her eyes are moist as tears begin to form and she sniffs loudly before turning to her great uncle. “I’ve seen you talking to … them. I’ve heard you call their names. Bertholdt, Porco, Marcel… You’re always talking to them when you think I’m not listening, but you always tell me it’s nothing when I ask you about them.”

At the names, the ghosts stiffen, but they don’t move from their positions. They look at Mikasa, wondering if she’ll give away their existence. She tries her best not to look at them.

“Because it’s nothing,” the man says, laughing it off weakly. He gets into another coughing fit, banging against his chest. The ghost at his side, eyes wide with worry, can only look at him helplessly.

Historia’s voice pops up, the hotelier speaking for the first time since stepping into the room. “Were you in the Second Great War, Mr. Braun?” She observes a glass case with different medals, leaning forward as she inspects the engraving on all of them. Historia hums, “I didn’t realize you were a veteran.”

“Ah, yes,” the old man says belatedly, surprised at the sudden jump in topic.

“You have quite a lot of medals and honors.” Historia’s finger traces the glass edge of the case. “You fought well.” The words should be congratulatory, but Historia says this almost coldly.

The old man must feel it too because he begins to fidget under the young woman’s gaze, his silken sheets tangled in his fists as he begins to stammer a “yes” under his breath.

The ghosts must dislike Historia’s tone because the two that had stood at the side of Reiner’s bed stand up, walking over to Historia and staring down at her petite frame. They tower above her, identical expressions of repressed fury on their faces, and Mikasa wonders for the first time if they’re brothers. With only a slight difference in height and hair color, the two could be identical. Despite the two spirits that are glowering down at her, Historia doesn’t waver, not even sparing them a passing glance as she continues to peruse the other items around Reiner’s room.

“You’ll have to forgive my partner. She’s quite interested in … history,” Mikasa lies. She wrinkles her nose as she says it — partly because she’s a terrible liar and partly because the thought of Historia being interested in anything other than money is ridiculous — but Gabi nor her great uncle seem to take notice. Mikasa fishes for the little business card in her breast pocket before presenting it to Mr. Braun, making sure to hold it at an angle for the nearby ghost to see as she hands it over. She clears her throat, glancing back at the other two ghosts to make sure they were paying attention before saying, “Miss Historia and I are from the Blutmond Hotel. We provide services for those who have passed.”

All the ghosts look at her, their necks turning so fast that they might have cracked if they were alive.

“For those that have passed?” Reiner repeats, eyebrow raised as he takes the business card gingerly between his fingers. He frowns and is about to toss the card on his nightstand before seeing the upset expression on his great niece’s face. He drops the card in his lap instead before running a tired hand through his thinning hair. “I’m hoping that won’t be until a few more years yet,” he jokes, but he’s the only one that laughs. It sounds strange echoing alone in the quiet room.

“Uncle Reiner,” Gabi says, her voice rising into a whine that Mikasa knows will make Historia grate her teeth.

Mikasa puts a hand on the young girl’s shoulder, giving her a quick squeeze and reassuring smile. “It’s fine,” she whispers before turning once more to Mr. Braun. To the ailing man, she says with a soft voice, “Mr. Braun, how many ghosts do you see in this room right now?”

His eyes flicker for a bit, roaming around the room but never resting on the ghost that sits beside him nor on the ghosts that stand near Historia. His gaze finally stops somewhere above Mikasa’s shoulder, eyes watering as he whispers, “Three.”

Gabi’s grip on Mikasa’s arm is vice-like and the hotel manager has to pry the girl from her arm for her blood circulation to return. “It’s alright, it’s fine,” she says to Gabi again, brushing her off gently. Mikasa looks at the ghost beside Reiner and watches as the young man shakes his head ever so slightly, his eyes begging her not to tell the old man of his existence. She opens her mouth, but Historia speaks first.

“Those aren’t ghosts,” Historia says, finally strolling across the room to stand beside Mikasa. She ignores Mikasa’s eye roll and instead bounces about on the balls of her feet, speaking casually as if talking about the weather. “Ah, I should clarify. Those things that are haunting you … I guess you would say they’re your own memories. There are ghosts here too, but it looks like they’re only here to keep you company.” She waves her hand as she explains, trying to find the right words. Historia looks quite proud when she’s done, but everyone (with the exception of Mikasa) looks at her with a bewildered expression.

“You mean there are ghosts here?” Gabi asks with wide eyes.

If Gabi grabs onto Mikasa’s suit any tighter she’ll tear the fabric. Mikasa doesn’t particularly mind, but she knows Historia would be infuriated if Gabi ripped such expensive clothing in her presence and the hotel manager carefully pries the girl off her arm.

“The supernatural world is quite complicated,” Mikasa says gently. She’s worked in the supernatural business for years and she still hasn’t grasped it entirely, so she can only imagine the confusion that Gabi and her great uncle feel right now. Mikasa sucks in her cheek as she tries to think of how to explain the situation in layman’s terms. “There is a myriad of things that can haunt a person, not just ghosts. Spirits, demons … even deities if they’re angry enough.”

“And next you’ll be telling me werewolves and vampires exist,” Mr. Braun scoffs, but his eyes still roam aimlessly around the room for something they can’t see.

“Don’t be silly. Werewolves and vampires are another thing entirely,” Historia snorts with a roll of her eyes, although she doesn’t confirm or deny the existence of either. She points a painted finger at the old man. “What you have haunting you are your own memories, Mr. Braun, although I imagine they’ve grown horribly distorted over time.”

Mr. Braun’s mouth is tightened into a thin line, all laughter gone from his eyes. He fixes Historia with a steely glare, but she doesn’t waver. He doesn’t speak, not even to ask her to clarify. Perhaps it’s because he already knows what memories she’s alluding to.

“What’s she talking about?” Gabi hisses in Mikasa’s ear.

“Mr. Braun, how old were you when you were drafted for the war?” Historia asks, stepping closer to the bed. She ignores that ghost closest to Reiner’s side even when he stands in front of her. She stares right past him as if she can’t see him at all and continues her questioning of Mr. Braun. “Perhaps in your twenties, judging from the looks of your companions. Mid- to late twenties, even. Life was just beginning for you. Being caught up in a war you had nothing to do with must have been frustrating to you.”

“No, it was an honor to fight for my country,” Reiner murmurs, but his eyes begin to cloud over and his expression grows grimmer.

“Did your friends share the same sentiment?” Historia continues to inquire. The ghost brothers from before each put a hand on her shoulders, their expressions just as dark and dangerous as Mr. Braun’s. Still, Historia presses on. “Were they just as brave as you when they camped in those trenches with corpses of other soldiers? Did they die with honor, their bodies rotting in those holes for weeks before whatever remains of them are shipped back to their loved ones? And were you honored to be one of the ones that made it out alive, standing tall even though the guilt was slowly killing you all these years?”

The ghosts are hostile now, their hands rough as they pull Historia back from Reiner. With a flick of her wrist, Historia sends them flying against the wall, their presence only detected by the way the portraits on the wall shake slightly. It’s enough to make Mikasa flinch, but Gabi and Reiner are too distracted to notice.

It’s the last ghost, though, that has Mikasa the most worried. He stands in a protective stance, his eyes flickering with a dangerous blue flame. On his face is a terrible glower, a stark contrast from the worried look he had worn earlier. His fists are clenched against his sides, shaking slightly with suppressed rage. Historia has faced her fair share of ghosts over the years. Mikasa doubts that this one is any more powerful than the malicious spirits that Historia has gone up against, but a ghost powered by violent anger is not something to be underestimated.

“Historia,” Mikasa warns, her voice low.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Mr. Braun whispers in a hoarse voice. He seems to shrink into his bed, his silken sheets pulled tight around his body as if trying to protect himself from something. His wild eyes continue to wander above his head, looking at things that don’t exist to anyone else but him. The old man pulls the sheets over his head, but the tremble in his voice can still be heard as he whimpers, “Every day they’ve plagued me, haunted me, but they never leave.”

“Uncle Braun-“ Gabi begins, but Mikasa holds her back after Historia gives her a subtle gesture to restrain the girl.

“Mr. Braun,” Historia says, stepping through the ghost easily. She reaches over and pulls the sheets from the man’s hands, letting them fall carelessly to the floor. She grasps the man’s face in her hand, lifting his chin up, and forces him to look at her and only her. “You said it yourself that it’s not your fault. Why have you gone so long doubting your own words?”

It’s the first time the man’s gaze was fixed on something, his eyes no longer wandering aimlessly at things unseen. He licks his chapped lips as he struggles to find the answer to Historia’s question. “Because I lived while they died,” he tells her in a voice dripping with grief. His eyes grow glassy, moist with tears. “I believe that warrants some guilt, don’t you?”

Historia is silent, holding his gaze. Even when the man’s tears begin to fall, dripping down his cheeks and spilling onto her hand, she still holds on. After a moment, she finally lets go a little too roughly, throwing Mr. Braun’s head back with unnecessary force. The movement earns an indignant squawk from Gabi, who struggles to break free from Mikasa’s grip, but the hotel manager manages to hold the girl. The ghosts move towards the hotelier too, their faces alight with anger, but she waves her hand again and all three are pinned against the wall with much greater force than last time.

“What if I told you that you could see your friends one last time, Mr. Braun?” Historia asks as casually as if she were asking about the weather. She digs through her purse, humming that little tune as she does so. She pulls out a little silver pistol, her slender fingers wrapped against the gilded grip, and loads a single bullet into its chamber. She speaks again, her words light and honey-sweet as she points the barrel at the old man’s forehead. “Mr. Braun, would you like to see your friends again?”

“Historia,” Mikasa growls with narrow eyes.

“What’s she doing? Why does she have a gun?” Gabi asks, voice rising. Her head whips back to Mikasa, eyes wide with horror. She tries to break free from Mikasa’s grip, but the woman holds the girl back tightly. With more urgency, Gabi thrashes more violently, trying to lunge towards Historia’s gun. “Let me go! She’s going to shoot him!”

The ghosts have broken free, all of them clambering for Historia with arms outstretched, but the blonde stands there with her gun aimed as if she and the old man are the only two in the room. Historia ignores the ghosts even as they grab at her, her arm remaining steady even as they try to pull the gun from her fingers. She keeps her gaze fixed on the old man who only stares back at her. While Gabi screams and Mikasa struggles to keep the young girl out of the line of fire, the old man appears calm, a look of resignation on his face.

“What do you say, Mr. Braun?” Historia asks quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he rests his head against the headboard, eyes closed as if he’s about to fall asleep. His answer is adequate enough for Historia to fire the gun.

A piercing shriek cuts across the room just as Historia pulls the trigger, but it’s the only sound that can be heard. There is no whistling bullet. There is no bang as the bullet makes its mark upon the target’s skull. There is no dull thud as a corpse falls to the floor. There is only Gabi screaming for her great uncle as she finally manages to pull away from Mikasa’s hold, her screams only halting when she reaches for the wound on Mr. Braun’s head only to find him fully intact and unmistakably alive as he blinks back at her.

“What …?” Gabi asks, turning slowly to look at Historia and Mikasa.

“It’s a special gun, sweetheart,” Historia explains as she blows at the tip of the barrel. It’s for show, really, because the gun isn’t smoking at all. She drops the gun in her bag, patting it happily before looking back at Gabi and noticing the girl’s stunned expression. Historia frowns, leaning over to Mikasa to ask, “Did I not make that clear?”

“Not at all,” Mikasa replies. Her employer is many things, but clear is not one of them.

“Ah, it’s so troublesome to explain though,” Historia grumbles. She looks at Gabi, watching as the girl slowly loses her mind trying to comprehend everything unfolding in front of her. Her lower lip sticks out in a pout and Mikasa can already see the wheels turning in her mind as she tries to find a way out of dealing with the young girl. If there’s something Historia dislikes almost as much being told how to handle her money, it’s dealing with people on the verge of a mental breakdown. Historia looks over to Mikasa, her face hopeful as she waits for her employee to step in and take the lead, but Mikasa shoots her down with a dirty look and Historia sighs. “Look, Gabi,” Historia says impatiently, hands folded across her chest and foot tapping already. “It’s really not that difficult to understand. You see, the bullet I shot your Great Uncle Braun with allows people to see ghosts. Now, Mr. Braun can finally interact with the ghosts that have been watching over him for so long, all thanks to yours truly!” She waves a gracious hand and waits expectantly for the praise that she believes is deserved of her, but it never comes. Gabi is too busy staring at the empty air around them to give Historia any sort of thanks.

“What do you mean?” Gabi asks, her voice reaching a terrible whine that makes Historia sniff disdainfully. She looks at Mikasa, her expression making it quite clear that she thinks that Historia is speaking nonsense, but the woman offers her no further explanation. Her eyes land once more on her Great Uncle Braun and she notices that his eyes no longer roam. Instead, they are fixed on something in front of him, something that she cannot see. Horrified, she turns to Mikasa, gripping the woman’s wrists so hard that her knuckles turn white. “What’s wrong with Uncle Reiner? Why is he like that? He’s even worse than before!”

“He’s fine,” Mikasa says soothingly. She breaks one hand free from Gabi’s grasp and pats the young girl’s head gently.

“We could make this a lot more simple, you know,” Historia says. She pulls out the gun from her purse once more, twirling it carelessly in her hand. “Shall I shoot her too?”

Mikasa shoots Historia a hard glare. “You are not shooting a child.”

Her employer rolls her eyes, grumbling under her breath about how she was simply suggesting an easier solution, but she puts the gun away.

The ghosts are speechless as they cautiously approach Mr. Braun. The two brothers keep their distance but the other ghost — the tall one that had looked so murderously down at Historia when she had pulled the trigger — is the only one to stand right in front of his old friend. Both the ghost and Mr. Braun stare at each other as if they are the only two in the room. The soldier holds up a hand, reaching for the old man but too afraid to touch.

“Bertholdt.” It’s not a question that comes from Reiner, but a statement of disbelief. As he gazes at the ghost, the old man looks more awake than he has been this entire visit. He sits up, reaching for Bertholdt’s outstretched hand. Their fingetipsrs touch, then their palms, and then their fingers lace together. Ever since he had first laid eyes on Bertholdt, the real Bertholdt, Reiner hasn’t looked away once. “It really is you.”

“It’s true, then? He can see me now? He can really see me?” Bertholdt asks, staring in awe at his fingers interlaced with Reiner’s. He looks to Historia, eyes begging her to tell her that this is all real and not some cruel trick.

It’s a heartwarming scene, but Historia stands there with her arms folded across her chest. She gives him a curt nod before looking away disinterestedly, an inaudible sigh slipping from her lips.

Mikasa gestures for the ghost and his companions to get closer. “Go on,” she says with an encouraging smile. “He hasn’t seen you in so long. It must be overwhelming to reunite with you after all this time. Tell him everything and banish the nightmares that have been plaguing him for so long.”

Reiner continues to converse with Bertholdt as if nobody else is in the room. “But have you been here all this time?” He looks behind Bertholdt, a genuine smile now on his face. Although he has aged, his grin is as youthful as a young boy’s. He gestures with his free hand, waving his friend’s over. “Marcel and Porco, too? After everything I’ve done, you’re still here?” Tears are beginning to well up in his eyes once more but Bertholdt hastily wipes them away with a tender thumb.

“We were worried about you,” Marcel says. He takes a seat on the edge of Reiner’s bed. His expression is much softer now, filled with affection as he gazes down at his old friend, and rests a gentle hand on Reiner’s arm. “After the war … we were sorry we abandoned you. We couldn’t find it in ourselves to leave you again until we knew you were alright.”

It must have been torture for them to stay by Reiner’s side all those years, observing him helplessly as he screamed at distorted visions of them that blamed him for their deaths. It takes a certain type of strength — a certain type of love, Mikasa thought — to stay for someone for all those years. It had already been over half a century and still they had never left him. It must have been a similar pain for Mr. Braun too, Mikasa thinks, to have been tortured by the memory of his fallen for all those years. All those years he had suffered alone. Not anymore.

“What’s going on?” Gabi whispers, eyes wide as she tries to take in a scene she can’t understand.

“We’ll explain outside,” Mikasa whispers back. She places a hand on Gabi’s back and leads the girl towards the door, Historia dragging her feet as she follows behind. In the background, Reiner and his old comrades continue to talk.

“We were so worried,” Porco is saying, voice quiet as he takes a seat beside his brother Marcel. “You blamed yourself for things that weren’t your fault. It didn’t feel right to just leave you when you were suffering so much without us.”

“Did I worry you? I’m sorry. You stayed because of me instead of moving on like you should have,” Reiner says with a wry smile. He gazes down at the hand that holds Bertholdt. “But I’m glad I could see you all one last time… I missed you.”

Bertholdt gives Reiner’s hand a quick squeeze. “We missed you too.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles. It fades a little bit, affection replaced with concern as he asks, “But the things you were seeing … are they still here?”

Reiner doesn’t even look around to check, keeping his eyes on Bertholdt instead. “No,” he says with a shake of his head. His smile is spread so wide, wrinkles appearing at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “I only see you.”

Mikasa shuts the door gently behind her, a small smile on her face.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

“So let me get this straight,” Gabi says slowly. She holds up a fist, bringing up a finger every time she brings up each new topic she’s had to process. “There were no ghosts haunting Uncle Reiner. The things he was seeing were just hallucinations that were conjured up in his mind due to his own guilt. But there were ghosts — the ghosts of his old friends — that were watching over him all these years because they were worried about him. And I can’t see them because I wasn’t shot with a magic bullet?” She looks at her three fingers with a frown and then at the two women beside her.

“That’s pretty much it,” Mikasa hums. She’s only had to explain it a handful of times to the girl, so she’s quite pleased that Gabi’s grasped it so quickly even if the young girl’s expression grows more and more troubled with each repetition.

“Please don’t make us go through it again,” Historia says with a grown, knocking her head back against the wall. She bangs the back of her head against the wall a few times in frustration, her expression one of tired impatience, before letting out another exaggerated sigh. Although Mikasa has been patient throughout, Historia has been growing more and more impatient, only offering a few words here and there while Mikasa took care of most of the explanation.

“Well, it’s hard to believe you when I can’t see anything! How can I even trust you guys? I might have signed over my entire inheritance to a bunch of frauds!” Gabi points out, her gaze more suspicious of them than it was when they first met. “For all I know, you might have just made things worse bringing up his past!”

Historia stiffens at the young girl’s words and for a moment Mikasa thinks she’s going to get up and leave, but the woman opens her mouth to say quietly, “Darling, would you have rather he been haunted by his past until his last breath?” Gabi doesn’t respond and Historia continues, her eyes a little less icy now as she leans against the armrest. “You don’t understand because you’re so young. You don’t have things that you regret or lost things you can’t live without, not the way your uncle has. You should be thanking me, really, for allowing him the ability to reunite one last time with his old friends. Some people aren’t so lucky.”

The young girl’s cheeks blaze a bright red and she looks down at the floor, her eyes bright as they begin to fill with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m just scared,” she mumbles, lower lip trembling dangerously. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this before. So sad, but at the same time … so happy.” The tears begin to roll down her cheeks one by one, her shoulders shaking as the girl tries to suppress her crying. Mikasa is about to reach out and offer Gabi a shoulder to lean on but, surprisingly, Historia beats her to it.

Gently, the blonde wraps an arm around the child’s shoulders before guiding her onto her shoulder. It’s a rare sign of sympathy, one that Mikasa usually doesn’t see Historia display, especially towards clients. It’s even more surprising when Historia begins to stroke the girl’s hair, brushing stray locks away from the child’s face as she hums that song that Mikasa still can’t fully recall. “Farewells are like that,” Historia murmurs, looking into the distance as if remembering something. “They’re always sad, but they’re not entirely sad. Never entirely sad.” There’s something wistful in the way she says this and Mikasa almost opens her mouth to ask why, but now isn’t the time. Maybe another day when they’re alone and there isn’t a child between them that needs comforting.

The three of them stay that way for a while, silent save for Gabi’s sobs and the muffled conversation on the other side of the while. As Mikasa rubs circles on the young girl’s back, she focuses her gaze on Historia, who has that faraway look in her eye that she sometimes gets when she isn’t thinking. It’s not one that Historia wears freely around others, but she’s gotten more careless around Mikasa over the years. Mikasa notices that such a distracted gaze tends to appear during businesses such as these where a client with ghosts that should have left a long time ago. There’s no ghost that haunts Historia now, at least none that Mikasa can see, but she has a feeling she already knows the memory that keeps Historia up at night. Why Mikasa never asks the woman herself, she doesn’t know.

The door to Mr. Braun’s room finally creaks open and the ghosts — Porco, Marcel, and Bertholdt, who is still holding onto Reiner’s hand as the old man follows them to the hall — trail out. They look much calmer now, their expressions serene and no longer hostile as they look first at Mikasa and Historia.

“Did you have a nice talk?” Historia says, getting up to meet them. She looks over at Mikasa and Gabi. Although the young girl is still crying, Historia beckons her forward, a twinge of annoyance on her face that’s replaced with a polite smile as she looks at Mr. Braun. “I hope you’ve had enough time to say your goodbyes. Goodness knows you’ve probably had a lot you wanted to say to Mr. Braun for the past half a century, but you’ve stayed here far too long, don’t you think?”

They nod in agreement, but they all look reluctant to go, Bertholdt especially. Still, Marcel steps forward with a gracious smile and says, “We have to thank you, Miss Historia, for allowing us to meet with Reiner one last time before we pass.”

Historia waves away his thanks with a wave of her hand, although her smile grows into a smirk after hearing the praise. “Not at all. It’s the least I could do.” She turns to Mr. Braun, her gaze more patient than it was when she was dealing with the elderly man’s great-niece. “Are you ready to say goodbye, Mr. Braun?”

He doesn’t look at Historia, his gaze lingering on Bertholdt whose hand he still holds. His withered hands cling to the spirit, eyes wistful like he never wants to let go. “Will I ever see you again?” he asks.

“If there’s ever a way, then I’m sure we’ll find our way back to each other,” Bertholdt replies. Mikasa can’t see the ghost’s face, but she knows he means it. She doesn’t know if it’s possible — to meet someone again after death or if reuniting in another life is feasible — but she believes his words now. If anyone can make it happen, it will be him.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Mikasa and Historia drop the ghosts off at the hotel, leaving Connie and Levi to assist them and introduce the ghosts to the hotel’s rooms and various facilities. Mikasa had taken a few minutes to assure the ghostly trio that all of their accommodations (within reason, she added) would be met to the best of the staff’s ability. She would see them all again soon, the manager assured them even as Historia impatiently dragged her away to meet their reservation at the dim sum restaurant Mikasa had placed earlier today.

“So,” Mikasa asks, watching fondly as Historia shoves an entire BBQ pork bun into her mouth, “how is the food?”

“Incredible,” Historia answers with her mouth full of food. Despite how elegant the woman might appear on the outside, Historia — much to Mikasa’s amusement — always eats as if she’s starving. It doesn’t matter if they had eaten hours ago or thirty minutes ago; Historia will shovel food into her mouth until her cheeks are filled and doesn’t stop until every dish is licked clean. While others have found the woman’s table manners atrocious and even frightening at times, Mikasa can’t help but be entranced whenever she watches Historia eat.

“Come, eat more. The shrimp dumplings are absolutely divine.” Historia plucks a beautifully wrapped shrimp dumpling with her chopsticks and offers it to Mikasa.

“Thank you,” Mikasa says, holding out her plate to accept the dumpling. She takes the extra time to admire the delicate pleats in the translucent skin and the gorgeous pink of the plump shrimp sitting inside. When she takes a bite, the delicate wrapper breaks apart and her teeth dig into the shrimp with a delightful crunch, her mouth filling with the shellfish’s sweet flavor. Mikasa easily finishes the dumpling in another bite, savoring the taste of it as the starch wrapper melts on her tongue and mingles with the savory-sweet filling. When she’s done, she looks up to see Historia looking at her with a smug smile on her face.

“Delicious?”

“Very.”

“You’re very welcome,” Historia says, her chest puffed out proudly as if she was the one to suggest they eat here tonight. She goes back to inspecting the dim sum dishes laid out in front of them, her eyes latching onto a plate of chicken feet. She nibbles on one, spitting the bones out onto a napkin. When she’s done, she gets another, her lips shining pink from the grease. “It’s lovely, but it would have been better if you had let me change like I had asked.”

After dropping the ghosts off at the hotel, Historia had thrown the door open and rushed out to go change before Mikasa had caught her by the wrist. The woman needs to have a wardrobe change almost every hour of the day. It’s another one of Historia’s eccentricities that Mikasa lets slide half the time, but she had made reservations earlier and changing it would have been inconvenient.

“Would the chef’s cooking be any different if you were wearing a different outfit?” Mikasa asks. She takes a gentle bite into a soup dumpling, making sure not to slurp the broth too noisily. It almost burns her mouth, but the tender pork filling inside more than makes up for it.

Historia frowns, discarding the bones from her third chicken foot onto the table. She licks the sticky sweet black bean sauce from her fingers before wiping them on the napkin that sits across her lap. “It would taste better if I were wearing a different outfit,” Historia replies before plucking a fried crab ball from its plate. She digs her teeth into its crispy exterior with a loud crunch and swallows before continuing. “Things taste better when you’re dressed for the occasion. You should know this by now, Mikasa. We’ve been together for over twenty years, you know.”

She doesn’t need the reminder. Mikasa has been counting the days just like her cousin has been counting down the days. He’s been with Historia for almost an entire century. Mikasa wonders what it’s like to know someone for one hundred years. She can’t fathom it.

“And what would you wear instead?” Mikasa asks.

“Mmm.” Historia brings her chopstick to her mouth to nibble at thoughtfully. The woman has entire rooms filled with clothes — all organized by color, season, and style — and yet she’s still able to remember and assemble entire outfits complete with shoes and accessories. She grins when she’s finally thought of the perfect outfit, pointing her chopsticks at Mikasa with a grin on her face. “The Majorica pearls. They look like little dumplings. And the blue tulle dress, the one with the trailing skirt.”

Mikasa knows exactly which ensemble Historia is referring to, although it’s admittedly been a while since she’s seen the blonde hotelier wear the fairy-like tulle. With its shimmering skirt that seems to be a different shade of blue every time Historia moves and its long billowing sleeves that hang off Historia’s shoulders, it’s a piece that’s far more suited for a runway or an elegant wedding than a casual outing to a dim sum restaurant, but Historia wears such extravagant pieces with such confidence that it would seem out-of-place if she were to wear anything less luxurious.

“I think you look beautiful right now,” Mikasa replies.

Historia hardly bats an eyelash. “Of course I do. I’m always beautiful,” Historia says, brushing off the compliment as easily as she always does. It used to bother Mikasa, but she’s used to it now. “That blue dress would really suit the atmosphere of this restaurant better though.”

Mikasa only hums in response.

The two continue eating — Mikasa in delicate bites while Historia gorges herself with buns stuffed with succulent meats and crispy deep-fried shrimp balls but somehow never dropping a crumb. Mikasa doesn’t even eat much. She’s never had much of an appetite, but Historia cleans every plate. By the time Historia cleans off their last plate, there’s a mountain of dirty dishes stacked high on the side of the table, and yet Historia is still hungry enough to call over a nearby waitress and order nearly every dessert on her cart.

Mikasa doesn’t touch any of the pastries that are laid out in front of them, but Historia plucks a crispy durian cake and breaks it in two, the flaky crust crumbling underneath her fingers and spilling onto the table. The intoxicatingly sweet scent of the durian custard is fragrant enough to fill the whole room. Historia stuffs one half into her mouth, savoring the delicate taste of the durian custard as she chews and swallows. She follows with the other half before wiping her fingers on the cloth napkin in her lap.

“Do you still dream of me?” Historia asks nonchalantly. The question comes out of the blue, making Mikasa look up from where she was staring at Historia’s fingers.

I do, Mikasa wants to say. I dream of you every night. But she doesn’t say it. She never does. Instead, the manager replies with a simple, “Yes.”

“Hm,” is all Historia says.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

That night, Mikasa dreams of Historia in a garden. She wears clothing from a different time, the material like that from a rough burlap that has been bleached white from the sun and stitched into a plain dress. She’s younger in this dream, her face a little rounder and her blue eyes less guarded. Historia lays in the garden, staring up at the starry sky. She doesn’t stir even as another girl joins her.

“Historia,” the girl says, freckles sprinkled across her olive skin. Her hair is chopped unevenly in a short cut that frames her thin face, but Historia still smiles when the girl leans over her. It’s not the first time Mikasa has seen this girl in her dreams. “I dreamed of you again.”

“Did you?” Historia asks. Her mouth always curls upward whenever she sees the girl. She’s probably not even aware of it.

“I always dream of you,” the other girl replies.

“Was I beautiful?” Historia asks.

“Of course, you were,” the other girl replies. She lies down beside Historia and the blonde curls up against her, Historia’s blonde head resting against the other girl’s shoulder while their fingers intertwine. “You’re always beautiful.”

It’s painfully intimate. The two look so happy together, curled up against each other as they stare up at the sky. Mikasa doesn’t think she’s ever seen Historia smile like that. It makes her heart ache.

#mikahisu #mikasa ackerman #historia reiss #krista lenz #snk #hotel del luna au #like the moon loves the ocean series #ltmlto

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inevitably-johnlocked · 4 years

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hey steph! how long would you say you spent on sorting out fic recs and tagging them and all that stuff? just curious because i really wanna start a fic rec blog too

Hey Nonny!

UGGGHHHH Tumblr deleted my entire response, so I’m going to just jot out what I remember.

Depending upon how long you’re willing to spend, a LONG time. You guys have NO idea how much work it is, and how much off-tumblr time I spend doing it. When I keep saying “it’s a full time job” it really is. The blogging you guys actually see takes about 2 hours, from filing my blog to answering a few asks here and there, but the rest is ALL filing my fics and creating lists.

Now, mine is “perfected to my liking” after two years of trial and error and headaches, but yeah, if you’re serious about becoming strictly a fic rec blog, prepare to put in a lot of time and effort. BUT to be fair, I’m ridiculous in my sorting and organizing... I have a weird OCD thing where I need stuff sorted in a certain way, and it takes longer than it probably should. But it works for me and it has become very streamlined now that almost all of my Ao3 bookmarks are finally sorted. In the beginning, when I decided I would start reccing fics, it was only meant to be a here and there thing, but then people kept coming to me more and more and that’s when I decided I needed to keep an offline list. So here’s some tips from me to you:

Keep offline lists. Tumblr fucks up enough that you WILL lose interest in redoing a big 50-fic list if tumblr decides that nope, today I don’t feel like posting your file because you didn’t refresh your page BEFORE typing it out.

Going along with the above, keep an offline masterlist of your read-and-tagged fics. All the recs I give you guys? They’re all on one of three list masterlists I have offline: GO Recs, FFNet Recs, and Ao3 Recs. This will be SO much easier for searching for topics when making new lists.

Do the lists WAY ahead of time. This has given me back many-a-Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday nights because I prep my lists ahead of time.

Develop the “public” system of filing for your things, and use that for your Masterlist, so you don’t have to redo it every time (so like don’t have just Ficname by author if that’s not what you want to do for your recs). For example, my system is this, emphasis included: Fic Name by Author (Rating, wordcount, Chapter count || WIP/AU if applicable || PODFIC LINK if applicable || list of personal and/or author tags here, even if they spoil the story; i’ve found some people with triggers appreciate that I tag EVERYTHING I find in the stories) – Author’s description or personal description if there isn’t one. Series link if it’s part of one. This way, all I have to do is copy-paste it into new documents for each list, and then copy-paste the whole list into the Tumblr doc.

Also, re: the above, do the layout in Tumblr if you’re doing a Tumblr rec blog. It keeps the formatting consistent and I don’t have to fix it between Ao3 and FFnet if I just copy-paste everything into a blank Tumblr doc, and then copy paste THAT onto the masterlist. Trust me on this one.

Draft everything. This goes along with all the above. I always “start” a list and put a big header so that I can find it in my drafts (that’s why they have the big bold H1 headers on them) and then hit “draft”. Then keep a list of your drafted fics in your preferred method of organization. I keep everything in Text Edit RTF files. I believe Alexx told me once she did spreadsheets. Either way, develop a system BEFORE jumping into this thing, because you will EASILY get overwhelmed if you aren’t used to high-stress levels.

Tag fics as you read them. Trust me on this one. Because it will save you MONTHS of re-reading every single bookmark so you can properly file fics. I do this on my Notes App with the story title, and then all the tags I know are popular requests or are for lists I know Nonnies have asked for.

Keep CONSISTENT in your tags. Don’t tag one thing O!verse but another Omegaverse. I had to redo a lot of my older tags because CMD+F was pointless on a document I purposely made to streamline the process.

USE Ao3′s TAGGING FEATURE for your bookmarks. Just make sure that if any of your tags are spoilerific, make sure you keep the rec private.

File EVERYTHING as soon as you bookmark it. It will save you a LOT of hours of going through all your recent bookmarks to file them.

That said, HAVE A FILING SYSTEM if you’re keeping everything offline. Keep separate documents for each list... Trust me on this. I used to just have one document each for Fluff fics, for example, and put subheaders in them, and it just got messy and annoying as my fic reccing became more common and plentiful. Instead, have a nice list like this, for instance:

The grey dots next to some of them are old filing methods that I need to fix and pull out. Also, as you can see, every time I finish a list, I file it into Posted and start a new list appended with a Pt number. It just keeps the system moving smoothly. I also have a system for the coloured dots; Grey is Old and refile, Orange is drafted on Tumblr, and Orange and Green means it’s drafted and ready-to-post.

I also have an offline “drafted posts document”:

That also has a system as you can see, but it keeps me knowing what I’ve already got drafted on Tumblr if I forget to tag the files with the colour dots.

It looks tedious and complicated, but I promise you, it’s really simple once you’re familiar with my method. Which is why I’m saying, you need to develop this kind of system REALLY early rather than 2 years later like I did. This drafted posts list is only recent as of... February I believe is when I started it.

Hmmm. Ah, yeah, so you can see it’s a lot of work, and this is why I absolutely dislike HateAnons negatively criticizing my lists, because it IS a lot of MY free time, between 8 and 48 hours a week. But if you truly enjoy sorting and organizing like I do, it’s a bit easier to cope with. So, yeah, whenever I tell you guys “I need some time away” this is why, and usually I switch to playing video games or doing art, both of which I miss doing on the weekends. I’m trying to keep the Tumblr stuff to mostly Weeknights these days, so that it’s an extension of my day job. Funny how I have less free time working at home than I did when I wasn’t; because I feel obligated to always be on my computer now, and I hate that. Like right now, I just bought 2 new games to play and I haven’t tried them yet because I’m always working both day-job stuff AND Tumblr stuff on weekends.

So yes, that’s another tip: Don’t let it consume you, and set a schedule. Don’t feel obligated to answer every request. When I am tired and I just genuinely don’t have the energy to dig through 1000+ fics to find 2 or three for an obscure ask, I usually make it an interactive ask – not only does it encourage community involvement and a sense of belonging for everyone, but I also discover new fics to read too! I am IMMENSELY proud and happy that my fic lists have essentially become “fic exchange” grounds. Before it was only on one or two lists, some timid new authors added their fics to my big lists, but now, since people SEE that I add their fics hidden in the notes to the main post, now everyone is happy to share their faves on the main lists AS WELL AS the smaller single asks. I like to think of myself of a “curator of happy things” so that’s what I like to do with these.

That said, you have to also decide if you’re going to be this interactive as well. Because that adds an ADDITIONAL hour or so as you make a separate “MFL” document and file those too. It’s time consuming, but totally worth it because if I’ve read the fic, all I have to do to that post in my MFL list is add my tags and file that block of text :)

I hope I helped you out a bit, Nonny, and I hope you guys enjoyed seeing a bit of my process. If I can get OBS to work on my laptop, maybe I’ll do a short video so you guys can see me doing it live.

Anyway, sorry this got long. :P

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #about me #my blog #tutorials #my advice

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fishyspots · 3 years

Text

the same magic touch

happiest belated birthday to @patrickbrewsky! one day i’ll finish the AU you deserve but for today i can give you this, inspired by a conversation we had a while back ❤️️(ps: it’s also on ao3)

“Why are you throwing that sweater out?”

Patrick looks up from the bin, fabric in hand. He feels caught out somehow, but he’s not sure why. “It has a hole in it?”

David stares him down from his spot by the bathroom door. “Why are you ripping holes in your best sweater?”

“I didn’t plan for this to happen,” Patrick protests. “It was totally innocent.”

“Hand it over.” David crosses Patrick’s apartment, narrowly missing clipping the bed with his knee, limbs akimbo the way they always are this early in the morning. Patrick lets David take the sweater from him, perhaps to say a fond farewell, and turns to start David’s coffee. He didn’t know David liked this sweater best; David’s peeled it off of him more than once, but that’s true of most of his shirts at this point.

For some reason, David folds the sweater and puts it in his bag instead of the trash where it belongs. “What are you going to do with that?”

David looks at him like he’s being difficult. “Excuse me?”

“If you’re trying to clone me, that sweater got ripped in the wash so you’ll want something less fresh.” Patrick grabs for the cocoa powder he keeps in his cupboard and that David still won’t look directly at.

“Why would I clone you before they let me edit out your sense of humor?”

“You love my sense of humor.”

David is scrolling through something on his phone now, clearly past the sweater conversation, but he looks up and smiles when Patrick slides his coffee across the counter. “I have very intentionally never said that.”

“Just like how you’re not saying what you’re going to do with my—”

“The tear is on the seam.” David shrugs and takes a sip, wrinkling his nose in the way that means he tastes the cocoa but will not be commenting on it at this time. “It’ll take, like, five minutes to fix.”

“And you know someone who’s willing to do that? Because the only person I can think of is Jocelyn, and I know you two have that begrudging acceptance thing going but I don’t think it extends to me.”

“She likes you too, you know. She told me last week that you were the best Emcee they could have cast.”

“That’s very sweet.” Patrick tilts his head. “But I don’t know there were any other contenders, so it probably sounds better than it is.” But they’re getting off topic now. “Wait, no. Who’s fixing this sweater?”

“I’m fixing the sweater.” David grabs his bag and sets the mug in the sink. “Should we go? We’re going to open late otherwise.”

David’s concern for keeping normal opening hours more than anything else tells Patrick that he’s missing something. Still: “You’re going to fix it.”

“That is correct.” David sighs. “Can we please go? If you wait much longer I’ll lose all this energy and then you’ll have to open by yourself.”

Patrick rolls his lips in and bites down. “How many sweaters have you mended, exactly? Because you talked for an hour once about all the cashmere sweaters you lost to moths.”

“Cashmere is different. Anyway, I’m not, like, totally helpless,” David says. “I went to art school.”

Patrick privately thinks that the sentence might be an oxymoron, but he can acknowledge his own bias here. He took a pottery class in college as his “understanding art” elective; he and his fellow business majors had a lot to say about the cost of equipment and the annoyance of waiting around for the clay to bake. And then after all of that, his glaze was cracked and uneven. “Do they teach stitching there? Like, a whole class?”

“Mm.” David’s mouth is a thin line. “Right after the Etch-A-Sketch one.”

Patrick may have overshot it. “That didn’t—”

“Go to the store. I’ll be there in an hour.”

Patrick sets the spare key on the counter and elects to retreat.

***

“This is earlier than I was expecting to see you.”

David makes a beeline for the macchiato Patrick set in a prominent place on the counter in a spot near the door. He didn’t want David to miss it. “I said an hour.”

The teasing is right there; Patrick has to consciously push down countless other times where David has wildly miscalculated his arrival time. Instead, he takes a breath and prepares for a real apology. They’re a new thing for the two of them—after his parents came to town, Patrick’s been making communication a priority. It’s mostly his idea, but it was spurred on by some...gentle suggestion from Stevie. He doesn’t want to keep falling back into old habits, and he’s not going to put the burden on David to keep him accountable.

But David has not been exceptionally amenable to this new strategy. “Stop,” he says once he’s taken a drink and turned to look at Patrick. “Enough. Thank you for the coffee.”

He drops a kiss on Patrick’s cheek and continues on to the back room. Patrick entertains the idea of following him, but the bell above the door chimes again and he pushes down the conversation they need to have. Not forever, he tells himself sternly. Just until closing. Or lunch, if he can rig them a break.

But it’s Ronnie crossing the threshold, so maybe they do need to finish their relationship discussion. Maybe close the store for the day, or something.

“Ronnie!” Patrick winces at the enthusiasm he can hear in his own voice. David keeps saying that he’s forcing it, which might be valid. “What are you looking for today?”

Ronnie lifts her chin but doesn’t make eye contact. “David here?”

Still trying too hard, then. “He’s in the back. I’ll get him.”

Apparently he heard them, because David’s already peeking out. “Sorry about that, Ronnie. Back for that cheese or is it something else?”

Ronnie lets David curate a cheese plate for her next Women in Business meeting and suggest some wine pairings; Patrick bites back his own opinions to the best of his ability. Or, he does after Ronnie pointedly sets the chardonnay back on the shelf after he says it’s his favorite.

David rings her up and sees her off, and Patrick opens his mouth again to take advantage of a lull. Then the phone rings.

“Can you take that?” David asks. “I want to figure out what we need for that greeting card workshop next month. Jo likes it when we order with at least three weeks’ notice, and they gave us that frame for the poster last time as a thank you so I don’t want to—”

Patrick waves him off before the phone goes to voicemail. “I got it.”

Fortunately for their stocking schedule, it’s Brenda. They’ve been running low on the moisturizer she’s trying out recently, and they need to get more on the shelf as soon as she has it ready. Unfortunately for him, Brenda called seeking opinions about her new combination skin formula and the essential oil blend. David informed Patrick early on that he had combination skin, but Patrick senses that Brenda will not find this information useful. He bides his time and lets Brenda talk until David catches on to his frantic gestures.

They don't teach this in business school. He lets his eyes drift from David's face (a struggle, sometimes) to the bag at his boyfriend's feet. They don't teach a lot of things in business school.

Patrick passes off the phone and greets the next customers, who thankfully do not have any qualms about his personality. Then he checks the stock spreadsheet. They’re getting low on sweaters and socks after the cold snap last week, so he flags the vendors for David to email and sets about filling in the blank spots on the shelves after a busy morning.

The sound of David’s voice soothes Patrick’s nerves even more than the playlist he and David made together in a process that started adversarial (“Smooth jazz? Why not just get a Muzak?” “People shop in those stores too, David.”) and turned playful after they decided on a one-for-one system. Patrick’s alt-folk mixes surprisingly seamlessly with the Whitneys and Mariahs David added. Even the Counting Crows Patrick put on the list just to be contrary fits, in a way.

“Everything okay with Brenda?” Patrick asks after David drops the phone back into his holder. “Are you going to put a new cleanser in my bathroom soon?”

“I don’t see why those two things are necessarily related,” David says, “but yes to both.”

“Good to know.” They might be able to flip the sign for lunch if they’re quick; clouds are gathering in the sky outside in a way that spells a dreary afternoon. “Want me to pick us up something?”

Patrick heads for the door at David’s nod of assent. Even though they haven’t talked about it, he still feels like he’s making up for something. Hopefully that will change. He’s jumping into this new talking strategy with both feet, and he just hopes that David will catch him.

Silly, he thinks as he crosses the street. David has never once let him fall.

Twyla greets him with a sunny smile and asks if they want their usual. For him, a burger is pretty standard, but David keeps vacillating between different soups, sandwiches, and salads. It’s a caesar salad day today; though Patrick would love to read into David’s mood from his choice, he knows better than that by now. David just does what he wants sometimes. As for Patrick, he’s mostly just happy that David is limiting the chance that he won’t like his food. He worked through the international section of the menu last week and spent three afternoons in a row cranky due to hunger and the continual failure of the café to meet his admittedly unrealistic expectations. He does add a cookie, because communication is great and all but it’s always good to have an insurance policy if things go south.

Back at the store, David’s handing over a Rose Apothecary tote to Roland and he’s not even grimacing. Much. There’s definite relief in his eyes when Patrick holds the door for Roland, though. It’s quickly replaced by confusion when Patrick flips the sign.

“I thought we could eat lunch together?” Patrick resists the urge to kick at the ground like a teenager, but it’s there. “We haven’t had much time to just...see each other. Today.”

“I saw plenty of you this morning.” David raises an eyebrow suggestively.

Patrick fights his easy blush; that’s beside the point. “That’s not—”

“You know I never complain about seeing you,” David continues. “But Roland said Jocelyn is going to stop by later, so we’ll have to keep an eye out.”

Patrick thinks Jocelyn can probably wait, but he keeps that to himself. He waits until they’re settled on the couch with David’s left thigh pressing against his right and David can’t talk past his mouthful of lettuce before he broaches the topic. “I did want to talk about this morning.”

David’s eyes widen as he chews, but he does look a little less frantic than he would months or even a year ago if Patrick said something similar.

While David can’t cut him off, Patrick presses his advantage. “I didn’t want to make you feel like you’re helpless. I don’t think you’re helpless.”

David rolls his eyes, but there’s something tight around his mouth that tells Patrick he has to do a little more here. He swallows, so Patrick hurries to finish his thought.

“I think you’re...you do a lot that I don’t do.”

“And you do a lot I don’t do.”

“I don’t think—no, I know, I know I don’t think about that enough.”

Something suspicious dissipates from David’s face. “Is this your whole talking thing again?”

“I don’t have a whole talking thing,” Patrick protests.

“You’ve had a whole talking thing for weeks now. Do you want me to run through all of my skills, or is it sufficient to just say that we’re okay?”

Patrick definitely had prepared to run through all of David’s skills, but he elects to save that for another time. Maybe tonight, when he has more ability to keep David in one place until he’s finished saying what he wants to say. “It’s enough. For now.”

“Threatening me with conversation.” David shakes his head. But he doesn’t take another bite, so he’s at least somewhat worried that Patrick will drop all of his feelings right this moment.

“You can eat, David.”

David lifts his fork cautiously.

So Patrick has no choice, really. “I love you.”

Patrick wants to frame the look David gives him, cheeks slightly bulging and eyes furious and generally perfect.

They unlock the front door in time to catch Jocelyn, and Patrick finds himself still cataloguing David’s competencies for the rest of the day. That night, Patrick sees his sweater, repaired and neatly folded in the way that David says limits wrinkles, hidden in his drawer under a college sweatshirt. It looks as good as new. “Thanks for the sweater.”

“Well, the cloning people were unhelpful. Said I’d have to keep all of you if I went for a new one, and I don’t have the constitution to be mocked twice as often.”

Patrick can’t let it go without saying something, though. “David. Thank you.” That should cover his whole talking thing for now. David still looks at him like he’s a too-large shipment that won’t fit in the planned display. Back to teasing, then. “You know, I had a thought.” Patrick affects his most guileless expression as he slides into bed next to his boyfriend. David’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Since you’re so good at this, and you went to art school and all, maybe you can help with costumes for Cabaret.”

Patrick enjoys the horrified look that blooms across David’s face probably too much. “I’m suddenly feeling very helpless.”

“Could be worse,” Patrick says. “At least there’s only one of me to deal with.”

#patrickbrewsky #this is where i would normally say 'everyone go wish em a happy birthday' but like #it was last week so i hope it already happened #anyway david is very smart and has no common sense pass it on #we love to see it because we love to be it #my fic #schitt's creek fic #schitt's creek fanfiction #schitt's creek fanfic #schitts creek fic #schitts creek fanfic #schitts creek fanfiction #david x patrick

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panharmonium · 4 years

Text

more rambling re: that last post (+ the merlin/will fic survey overview)

because i generally refrain from reading fic while i’m actively writing for a fandom, the only real ao3 reading i have done for merlin is my survey of the merlin/will ship tag. and the only reason i undertook that survey in the first place is because while i was doing an introductory cruise of the various merlin tags during my first exploration of the fandom (after i finally finished S5 and was able to start looking into fandom dynamics without fearing spoilers), i noticed that a LOT of the fic tagged with this ship was also tagged merlin/arthur, and despite the fact that i personally am more interested in gen stuff, i started to get both suspicious and annoyed about what i was seeing. but i also wanted to have the data to back up my annoyed feelings, so i made a little spreadsheet for myself and then just filled it in whenever i had time to kill and wanted something to do.

the data, when i eventually finished, backed up my annoyance pretty much as well as i expected, which was disappointing, but not surprising.

to clarify - i’m not annoyed by the fact that will and merlin don’t have a whole lot of material in their ship tag. will only showed up directly in one episode; i don’t expect him to be a popular subject. what i AM annoyed by is the fact that there are actually more merlin/arthur fics in the merlin/will tag than there are fics that actually focus on...merlin/will. by, like - an extreme margin.

(the rest of this is just me griping about fandom trends. popping it under a cut so folks can just move on with their days if this isn’t relevant to their interests.)

The Numbers

two quick notes before i get into the nitty-gritty:

1) i originally did this survey a few months ago, but i updated it this week with fics that have been added since then, so the numbers are current.

2) some of the data below would probably vary slightly depending on who was conducting the survey, so there’s a bit of wiggle room in either direction. the criteria i had to use [aka what counts as just a ship ‘mention’ vs actual content] would be subject to reader interpretation, obviously, but even with that, i do feel that most stories fell into pretty clear categories.)

so, without further ado -

total # of fics in the ship tag: 145

number of fics that are inappropriately tagged (meaning either will himself or merlin/will as a ship does not actually appear [which is kind of bizarre, but which i saw happen surprisingly frequently], OR where there is only a brief reference to will or past!merlin/will and that’s the extent of their inclusion: 50

number of fics that are duplicates of works already in the tag (ie podfic), or (in one case) a meta podcast about the show: 5

so, that brings down our total number of fics with some sort of actual merlin/will content to 90.

of these 90 works, only 17 of them are actually focused on merlin/will.

everything else in will’s ship tag, including the 54 works from the previously discussed "incorrectly tagged” category, is either a) fic where will is dumped, broken up with, or otherwise passed over in favor of arthur (and very occasionally gwaine, at least once mordred, once percival, once arthur and gwaine in a threesome, and once CENRED, which i’m sure will would be especially thrilled about), or b) fic where will is only included as a previous/ex relationship (again, almost always in lieu of arthur).

moreover - of the 17 actual merlin/will fics, 7 still end with will dying or the relationship ending for reasons other than him being passed over for arthur. an additional 4 are <1000 word PWP snippets, generally written for old LJ summer pornathons, one of which still somehow manages to be...you guessed it - all about arthur.

in terms of actual one-shots/full fics where merlin/will is the endgame/non-dead pairing, there are only 6 stories.

i repeat: will gets six earnest stories, IN HIS OWN SHIP TAG.

i repeat once again: will, in a non-dead, endgame form, gets 4% of his own ship tag.

The Content

the in-fic trends are frustrating, if you actually like this character.

the asshole. will is an abusive boyfriend. he is a jealous ex. he’s a shitty friend. he’s a stalker. he’s manipulative. he’s emotionally abusive. he’s physically abusive. he dumps merlin for someone else. he cheats. in one fic he’s so mad at merlin that he outs merlin’s magic to arthur. in multiple fics, i watched him literally go off the rails and try to murder somebody.

the fuckbuddy. they’re just messing around, guys! no, of course it’s not serious! they just do this for fun! of course there’s nothing to get in the way of arthur’s inevitable arrival! no sirree!

the unrequited. will is actually in it deep for merlin, but merlin doesn’t feel the same. this does not, however, prevent merlin from using will for sex, companionship, comfort, distraction, etc - until arthur shows up, when will either steps aside in deference to merlin’s all-consuming passion for arthur or is dropped like a hot potato.

“not even will.” that sentence. over and over again. merlin had never felt like this before, not even with will. nobody had ever understood merlin like this, not even will. even in fic when they were like. married. or engaged. fanon arthur pendragon must be truly mind-blowing, y’all.

dead long-term relationship. will was merlin’s husband/fiancé/long-term partner. now he is Dead. merlin getting together with arthur is what allows merlin to Heal. (these stories sometimes contain some variation of “not even will,” as discussed above.)

lastly, in a related phenomenon:

who are you and what have you done with arthur pendragon??? i suppose in a way it’s nice to know that will isn’t the only one who gets the OOC treatment, but it is still really...something, to read fic where will is twisted into an unpleasant, abusive, canon non-compliant version of himself, and then to see arthur, on the very same page, transformed into a gentle, solicitous, kind, caring, equally canon non-compliant angel. fanon!arthur is more worried about merlin’s well-being than literally anyone i have ever seen. he is so invested in merlin’s emotional health. he is so concerned about merlin’s boundaries. he says things to merlin that no version of arthur pendragon has ever - EVER - in any universe, thought about saying to anybody. he wants to hear all about merlin’s problems, and he’s all about taking it slow and making sure merlin feels comfortable and loved and worthy and safe (from all that horrible stuff done by that horrible other guy; that must’ve been so hard, merlin; ‘it’s okay, i’ve got you now’) - the man is utterly unrecognizable. and you know what? it’s okay! it is fine to make your characters as OOC as you want. it is fine to make them better/nicer than they were in the canon. sometimes we all want that, right? it’s fanfic! have a ball. i will never tell anyone to stop writing what they like, and i will NEVER interact negatively with a fic i don’t care for. EVER. do not do this, people - click the back button and move on with your life. but i reserve the right to be annoyed, in my own space, about a persistent trend of will and arthur’s canon functions being flat-out reversed, in service of merlin/arthur. not in the sense that canon!will is particularly gentle or sweet, because that’s not the case - but in the sense that will, in canon, is the one who actually cares about merlin’s best interests, whereas arthur is, quite frankly, the ass. a lovable ass (sometimes). but an ass nonetheless, and one whose relationship with merlin is, from start to finish, an unhealthy, oppressive mess.

The Point

the point of me typing this up is not to say that what people choose to write is bad or wrong. this is fanfic! you can write whatever you want. you can make characters as OOC as you want. you can create as many AUs as you want. i don’t mind fic authors writing stuff i don’t personally care for; someone else probably loves those stories! and i am never going to interact negatively with anything i don’t personally enjoy - i am going to let people continue to have fun in their own ways, and i am going to grumble about my frustrations in my own space, and then i’m going to direct my energy into writing stuff i would personally like to read.

the point is just that i needed a brief second to complain, on my own blog, about my most familiar bbc merlin nemesis (otherwise known as ‘single-ship ubiquity’). and what i mean by this is that it is REALLY FRUSTRATING that other little relationships are not even granted the tiniest concession of owning their own ship tags, in a fandom that is already so SATURATED with merlin/arthur content. like - even if i’m generous and use the number 17 for the number of actual merlin/will fics in the tag, that still means 88% of will’s ship tag is actually fic about merlin falling in love with people who aren’t will (*cougharthur*). eighty-eight percent! of his own ship tag!

(to put it another way - the ship tag isn’t supposed to be where you go to watch your character get repeatedly dumped or left behind for someone else, okay? it’s supposed to be literally the opposite of that.)

will’s ship tag is already tiny. and almost all of it belongs to arthur. moreover, a significant chunk of it uses will as a convenient villain (completely contradicting every canon aspect of his characterization), when in the actual story will dies to protect arthur (who he doesn’t even like) and then lies to save merlin (at the expense of his own reputation, and despite the fact that he personally thinks merlin returning to camelot is a bad idea). his behavior in canon is selfless, and wholly committed to merlin’s welfare, and yet in his ship tag he gets treated like trash.

the kid can’t catch a break. and it’s such a pervasive thing that even though i personally am primarily interested in merlin and will as friends (i am pretty romance-averse in general when it comes to media, and i have never written anything that isn’t gen, for any fandom, ever, in my life), i am also so indignant on will’s behalf that i’ve basically become invested in the well-being of this ship as a matter of principle. it’s not my main thing, and it’s not necessarily how i view the canon-verse, but i am SO IRRITATED about how virtually all of will’s shipfic has been taken over by merthur (and about how maligned will is in his own tag) that i have actively committed myself to supporting merlin and will together in as many AUs as possible.

(this is basically like when i trained myself to love allison argent after teen wolf killed her off. i did that out of spite, y’all. it’s the principle of the thing.)

so, y’know. all i am saying is that i think will deserves his share of happy endings, and i think it would be nice to see fics where he is not just a stepping stone on the road to merthur or an unrecognizable parody of himself.

more importantly - EVERY merlin ship deserves to have a tag that isn’t completely swallowed by the local fandom behemoth. merlin/arthur already owns three quarters of the archive. a gargantuan oil tanker like that can afford to let the little rarepair canoes float down their own streams in peace.

#tl;dr version:#GIVE MERLIN AND WILL THEIR OWN FICS 2K20 #I WILL NOT REST UNTIL THIS INJUSTICE HAS BEEN ADDRESSED #(y'all think i am kidding but i have already walked the walk ok)#(i am currently the internet title-holder for 'most words dedicated to this relationship')#(it might be the platonic version but if you don't think i will stretch myself and try something new)#(then you underestimate just how aggravated i am)#(and just how much i want this kid to get everything he deserves)#the once and future slowburn #no kings no masters #fandom

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twelvemonkeyswere · 3 years

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for the meme, yuck and also dancing dragons????

Hey Bots 💖!!!! Thank you for asking about these!! :D

yuck

oh dear. well, this one’s called “yuck” because that’s the feeling I had while planning it skdjskdj. it’s a 9.5k outline (with snippets and an added spreadsheet) for my “what if JB had met before the handchop in court and there wasn’t a war AU”, which is also my “Rhaegar lives but Jaime still kills Aerys AU.” It began as a sort of exercise in curiosity because I was interested in the question of “would JB pay attention to each other if they did not meet in the excrutiatng circumstances they met”, and how that would come about. It spiraled into me creating a whole AU to make it work skdskdj. It includes many self-indulgent things like JB meeting first at a ball for Jon’s birthday (he’s legit, but Lyanna’s still dead), JB working together to defeat a boar while in a hunting party, Brienne looking for the royal kennels and finding out Jaime is already there and is friends with the dogs, Brienne’s dad getting injured and Jaime stepping up to help, wet shirts, etc etc. The idea was for them to first butt heads as usual but slowly warming up to the other. I left it when it threatened to eat me alive a la Audrey II. It’s also one of the first times I was trying to write JB so I’d likely change many things now, but I’m still fond of some of the moments there.

Dancing Dragons

(thank you for asking about this one because this is another I really want to pull off!!!!! 💖💖💖)

This one started because I was thinking about the “feeding maidens to the dragon” trope, and how maybe that is a rule people have misunderstood for generations because humans have short lifespans while dragons could potentially live for millenia, so our scales (heh) for measuring time and our memories about events would be very different.

So in this story there’s a village that has been living since forever at the bottom of a mountain, and suddenly one day the mountain starts to tremble, and they hear roars coming from the mountain, and they realize there’s a dragon there. it had been so long since anyone had seen a dragon they thought it was all stories, so they turn to their annals, where their ancient wisdom is preserved. and it says the only thing worse than a dragon is a roaring dragon, because it heralds the coming of more dragons, and the only way to qualm them is to give them food. so it’s either everyone piching in (which they can’t, because winter is about to come) or feeding the dragon... people. But it has to be a maiden, and even then it might not work. so they select maidens, and they pull straws to decide who gets to be thrown into the hole. I wanted the story to focus on Hay, who is around 16 or so and she gets selected. the whole village is about to fight at the last minute because not everyone is okay with this idea, but others are scared their own daughters will get chosen. so Hay decides enough is enough, and that she will walk up the mountain herself, and figure out what the hell is happening if no one else is.

it turns out when she gets there, the dragon is nesting. she is moving rocks around and digging because she is preparing for a possible egg (like a turtle, she was also born in that mountain, and returns periodically to it), and she’s been roaring because dragons are very scarce, and she needs to try and find a mate, which is more diffcult with each passing century. Hay hears the dragon’s stories about the other maidens she had seen arrive to the hole. Her favorite story, though, is about how dragons court each other. It’s all about dancing. They swing and soar together in the air, not unlike macaws who mirror each other when they fly, and when the dragons finally connect, it is the most beautiful dance anyone could witness. Sadly, the dragon has never been able to actually see or participate in one, because she hasn’t been able to find another dragon in a long, long time. In the end I wanted the story to be about loneliness and the nature of stories themselves, and finding friendship and companionship in life, especially when a partner may never come.

There’s a bit after the read more in case you’re interested!

Come ask me stuff about my WIPs if you want!

Step by step she attempted the descent. She held with hands and toes to rocks and ledges. As she went along, the darkness receded, and once she thought she’d never see the end, her heart pounded faster in her neck as she distinguished the creature.

The dragon was so massive Hay couldn't make out its real shape until she got to the bottom. The sleek, long body twisted around and onto itself, like a curled up snake. The scales glittered, even in the poor lighting, and the wings held tight to the body. It was dark red, and when it didn't move it looked like the rocks surrounding it.

Hay watched from behind one of those rocks, agape.

From time to time, spasms jittered the dragon’s body, and the growls became stronger and harsher. It would soon scream again. Hay wondered if it would deafen her or kill her instantly. She realized she was hoping, instead of wondering, and felt sorry for herself an instant before the sound came.

The walls grumbled. Rocks and dirt fell from where the dragon growled, and then again as it pushed the debris to the side. Hay caught a glimpse of the face at last. Yellow eyes, long snout, vapor coming from the nostrils, and the bared teeth. The creature attacked the wall with renewed force, and it growled and scratched until another piece of rock fell to the ground. The dragon stopped, heaving through its warm body. Hay could feel the heat even from her hideout.

“Ha!” the dragon let go, twirling its mouth in a smile. Hay blinked rapidly. “Take that!”

Its voice was strong and powerful, full of smugness and satisfaction.

“Bloody stupid thing,” it murmured, pushing the rock to one side and making room among the dirt.

The dragon was carving.

“What the fuck,” Hay heard herself say.

The dragon’s face shot up from its work, twisted in a snarl. A batch of steam rose from its open jaws.

Hay covered her mouth with a hand, but the dragon was already advancing. The horrible, reptilian irises of its eyes widening and slinting as it searched among the dirt and residue.

Hay sank behind the rock, crouching with her face to the wall and willing herself to disappear into the ground. Rage shot through her then. She had come here to die and save her village, had she not? Yes, one part of her brain said. But how would the dragon know what she had come to die for?

She wasn’t able to dispute with herself this point as a puff of air resounded over her head. There was a sharp breath intake, and then another, and then another. Hay’s knees and hands were shaking nonstop, as the dragon followed the smell. The movement stopped, and Hay glanced up slowly.

The dragon’s eye was fixed on her, peeking from over the rock. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t get the sound through her chest.

“A human?” the dragon whispered. “What the--I’ll be--”

The dragon pushed the rock aside with its snout. Hay quickly turned around to face it, but found herself pushing her back against the rock wall.

“Hu-man,” the dragon said, speaking slowly and deliberately. “Can-you-un-derst-and-me?”

Hay didn’t reply, awestruck.

“Damn,” the dragon continued, looking up at the edge. “How long did I sleep? Did you forget how to talk, hu-man?”

Hay kept gaping like a fish.

“Of course you wouldn’t know if you did,” the dragon shook its head. “What will I ever do with you.”

The dragon’s intonation was hard to follow, as the long snout moved in funny ways as it made an effort to form sounds. But they were human sounds.

Hay saw as the dragon tried to shift all its weight again to examine the cavity it had been making, and she stepped forward before she could think more about what she was about to do.

“Please have mercy!” she blurted. The dragon stopped, looking over the place its wings began. “Please have mercy of my town!”

The dragon furrowed its brow--or at least that’s what it looked like in the long, scaled face.

“Your town?”

“I’m a maiden!” Hay continued, throwing herself on her knees and extending her hands. “I’m not married, and I’ve never been with-with child.” She wasn’t sure why she was mentioning this, but the elders had thought it was important. “Please take me, but don’t take my people!”

She closed her eyes, bracing herself for death. She hoped it was quick, and as painless as possible. Maybe the neck would snap immediately, and she wouldn’t have to feel the heat inside the dragon’s belly.

Minutes passed in silence. She peeked an eye open. The dragon simply watched her, a combination of pity and awkwardness in the pitfire of its stare.

Hay coughed. “You’re not--you’re not going to eat me?”

The dragon blinked. Its eyelids were transparent and parted sideways, like a cat’s.

“No?”

#robotsdance #personal #tagged meme #thank you so much for asking bots!!!#sorry this is so long 💖#wendy writes

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luvidzy · 3 years

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My Writing Process

Hi everyone! Hope 2021 is treating you well! I was talking to some friends today and we were discussing our own writing processes as well as if our readers (who may not be writers themselves) know about the writing process. So, I thought I would share a little bit about my own writing process. Obviously everyone writes differently, but I feel like most people do somewhat similar things as I do.

The first step in my writing process is obviously coming up with the idea. Sometimes ideas come out of the blue, sometimes while I’m watching something, and sometimes I look at prompt lists for some inspiration for plot ideas. I write down all my plot ideas on my notes app, just to make sure that I have a way to remember it later. After I come up with the idea, I usually decide on an idol that I think fits the plot, and then I put all the information, including a brief plot synopsis, in a large google spreadsheet that has all my WIPs, including ones I haven’t started and ones that I have started.

The next step is planning. Now I will be completely honest, sometimes this step is more in depth and sometimes it isn’t. For series/sm aus, the planning step is a long long process because I personally like to plan out every single part of my series before I even consider writing. This means any subplots, conflicts, minor characters are all planned before I begin the actual work itself. For drabbles, one-shots, and timestamps, the planning process takes less time because I usually already have the plot planned out from the idea. The only times I really write out plans for these specific formats are when I come up with a really good idea and don’t want to forget it because I can’t start writing the story just yet.

The next step is writing. Writing is by far the longest part of this process for me, and it’s why my update schedule is fairly inconsistent (i’m sorry about that). I like to write later at night, and also when I have a lot of energy because I write my best works then. Since writing is a hobby, and not a job, I don’t like to stress myself with writing something that might not be giving me motivation. There are some works that I can write in a night, and there are certain works that I work on for anywhere from a few weeks to a few months. It really all depends on my mood, my motivation, and my schedule (I am currently a full-time student, so studies come before tumblr).

Now there are times when I have extended writers block and need to figure out how to move past it. Most often, I put on some softer music and that helps me relax and my brain juices flow. For series, I often like to write little mini stories that go more into character personalities so when I go back to writing, I can better understand the character. Reading things that I love helps give me motivation, as well as watching good movies. In the end, different things inspire me differently, and sometimes things work and sometimes they don’t. I just have to trust the process.

After I finish writing, I have to go back and edit it. I usually write all my stuff between 10pm and 3am, so I always make sure to reread it during the day because sometimes I write stupid shit when I’m a bit tired. I usually don’t have to make any major edits, sometimes adding things and sometimes just changing things. I also have the bad habit of editing my writing as I write it, which leaves not very many edits to be made when I am going back and editing it.

The second to last step is beta-reading. Beta-reading is when I have someone (usually a close mutual) read my writing. Getting another pair of eyes on your work helps catch anything you might have missed, or help you get some insight on how to improve your writing. I don’t always get my works beta-read, but I do like to do it pretty often, because I think it’s a valuable practice to do.

Of course, the last step is publishing. I create a banner, make a post, and then add it to my queue! Then it is pushed out for you all to read and enjoy!

It’s a long process to be sure, and for some people it is much faster, but this is my own personal process. I hope that for some people this gives you a little bit of insight on how I, and many others, write our stories. Which is why I always ask that people be patient with their favorite creators. We put in a lot of time and effort to make something we are proud of and something we think you’ll enjoy, and for some of us that means we don’t post regularly. But we love seeing your support and it warms our hearts. Please always like and reblog your favorite authors and leave comments in the tags! I know that a lot of writers check every reblog to see if there are any tag notes, and they warm our heart.

I love you all so much! Please look out for more content from me, I’ve been pretty busy for the first few weeks of 2021 and I am excited to share my work with you!

Much Love,

Mia

#mia moments #writing #support your authors #my writing process #the writing process #like and reblog #if you're looking in the tags i love you and i hope that you are having a good time #also thank you for reading this whole thing #it means a lot to me

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ithinkilikeit-reactions · 5 years

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Fendiman (Jackson Wang/Sugar Daddy Au smut)

A/N: This wasn’t requested but Fendi rich man Jackson is making me feel some kind of way.

Inspired by Jackson Wang and “God’s and Monster’s” by Lana Del Rey

Word count: 8017 words. (it’s long y’all)

Tags: uhh, sugardaddyxsugarbaby, strippers, sex?, cursing that’s about it

You were broke. That was the nicest way you could put it. You had about 20 dollars to your name and you weren’t proud of it. You were just never lucky when it came to money, but unfortunately not many people are.

You worked in a strip club for two years and it wasn’t a situation you would brag to your family about. Not that you danced, no you were the bartender which was equally taxing but not as rewarding financially. There were times where you debated getting on that stage and it wasn’t that it was against your morals, you comended the girls that got up there and did what they needed to do. But you could never, the thought left you shaking.

The club had regulars, just like every other and you tending the bar got to know them all pretty well. The clientele wasn’t high profile, but you neighborhood bum wouldn’t be found there either. The club was a happy medium, which was nice and in an odd way, everyone on the staff was a family.

A knock on the bathroom door startled you, nearly making you cut your legs with the razor you were holding. “Come in.” You said, adjusting your position on the edge of the tub.

Happily, Jae-in strolled in the bathroom, wearing only her bra and panties. “You scared me, I almost cut myself.” You said and continued dragging your razor over your leg. “Sorry, I just need to body prep for tonight too.” She said and sat down next to you, grabbing her own razor. “I didn’t know you were dancing tonight.” You stated with a small smile as you friend agressively shaved her legs. “Neither did I. Bambam just texted me and asked if I could fill in for Candy.” She explained and you nodded.

Jae-in was your roommate and your best friend. You hadn’t know her long, she had come into your life the same time the club had. You needed somewhere to live and she needed a roommate.

“Guess we’ll go together then.” You said and stood up, rubbing body lotion over your legs. Being only a bar tender/waitress, your outfits weren’t nearly as scandalous as the other girl’s. You pulled a simple black satin slip dress over your, black lace set and watched it settle on your body. It was a little longer than mid-thigh and the neck line plunged slightly. It wasn’t something you’d walk around the streets in, but you weren’t totally uncomfortable. Slipping on your platform ankle boots, you approved your looks for the evening and headed out into the living room to wait for Jae-In.

She walked into the room, holding her stripper bag. “As of now I am in stripper mode, please refer to me as Cherry.” She said jokingly, running a hand through her hair. She was trying to put herself through college and the second she had enough money, she was out of there.

You both arrived at the club and Jae-in/Cherry moved to the dressing room and you moved to the bar, your perch for the evening. “Hey Y/N.” Mark said, exiting the break room drying off a glass. “Hey Mark, ready for tonight?” You asked and tucked your bag under the bar. He placed the glass with the others on the bar and smiled at you. “Yeah. Could barely get out of bed to get here on time though. Working all night and sleeping all day really messes with you.” He said and you nodded in agreement.

It was a physically taxing job, no one could deny that. But nothing near as taxing as the other girls’ jobs.

The evening crowd slowly started rolling in and there was a pleasant buzz in the room combined with the music. You had a solid work flow, maneuvering the room and the bar with ease, you had been doing it for a long time.

One of your regulars sat at the bar, he liked watching the girls and drinking. Like everyone else in the club. Except, he was friends with the owner and got special treatment. Not necessarily VIP, but special treatment none the less. His name was Jackson and he had been coming there for the 2 years you had been working there.

“Hey, what can I get you tonight?” You asked and Jackson smiled at you. He was good looking. Probably the best looking out of the clientele the club had. “Are you on the menu yet?” He asked and you felt heat climb up your cheeks. Mark laughed at his question and handed Jackson a beer. “I already got his order hun.” He said and Jackson simply winked at you before sipping his drink. “You both play too much.” You said and grabbed a rag to wipe down the counter slightly.

Cherry was up on the stage now and when it was her turn to dance, she had the tendency to wink and flirt with you a little from the stage. It was a way to make things just a little more fun for the both of you. As you winked at her from across the room, Jackson couldn’t help but notice.

“So are you and her a thing?” He asked, watching Cherry move over the stage before glancing back at you. “Me and Cherry? No, we’re roommates.” You said and looked at the man in front of you. “Roommates? You don’t live on your own? How much does this place pay you? Do I need to fight Bam to give my favorite bartender a raise?” He asked and you laughed. “It’s enough to live off. Not a lot of wiggle room. But enough to be happy enough.” You told him and he nodded in understanding, before simply going back to his drink.

💋💋💋

The night was coming to an end, the only people left in the club were incoherently drunk or staff, with an exception for Jackson. He was waiting for BamBam to finish his work so he could speak to him.

Yawning, you wiped down the counter again and for the last time that day. Mark gentley patted your hip from behind to get your attention and you turned around. “Can I go home and will you stick around until Jackson and Boss leave or do you want me too?” He asked and you blinked at him for a moment. Glancing back to Jackson who was waiting with a glass of whiskey in his hand, you turned to look at him again. “I’ll stay, I still have some energy left so I’m good.” You said and Mark nodded. “Alright, well good morning then.” Mark said and left, bag in hand.

You finished cleaning up and made your way to a booth in the club. Jackson was still waiting, finishing up his whiskey and he watched you subtley. You had your bag with you and pulled out your laptop to plan out your spendings for the coming month. Your laptop was old, a model that was heavy enough to knock someone out, but it did it’s job.

“That laptop is a dinosaur.” Jackson said and moved from his seat at the bar to join you in the booth. “I guess it is, I can’t afford a new one but it works fine.” You said, typing away in your spreadsheets. He was watching along, noticing the budgets in your spreadsheets. “This is kind of depressing.” He said and you looked at him with a smile. “We can’t all earn millions a year. I still don’t understand why you come to our club, aren’t there any in your neighborhood? With like golden stages and poles?” You joked and he laughed. “I have my reasons for coming here. Besides Bambam is my friend.” He told you and you cocked an eyebrow.

“Alright then, but you never get a private dance or anything. You just sit at the bar. You’re a mystery Mr. Wang.” You said and he opened his mouth to say something, only for BamBam to leave his office.

“Sorry that took so long. Y/N, you’re free to go if you want.” Bambam said and you nodded. “I’m gonna finish this up and go.” You said and Jackson winked at you as they disappeared into his office. You sat there for another half an hour, before shutting your laptop down and running your hands through your hair.

The door to BamBam’s office shut harshly and the two men exited, shaking hands. “Y/N, you’re still here? Go home.” Bambam said and you packed your bag. Jackson watched you carefully, and you could tell. “I’m already going boss.” You said and pulled your hair up in a ponytail and making your way by the door. “And tell Cherry she did a great tonight.” He added making you turn around to look at them again. “I will.” You said and locked eyes with Jackson. “See you tomorrow, Jackson.” You added, knowing he would be there the next day.

Jackson kept his eyes trained on you as you left. “Why didn’t you hire her as a dancer?” He asked Bambam as the other man poured him another drink. “She didn’t want to dance. Claimed she didn’t think it was a shamefull job, but that she preferred to serve the drinks. Even though the pay is half as good.” Bambam explained.

“She’s good at her job and takes care of everyone here. Workers and customers and me. So I try to take care of her.” He added on and sipped his drink. Jackson nodded in admiration. He knew you always took good care of him when he was there and he had seen you rushing around giving the dancers things they need. You had a good heart.

“How about I take care of her?” Jackson proposed and Bambam laughed. ‘What do you mean?” He questioned. “You know what I mean, take care of her. A sugar daddy kind of situation. Do you think she’d go for that?” His words made Bambam laugh. “She’s way too proud for that.” Bambam said and Jackson nodded. “I want to try anyways. Tomorrow night, I’ll be back.”

💋💋💋

You had a hard time getting out of bed. It seemed like it was getting harder and harder. But Jae-In jumping onto your bed made it easier. “Get up you need to get ready ‘cause you look like shit.” Jae-in said and you huddled under your bed. “I don’t wanna.” You yelled and she started laughing before spanking you and leaving your bed. “Get up!”

Dragging yourself out of bed, you had a weird feeling about the day. You slipped on a soft pink slip dress with a white lace trim and your ankle boots from the night before. Another day, serving more rounds and for what?

Jae-in could tell you were upset while you did your makeup and hugged you frum behind. “This all isn’t for nothing, you know.” She said and you smiled. “I guess I know that.” You told her and finished your face. “It’s just another day.”

Your work day had started like normal. A pat on the back from Mark, the music pounding in the background as your friends graced the stage in skimpy clothing and Jackson entering the club. He smiled at you, but brushed past the bar and directly into Bambam’s office. You exchanged looks with Mark, but didn’t linger to long on it. You continued doing your job and poured the patron in front of you his whiskey.

A hand placed itself in the small of your back and you turned around to be greeted by your boss. “Can you come to my office, please?” You were confused, you hadn’t done anything wrong. “Don’t look like a scared puppy you didn’t do anything wrong.” He explained with a laugh after seeing your face.

“Oh that’s a relief.” You exhaled and followed him to his office. Jackson was leaning on top of Bambam’s desk, his suit jacket thrown over a chair and top button of his silk shirt undone. His suit pants were tailored to fit his thighs nicely, you actually got to see him in good lighting.

“Hey, what’s up?” You asked and plopped down into a chair in the office. Jackson was just smiled at you, adjusting his position and Bambam cut through the silence. “Jackson has something to discuss with you and i’m not overly happy with because I’d be losing a valued worker if you agree. But I’m gonna leave, let you two talk things over.” He said and left the room.

Your eyes turned to Jackson and his smile still hadn’t faltered. “That color is really nice on you.” He said and admired the shade of pink on your skin. “I’m nervous, what’s going on?” You felt stressed, you didn’t like people discussing you without you knowing.

“Nothing bad. I just have a business proposition for you. Now, I don’t want you to feel pressured. You should agree only because you want to agree.” If you weren’t confused before, you sure as Hell were now. “Alright, hit me with it.” You nudged him, wanting to know what was happening. “I’m offering to be your sponsor. Anything you want, anything you need. A room in my penthouse.” Jackson said and your eyebrows furrowed. Why on earth would he want to sponsor you and what did he want in return. “What do you want from me?” You were scared. What he is offering you is a dream, but it worried you what he would want in return. Did you want an escape from your life? Yes. Did you want to keep your dignity? Yes.

“I’m not a prostitute.” You blurted out, your mind going a mile a minute. Jackson started laughing, not expecting the outburst. “I’m not saying you are, and I’m not asking you to be one. I just need you to accompany me to certain events. An escort so to speak.” He clarified and you were still not sure of his intent.

“The first time you walked into this club, 2 years ago. I prayed to God that you weren’t a new dancer. It was a sigh of relief to see you were behind the bar instead of on top of it. I have been coming here for years and I could tell you were different from the others. This isn’t the life for you, this isn’t what you should be doing. You need to get out.” His words were sweet and compelling, putting the thought of accepting his offer into your mind. “No sex?” You asked, and he smiled. “No sex. You have to much integrity to be a prostitute.” He wasn’t wrong.

“So if I agree, that makes you my sugar daddy?” You asked with distaste in your voice. “I guess that’s one way to refer to it.” Jackson said, slightly agreeing to your distaste. “But let’s stick to sponsor.”

“I’ll give you my number. Think it over, the offer stands.” Jackson added and extended his hand to help you out of the chair. You stood up and nearly rolled your ankle due to your heels. Jackson stabilized you and you looked up at him. He always gave off a warm aura.

“Just please, consider it.”

💋💋💋

You went home straight away after your shift ended. Alot of things on your mind and alot of different responses to those things. The way Jackson looked at you played in your mind, his offer was ringing in your ears.

You were so deep in thought you walked straight past your apartment only to realise it a few moments later and circle back. “Hey don’t you work at the strip club?” A man standing in a group of others across the street. You decided to ignore it, when they called back to you making you freeze in your footsteps.

“Why don’t you flash your tits and dance around like you do on stage for us?” You felt disgusted and violated and you weren’t even one of the dancers at the club. You kept going and reached the elevator of your apartment building. Getting in, you pulled your phone out and dialed Jackson’s number. It wasn’t the first time you had been harrassed and it wasn’t going to be the last. You had made your decision, you were done.

“Jackson, I’m done with this. I want to take your offer.” You said with a huff, feeling sad that it’s come to this. “That was fast, are you okay?” He asked, a worried tone in his voice. “I’m fine, I just don’t want to be here anymore.” You said and it felt like you could hear him sigh through the phone.

You sounded distraught, which made him wonder what happened to make you make up your mind so quickly. “I know it’s like 4 in the morning but pack a bag. I’m going to come and pick you up.” He said and asked for your address. You gave it to him and walked into your apartment.

“Hey, what’s up?” Jae-in asked, her hair up in a bun, her glasses on and her text book out before her. She got off of work earlier than you did and managed to miss your sudden job change offer.

You sat down across from her and explained the entire situation and nearly started crying. You met this man at a strip club, where you worked and you said yes to him being your sugar daddy.

“I mean you really are taking a chance here. And you’re sure he doesn’t want sex?” Jae-in asked, sipping her tea. “I asked... I told him I’m not a prostitute.” Jackson seemed like a straight forward guy. “Bambam trusts him and Bambam’s always done right by his girls, the ones who dance and those who don’t. I don’t think he would’ve allowed the offer to stand if he didn’t trust it.” And with Jae-in’s words, there was a knock on the door.

Tossing a few essential items of clothes into a bag you huffed as you looked at your room. You weren’t going to miss it, you were however going to miss Jae-In.

Meanwhile, Jae-in stood in your living room next to Jackson. Awkward silence present as she stood next your “sugar daddy”. “So-.”Jackson started but Jae-in immediately cut him off. “Look, Y/N doesn’t have a lot. That means this agreement, is hard on her. I don’t care how much money you have, you just take care of her. I mean that.” Jae-in said, crossing her arms and looking at Jackson. “I’m doing this because I want to take care of her, trust me.” Jackson said with a soft smile.

You left your room with your bag in hand and a happy yet weird mood, the morning 5 a.m sun peaking through the windows. You looked at Jae-in and moved over to look at Jackson.

“Here let me take your bag.” Jackson said and took your bag from you. You hugged Jae-in, but kept your eyes on Jackson. He stood there holding your bag like a true gentleman and watching you two with a smile. “I’m not gonna say anything, just text me when your settled and we’ll go out.” Jae-in told you and you simply nodded. “Alright.”

With that, you and Jackson left, his hand resting on the small of your back. You didn’t mind it but you did take notice. The elevator ride was relatively silent, tension thick enough to cut with a knife but it wasn’t necessarily negative. You were staring at your feet the whole time, your ankle boots from work slowly becoming a nuissance.

“You okay?” Jackson asked, noticing how distracted you were. “Just a little exhausted.” You mumbled and played with the hem of your dress. Jackson’s hand extended and he took yours in his. You could feel it, this wasn’t a business deal, this was emotional.

“When we get to the house, you go to sleep after giving me your sizes. I will get you a few outfits while you rest and eat something. Tonight we have a big party to go to. A formal thing.” He explained and you nodded in agreement. “Alright, sounds good to me.” You replied and followed him out to his car, not even taking the time to notice how expensive it was. Frankly, you were too tired to care.

It took about 10 minutes to get from your crappy side of town, to the luxurious hotels and penthouses. It amazed you the difference between the two and they were so close to eachother. It seemed unreal.

Jackson kept glancing over to you, looking at the way you stared out the window. “Never been to this part of town?” He asked and you snapped out of you daze. “No, I have. Just didn’t remember it being just ten minutes away. Kinda ironic.” You said and you didn’t mean to sound sad, it just kind of came out and it made Jackson sad.

“Well, we’re here. I have some things to do today. I am giving you the key to the penthouse. It’s the top floor, just go up and they will bring your things and take whatever bedroom you want.” You looked at Jackson with a blank stare as he handed you the key. “You just need to give me your measurements.” Jackson said and you cocked an eyebrow.

Jackson looked towards one of the workers and gestured for him to come over. “Take care of her things and bring them up to my place, okay?” Jackson asked and the man nodded his head. You watched Jackson hand him money and from watch you could tell it was a fifty dollar tip. “Yes sir.” The man said and took your bags out of Jackson’s car and headed inside.

“I should only be gone a few hours, you just go and rest.” Jackson added before pausing. “You’re awfully quiet. Something wrong?” You looked up at him and he couldn’t help noticing the way you batted your eyelashes at him. It kind of made his dick jump in his pants.

“Didn’t think it would be this easy.” You said with a soft smile. “Oh babydoll, life will get easier. Now I gotta go.” He smiled and leaned in, pecking your cheek. You couldn’t help but feel the blood rush to your cheeks and chest. “Alright...”

💋💋💋

He found incredibly inpressive. It was 5 p.m and Jackson hadn’t seen you since morning. He told you to pick any room in the penthouse, but he found it incredibly impressive that you chose the one bedroom that he called his. He found it incredibly impressive.

What he found more impressive, was how you were sprawled out with your hair going every which way. Your dress was all wrinkled and yet you still looked incredibly attractive. Your heels from the night before were haphazardly thrown over the floor and you were snoring very lightly.

“Jackson?” You asked groggily, waking up due to the feeling someone was watching you. “Yeah. It’s time to wake up babygirl, time to eat and get ready for the party.” Jackson sat down on the bed and you looked up from your pillow, eyes half closed and incredibly tired. “You sound like Jae-In, getting me up and ready for work.” You mumbled and threw your face back into the pillow. He laughed and put his hand on the small of your back. He wasn’t even going to bring up the fact that this was his room.

“This bed smells really good.” You mumbled and pushed yourself out of it. “Kind of addicting.” You added and Jackson just smiled more, knowin that it was his scent you were smelling and that found it comforting.

“I got you your outfit for this evening and some more clothes for everyday. But the one for tonight is most important.” Jackson said and excitedly walked over to at least 20 bags. Popular brands like Fendi, Gucci, Versace, Balmain etc was printed onto the bags and you swallowed thickly. You felt weird being given these expensive things.

“You didn’t have to get all these expensive things, not for me.” You said and sat with your legs dangling off the bed. “Yes I did, I’m your sugardaddy after all. Not only should you live comfortably, you should live luxuriously.” He said and grabbed a big black box out of the bag. “Here is your dress for tonight.” Jackson said and handed you the box. You hesitated, simply looking at the man in front of you. “Go on, open it.” He said with an eager smile.

Slowly you opened the box, only to met with white tissue paper covering the garment. You moved them out of the way carefully and was met with soft red fabric. Pulling the dress out of the box by it’s straps, it was a red colored satin with a structured fitted top with thin straps. Pulling it out further, you noticed a belt at it’s waist and it flowed out to the ground. A big slit going up very high and pockets at each side.

“Wow.” You said, wondering how you were sitting in this position. “You like it?” Jackson asked and you looked at him. “Are you kidding, this dress is the prettiest thing I’ve ever held.” You said and he smiled widely. “Well then, go shower and do your makeup and hair and get dressed. We have to be out of here by 7.” Jackson told you and looked on his watch.

You got up and hugged him tightly, your face burried into his neck. “This means a lot.” You said and skipped off to the bathroom. You were in the best mood.

💋💋💋

When you were finished, you could hardly recognized yourself. The dress fit you perfectly, sitting tightly over your torso and pushing your breasts up in the best way. The belt sat right at your waist before pilling out onto the floor and the slight came up to your upper thigh. Dare you say, you looked sexy as hell.

You walked out of the bathroom in your dress with bare feet, hair and makeup done and headed out to the living portion of the penthouse.

There Jackson stood, hair done to a t, satin wine red shirt tucked into his suit pants. His jacket was laid over a chair and he was on the phone, seemingly upset. “Just get it fucking fixed, I have things to do.” He growled into the phone and his tone of voice was extremely attractive. He slammed his phone down and you cleared your throat, searching for his approval.

“Hey your done.” He said and turned around only to pause for a moment. “Wow. Just wow. You look amazing. I do believe I out did myself.” He said and smirked in approval. You could feel him checking you out and then he reached your feet. “Oh right your shoes.” He said and grabbed a box off of the dining table.

He got down on his knees infront of you and lifted your foot, opening the slit in your dress and exposing a leg. He grabbed a black heel out of the box and slipped it onto your feet and did up the ankle strap, before moving onto the next shoe. “You look absolutely beautiful you know.” Jackson said and slipped on your other shoe. Blushing, you thanked him and he stood infront of you.

He was incredibly attractive and you were beginning to debate your choices.

“Are you ready, milady?” He asked and extended a hand to you. “Why, yes sir.” You said and Jackson swallowed thickly. The no sex deal was really going to be tested and this was only night one.

The second you two got to the party, you felt out of place. Not because of your clothing, but becuse of who you were. These people were fancy. The parties you usually went to you drank liquor out of plastic cups. Here they had champagne flutes.

Your arm was linked with Jackson’s as he paraded you around the room. You felt eyes on you, from woman who were jealous that you were with Jackson to men who were eyeing you up and down and Jackson could tell too.

“I should have gotten a more conservative dress. These guys are looking like they’re about to eat you.” He said and you two stopped to grab some champagne. “I should have gotten a less attractive sugardaddy. These girls look like they want to claw my eyes out.” You retaliated and sipped your champagne. You could taste the money.

“Well looks like we’re at a crossroads here, baby.” He said and you laughed. “Looks like.” You responded as you stood across from him. “What is this party for anyways?” You asked looking around the room at all the people. “Just rich people getting together and showing off to be a dick to people less rich than them. You’re kind of obligated to go once you’re rich.” He said and you both laughed. “I don’t really enjoy these. But you’re here and my happiness has already increased by 100%.” He added and you blushed.

“Well, well, well Jackson who did you bring this time around?” An arm wrapped around your shoulders and you jumped back slightly. It was a man about Jackson’s age with a slim face and full lips. “Geez Jinyoung you didn’t have to scare her.” Jackson said and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you into his chest and away from the stranger.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Jinyoung.” The man said and extended his hand, taking yours in his and kissing it. A charmer for sure.

“Y/n.” You introduced yourself and felt Jackson’s hold on you tighten. “You’ve never brought her around before, I would have remembered.” He said to Jackson and you just looked at your date for the evening. “Well I had my reasons.” Jackson said and you felt mildly ashamed, you knew why.

Jackson felt your uneasiness, leaning down and kissing your forehead. “I’m already tired of this, I showed my face here, we can go now.” Jackson whispered in your ear, sending tingles down your spine. “Oh alright.” You mumbleld in surprise and Jackson said goodbye to his friends.

“I’m really hungry, they call that crap they serve here food.” He said with a laugh and pulled you over to his car again. “I’m hungry too.” You said and shrugged. “This is gonna sound really stupid but I’m in the mood for a cheeseburger.” he said and pulled out of the venue parking lot. You started laughing and he just watched you while driving. “What?” He asked and you glanced over at him. “You’ve just suprised me over the course of today, in the best way.” You said and he smiled to himself.

The silence following wasn’t awkward, no it was comfortable and you felt good. The radio played softly and Jackson was humming along softly. He didn’t realise he was doing it but his hand moved off of the gear and rested it on your thigh. “I’m sorry, felt right.” He said and moved his hand right away. You looked over to him before grabbing his hand gently and placing it back on your thigh. “You’re right, it feels right.” You said with a small smirk and watched him lick his lips.

The grip on your thigh tightened every now and then, massaging your thigh gently and glancing over at you every now and then. You couldn’t help but feel yourself get turned on. You were being treated like a fucking princess, you couldn’t help it. You also felt your strong opinion on your own deal of no sex faltering.

You stopped at a red light, the previous comfortable silence had turned into thick sexual tension very fast. Your head turned to look at him and you licked your lips carefully. Jackson turned and leaned over the center console, his hand moving from his thigh to your chin.

“I’m going to kiss you now. You can stop me, push me away if you don’t want too. But I really want to kiss you and I think you really want me to kiss you too.” He spoked really fast and pressed his lips to yours. You were frozen for a moment, surprised but not in a bad way. Once you snapped out of your daze, your hands moved to his face, caressing the soft skin and moving your lips against his. It felt incredibly right.

The sound of a car horn from behind you interupted the moment and Jackson looked at the light, now bright green. “Shit.” He groaned and the car moved forward. You could swear that he was going over the speed limit as you two drove back to the penthouse. Jackson had both hands clenched on the wheel and his jaw clenched equally as tight. “i just wanna get home.” He groaned, his voice deepening slightly. You had to stifle a laugh and he just looked at you with a cocked eyebrow.

💋💋💋

Once at the penthouse, you two walked inside leisurely. Your hands were in the pockets of your dress and Jackson was following you closely. Your heels clicked on the black marble floor and you stopped, spinning on the balls of your feet to turn around. Jackson was right there and you two were face to face.

He cupped your cheeks and pulled you in for another kiss. His touch was so incredibly gentle and his lips were incredibly soft. You gently moved your hands up his arms and wrapped your arms around his neck. The kiss deepened, and one of his hands moved down to your neck, massaging the skin. You hummed against his mouth due to his actions and he smiled. Your chest pressed against his and you couldn’t help but smile.

“This is against our rules.” He mumbled and pulled away. Your hands gripped his suit jacket, pulling him back towards you. “I don’t care about those rules.” You mumbled and pulled his lips onto yours again. He quickly stripped himself of his suit jacket and pulled the pin out of your hair that held it up. Your hair tumbled over your shoulders only for it to be gripped lightly and moved away by Jackson. His mouth dipping down and sucking on the skin below your ear.

Goosebumps travelled up your whole body as his tongue traced over your skin. “Jackson, can we move to your room.” You whimpered, feeling awfully exposed in front of giant living area windows. “Of course, babydoll.” He said, his mouth leaving your skin. He grabbed your hand and pulled you towards the bedrooms, stopping at the one you took that morning. “Wait, is this your room?” You asked, coming to a realization. “Yeah, I was thoroughly impressed that you had managed to choose the one room that’s mine. Not that I have a problem.” He said and guided you in.

You looked at his bed, the sheets that smelled nice and over the whole room. You must’ve been too tired earlier to notice his personal things lying around.

Jackson watched you from behind and took the moment to undo the zipper of your dress in the back, revealing more smooth skin. His lips moved back down to your neck, sucking the skin with the intent to leave marks. You were his and people needed to know.

“You know I’ve thought about this before.”Jackson whispered in your ear as he slipped the straps of the dress of your shoulders. “Have you?” Your breath hitched in your throat. He pulled the strap down further, your skin getting more and more revealed with every second. “Yeah, your skin feels softer than I thought it would.” He mumbled, the dress falling to the floor. The structured top didn’t require for you to wear a bra so you didn’t and you were exposed.

“God but you are so much more beautiful than I thought.” He groaned and turned you around to face him. His lips slammed into yours again and you stepped out of the dress. He kicked it to the side as your fingers worked the buttons of his shirt. “You’ll damage the dress.” You said with a laugh and he groaned, ripping the remaining buttons open and tearing the shirt off. “I’ll buy you 50, Hell, I’ll buy you 100.” He growled before pushing you back onto the bed. “What ever you want baby, I’ll buy you 100.” His hard body was pressed against you, and his lips were tracing over your collarbones.

“Fuck daddy.” You hummed, his title slipping out of your mouth. He just smiled before travelling further down. His lips wrapped around your nipple, one hand holding your tit for support and the other hand massaging the other. You were speechless, watching him enjoy your body this way was making you drip.

Jackson’s teeth grazed over your nipple and a sharp gasp left you and it felt amazing. “Tell me how you feel baby.” He told you and pulled his lips off of you with a pop and moved on to the other one. “Go on babygirl, talk to me.” He coaxed as one of his hands moved down to your panties rubbing you through the lace.

“Fuck daddy, I just want you to fuck me.” You were surprised at how desperate your own voice sounded and you wanted to bet you wouldn’t recognize yourself if you saw you. “That’s more like it.” Jackson mumbled and moved down further, his tongue dragging over your stomach.

Your hands tangled in his hair, feeling so incredibly needy as Jackson’s hands made sure to touch you everywhere. Spreading your legs, Jackson placed a palm on your thigh, pressing it into the mattress and holding your legs apart. A hot kiss was placed on your clit through your panties, followed by a smirk at your reaction. He repeated his actions, only this time rolling his tongue over your sensitive nub afterwards and you were frustrated. It wasn’t enough.

Finally, he pulled your panties down and tossed them to the other side of the room to be discovered later. Your legs were forcibly spread (not that you minded) and his tongue slowly dragged up your slit, making sure to tease you. Your legs went to close on instinct but his hands were stronger. Holding you down, he wrapped his arms around your thighs and brought you closer to his face. Jackson looked at your face before taking your clit into his mouth and sucking harshly. He was done playing games.

Jackson wanted you shaking, he wanted you cumming and he wanted you to be his. He was trying in the only way he knew how, to make you his.

You gripped onto his hair tighter, his tongue drawing circles over your clit as he did so. He hummed against your skin and your back arched in reaction. The coil in your belly was already starting to tighten and he had barely touched you. One of Jackson’s hands mvoed from your thigh to your slit. As he sucked on your clit, his fingers traced your slit before slipping one in. Your back arched again and he felt more and more confident, adding another finger.

He made “come here” motions and he could feel you tightening around his fingers. “Jackson, fuck please Jackson.” You pleaded only for him to pause. “I’m sorry, that’s not what you should be calling me babydoll.” He said and looked at you with dark eyes. “I’m sorry daddy, please, just please don’t fucking stop.” You said and through your head back, feeling your orgasm fast approaching.

He listened, keeping up his pace and feeling you starting to contract around his fingers. “That’s it, cum for me. Show me who you belong too.” He growled and you moaned in response, your orgasm taking over you with full force. His hand moved to your hips, pinning you down as you arched your back to hold you down. His tongue kept at it and you were shaking, a moaning mess of incoherent words.

Jackson slowly pulled away, watching your body in after shock. Your legs closed and you looked at him through hooded eyes. “Fuck.” You whispered to yourself and Jackson started undoing his slacks. He was stood at the end of the bed and you managed to move to the edge of the bed and resting on your knees.

Your hand extended the second his pants were off, reaching for the waistband of his briefs. “Eager all of a sudden huh?” He said and helped you take off his briefs. “Been eager the whole time.” You mumbled and leaned over, taking him into your mouth.

Your lips were wrapped around his tip, allowing your tongue to swirl over it. A deep groan amitted from his throat and his hands immediately shot to your hair. “Jesus fucking christ.” He moaned and held your head in his hands. His hips slowly started moving and you hollowed out your cheeks. Every now and then your tongue swirled over his cock as he face fucked you, he was getting harsher and harsher each thrust.

“Holy shit, I gotta stop before I cum.” He said and pulled your lips off of him with a harsh pop. He leaned over pressing his forehead to yours and you looked at him with doe eyes. You felt like you were high off of him. “Can you get anymore perfect?” He grumbled and moved his hand to your jaw. Your bodies moved back up the bed together, his own hovering over you.

Jackson harshly grabbed your hips and placed himself between your legs. You looked at him, your eyes flowing down his body and admiring his physique. Jackson was incredibly attractive and you felt lucky.

He placed the head of his cock at your entrance, teasing you. Jackson stopped and slowly entered you, gripping your thighs while at it. You watched him enter you, your bottom lip clenched in between your teeth. You felt full, stretched out and in heaven.

“Babydoll you’re so fucking tight.” His hand moved up, gripping your ass harshly before starting to move. Your head got thrown back at his sudden force and a small squeal left your mouth. Your wrapped your arms around his neck and Jackson picked up pace. His thrusts were harsh and deep and had you bracing yourself each time.

Jackson grabbed your thighs again and moved them, pressing them against your chest. The new angle took your breath away and Jackson smirked, picking up the pace once more. He hit your gspot, revelling in the sound you made before leaning down and kissing you again. “Holy shit.” You breathed and looked down at where you two were connected. One of Jackson’s hands moved to your hair, gripping the strands and forcing you to keep watching. “Watch me fuck you.” He demanded and the sight made you clench around him. “Watch me make you fucking cum.” He growled and a small scream left you.

“Daddy...” You couldn’t even finish your sentence, your body was doing everything in its power to not cum yet. You didn’t want it to be over. “You gonna cum for me baby?” Jackson asked, feeling his own body tense up. “Oh shit, I’m cumming.” You told him, your body tightening up and shaking.

Jackson pulled out of you, only to settle with his face between your legs. Using, his tongue to ride out your orgasm, your legs clamped around his head. He moved away slowly and your body shook in aftershock. Jackson moved back up your body, kissing you slowly and you could taste yourself on his lips. “One more babydoll, can you handle that?”

You nodded weakly in his direction. Jackson helped you, flipping you over onto your stomach. Your back arched and you rested on your knees, your upper body still flat on the bed. His hands moved to your waist, massaging the flesh before entering you once again. Your pussy was so sensitive, immediately clenching around him. “Fuck.” You heard from behind you. You pushed your face into his pillows and gripped the sheets around you as he started fucking you again.

Jackson’s pace was unforgivable, chasing his own high. Your squeals were soaked up by the pillows and Jackson leaned over, pressing kisses to the back of your neck. “Does it feel good baby?” He whispered in your ear. “Too good.” You moaned, pulling your face out of the pillow. “I’m gonna cum again, daddy.” You whimpered and moved back up. “Hold it for me baby, I’m close.” He said and let out a grunt at your pussy clenching around him again.

“Daddy, I can’t hold it.” You whimpered, feeling your body give in as you came. Jackson pulled out of you, releasing over your lower back and ass. Your were shaking, your knees threatening to give out under you. You felt so good you had tears in your eyes. Jackson rested a moment breathing heavily before noticing the mess he made. “Oh wait a minute.” He said and went to grab a wash cloth. You remained on the bed and your legs still shook as you caught your breath.

“I’m sorry.” Jackson said as the warm wash cloth ran over your back and ass, gently. “You’re fine.” You said and allowed your body to relax in the sheets. Jackson left again, to grab you some underwear and you sunk into his pillow, his scent being quite addictive.

“Here you go doll.” His voice snapping you out of your sleepy daze. “Oh thanks.” You said and slipped on your panties. Jackson was sat on the side of the bed, only in his boxers. Jackson huffed, before looking at you.

“Would that have happened if we did this the right way?” Jackson mumbled and put his head in his hands. There was a sudden change in moods in the room and it left you feeling coldness from him. “I think it would have.” You answered, placing a hand on his shoulder before moving behind him for a hug. His hands grabbed yours, pulling your chest against his back tighter.

He turned around in your arms and pushed you back into the bed. “Let’s just go to sleep, babydoll.” Jackson mumbled into the crook of your neck as you two settled underneath the sheets.

💋💋💋

The next morning, you woke up to a cold and empty bed. The warm, sensual feelings from the night before long gone. You sat up, noticing Jackson had slipped his silk shirt onto you in your sleep. You smiled at the fabric, Jackson’s sweet actions from the last two days ringing on your mind.

Then you remembered, you weren’t his girlfriend and he wasn’t your boyfriend. But Hell, you were still happy. You had beautiful new clothing, a huge roof over your head and an attractive man to live with.

Shiny paper in front of the bed caught your eyes and you leaned over to see more shopping bags on the floor. You got out of his bed and moved around to the bags, curiousity coming out more than you cared to admit. There was a letter resting on top of the biggest bag.

“Good morning babydoll,

I took the liberty of getting some more clothes for you, but the ones in this bag. I want to see you in when I get home tonight.

See you tonight,

-Jackson”

You read the letter and cocked an eyebrow in confusion. You pulled a box out of the bag and opened it quickly. You were nervous and for some reason, your heart was pounding in your chest. Inside the box was a bodysuit. Soft pink with blue flowers embroidered into the sheer fabric.

You smiled to yourself and took it out of the box, along with the rest of the clothes. Lingerie, everyday clothing and night gowns etc, he really had thought of everything.

You reached for your phone and dialed Jae-in’s number.

“Hey sugar baby, how’s the rich life treating you?”

💋💋💋

A/N: I might have hyped up this smut for too long so sorry if it was disappointing also sorry it took so long.

#Jackson wang #jackson wang smut #got7 #got7 smut #got7 reaction #got7 scenario #jackson wang reaction #jackson wang scenario

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