#just pretend they are not all cut off. shame on my household

[thepnictogenwing]

I feel sometimes that I am swimming against the current...a rumination on forgetfulness

there's a lot of things that make me feel this way, but few tendencies of mine seem more contrary to the spirit of the age than my determination that we—the Pnictogen Wing, all of us, and we are many—ought to be able to revisit every single scrap of our collective pasts.

I once did so much. an outsider would say that I did nothing but read library books, but that's my point: I grew up in an isolated, abusive, profoundly unhappy household, a survivor of vile treatment at the hands of a medical professional, yet for a while I was almost happy because my life was filled with books, books on almost every subject. both my older sibling Frisk and I could read advanced material before we were six. we were too young and naïve and sheltered (and dissociated from pain) to retain much true understanding of what we read...but all the same, we filled our brains as best we could, and I want that back. ALL of it, now that we're in a position to make use of the knowledge, rather than simply fill the time with it.

the difficulty is that all those childhood memories of reading, and daydreaming about what we read, are miles deep in a fog of unpleasant memories and lurking monstrosities. the situation is far less grim than it used to be; there was a time when our pasts were completely sealed off. all the same, we've so far succeeded in recovering only some enticing crumbs of past experience. cold fingers clutch at our heart when we try to address ourselves to any subject or topic that's connected in some way with some hateful memory. music, for example, or poetry, or drawing. it feels as though we have to detoxify everything.

I dimly sense that there's another option: simply cutting old parts of ourselves off, forgetting about them—drinking the waters of Lethe. Lethe is the daughter of Eris, which seems somehow appropriate to me: if Eris is the goddess of thermal noise, meaningless randomness in other words, then the forgetfulness of Lethe can be construed as a sort of sinking-back into the realm of noise, and the reduction of all memories and perceptions to mere static, where no one perception means more than any other.

for reasons somewhat obscure to me I've fought back hard against this tendency—I've fought against forgetfulness (and as a result I've become someone who perceives facile forgetfulness in others to be disquieting.) one result has been criticism: "you live too much in the past," is something I've heard from a lot of people. but I can't see it that way: I need my past to have a future, in my own perspective.

I don't trust the social tendency towards embracing oblivion. an opportunistic, doublethinkful embrace of forgetfulness has been a valuable rhetorical weapon in the hands of right-wing ideologues who want everyone to forget the past, who want to erase all responsibility and all guilt for old crimes, because they're zealous to commit some new ones, like the crime of constructing false histories that suit their mythology. argue with these people and you'll eventually hear some smug and self-satisfied talk about willful oblivion: they want "history" to be pictures of statues and schoolbook stories about old heroes, and appealing to actual historical record makes them angry and inclined to spout nonsense about how the past was ever such a long time ago and nobody really knows what happened, and anyway it's time to embrace the future! an Elon-Musk-glittery-Martian-palaces sort of future, which one suspects will never be any realer than a computer simulation, but...well, glittery 3D simulations almost seem to be enough for a lot of people, these days.

I want to stop it, if I can. surely this isn't healthy, this reduction of all society and all history to noise, just because it makes it easier to forget painful things. I'm tired of running from old pains. we've spent almost all our current life running away from trauma and memories of shame and humiliation—trying to ignore them, trying to pretend that we were "over it" or that it was "a phase" or whatever. I don't want to live that way any more.

We refuse to take refuge in oblivion.

~Chara of Pnictogen

#memories #childhood memories #forgetfulness #oblivion #lethe #trauma

[nuianced-tck-enby]

Gender is confusing. I was born and raised as a girl in a conservative Christian household where both of my parents were pastors kids and our family became missionaries, making me a missionary kid. There were always heavy expectations on me to be a good, calm, polite kid who didn’t get into fights or arguments in public. To only obey and protect the family reputation and the reputation of the God that I was supposed to represent. 

As the eldest daughter, I learned to push down my own needs to placate others and I’m only now, as a 20 year old, learning how to slowly unravel those lessons that have been so deeply ingrained into me. 

I’ve never been very feminine. I have always been considered a tomboy. As a kid I hated barbie dolls, the color pink, dresses, skirts, stockings, and high heels. I was perfectly content wearing jeans, shorts, t-shirts, and sneakers. I wanted to play with nerf guns, swords, be in nature, and just generally all of the things the boys did. That was allowed, to a point. Space was made for me to be a tomboy so long as I conceded to doing girly things with my little sister. No matter how much I expressed that I hated it and it made me uncomfortable though, I was still forced to look feminine a lot. My mom would dress me up for church or anything that wasn’t school or play time really in dresses, skirts, stockings, heels, and the color pink. She would put bows in my hair and tell me how cute I looked and I would throw a tantrum in my room because there was only so much I could do to fight it because I didn’t have autonomy and control over this. And I knew that once I stepped outside of my house I would have to pretend like what I was wearing on the outside was comfortable and natural to me. 

I hated going shopping for clothes as a kid. I knew that my mom and I would argue over the clothes, that I would lose, and that she would buy things for my wardrobe that I never wanted to wear. Every single time she selected girly or feminine things. She would say that I didn’t need any more t-shirts, that I had too many. That I can’t have another pair of sneakers because I already had some and what I really “needed” was a pair of dress shoes. The only time I was allowed to get items I actually liked, was at the donation store, and even then the t-shirts I chose had to be from the girl section and they had to be somewhat feminine. 

Now that I’m in college and removed a little bit from my family, l can make choices for myself. I get to decide what I wear and what I buy. The problem still exists though, in multiple forms. 1) Most of my wardrobe is still feminine because that is all I was previously allowed to own and so those are the items I have; 2) I still have to answer to my mom (read: argue with my mom) about any choices I make that she deems inappropriate for me as a “young Christian woman” (I’m not sure if I want to identify as a Christian or a woman anymore and if I do it would be a looser term); 3) Buying clothes is expensive and replacing my wardrobe is going to be a slow, and uncomfortable process.

As I struggle with my gender identity and expression, I have to remind myself to be gentle with myself. It’s hard and confusing. I’ve never really felt like a girl, but I’ve lived all of my life as one (forcibly, but still). Does that mean I want to be a boy? Am I still a girl? Am I nonbinary? Am I just gender nonconforming but still a girl? What pronouns should I use? 

At first I thought that I might identify as nonbinary with she/they pronouns since I still feel like a girl somedays, and other days I just exist outside of the gender binary. But if I sit in my discomfort and think about it, is this new identity and space that I am trying to slowly carve out for myself just a stepping stone to get to who I really am, my true identity? Do I really still feel like a girl? Am I using she/they pronouns as a stepping stone to they/them pronouns when I feel more comfortable transitioning to a nonbinary identity? 

I have so many questions and so very little answers which means a whole lot of angst. 

It feels good to take concrete actions to express myself though. Recently I purchased clothes that make me feel comfortable and good. Today I bought a chest binder online, and tomorrow I’m taking a huge (and to me, scary) step of cutting my hair to reflect how I feel. 

I’m starting to finally make decisions to express my gender identity that make me feel both good and scared. Scared because my whole life I was told and taught one thing and I internalized it. I’m trying my best to unlearn those things. That my decision to cut my hair and wear clothes that feel genuine to who I am doesn’t deserve to be stopped by a sense of religious guilt or out of fear of disappointing my mother or knowing that it will spark a heated argument between us.

I’m learning to be more brave and to step more out into the light and be true to myself. To stop defending my actions to my mom in a way that will placate her, to defend myself when I wear shorts without shaving and letting my hairy legs go out in public. To let my family’s comments roll off my shoulders (I don’t always exceed at this one). To be confident when I go out in public with my hairy legs. 

It’s still hard, and some days I’m still not very brave. But some days, when I do feel brave, I feel proud of myself as well. Because the more I feel brave and the more confidence I gain, the more I can shove out the shame and the guilt, and just be true to myself. And it gives me hope that one day I’ll be able to live out both my sexuality and my gender identity without feeling any negative emotions about it. That it will become natural. And it’s a beautiful thought.

#nonbinary #gender nonconforming #gendernonconforming #she/they #they/them #religious guilt #growth #be brave #lgbtqia #lgbtq #lgbt

[aukanemin]

.. Um. He is not? He is not a warrior, he is the administrator of the aurd. In his own eyes, he is a householder to a greater extent, it was his conscious choice, for which he fought and defended. As for Tizian, Edwardis's appearance was both a challenge to the outside world and an assertion to himself - he openly refuses to be perceived as a man of the continent, in the past - a mercenary and an invader. He considers himself primarily a father and husband, for him it means living and providing loved ones with a life of comfort and care, and his appearance is a clear reflection of his intentions and expectations in relation to himself.

In the dungeons of Saugunt, where he was obliged to provide support to his family in a more versatile way, he looked sharp and predatory, and more inclined towards forgotten habits - such periods in his life happen, but this is not him, and such a situation is stressful, unpleasant and traumatic for him, and, despite the fact that he endures them steadfastly and courageously, attaching roles and motives to him that are not inherent in him is, well... Not very good.

Femininity is not something shameful and inappropriate, especially not in this particular fantasy setting - I enjoy creating contrasting and multifaceted characters, men, women, and others. Edwardis not only grew in a traditionally continental upbringing, despite the fact that he perfectly fit into this picture of the world, he received just as much burden from this, and the opportunity to change this picture - not only adopting the culture of his wife, but also changing his name, was the best outcome. With his old lifestyle, he couldn't have become the good dad he is now, and, well, in his case, it was mutually exclusive o----o

Edwardis in his own way does not fit into the setting, but this is his beauty and value in history - thanks to him, the Archon is able to perceive the world in a duality and multifaceted manner, they can see it outside the concepts in which they were born, as much as Edwardis is able to accept things that contradicted everything he knew before. Why at all perceive them according to ready-made concepts and cultural views, if this advance cuts off the possible sides of the characters?

Edwardis is predatory and sharp, he is full of deceit and dark secrets - and he is also the closest person to Archon, who is ready to do anything for the happiness of his family, for them he is the personification of parenting, tenderness and love, comfort and stability, trust and safety. And also of good taste, prudence and maturity, and the ideal of a man, father and husband, in principle at all, because in their eyes he never betrayed these concepts. They perceive all LI turning to his image, and most of those around him try to equal him to the same extent, because, well.. Everyone in Nimrode knows who he is and what he does.

To devalue him as a man and a father because he looks wrong is the same as devaluing a woman in his place for her figure, lifestyle, temperament, values ​​or profession. My mother/parent was engaged in physical work all her life, which left a mark not only on how they look, but also on how they perceive, behave and position themselves, yet she did not become less dear and beloved to me for this. If something influenced us negatively, it was the need for society to assess them and hang up their own judgments.

But we have passed this form of thinking a long time ago, aren't we?;) It is in my values ​​that a man equally has the opportunity to look and behave the way it suits him, and not to devalue him for it. I do not pretend that men should fall under my vision of attractiveness - but I want to show that they are also gentle and beautiful, worth admiring for their home and family development, they are worth being looked after and shown respect - not such as is accepted, but sensitive and humane sort. Regardless of their presentation, such men are valid and worthy to be parents and lovers. There are also transgender and gender fluids fathers - they do not become worse as parents from this, although, well, I understand that you have a clear cultural and associative perception;з

In general, I noticed that lately I have been getting more of this kind of feedback - this is very good, it seems to me that it means that I am able to bring something new and valuable. And funny, by the way, too. Edwardis literally was written from Mads Mikkelsen, aka his super-neutral, stilistic feminine and extremely sophisticated version, and he wears clothes that were typical of medieval men. Historically, men generally traditionally wore exactly those things that are now considered exclusively feminine - bright colors, abundant embroidery and lace, corsets and heels, makeup and wigs. Edwardis's lack of undershirt and the open neckline should have been a reference to his wife's past design, the off-the-shoulder, and they have paired earrings with her, but overall it was a very successful and accurate design in my eyes that suits him wonderfully ;)

Thank you for message, @sandpixieden! It's all very personal and feather-ruffling and I love to talk about it!! >////<

#ask #secundan gothic #the secunda #visual novel #edwardis #character design #male character #genderfluid character #androgynous #discussion #i just really love my goth dad >/////< #he is my comfort character #dad for all dads #gender queer

[op-peccatori]

Hopefully, Yours (part 1) | MLQC Victor

Fandom: Mr Love Queen’s Choice 

Pairing: Victor/Fem!Reader 

Rating: Mature 

Word Count: 8823

Summary: A fight between co-stars leads to you taking their place, along with the man you’ve been carrying a rather fervid torch for. A happy accident—except it’s a dating show and you have to pretend your feelings aren’t real. | Part 2

Warnings/Tags: language, fluff, oblivious behaviour, dating show, social media, Victor might be a little OOC because I’ve written him differently, some making out in the next part hence the rating, no smut though, my sense of humour

A/n: as always, I’m here to clown around. I tried something a lil new (for me) in this one 👉👈 something I picked up quite recently from works I adored, so I hope you like it! It got longer than I intended so I had to split it into 2 parts ;.; Victor said: keep writing, hoe. 

ALSO!!! Yours by Ella Henderson is. THE Victor/MC song for me. I felt it in my bones when I listened to it again after all these years. brb crying

It’s the incessant buzzing of your phone that lures you out of the warm cocoon of your blanket.

You don’t really want to come out of your haven. Not after the week you’ve had, and because you know what awaits you. But as Anna had told you, there’s no way you can avoid this. They had finished editing the episode on Thursday, and Jason had already texted you last night to let you know it would be ready to be uploaded at 7:00 pm today.

Reaching listlessly for your phone, you squint at the bright screen through bleary eyes; it’s 9:00 pm already, and you’ve managed to sleep most of your Sunday away. It’s been a whole week since you filmed the episode, and while you were able to keep your thoughts at bay through it, it’s finally caught up to you.

After all, this is the episode you’re going to be in.

Pulling your laptop towards you, you open the tab that has the streaming site open. Your heart begins its anxious thump against its cage, a beat all too familiar to you by now. As the video begins playing, the memories of that day rise up to the forefront of your mind, refusing to be outdone by this meticulously edited version.

It started with a plan. A very well-thought-out plan.

“He called me a bitch. How can you still expect me to shoot with this jerk?”

Things were not going according to the very well-thought-out plan.

From your place next to Homer, the camera guy, you watched with mounting apprehension as Hollow resisted the AD’s attempts to placate her. But she did seem calmer, the scalding rage of her glare simmering down as he continued to reason with her.

And then her partner for the episode walked back onto the set.

“She said my songs are predictable! You want me to work with a hater?” Kai protested loudly, and Hollow turned back to him in a fury. The AD looked back at you in dismay, the rest of the staff watching with varying levels of exasperation.

“This is supposed to be a cheesy, ultra-romantic show,” Kiki whispered from her place at your side.

“This is what the reality is. All that sappy crap is for the camera,” Willow snorted, shaking her head in disenchanted disappointment.

There may be more than a kernel of truth in that. Hopefully, Yours was your company’s latest project; the second season, the first one having been produced by a different group. It’s a romantic web-series that featured different couples going on dates around town. The couples featured ranged from non-celebrities to people who are household names. So far, there hadn’t been too many issues with the participants—so you really should have expected this.

“Not always!” you cut in, fiddling nervously with your planner. “Some of the couples have gone on to date for real. Raymond and Liliana got married!” A lovely couple from an episode that aired last year. They’d been in the news recently too.

“They’re getting divorced,” Homer piped up in response. You hoped the look on your face let him know how unhelpful that was and turned back to the clashing couple. The AD looked harrowed and harassed as things turn increasingly hostile.

“Willow, do we have a backup couple?” you asked after a long moment of watching them spit insults. “Or just one person to replace either of them. What about Carlson?”

“He won’t be in town until tomorrow.”

‘Can I leave town?’ You wondered in a fit of desperate, wishful thinking.

“And we’ve got everyone here, with everything set up. Can we really waste time?” Kiki wondered out loud.

“No, we can’t,” answered a strained voice from behind you. All four of you turn to see Anna striding towards you, her hassled expression sending a frisson of worry through your stomach. “___, we’ve got guests.”

“Guests?” you repeated numbly. “What guests?” From the look on her face, it couldn’t be good news.

Anna held your gaze for a second, looking vaguely apologetic, before stepping to the side, allowing you to get a look at who Jason, the director, had rushed off to greet. You felt the ground shift beneath you, throat drying rapidly and the surrounding noise dimming as you focused on the new arrivals—your friend, your boss if you insist on the technicalities, and the star of most of your daydreams. LFG’s very own CEO, Victor, and his loyal secretary, Goldman.

In other words, people you hadn’t expected to see today.

“Why?” you whimpered, mostly panicked, but distantly amused by how enthusiastically he’s being greeted. It gave you a few moments to get it together, a familiar buzz coming to life underneath your skin.

This is terrible. Surely, this is karmic retribution for some misdeed committed by you. 

“Boss, get it together,” Kiki hissed in an echo of your thoughts, and you realized you had half-fallen back into her and Willow’s arms, their hands steady on your shoulders.

“This is really bad timing. Like, really bad,” Willow pointed out unnecessarily as you straightened up, running a quick hand through your hair.

“Goldman said they just dropped in to see how it’s coming along. I don’t really understand why, this is not at all Victor’s cup of tea, but he’d been hesitant about the show, so...” With a sympathetic smile, Anna placed a hand on your elbow, squeezing lightly. The comfort it brought is chased away almost immediately by a furious screech.

“That is it. I’m done!”

Turning just in time to watch Hollow stalk off the set, you tried to restart your thought process. You just needed to solve this.

“How do we solve this?” Kiki asked in a low voice, and Willow shook her head helplessly. 

With no answer for her, you could only watch as Jason led Victor and Goldman towards the set. You knew the exact moment he saw you; there was no smile, but a slow blink. It was still early in the afternoon, and his patrician features were alight with a soft glow in the golden sunlight, the curve of his lip relaxed and his clever gaze taking in you and everything happening around you in seconds. You’re not sure what he saw in your face but it made the corners of his mouth pull downwards.

Your stomach plummeted, seized by a sudden urge to flee.

But with his long strides, he reached you before you could take a step back. Kiki and Willow retreated silently, greeting him like newly registered soldiers coming face to face with their general and leaving you at his mercy. You would have felt miffed, but the way the sunlight softened his features was a little distracting. His lips moved, and you’re certain he said something, but couldn’t quite hear him over the sound of your heart drumming in your ears.

Homer coughed loudly, popping the bubble.

“Good morning, Victor!” Certain your lack of actual delight was obvious, you tried to inject as much enthusiasm into your voice as you could while your project went up in flames behind you. Not that you weren’t happy to see him, as the sudden thrill twisting through insisted on reminding you, but the prospect of disappointing him was one you would rather not face.

There was no visible reaction from Victor, but Homer looked a bit disturbed by the attempt. Goldman just looked like he pitied you, while Jason looked oddly contemplative. This was probably his first time seeing you this…dazzled.

“Good morning,” Victor replied evenly. His eyes, a constant, focused storm and his silken hair falling artfully over his forehead form a picture so lovely, almost beyond words. It’s never stopped you from waxing poetic about them, or his long list of admirable personality traits, but he had a way of knowing when you’re not paying attention. “Looks like I picked a bad time to check in.” 

You couldn’t quite pin down the inflexion in his tone, but your immediate guess was that he was either severely disappointed or was low-key mocking you.

With how quickly things derailed, it’s understandable. 

“Haha,” you laughed—an unfortunate coping mechanism that seems to flare up most often in his presence. Also, because Victor looked unfairly gorgeous, as always and you were a fool with a worryingly erratic pulse. “Just a few bumps. Nothing we can’t fix.”

Behind you, Kai declared his intent to leave as well. There’s a contract, so they would have to look into this, but that would take time. At that moment, Victor was eyeing the singer leaving the set and your nervous smile with his brows steadily climbing higher.

“Right. Anything I can do to help?” he offered, and the shame that elicited is so fierce you felt like you’d shrunk. This was supposed to be a casual visit, for him to see how the filming was going and instead you made him feel the need to step in and clean up the mess.

“No,” you said, firm, immediate, vehement. He frowned down at you. “We’ll come up with something. Why don’t you two take a seat, we’ll get you some drinks and Anna can go over the ratings and numbers with you.”

Victor seemed to hesitate, still frowning at you, but relented when you mustered up a small but convincing smile for him. “Alright. Let me know if you need anything,” he insisted, because he’s nice like that, before following Goldman and Anna into the small room you’ve converted into an office. You have a small but closed set for the first meeting of the couples, before the crew moves to whatever location has been picked out for the date.

“He’s nicer than he looks,” Homer observed as the two of you watched him leave.

“He’s lovely,” you said miserably. Who would have thought there’d be a day when you said that about Victor? He was still an evil capitalist, but he’s a kind man. 

Homer didn’t get the chance to reply as Jason rushed up to you.

“Okay, so we’re gonna have to sit those two down for a talk, but we don’t have time for that today. We need substitutes,” Jason said, not nearly as panicked as you would expect from a director who had no one to direct. It was admirable, this ability to keep his head even when he hits what looks like a dead end.

“I’ll make some calls.” Reaching into your pocket, your mind ram through your options as your hand closed around your phone.

“I want you to do it,” Jason declared. 

It took you a few seconds to realize you hadn’t misheard. He looked back at you steadily, already resolute in his decision. You looked around, expecting protests, but the staff members only looked eager. 

“…I don’t like this joke,” you said, slowly.

“Good thing it wasn’t one!” Jason returned cheerfully. “Before you turn it down, let me say—please? And don’t go off with the ‘I’m nobody!’ thing. People know who you are.”

“Um.” You really, really didn’t know what to say to him.

“My brother thinks you’re hot,” Homer offered, and Jason beamed at him.

“Okay, we’ll do this. You’re the producer of one of the oldest and most popular shows. You’ve gained more media presence over the last two years. You’re also friends with Kiro and Professor Lucien, so people have been quite curious about you for a while! This is just a fun little thing. Please?” Jason pleaded.

In the spirit of fairness, you took a minute to think about it. It would solve half the problem. And today’s location was a local fair, where the couple got to try out anything they want to, with all the expenses covered by the company. The very thought of stepping in front of the camera left your cheeks flushed, but you couldn’t deny the bud of excitement that seemed to have taken root.

In the end, your stomach made the choice for you.

“If you think it’ll be fine, then sure,” you acceded, thoughts filled with stir-fried noodles and holding hands with a faceless person. “But what about the other person?”

“Hmm,” Jason looked in the direction of the office, reminding you that you don’t have all day to decide.

“I could call Gavin and ask if he’s free,” you suggested. People adore him. “Or Lucien?”

Jason nodded as if truly considering it, his gaze sharp on you. “Good choices. What about Victor?”

“Yeah, no. That is a bad idea,” you said at once, without giving it a moment’s thought. This was a dating show, where people go on cute dates and act adorable on camera. The very thought of Victor doing that at all, let alone with you…was something you couldn’t think of because it was ridiculous. And bad for your poor heart.

“It is an excellent idea,” Jason disagreed. You hated to be the bearer of bad news, but this was necessary. You’ve known Victor for a while now, and felt responsible for Jason’s well-being that would inevitably be threatened if he embarks on this particular path.

“He’d never agree to it,” you told him solemnly. The man barely agrees to do interviews; a show like this? Out of the question. “You know who he is, right? He doesn’t have time for this.”

“Why don’t you leave that to me, and go get ready. I’ll go get your man,” Jason said, loud and bright, shooing you in the direction of the dressing rooms. You stood there for another minute, dazed and afraid. What if Victor thought it was your idea?

The horror.

The terror.

“I’m still texting Lucien!” you called after him, voice pitched high in your alarm. Before you could follow Jason to make sure Victor knows you would never suggest this, an arm slid around your shoulder.

“Darling,” Arnold, the head stylist, cooed at you. “I heard the good news.”

“How?” It had been two minutes. People shouldn’t be spreading this without the director’s confirmation.

“Forget the hows. This is your time to shine. Come, we’re going to make that CEO drool,” he proclaimed, shepherding you towards the dressing rooms. “And I can finally do something about this hair!”

“He’s not going to agree.” You were absolutely certain of that, even as your mind continued to conjure cutesy images of you sharing cotton candy with the reticent man. 

Taking a seat at the vanity, you reached for your phone over the cotton pads, watching Arnold’s reflection in the large mirror as he flitted about the small room, picking out different outfits. You hadn’t gotten a chance to check it for a while, and scrolled through your texts swiftly, pausing on a few in particular.

‎

Victor [9:00]: Hello. I’ve got some time off today.

Victor [9:02]: Is it alright if we drop by the set? What time is your lunch break?

Victor [9:20]: You must be busy. I spoke to Anna. I’ll see you later.

Victor [9:25]: Also, good morning.

‎

Oh.

He had actually let you know he’d be dropping in. Taciturn and domineering he may be, but Victor’s quiet consideration often left you glowing with warmth. In comparison, your own clumsiness often left you embarrassed. In this instance, it made you feel doubly determined to do this right.

‎

Y/N [12: 05]: Hi, sorry I missed these. Don’t worry, I’ll get us back on track.

‎

Closing Victor’s chat, you took a moment to consider your options before making your choice.

‎

Y/N [12:07]: Lucien! Are you free?

Lucien [12:15]: Hello. Just wrapped up a lecture. I thought you were going to be shooting today?

Y/N [12:16]: I am. Actually, I had a favour to ask.

‎

You stared down at the screen of your phone, shoulders relaxing as one of the assistants fussed with your hair. Should you wait for Jason before asking him? You knew what the outcome will be, regardless of what you wanted. You’ve always known, always kept your thoughts safe behind a barrier, never letting them spill out in Victor’s presence.

You thought back to his disappointment, and something fragile in your chest tightened.

Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you prayed to all the powers above that this works out.

‎

Victor [12:18]: Dummy. I’m not worried.

‎

There was a knock at the door as you opened the chat, thrown off but pleased by Victor’s confidence.

“Guys, can I come in?”

It was Jason.

With trembling fingers curling tight, you sat up straighter as he was let in. Your pulse quickens, your emotions jumbling together until your can’t tell them apart. You kept your expectations low. You knew what the answer would be. It couldn’t hurt if you expected it.

You just hoped it wouldn’t change anything. It wasn’t your idea.

“He agreed!” Jason announced with a flourish, and your heart halted its despondent march. “His secretary’s picking up his outfit, they said it won’t take too long. We’ll do his hair and mak—uh, are you okay?”

You swallowed your heart back down. “He said yes.”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, stretching out his answer, nodding as Arnold thrust an outfit at him. 

“And he…knows it’s with…me?” you asked carefully.

Jason’s brows climbed a notch higher. “Yes, of course.” His eyes gleamed with something you couldn’t quite read.

“Right, right. That’s great! Fantastic. Wonderful,” you said admittedly weakly, turning your gaze back to your reflection. The colour seemed to have drained from your skin, and you ignored the concerned glance exchanged by Jason and Arnold.

“___, hey,” Jason began gently, coming up to stand behind your chair. “Are you okay with this?”

You studied his worried expression, thoughts turning inward. You shifted aside the panic, the disbelief, the prickling nerves, and shushed the sparks of excitement.

A date with Victor.

It sounded wonderful. But the problem was never about you not wanting it. It was that you’ve wanted it for so long and so badly. Could you really have this?

“It’s okay to say no. It’s just…I don’t think it’ll be as awful as you think,” Jason said. His brow furrowed as the lines of your face smoothed out.

Oh.

“It’s for the camera,” you remembered, and Jason hummed thoughtfully. Regardless of what he may think of you, Victor wouldn’t let it show on the screen. You knew he was aware of what the show entails. So, perhaps, you could have this. It was for work. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s okay.”

Your breath evened out from its shallow state, and you smiled up at Jason, who still looked concerned.

“It’ll be okay.” Your phone buzzed again, and you gathered yourself once more.

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Lucien [12: 23]: What can I do for you?

Victor [12:24]: And I look forward to working with you.

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It wouldn’t be real.

Telling yourself it wouldn’t be real was easy.

Sitting next to Victor, your high stools positioned close together as you tried to keep your thoughts away from dangerous paths, was not easy. But the light notes of his scent, sandalwood and myrrh if your nose hadn’t led you astray, threatened to lull you into a state of near-intoxication.

Jason had wanted to film the ‘first meeting’ and, for the sake of authenticity, decided to have Victor wait in front of the camera while you got to be the one to walk in. Which meant it was straight from the dressing room to the set. While you were thankful you wouldn’t be filmed drooling on camera, it still meant you wouldn’t get a chance to talk to him until after, or in between takes.

You were a lot more grateful for the arrangement when you did walk to the set, because the sight of Victor—clad in a slim-fit black shirt, paired with a dark grey jacket and black pants that stretched deliciously over his muscled thighs—stopped you dead in your tracks, your thoughts wiped blissfully clean.

The look on his face, bright under the studio lights, had been unreadable, but it didn’t look like his usual unimpressed poker face, so you decided to take it as not quite a win, but not a loss either. Then the small upturn of the corners of his lips, however, threatened to overload your system, prompting you to avert your gaze slightly as you walked to him, for fear of losing yourself.

Your hi had been shyer than intended, but his hello had been the gentlest you had ever heard it.

And then he handed you a bouquet of red, fragrant roses and you felt yourself grow weak.

It was a short take, where you both introduced yourselves, and discussed where you’d be going for the date.

“Do you like fairs?” he’d asked, gaze intent as if your answer was of the utmost importance.

“I love them,” you’d answered, meaning it completely, and he’d looked glad.

Even through the wild beating of your heart, you had managed to feel impressed. He was doing wonderfully already. Who knew Victor had these acting skills? Hopefully, he thought the same of you. You weren’t acting, though, and this, you were quickly realizing, could be a wonderful way to lift the lid off the pot just a little, and let your real feelings shine through.

You would be filming the individual, interview type scenes last, after the date.

With the first meeting done, with Jason going over the take to make sure he had everything he needed, you would be moving to the location soon. But first-

You looked around quickly, covering your mic and making sure nobody was paying too much attention to you, before turning to Victor—only to nearly jump in fright when you met his eyes. How he’d known you wanted to talk, you’d never know. His own eyes had widened when you’d turned around all of a sudden, the tips of his ears reddening slightly. He had probably been startled by your reaction.

“Hi,” you whispered, grinning up at him, and his lips twitched as he covered his mic.

“You’re doing well,” Victor told you, giving you a firm nod, and you couldn’t quite keep from beaming at him.

“Thanks, you too. I never knew you were hiding such a skilled actor in there!” You really meant it, but your words gave him pause, mouth opening and closing as he considered his response. Strange, as modesty was something he didn’t often bother with. Not to say he’s arrogant, just that he knew his strengths.

“…thank you,” he finally said. “You too. I didn’t know you could…act.”

Because you weren’t acting. The blushing, the shy giggling, the warmth buzzing through you, they were painfully real.

You shrugged, smiling slightly, and he looked away.

“Just…thank you, Victor,” you murmured. “I know this isn’t really your thing. But I promise I’ll do my best to make it enjoyable.”

The light, airy sound that escaped his mouth could almost be a laugh. He did shoot you a small smirk, facing you once more. “Well, you’re not wrong. But it can’t be too bad. I’ve heard they’ve got good street food.”

“Good street food,” you repeated blankly. Wasn’t he taking this acting thing too far? This was bordering on alarming, coming from the man who used to look down on you for eating instant noodles.

“Yes.” He looks at you as if daring you to argue, and, well, who are you to argue with an actor’s method? 

His smile faded slightly as yours widened, eyes fixating on yours, your voice pitching higher in your excitement. “I know, yeah, great food. Literally the only reason I agreed to do this!”

Victor’s face shutters at that, his lips pressing tightly together. “Hm.” He turned back to face the camera, leaving you confused, before realisation dawned.

“Hey, don’t worry! I won’t be too much of a glutton, we’ll be on camera, after all,” you told him, as reassuringly as possible because you and good food were a dangerous combo.

He arched a sharp brow at you. “We’ll see about that. I may spend most of my time in kitchen, but Mr Mills has much to tell me about some of your reactions.”

It was only through the sheer power of your offence that you were able to scowl at him even with the heat flaring up in your cheeks. “Well, there’s no way the food there will be as good as the one in Souvenir, so we have nothing to worry about.”

You resisted the urge to cross your arms, keeping your hands neatly folded in your lap as you turned away from him. But when he said nothing for a whole minute, you couldn’t resist the urge to sneak a peek, only to be left with your jaw slack.

Victor was still facing forward, but the corners of his mouth seemed to be curling up despite the effort he was clearly putting into keeping them neutral, his tiny smile still managing to spill through the seams. It enraptured you, a willing captive to the sight of him so pleased, and you wondered if you could make it through this with your heart intact.

But then, you told yourself through your daze, any chef would be happy to receive such praise for their food.

[video]

hopefully, yours, episode 3, part 1: Introductions (Victor and Y/n)

450,569 views  •  Feb 8th, 2020

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JTV ✓

1.19M subscribers 

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51,509 comments

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Jason P ✓ 

pinned comment

This is a special one guys ♡

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needwater 45 minutes ego

AM I HALLUCINATING OR IS VICTOR LI ACTUALLY ON A DATING SHOW?

            view 50 replies

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somsom 23 minutes ago

omg it’s y/n! We rarely get to see her on TV. She’s so cute!!!!

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orangeismycolour 16 minutes ago

!!!! Victor and Y/n!!! Omg ever since I saw them attend the Loveland gala together last year, I knew there was something there!! 

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tooktiktook 8 minutes ago

um. isn’t this kind of an odd combo?

    cheribb 5 minutes ago

    @tooktiktok I thought so too but they look pretty cute together. I mean…he totally blushed when he saw her! And his eyes went so soft!

      tooktiktok 4 minutes ago

      @cheribb Well, she seems sweet but I think he was just being nice.

By the time you were shuffled into a van and driven to the site of the fair, your nerves had mostly settled.

Of course, that may have had something to do with the pudding cup Victor had handed you once you were in your seats. Goldman had brought over a paper bag, with Victor plucking two cups from it like a magician with a hat. With that said, while it’s a trick you’ve seen many a time, it never fails to bring a sparkle to your eye.

With Arnold’s permission, you were more than happy to dig right in. Your makeup would have to be retouched once you got there even if you didn’t eat.

It was easy to relax in the steady familiarity of Victor’s presence. A dangerous notion, your unwavering faith in Victor, that dictated everything would be okay if he was there because he would either make it so, or you, with confidence half-drawn from him, would make sure of it yourself.

It was only once you were halfway through the treat, humming and wiggling in your joy, that you realized Victor hadn’t started on his. Rather, his eyes were fixed firmly on you, intent in observing your devouring of the pudding.

The next bite went down a little heavier as you turned to him.

“Is something wrong?” Your enthusiasm surely couldn’t have come as a surprise.

He hesitated, seemingly on the verge of saying something, before clearing his throat and looking out he the window at the slow-moving traffic.

“No. Just…eat slowly,” he muttered, refusing to look at you. You squint at him, at the pink creeping up the back of his neck, sucking on the spoon thoughtfully. “There’s no need to rush.”

“Sorry. I got a little too excited.” Your laugh is a little hollow, and you muffle it with another mouthful of the soft, sweet dessert, missing his quick glance back at you.

He sighed, sudden and a little ragged.

“No, I meant that you should take your time and savour it,” he told you, looking at you out of the corner of his eye. “I can make it for you anytime, so there will be many more chances in the future.”

The next spoonful remained frozen by your mouth as you struggled to process his words. Warm fingers came to rest against the back of your hand, guiding it, and the spoon, to your lips. Your skin tingled, but what was more damning was the way he held your gaze as your lips parted, the metal spoon warm against your tongue as you tasted the sweet delicacy.

It felt all the more sweeter, however, because of the little smile dancing across Victor’s lips.

You were rescued from attempting to respond to that by the van slowing to a stop, with Jason and Homer climbing in before they got moving again. Homer would be the one following you around the fair, as they only needed to get a few takes of you indulging in various activities.

“We absolutely need one with the ferris wheel, of course. A little cliched, but still damn cute. Maybe we can fix a camera in the cabin…” Jason trailed off, turning to Homer for his input. “If you think it’ll be better without you there.”

‘How would it be better without Homer there?’ you wanted to protest. ‘I’ll screw it up if left to my own devices! Professional environment aside, that’s a little too romantic!’

Something prickled at the back of your neck, and you realized Victor seemed to be trying to get your attention, albeit in a very silent way you probably wouldn’t have caught on to if you hadn’t spent so much time studying him.

He said nothing even when you met his gaze, but a reassuring warmth calmed you all the same. I’ll be there, he seemed to say. Trust me.

You were worried about the romantic atmosphere getting to your head, but surely Victor, the ultimate voice of reason, wouldn’t let you get carried away?

“Okay, we won’t crowd you guys too much, but remember to avoid turning away from the camera!”

That had been the last thing Jason said to you both before he retreated to his place behind Homer, who was ready with the camera propped over his shoulder. Your mics were affixed to your clothes, and people were already beginning to shoot curious looks your way. It wasn’t an uncommon sight; many vloggers and people working for food channels could often be found in places like these, flitting about with their cameras out as they partook in the activities available.

While being around cameras was nothing new, it was a little strange to be on the other side of them. Nervousness weighing on your chest, you reminded yourself over and over: be natural, don’t act like a lovesick fool, don’t stare at Victor for too long. Turning to the man himself as Homer adjusted the camera settings, hoping to draw inspiration from his steadfast composure, you could only stare in confusion at the intent way in which he was staring at the entrance to the fair.

Following the trajectory of his gaze, you squinted, hoping to see what had caught his attention. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, with people milling about, the welcoming sign high above their heads bright and welcoming.

“Victor?”

“Hm?”

“Is everything okay?” you asked hesitantly, and he nodded, almost distracted.

“Are we ready?” he asked Homer, who gave him a thumbs up.

Jason grinned at you, winking in what he seemed to think was a discreet manner. “Have fun, you two.”

You couldn’t quite pretend there were no cameras, not with Homer keeping up with you as you began to walk through the entrance arch. Looking at Victor was easier, just to block out the awareness of your companions, of course.

Catching your nervous glances, he inclined his head towards you and made an abortive movement, hand rising and falling midway. His jaw clenched, and then he offered you his arm, elbow bent. 

As your hand curled around his arm, you focused on your vibrant surroundings. A task made more difficult when, after a short pause, you felt him tuck his elbow into his side, the broad span of his shoulders relaxing when you tightened your grip.

“I’ve been meaning to come here for years, but never really got the chance to,” you told Victor, your voice still edged with nervousness. But Victor nodded at you again, the usual stern line of his mouth quirking up, and your mind stuttered, committing itself to memorizing the precious curve of his mouth.

“In that case I’m glad we got to come here together,” he told you, and it took a good deal of effort not to gape at him. “It’s a first for both of us.”

You nodded, stunned by this unforeseen acting prowess. Seemed like you’ve discovered another one of his many talents.

“Hopefully, it’s the first of many,” he added, a smug lilt to his voice, and this time, you did gape.

“Y-yeah,” you answered, face heating up as you turned away for the sake of your dignity. “Hopefully.”

bandanaman @headaccs

are we all seeing this?? he’s such a gentleman!! I was not expecting this man to be smooth. #HopefullyYours

mintmadness @mintsallover

@headaccs HAVE YOU SEEN HIM? He doesn’t even need words, one look and I would be on my knees. #HopefullyYours #VictorLi

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srirachafire @hotsauce

@mintsallover calm yo thirsty ass down lmao

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raspberrydream @berryberry

“the first of many” omg what does he mean????  #HopefullyYours

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freshasnow @crystalmoon

Yeah, I’m not really feeling this. I thought we were going to get Kai and Hollow this week? #HopefullyYours

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teatime ✓ @spillit

For those of you asking, yes, we knew Victor Li and Y/n were going to be on Hopefully, Yours. Don’t worry darlings, we’ll have some quality tea for you soon!  #HopefullyYours

Spotting the first of the food vendors, you both headed over to it, peering at the fresh dumplings. The vendor straightened up at the sight of the camera, a benign smile spreading across his face when you asked him for permission to film, nodding and plating plump, steaming dumplings with the utmost grace.

Gordon, as he introduced himself, was more than happy to talk about his family business, their two restaurants in Loveland, while Homer took close-ups of the dumpling that Victor broke apart for a better look.

“My daughter comes here every year with me, insisting she can handle things by herself, but honestly, I just enjoy coming here,” he chortled, before fixing the two of you with a knowing look. “It’s a completely different atmosphere from the restaurant! And it’s always nice to see sweet young couples such as yourselves. Reminds me of my own fair dates with my wife…”

You couldn’t stop sneaking glances at Victor, who seemed content to chew on his snack. He caught your eyes, before his flickered over your head towards Homer and Jason. Inexplicably, his ears began to tint a deep crimson, as he swallowed with some effort and stepped closer to you.

It began to make sense when he lifted the other half of the dumpling to your lips, Gordon gasping an oh my! in the background, and even as your heart began to race, your eyes widening, you felt…bad. Jason had obviously asked him to do this, and you felt terrible about him having to embarrass himself like this. But he did it, and so you took a small bite of the dumpling, the juicy filling suddenly tasteless on your tongue.

And then there was a soft sensation on your chin, your eyes lifting to see Victor dabbing at your skin with a napkin, the little motion taking all his concentration until he stepped back with a satisfied glint in his eyes, which seemed to linger around your mouth.

When you were unable to do anything more than flush deeply and try to stammer out a thank you, Jason ended the shot.

The glint in Victor’s eyes didn’t fade, and something within you quivered.

raspberrydream @berryberry

he looks like he wants to eat HER  #HopefullyYours

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bandanaman @headaccs

@berryberry I CAN’T BREATHE. I thought he was going to kiss her LOL. And she looked so nervous and then he just wiped her chin THIS IS TOO SOFT I CANT #HopefullyYours 

mintmadness @mintsallover

god I wish that were me #HopefullyYours

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only4food @bananabread

Okay I HAVE TO go to this place. I NEED TO EAT EVERYTHING. Who’s in??

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midnightmachine @musiclover

Gordon knows what’s up. We stan a hard-working man. #HopefullyYours

Things continued in much the same direction. With no signs of reluctance, Victor rolled up his sleeves and dived into the bustle of the fair. And with his hand curled around your wrist, you couldn’t bring yourself to doubt him. You’ve learned to read the signs of his displeasure, subtle and obvious, and they were nowhere to be found. He looked relaxed, trying out mini doughnuts, accompanying you to any shops you want to browse, frowning when you looked longingly at the ring toss.

“Let’s go,” he said, guiding you over to the booth. Well, you were supposed to try out the games too, but you hadn’t thought Victor would agree to play them. It seemed a little too childish for him.

“I haven’t come here in years either,” he told you when you looked at him curiously, the two of you standing in line with Homer right next to you. “I love my job, but I admit it takes up most of my time. I rarely have time to indulge like this.” He paused, as if wanting to say more, but his eyes flicked towards Homer and he ended it there.

While a part of you was startled in by his words, another softened at his truthful admission.

Victor seemed to have thought of something else, giving you a meaningful look. “But, of course, I always make time for the people in my life.”

You blinked, a little taken aback by sudden turn in direction.

“Even if they want to come to places like these, I don’t mind.” Victor seemed to be hinting heavily at something, and you smiled at that, almost excessively fond. Because it’s true that Victor makes time for the people in his life, especially his family. And even for you—he’s there for you, no matter how small the matter might be; huffing and puffing and going out of his way to help you. 

Falling for someone like that, someone who effuses such stoic confidence and noble compassion in equal measure, it was all too easy.

“Then we’ll make sure to come again,” you told him, a wide grin blooming across your face at the thought. It was unlikely that it would actually happen, but it was nice to think about. You stepped up to the cashier, greeting him politely.

You finally got your turns after fifteen minutes, with Homer and Jason taking a quick snack break while you waited. You’d run a quick eye over the prizes available, quickly drawn to two pusheen cat plushies, a soft grey and a dark ebony. You didn’t think he’d judge you on camera, but would it really be okay to admit that’s what you want? The hair pin would be a more sophisticated pick, something more to his tastes. 

Silently despairing over your proclivity for soft cute things, you turned to Victor for his choice.

Only to realize he seemed to have taken his jacket off while you were preoccupied and handed it over to Jason, his thin black t-shirt fitting him like a glove—and your words died a swift death at the back of your throat, shrivelling in the sudden dryness of your mouth. Silhouetted against the light of the late afternoon sun, his features seemed sharper, his gaze keener as he twirled the ring in his hands carefully.

As Homer began to roll the camera, and Victor prepared to toss the ring, you panicked with the realization that he didn’t ask you which prize you wanted like Jason had asked him to.

The ring landed around a bottle with a loud clink, and you hoped the surprise you felt wasn’t clear in your loud cheer. With the look he gave you, you knew he caught it even if others wouldn’t.

And then he handed you the dark pusheen plushy, which you took with trembling fingers and a sheepish smile. “Oh, thank you.” It was exquisitely soft to the touch. “This is the one I wanted.”

“Hm.”

“It looks like you.”

“What-” His head snapped toward you as you laughed, clutching the toy to your chest. Whatever outraged retort he’d been about to spit out was held back as he saw you hugging it contentedly, your eyes twinkling at him. “…I suppose.”

You handed him the toy, rolling your shoulders as you were given the ring. “Which one do you want?”

“I’m fine with anything,” he said, eyes locked on the grey pusheen plushy, the other half of the pair. So it was with a laugh, helpless in the face of his clear yet unspoken demand, that you tossed the ring. You got it on the second try, handing the toy to Victor with a triumphant grin, who took it primly and tucked it into his side.

“Thank you.”

“Isn’t this too childish by your standards?” you teased, unable to help it, but he only smirked down at you, stealing your breath with devastating ease.

“It is. But childish is…nice, sometimes,” he admitted carefully.

Your mind helpfully supplied you with all the instances of him calling you childish. “Oh?”

He shrugged, elegant, one shoulder lifting as he looked back down at the toy, before looking back up at you through dark, half-lidded eyes. “It’s grown on me.”

Kiro ✓ @kiromusic

Wow! This seems like so much fun, I kinda wish I got to go there too! :D @miracley/n invite me next time!!  #HopefullyYours 

Savin @agents

@kiromusic You just want to eat junk. And...well, I guess we can make an exception for today. 

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bandanaman @headaccs

Before I proceed to scream over the clip, I just wanted to let y’all know I did some digging and apparently, they are friends! They’ve been spotted together in public many times, including the Loveland Gala last year. You know what this means. #HopefullyYours

bandanaman @headaccs

THE PUSHEEN TOYS. They won each other toys!! Y/n’s right, that does look like him with the dark fur lmao. BUT. Look at Victor’s heart eyes!! And she looked so happy omg T_T

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raspberrydream @berryberry

@headaccs NO WONDER. It seems like they already like each other but it seemed too soon!! They’re so cute omg please date!! #HopefullyYours

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bandanaman @headaccs

@berryberry With how they look at each other? I smell pining ;) I’ve compiled a list of all their public appearances. He even took her to Souvenir! How are they not dating????

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raspberrydream @berryberry

@headaccs DM ME!!!!

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srirachafire @hotsauce

@headaccs I feel like that’s a bit of a reach. They certainly seem comfortable with each other, but that could easily just be friendship, which is nice too. I feel like we should allow people to be friends instead of just shipping them.

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mintmadness @mintsallover

@hotsauce they’re on a dating show, though.

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srirachafire @hotsauce

@mintsallover yeah but plenty of other ‘couples’ were just friends or went on to be good friends. I just think these two are comfortable with each other, which is probably a good thing because Victor doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who can have fun with just anyone, you know?

You ended up having a lot more fun than you thought you would. Victor was always great company, but you could tell he’d tried his best to relax for the show and you didn’t know how to thank him for it. The warm gratitude bubbled up at the base of your throat, your heart sinking deeper into the ocean of affection you already held for him.

He’s so kind. His aloof demeanour, his nagging, his precise instructions and advice were things you’ve come to appreciate. But beyond those lies a heart so caring, so considerate, it made you yearn so deeply, to find yourself a place in it. But Victor had come to treat you as a friend and you could never ruin that because of your own feelings. It was precious, his friendship, and you wanted to treat it as such.

The line you’d drawn with so much care seemed to be straining, however, ever since you found out you would be riding the ferris wheel together, without Homer.

“The people in charge told us if we could just wait until closing time, they could keep things going until we’re done shooting!” Jason had told you as he briefed everyone. A bunch of the crew had left after packing up, as this would be the last take for the day. “That way Homer can fix the lighting and equipment in the cabin and won’t need to join you two! Give you some privacy, yeah?”

‘For what,’ you’d screamed internally, nodding along with a smile on the outside.

 Looking to Victor for his opinion had been futile, because he seemed to have withdrawn into his own head, looking up at the ferris wheel absently. You were supposed to shoot the individual parts, but with how late it had gotten, Jason had asked the two of you to drop by the studio the next day. Only, you had a free slot in the morning while Victor would only be able to make it sometime during the late afternoon.

So you wouldn’t get to see what Victor said about you. That was perfectly fine. Things had gone well, and Victor wasn’t the sort to badmouth someone anyway.

It was supposed to be his day off. And he gave it up to participate in a show that was, for all intents and purposes, pointless for him. You felt terrible, heart aching at the thought that once again you had made him waste his time.

How on earth did Jason even get him to agree to this?

“You’re thinking something ridiculous,” came a low voice, and Victor seemed to have come back from his mental journey.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out, the guilt getting to you.

“For what?” He seemed genuinely baffled, and it made you feel worse.

“For this entire day. You just came for a visit and now it’s after 8 pm and your day off is gone and you rarely get free time…” your shameful rambling tapered off as the furrow between his brows appeared to grow deeper and deeper.

His response was interrupted by a staff member, who came to let you know the ride was ready for you two. Walking together in complete silence, you wondered what he was about to say.

“Do you regret it?”

You arrived at the ride, and Victor had stopped in front of the open door. “What?”

“Do you regret it?” he repeated patiently, holding his hand out to you. “This entire day. Our date.”

Our date.

It was silly, how him calling it a date, with no cameras in sight, seemed to affect you so deeply. It was ridiculous but it was so real, how your heart fluttered and hope unfurled in the garden where you’ve buried your affection.

“Because I’m not sorry,” he added when you failed to do anything other than flush horribly. There was a question in his gaze, one you didn’t know how to answer, so with a deep breath, you focused on the one he’d asked out loud.

“No,” you said softly, your hand coming to rest over his as he helped you into the cabin. “I don’t regret it.”

How could you, when he was everything you wanted?

You settled on the plastic bench, watching Homer fiddle with the settings and light, making sure the camera’s fixed in place, basking in the heat emanating from Victor.

“Alright, that should work. You guys ready?” he asked.

“Yeah!”

“Yes.”

Homer stepped back to let Jason poke his head through the door. “We’re all set guys. Just call us if there are any problems. Be yourselves, don’t worry about the take. And remember, make sure to make it as romantic as possible!”

As the door closed behind him, with the camera rolling, silence rose to take the place of the sounds now cut off, the rest of the world falling away as the ride began and you began to ascend.

Outside the window, the stars shone in a twinkling blanket across the night sky, and Victor’s arm pressed into yours. Meeting his eyes was difficult, astoundingly so after the entire day you spent together.

This close, it would be so easy to let the words tumble from your lips. You didn’t know what your eyes could give away right now, and you were just as afraid of the softness in his gaze.

It looked too real.

“I’m glad we finally got some peace,” he muttered, and just like that a bright laugh broke out through your fear.

“This was not your kind of place at all, was it?” you said, snickering at the look he threw your way, because it’s so easy to make him huff like that.

“It was…lively,” he said, glaring at you as you stifle your smile behind your hand. “Exactly the kind of place you enjoy.”

“That’s true.”

“Then that’s that.” He shifted a little, trying to face you, his knee knocking into yours. “As long as you had fun, we’ll come again.”

Despite your warnings, your heart skipped a beat.

You tried to laugh it off, changing the subject to your childhoods, swapping lighter stories and carefully avoiding the heartbreaks. Your hands moved somewhere in between, in the dim lights, and your fingers had found each other’s. Make it romantic, Jason had said. That was the only reason. You talked about work, about Miracle Finder, about his public projects, how your busy lives don’t give you the chance to find love.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Victor cut in, still looking at you in that quietly dangerous away, his gaze a heated cloak over your skin.

You stilled. “You wouldn’t?” There was a tremor in your voice, one you hoped went unnoticed.

“I think, regardless of how busy we are, however reluctant…love finds us when it has to,” he said, his voice deep, unwavering, and you forgot how to breathe. Somehow, despite doing your best to avoid it, you had wound up on the proverbial cliff’s edge.  

And it was time to take a leap.

“Victor...have you ever been in love?” you asked, part of you ready for his outrage, for him to brush it off with a roll of his eyes, and the other curling up in fear at the thought of the answer he might really give you.

He hummed, tightening his grip on your hand when you tried to tug it back, searching your face. His thumb swept over your knuckles, rubbing gently, and you wondered if he was preparing you for heartbreak.

“Yes. I have.”

Kiki @kikiki

@smilingwillow WHAT THE FUCK

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Anna @miracletv

@kikiki Language.

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Kiki @kikiki

‎@miracletv did you see the episode?? im going to collapse WHERE IS BOSS @miracley/n

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raspberrydream @berryberry

DID HE JUST???? OH MY GOD @headaccs DID YOU SEE THIS? ARE YOU OKAY? #HopefullyYours

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bandanaman @headaccs

THIS MAD LAD ACTUALLY DID IT. @berryberry I will never recover from this #HopefullyYours

‎

srirachafire @hotsauce

@headaccs @berryberry He just said he’s been in love before. He didn’t say he’s in love with her lol

‎

raspberrydream @berryberry

@hotsauce what will it take for you to finally see the light

‎

mintmadness @mintsallover

I could listen to this man talk all day. Y/n, you’re one lucky girl <3 #HopefullyYours

‎

cocoloco @chocolatedelite

I’m late to the party but lmao at everyone freaking out. Uhhh honestly I’m not sure. These things are usually scripted. They could just be faking it. #HopefullyYours

‎

srirachafire @hotsauce

@chocolatedelite Thank you!!!!

‎

victorshoe @mrsli

My heart is broken but their cuteness has mended it. I’ll give them my blessings. #HopefullyYours

‎

bandanaman @headaccs

oh thank god they just uploaded the individual bits!!! THANK YOU @jtv

‎

bandanaman @headaccs 

...wait 

‎

raspberrydream @berryberry

‎‎omfg

‎

bandanaman @headaccs

????? IS THAT IT??? COME BACK @jtv that can't be it!! 

Thank you for reading! 

MC/You: it’s a fake date. chill. 

Victor: Goldman I need NINE roses and an outfit that makes me look like a sex god I HAVE A DATE

#mlqc #mlqc victor #mlqc fanfic #mr love queen's choice #mr love li zeyan #mlqc victor x reader #queue are my sunshine

[byorder-fanfic]

Finn’s Lost Loves

Summary: Finn’s lost more than anyone else knew because of the war, and every stupid thing his family have done afterwards to keep themselves in charge.

Word count: 2019

Warnings: Mentions war and blood, talks about eating disorder, self harm and self-esteem, and homophobia (only a little bit, period accurate), a lot of toxic masculinity 

Author’s note: This is a lot of angst with little bits of fluff and a sad ending. Sorry. It’s basically an overview of Finn’s character, backstory and his relationships with the family that we’ve never gotten to see! It’s based off a piece of prose in my drafts, so if you guys like this, I might post that as well. Hope you enjoy, and please comment, I love hearing your opinions and any constructive criticism you might have xx

Finn loved books. Once upon a time, he really did. He loved the way Tommy did the voices, and Arthur made those wild motions with his hands, and John could always make him laugh as he told him about that thing that happened in the pub last week. He loved how Ada and Polly would tuck him up in bed, place a kiss on his temple and read the letters from the boys. Then they came back, and he didn’t need to read letters. Or books. Or anything really. Soon, he didn’t even go to school. He just wanted to be with his brothers. Now they tell him to piss off more than they beg him to stay. Tommy and Polly scold him for not being able to read off the betting boards, and John makes everyone else laugh when he holds a big volume under Finn’s nose, so that everyone knew that Finn was still illiterate. Finn hates books.

Finn loved Church. He didn’t need Polly to drag him by the heels as he sobbed under the Virgin Mary’s stare like his brothers when he hopped, skipped and a jumped all his way down the road. He always sat by Isaiah, the two boys out-screaming each other in the hymns and seeing who Polly would scold first. He wore the crucifix everyday, and treated his rosary with all the sacred carefulness a six year old could manage. He loved the psalms and Jeremiah’s voice ringing through the streets and the way everyone was always together (even Charlie) on Sunday. Then he had to light candles, praying for his brothers’ safety that was only answered with their damnation as they dragged back blood and French mud into Watery Lane. Now he cries through the paper thin pages of a Bible and his only prayers are that the boys never see his tears. What did he have to cry about after all? He was never a soldier, but he should learn to be a man. Finn hates Church.

Finn loved healing. Ada dragged him along to her nursing classes and soon his only reason to come to Church was to learn how to tie bandages and fix up cuts and bruises. No one noticed his long absences- they either assumed he went to school still, or they were far too busy with the race tracks to care for the whereabouts of their youngest brother. But then he'd slipped up, and he'd never seen his brothers laugh so hard when he proudly told Polly he was going to be a nurse one day. Even his aunt and sister, usually the ones on his side, had to purse their lips together as Arthur roared out: "Hear that, Tom? We got ourselves a Nurse Shelby here! Want a dress and hat to go with it?" He told them all to fuck off and stamped out, but he didn't understand what he said that was so funny. When he asked Isaiah, who had just turned fourteen and starting to see Finn less and less, he just said that being a nurse was a woman's job. He didn't like being laughed at for being a girl, but he didn't know why. He still hoarded textbooks about anatomy and the like under his bed, tracing over the detailed pictures with his skeleton finger as he wished. And wished. And wished. And almost prayed that he could read the little ink words. When he found Arthur with another red line on his neck, he offered him some medicine to cure his big brother's blues, thinking just a bit of Tokyo would keep his brother here with him. No one asked why Finn was sad. Oh well, at least he could protect his brothers now. Finn hates healing. Finn loved food. Always the big eater in the Shelby household, he managed to always have a full stomach despite the poverty that reigned. He was a stickler for sweets, though, and as soon as he mastered the art of sneaking rings and wallets from unsuspecting strangers, he soon graduated to thieving lollipops and boiled sweets and even some toffees that he proudly deposited into his aunt's hand with a toothy grin. But the boys would look into his empty plate and his skinny frame and tell him he'd better watch out, soon he might actually have a shape under those bulky clothes. They always laughed, and he felt himself completely embarrassed at the dinner table. He dumped more sugar than milk into his tea and stole chips when they went to the seaside. He'd always offer to share, wanting to provide for them for once, but they'd tell him he was the one who needed it. He sees his ribs and the little vertebrae of his spine and wonders why can't he just be strong like his brothers. Even though he despises it, he picks up boxing to fill out his form. Maybe training with Isaiah was an extra benefit, but the older boy had long since talked to Finn on the regular, and made a point to laugh at him when he fell onto the floor. So, Finn graduated from second helpings of lunch and too-sweet tea to the sour delights of whiskey and cigarettes. Just like his brothers. Finn hates food. Finn loves his family. He loves Polly, the mother he never had, and will never feel like he does enough to repay her for his entire childhood. Then Michael came back, and soon there wasn't any chore lists on the downstairs table for someone to read out for him, or little check ups throughout the day as she makes sure he's okay. That was when he realised exactly why Polly raised him in her empty arms. He loves Arthur: his eldest brother, who used to lift him up on his shoulders and teach him to draw. Finn still has faded old pictures of galloping stallions (signed in block letters: A.W.S) slipped between the filled out pages of the sketchbooks he hides in his wardrobe. Then Arthur came back, with what everyone calls Flanders Blues, but no one explains, and Finn feels like he's losing his brother everyday when he comes back smelling like a brewery with blood on his fists. Finn loves Tommy. A father figure to him, the kind of man he wants to be when he grows up. But then Greta died and Tommy went to war, and the man who took him horse riding every weekend was gone, and this Tommy was colder. Finn loves John as the best friend he's ever had, always laughing together, giving sometimes useful advice and finding days to just spend time with each other. Despite John's bazillion kids, widowerhood, and then his new wife, he's always had time to spare for his little brother. John was the one who told him what bisexual was when he found Finn sobbing in his room, he was the one that took him to the doctor when he passed out from malnutrition, and he's the one that made him swear to never use razor blades on himself again. Finn loves Ada. He sees why Freddie calls her an angel, and used to love it when she pretended to take Finn to the library when in fact they were both slipping away to a Communist meeting, which would usually end up in Ada and Freddie slipping away and leaving Finn in the trusted supervision of leftist radicals that he happily chatted away to. Ada always took care of him, making sure he was never involved in the business (on either side) and telling him that being a soldier is a life sentence, not an honour. He lives because Ada keeps him safe and sane. Then Ada leaves. Finn hates the Shelby name that everyone screams at him like a condemnation, that invites slurs and hatred that only he gets because he doesn't look like a proper Shelby man. Finn hates his family. Finn loved Isaiah. A childhood crush that brought butterflies to his stomach and blushes to his freckled face. He sketched the boy's face so many times, he knew it by memory. They held hands when they were chased down the streets, laughing and sprinting as their spoils stayed securely in their pockets. But Isaiah was older than him. Soon after adolescence hit the Jesus boy and Peaky Blinders offered him a role, without the constant of Church, the two greatest of friends became almost strangers to one another. But Finn still loved him. He never told anyone, of course. He knew he wasn't a real homosexual, because he most certainly did enjoy holding hands and kissing the cheeks of girls his age (poor boy was flustered to ever do more!) but his heart still belonged to the preacher's boy. With more faithful women in the family than ever before, Finn knew he would be crucified if he ever told anyone. John was the only one who knew, and that was based on the fact he paid more attention to his brother than anyone else combined. He said he should just go for it, but Finn knew Isaiah couldn't be like him. And even if Jeremiah was always the kindest man that Finn ever met, he still didn't trust that the cross on his neck wouldn't shame him or laugh at him for the fact he was completely enamoured with his son. Then Finn got drunk, and when he woke up, his entire family knew exactly how he felt and Isaiah wouldn't look at him in the eye. He ran away to the stables, crying on Uncle Charlie's shoulder who told it would be alright. He made sure to keep an eye on Finn ever since, keeping an eye on his wrists and fists. The incident was soon forgot by everyone but him. Finn couldn't find it in him to hate Isaiah, but he knew he didn't love him any more. Finn has never loved Michael. He thought he could, at first, when he saw the tweed suit and a face more innocent than his. But then Tommy promoted him almost on the spot, and Finn had never at once felt so much rage bubble inside him. Everything he has done for his brothers, every passion he sacrificed, every humiliation he shouldered, just so they could see him as an equal. But no, there are only three Shelby brothers as far as anyone else is concerned, and Finn carries on as errand boy. He ignores all Ada's good advice, and swear that he will make his brothers proud of him one day. So, he puts on the thorn crown of a Peaky cap and wears the waistcoat and wool coat of his brother's likeness, and parades about Small Heath like he actually was apart of the makeshift royal family. Then Finn found Michael and Isaiah kissing in the alleyway. Even though Finn had made a point to announce that his brothers had started giving him more work, Isaiah still fucked off to the pub with Michael every night, devoting his time and attention to only him, and Finn couldn't understand why. Now he did. If Finn had been violent like Arthur, he certainly wouldn't have thought twice about taking the cup on his curls and cutting the smirk off of his cousin. He had stolen his brothers' respect, his surrogate mother's attention, his place in the business, the affections of the one boy Finn had ever loved. He had stolen Finn's everything, and Finn hated him. They both froze and stuttered. Excuses about just being friends, just experimenting, but he saw the way they held each others shaking hands just as he and Isaiah used to hold onto each other as they raced through the streets. "I'm glad you're together." He shocked them both with a forced smile. "You both deserve to be happy." The two were kinder to him after that, almost back to the old friendship he had missed, and Finn knew he didn't hate Michael. Or Isaiah. Or any of his family, really. No, Finn hated himself.

#finn shelby #finn shelby fanfic #finn shelby fanfiction #polly gray #john shelby #tommy shelby #ada shelby #ada thorne #Freddie thorne #Isaiah jesus #michael gray #charlie strong #finn shelby x isaiah jesus #finn x isaiah #michael gray x isaiah jesus #michael x isaiah #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders angst

[neptunetheplanet7]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 - 𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐫

DM ME IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE PUT ON THE TAGLIST!!

;mikasa ackerman x fem!lesbian!reader

;modern au, band au

word count: 2.0k

warnings: swearing, zeke

listen to the music masterlist

prev | next

Just as you were about to say something else to Mikasa, the doorbell rang, interrupting the moment. She let go of your hair and stood at her full height.

"Are you expecting anyone?" She asked.

"No, we're not." With confusion evident on your face, you got off the stool and lightly kicked it under the counter.

Your eyebrows knitted together as you made your way to the front door.

On the other side of the glass, you saw a blond bearded man struggling to hold around five suitcases. He noticed you reaching for the door handle and grinned widely.

"Surprise!" He shouted and dropped his luggage on the marble floor when the door was fully opened. He raised his arms and tried to hug you. Scowling, you evaded his embrace.

"Zeke, what the hell are you doing here?" Your grip on the door tightened with every word.

Zeke frowned. "Do I need a reason to visit my sister?"

You rolled your eyes. "I'm not your sister. And typically, yes, you would."

"Okay, well, you're like my sister." He paused to adjust his glasses. "Have you forgotten? Eren's twenty-second is coming up. There's so much to do!" His excited facade was transparent to you.

"You didn't care about his twenty-first. Or his twentieth, for that matter. What's the sudden interest in your brother's life?" You raised an eyebrow as he visibly grew nervous.

"Well, you see, uh-" He twiddled his thumbs and your eyes narrowed. "Here's the thing-"

"Spit it out, Zeke." Mikasa cut him off when she rounded the corner. She crossed her arms as she leaned against the staircase railing.

"Mikasa! I didn't know you were back!" Zeke made rapid hand gestures toward her, eager to change the subject.

"I didn't know you were back, either. At least I gave a warning," she uttered, earning an incredulous look from the blond.

"Zeke, why are you here?" you continued.

His eyes briefly shifted to a houseplant before training back on you. "What if I told you I'm not allowed in the state of Nebraska?" He gave you a meek smile and your jaw dropped.

Mikasa snorted. "What the hell did you do in Nebraska?"

"Nothing!" he assured. "It's just that I may or may not be several million dollars in debt and on the run from the police." He looked down at his muddy boots in shame.

"You're WHAT?" You gaped at him. You'd known Zeke long enough to have it figured out that he brought trouble wherever he went but he was usually careful enough not to get banned from a state.

"It's not as bad as you think! I just got into a little quarrel with some guys. Everything is fine. Just let me stay here for a while," he said sheepishly.

"I am not letting a fugitive stay in my home!" you exclaimed.

"I'm not a fugitive! There's no need to use terms like that!"

"You're banned from Nebraska! I'll call you whatever I want!"

"What's all the commotion about?" Eren was walking down the stairs when he saw his older brother at the door. His mouth dropped open and he gripped the railing beside him. "Zeke?!"

"Why didn't you tell me your brother was in town?" You glared up at him.

"Because I didn't know!" He started to flail his arms around while simultaneously trying to make sense of the situation.

"Hey, little brother. Can I sleep in your room?"

"No!"

"Zeke's not allowed in Nebraska," Mikasa informed.

"What?!" Eren clutched the railing with one hand and his head with the other whilst continuing his descent down the stairs. "What even is Nebraska?" he mumbled with wide eyes.

"Doesn't matter. I wanna know how he managed to be banned from it." You glowered at the man in front of you.

"Y/n, will you please let me inside? It's cold even in March, you know." Zeke pleaded and pretended to shiver.

You glanced back at Eren for a sign of his approval. The house was yours, but Zeke was his brother. It wasn't like this was the first time he needed to stay over, anyway. Unlike mere seconds before, he now held a serious expression. He nodded at you and beckoned for Zeke to follow him.

He heaved a relieved sigh and nearly tackled you with a hug. "Thank you so much, Y/n! You won't regret this, I promise."

It felt like your bones were being crushed by his weight as your face was pushed up against his jacket. He reeked of an old car. "Okay, get off me, old man!" Your voice was muffled as you tried to push him away. He backed up and brushed your shoulders off before grabbing his luggage and disappeared into the basement with his younger brother.

You sighed heavily and plopped down on the stairs. "He got mud all over my floors. I just cleaned them too." Your head fell into your hands as you stressed over Zeke's sudden arrival. As if there wasn't enough on your plate already.

Mikasa laughed quietly as she draped an arm around your shoulders and sat down beside you. The sudden contact made your ears burn red. "Any particular reason for cleaning?" she hinted teasingly.

You lifted your head as you apprehensively stammered out a poor explanation.

She laughed at you again and you couldn't help but wonder if it's always been that easy to make her laugh. You thought about it for a moment and concluded to yourself that it didn't matter what made her laugh, as long as you got to hear it.

A dreamy smile spread across your face as you watched how her newly short hair fell in front of her eyes when she laughed like that.

It seemed she noticed your thoughtful gaze because she tucked the hair behind her ear and peered down at you. "What are you looking at?" she whispered.

"You."

The sound of footsteps resounded from the stairs behind you. "Woah, I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Jean smirked when he saw how close you and Mikasa were. He parted the two of you by removing Mikasa's arm so he could walk in between.

Your face grew red when you realized what you had said to her and it grew even redder when you noticed Mikasa had a similar amount of color dusting her cheeks.

"Heads up, I'm going to Marco's right now so if anyone asks that's where I'll be." He corrected the slight wrinkles in his new shirt and grabbed his keys from the key-hook.

Mikasa was quick to add to his words. "It's nice to see you and Marco are still going strong. I'm happy for you, Jean, really." She smiled up at him honestly.

Jean's tinted cheeks gave away his embarrassment. "Oh, thanks. Uh, I'm also really happy for, um, whatever you guys have going on." He grinned but quickly covered his mouth when he saw a look of distress flash across your face. "Uh, sorry, I have to go now. See you guys later." He mumbled another apology and turned sharply on his heel to make a mad dash at the front door.

Mikasa chuckled and shook her head. "He can be such a dork sometimes," she said when the door closed behind him.

"That's true," you admitted softly. You were a little displeased that she kept her arm in her lap instead of wrapping it around you again now that Jean had vanished.

"I take it Zeke's kept up with his habits since I've been gone?" she assumed.

An exasperated sigh left your lips. "He shows up at least once or twice a year wanting to stay. He always owes somebody money but, as far as I know, this is the first time he's been permanently banned from a state. I don't love letting criminals in my household but you know how Eren gets."

"I see. I do remember how angry he'd get with us when we wanted Zeke to leave," she recalled dejectedly.

"I just wish he wouldn't get his hopes up every time he asks to stay." You frowned and tapped your fingers against the wooden stair you sat on.

"I hope he can stay long enough for Eren's twenty-second. It'd be nice if he could spend his birthday with him."

"That can be arranged." You ran a shaky hand through your hair. "Will you be okay at a party for him?" you inquired timidly. Considering what happened the last time she was at a party, you felt the need to know if she'd be alright with going since Eren's birthday was rapidly approaching.

Mikasa was surprised by the question. "Of course I will be. Y/n, you know I'm over what happened. You don't have to worry about what I think. It's cute you care, though." She squeezed your shoulder gently and gave you a reassuring smile.

Before you could respond, she stood from her position next to you and started up the stairs. "I'm gonna get changed. I'll see you later."

When she was out of your sight, you gave a final weighted sigh. You had to figure out what you were going to do with Zeke. The feelings that came with Mikasa being home already clouded your mind, not to mention the stress of Hitch on your ass as well.

For Eren's sake, Zeke should stay for a little bit. Mikasa suggested he should leave once Eren's birthday passes and that made sense. However, that would mean he'd be living in your house for two weeks.

You groaned and leaned back. There was only one person who would know how to help. You spun around and scrambled up the creaky stairs.

Facing the office door, you opened it and watched Armin move hastily to turn off their monitor.

"What are you doing?" You raised an eyebrow and leaned on the doorframe.

"Important research." He swiveled the chair to face you and rested his arms in his lap.

"Yeah, right," you snickered. "Did you know Zeke is here?"

Armin nodded. "I overheard everything. It's not like you people are quiet."

"Okay, so what should I do about it?" Moving to sit on the couch, you placed your hands on the cushions under you.

They shrugged. "I don't know. What should you do about it?"

"Come on, Armin. I came in here because I need your help with this." You sent him a worried glance.

"Y/n, at the end of the day, this is your house. You decide who stays and who doesn't. If you want him here, let him stay. If you don't, kick him out."

He couldn't just ignore the obvious issue present. "But what about Eren?"

"What about him? Eren respects you more than he respects anyone else. He wouldn't want to do something if you weren't comfortable with it. The guy trusts you with his life." He spoke like the answer was so clear.

You pursed your lips and thought over what they said. "I don't want to hurt him, though."

He wore a compassionate smile. "None of us do, but the difference between us is that he would listen to you.  So, with that said, how long will you let Zeke stay?"

You looked down at your hands and thought back to your conversation with Mikasa and about the conversation you just had with the man across from you. "He can stay until Eren's birthday party. When that's passed, he'll have to leave."

When you looked up, you noticed Armin was still smiling at you. "I knew you'd make a good decision."

"I always do, don't I?" You joked.

He snorted and adjusted his chair to face his computer again. "You wouldn't be able to without me."

You feigned offense and stood up. "You're too cruel."

"Sure I am. Now leave my office, peasant. I'm busy." He waved you away with a dramatic flair of his hand.

You scoffed. "I bet you don't have actual work to do and you're just being a freak on the internet, like usual."

He flipped you off. "If you don't leave I'll have to use brute force."

"Whatever, whatever, Armeen, don't be harsh." You sauntered out of the office before he could scold you about the nickname.

posted: 8/31/21

neptunetheplanet7© 2021

no edits, reposts, or modification to my work by anyone other than me.

#aot fanfiction #band au #mikasa ackerman #mikasa x reader #mikasa x you #modern au #snk fanfiction #attack on titan

[m34gs]

Hi friend!!!

For the word thing--Grimmjow (ofc) Ichigo and...I thought of 'towel' and 'thunder' at the same time so you can pick whichever! :))))🧡💙

Hi there friend! Thanks for the ask :D (from this post) I like both those words, so I think I'll add a few headcannons for both! This will be a little long so I'll have the rest under the cut.

Headcannons for Grimmjow, Ichigo, and towel:

-Ok, so I don't know if you have siblings or not, but I do, and we definitely had to do the dishes more than once together. And if there was one thing consistent about when we had to do chores together, it was that we goofed off. This is what I imagine would happen also in the Kurosaki household. I don't think Ichigo and Karin would leave Yuzu to do all the dishes herself, especially when they were younger and she would have had a significantly harder time reaching the sink. So, they wash them together. And of course...one of them (usually Karin or Ichigo, though Yuzu has gotten them both her fair share of times) will take the drying towel (I hope you see where this is going) and roll it into a whip-like shape...and smack one of the other two with it. It ends up turning into a full-out war.

-Well, Grimmjow comes home with Ichigo one day after harassing him all day and bugging him for a fight. And Ichigo is pretending to ignore him, right up until Grimmjow follows him into the house. And then he can't because Yuzu saw Grimm (in a gigai, courtesy of Urahara) and she invited him to stay for dinner.

-After dinner, Grimmjow cleans up with Ichigo because he is being cautious. (he has no idea what power Yuzu wields but if it was powerful enough to make Ichigo agree to let him stay, he doesn't want to mess with her) And out of habit, maybe even because he's already that comfortable around Grimmjow, Ichigo, being the one drying the dishes, rolls the towel up, and without thinking at all (because when has he ever really thought things through, let's be real, this is Ichigo...) he smacks Grimmjow across the ass with it. Hard.

-This turns into a full-on fight in the kitchen. Dishes are broken. Food scraps go flying. The fridge has knives jutting out of it and the table has been smashed in half. They are both heavily scolded by Yuzu. And they sit in shame as she does the dishes they were supposed to do.

-Now Grimmjow is aware of this new form of weaponry, he kind of wants to try it out. They end up having another fight, for the sake of fighting, and Grimmjow enjoys it thoroughly. At the end of it all, they are both drenched in sweat and use towels to dry off. And Grimmjow looks at Ichigo while he's distracted...and he rolls his towel up the way Ichigo did and...SMACK. Across the back. Of course, Ichigo isn't going to let this slide, so he retaliates. And the rest of their time is spent chasing each other around Urahara's basement with rolled up towels, trying to smack each other until they drop.

-Now they have a rivalry whenever they both have towels. When Ichigo's other friends happen to join him and Grimmjow for dinner, Grimmjow and him end up doing dishes together so they can just attack each other in the kitchen while they wash. They've got it so that their movements are swift, efficient, and they are both aware constantly, trying to dodge or hit the other first. They don't break anymore plates. Someone walks in while they're in the middle of their fight, and promptly gets smacked across the face. It's Renji. (I'm sorry Renji! I know I make you get hit by things a lot!!!)

Headcannons for thunder:

-Grimmjow has lived in Hueco Mundo for most of his Hollow life. He doesn't have memories from when he was alive, all he knows is the endless silvery desert. He doesn't know what a thunder storm is. The first time he hears one, he thinks it's an enemy. He goes on alert. This makes Ichigo go on alert as well, because he figures Grimmjow sensed something. It takes them a long while to figure out that what he is reacting to is the storm.

-Grimmjow really doesn't like the thunder, even once he knows it's harmless. It makes his hair stand on end and makes his mind uneasy. So if he's in the human world during a storm, he will do one of two things: go back to Hueco Mundo until the storm is over, or find Ichigo and sit next to him, demanding physical contact without any explanation.

-Ichigo catches on to what Grimmjow is feeling after the third time he is aggressively snuggled by the arrancar during a storm. He knows now to bring out loud music or noise cancelling headphones (depends on the time of day/night) and just let Grimm cuddle him until the storm is over.

-Grimmjow would never admit to anyone that he is afraid of thunder, and Ichigo knows this. So when they are all hanging out in a big group and thunder starts, he sees the way Grimmjow tenses, but then forces himself to relax. And Ichigo doesn't like that. Not one bit. So he makes up some bullshit excuse to drag Grimmjow away, and they go to his house and just sit in his room together.

-Ichigo is very used to being a comforter for his younger sisters during storms as well, so it's no surprise when they pile into his room as well. Ichigo used to build them tents with pillows and blankets to hide in. They decide to do the same with Grimmjow now, and that is how Isshin walks into his son's room to see all three of his children snuggled firmly around an arrancar in a pillow fort in the middle of the floor, watching funny videos on Ichigo's computer.

There you go friend! Those are my headcannons. Hope you enjoy, and feel free to add anything if you want!

#asks #backwardshirt #responses #mutual #friends #grimmjow #ichigo #grimmichi #headcannons #towel #thunder #bleach #ask game #long post

[phantom-curve]

find the strength, find the melody pt. 5

this is still a working title. I just can’t decide if it fits or not, so feel free to offer any suggestions! once I finish this fic I’m going to go back and reblog it in it’s entirety and I promise I will finalize and update the title for all the reblogs to make it easier to find in the future. I’m probably also going to post the completed fic to AO3, possibly with some slight editing updates. I’ll add the link once that’s active.

also, I want you all to know that I almost missed a typo in this chapter that would have had Julie biting her nip instead of her lip so you’re welcome for that. 

also also, this chapter solidified my decision to write this fic from Luke’s perspective once I finish Julie’s. my god, the things happening in this boy’s head during this scene had me taking a bath and calling my husband for cuddles at 2pm. HE’S JUST TOO SOFT. Reggie and Alex will be more prominent in his story. their characters are so fun to write, but harder to work into Julie’s story until it’s closer to the end. 

to be fully honest, I’m not entirely happy with the cut-off on this chapter, but I felt like y'all deserved all 3,084 words after a 6 day hiatus so I had to pick a slightly more awkward end spot. hope it makes up for taking so long to update!

tag list (lmk if you want me to add you!): @blue-hat-girl, @lwhoscribbles, @bluefyoto94, @5sosmukefan, @moonlightxnder, @leahthewonder​, @kat-maybe-not​

Julie didn’t expect to see Luke the next day. When her alarm went off at 6:45 that morning, she woke up with a start, heart racing as memories of last night flooded back. She had been ready to defend herself and Luke to her father, but it had been business as usual in the Molina household. Her father had gotten up like normal and gone about his morning without any hiccups from a very cute, unexpected teenage boy showing up. Julie could hear him leaving for work now, calling up a loving goodbye to her in between shouts at Carlos to hurry his butt into the car. When she peeked out of her window at the studio it looked exactly the same as it always did, empty and still. For a moment, she was sure that she dreamed the entire thing.

Something felt different in her soul though. Realigned, like a part of her she didn’t realize was missing had finally made its way back home. Everything in her body felt lighter as she got dressed and floated down the stairs to grab her breakfast. She was riding high on cloud nine, humming actually humming! under her breath as she moved around the kitchen, when a loud rap at the back door startled her. Flynn would have just walked in so it couldn’t be her. Her dad, too, would have simply run inside if he had forgotten something. It wasn’t until she was already reaching for the door handle that she recognized the electricity sparking in the air. She opened the door to a now familiar pair of puppy dog eyes waiting on the other side.

“I thought I told you to leave by 6:30 so my dad wouldn’t see you.”

Julie tried to make her voice snappy, but it was so hard when he was standing there, bobbing and weaving in the early morning sunshine, eyes shining, lips curved into the sweetest smile. He took her words in stride. His smile stretched as his head dipped with a charming amount of bashfulness. She realized with a jolt that he had been doing that for days now, ever since she ran into him after her meeting with Ms. Harrison. Just rolling right through every punch she threw at him like it was nothing. Her walls slipped a little lower.

“I thought I could make you breakfast. You know, as a thank you for last night.”

Her brain short circuited. Luke Patterson...wanted to...make her breakfast? She had to turn the words over in her mind a few times before they began to make sense. Julie studied him for a moment, noticing that he seemed much more like his normal confident self this morning. Gone was the unsteady boy that had stood in her mom’s studio doorway last night. Still, one shoulder was hitched a little higher than the other, his fingers flexing against the backpack strap slung over it. His face was open and eager, but she could detect the hint of nervousness that he was trying to cover up. She caught a faint whiff of jasmine as a slight breeze blew past them and immediately zeroed in on the damp wisps of hair curling around his neck. The thought of Luke in her shower, using her soap was almost her undoing. Desperately trying to get a hold on the situation, she leaned against the open doorway, crossing her arms across her chest in what she hoped was a nonchalant movement.

“I thought we were going to pretend last night didn’t happen.”

His smile faltered a little bit, his free hand flying up to scratch at the back of his neck. His bouncing shifted to rocking, and Julie felt the change in his demeanor like a punch to her gut.

“Yeah...okay...I mean if that’s what you want. I’ll uh, see you around, Molina.”

His voice lacked its typical singsong quality, rejection flattening the lilt she had become accustomed to. Pain bloomed in Julie’s chest, familiar and foreign all at the same time. It wasn’t like the pain she was used to, wasn’t connected to her mom or her music. This pain was all about Luke and the fact that she had just hurt him for no reason at all. Shame rolled through her stomach in a nauseous wave. Luke was already adjusting the bag higher on his shoulder, turning away from her, body language all but screaming “leave me alone”. It didn’t stop her from reaching out and laying a hand against his shoulder.

“Luke.”

His name was a plea and an apology rolled into one. She felt the ripple of his muscles as his body reacted to it, dropping her hand only when he turned to face her. Their eyes caught, the air sparking between them.

“What were you going to make?”

His brow furrowed in confusion, his eyes never leaving hers. She knew she had to do better, but God, it was hard to face your feelings after bottling them up for so long.

“For breakfast. I usually just grab a Pop-Tart to eat on my walk to school. Do you actually cook every morning?”

Luke was still staring. Julie bit her lip, the tail end of a nervous giggle that she couldn’t quite suppress all the way slipping out. The sound seemed to jolt him out of whatever trance he was in. In two seconds, he was back to bouncing on the balls of his feet, arms loose at his sides once more.

“Yeah, I do.”

The shy smile on his lips did something to Julie’s insides that she wasn’t willing to investigate just yet.

“Usually eggs, but sometimes waffles or pancakes on the weekends. Bacon if the boys are coming over. It’s the most important meal of the day, ya know.”

His eyes were bright again, practically glowing like they usually did when he started talking about something he was passionate about. Julie had only ever seen him like this when he was going off on another music related rant in class. Who knew breakfast foods could be so inspiring?

“Well, that sounds a lot better than strawberry Pop-Tarts.”

She turned, leaving the door open as she started to walk back towards the kitchen. She could hear Luke hesitate in the doorway, but all it took was one look over her shoulder and he was rushing in after her, quietly closing the door in his wake. They walked to the kitchen in silence, Julie trying to figure out what the hell was happening in her head and heart the entire time.

The instant Luke entered the kitchen it was like she was seeing a completely different side of him. He was quick and sure with all of his movements, taking only a few minutes to find everything he needed without even asking her for guidance. The muscles of his forearm rippled as he whisked the eggs together, the flick of his wrist just as mesmerizing now as when he played guitar. His confidence on stage had always been awe-inspiring, the way he moved and the energy he gave off undeniably cool and sure, never an ounce of doubt that he was anything other than amazing. It was a way for him to prove he was the best of the best, show that he had fully earned the title of “Rockstar”.

This moment in her sunny kitchen showed a quieter confidence. Nothing flashy or showy, just Luke doing something he clearly enjoyed for no other reason than the fact that he liked it. The rock god attitude had always been surface-level hot, sure, but this kind of domestic comfortability was an entirely new level of attractive. Julie felt her mouth go dry, the tips of her ears growing warm the longer she watched him. He hummed under his breath, the sound reverberating in her soul and sending little shivers up and down her spine. It wasn’t until he was sliding a plate of steaming scrambled eggs and toast in front of her that she finally recognized the melody. Her breath caught and he met her eyes with a gentle expression.

“I told you already, it’s an incredible song.”

He grabbed his own plate and lowered himself into the chair next to hers at the bar. He immediately began shoveling eggs in his mouth. Julie took a few bites of her own food, pleasantly surprised at how good it was. Then an ugly thought took over her brain. She dropped her fork, turning to stare at Luke with a dark intensity she couldn’t control.

“Did you...did you play my mom’s song?”

She couldn’t keep the betrayal out of her voice. It echoed in the room, low and hollow, like the sound of tomb closing. Luke’s own fork fell with a clatter.

“Julie, no.”

His voice was just as desperate, filled with pain and apology.

“I swear to you, no. I wouldn’t do that. I knew what it was as soon as I found it. I couldn’t hurt you like that. I never even showed it to Reggie or Alex.”

She believed him. The look on his face, the tone of his voice, proved to her that he wasn’t lying. Then, his cheeks turned a very light pink.

“I just...sometimes...I would read it. Not around the guys.”

He was quick to add that part in there, like he was assuring her he could protect the things that were important to her. Like he was promising to protect her. She could tell he was a little uncomfortable with the revelation, but he pushed through anyway.

“Just like...at night before bed...or when I was stuck on a song and needed some inspiration.”

His eyes rose to meet hers, some tender emotion she couldn’t identify lurking in their oceanic depths.

“I meant it when I said you’re an incredible songwriter. Sometimes...”

His cheeks darkened, ears flaming red to match.

“Sometimes...it was almost like I could hear you playing it.”

The last part was said so quietly she almost missed it. She felt her face go slack. Who was this guy and what had he done with the normal, cocky Lucas Patterson? The gentleness of his words, the way his eyes were drilling into hers like he could see all the way down to the depths of her soul, had her blinking against the sudden emotion clogging her throat.

“Last night was the first time I ever played it.”

The confession sprung from her lips without second thought. She had to do something, anything to break whatever tension seemed to be thickening between them with each passing second. Luke tilted his head, another warm smile gracing his lips.

“You were even more amazing than I could have ever dreamed. You’re like a human wrecking ball, Julie. It’s insane how talented you are.”

So much for breaking the tension. Julie sucked in a breath, her heart stuttering in her chest. It was only then that she realized how close their bodies had become, each one leaning farther into the other as their conversation went on. There were only inches between them now, Luke’s lyrical voice curling into her ear with a delicious intimacy she couldn’t help but crave. If she got any closer to him their foreheads would touch, their nose would brush, their lips would...

And just like that she was on the ground, her backside stinging from slamming into the hardwood so abruptly. Luke blinked down at her, eyes still swimming with that damnable affection, but also tinged with confusion. In her desperate attempt to bail, she must have leaned too far back, falling off the barstool before she could even realize what would happen. She shook her head to clear the spell Luke had been spinning before looking past him to the clock on the oven.

“We should probably leave for school now unless we want to be late.”

She ignored the breathy way her voice came out, pushing herself to a standing position. Without making eye contact, she wove her way around Luke. He was like a block of ice in his chair, still poised to lean into her completely. She scooped up their half-eaten breakfasts, plopping them loudly into the sink before slipping her arms through her backpack straps. Nowhere left to hide, she turned back towards the brunette boy.

He stared at her for a long moment, the hot frustration in his gaze burning through her and making her want to squirm. For a second, she thought he was going to push it, but then his eyes closed for what felt like an eternity. When they opened again, he seemed resigned. She could detect just a hint of his previous fiery intensity, the rest of it shrouded behind an almost forlorn veil of acceptance.

“If that’s what you want.”

There was a deeper meaning to his words that Julie wasn’t prepared for. Her breathing faltered, the silence between them heavy with the things he was leaving unsaid. She almost gave in. Almost asked him just what, exactly, he wanted right now. But she didn’t need to ask him because she could read it plain on his face. It terrified her. And Julie had become an expert at avoiding things that scared her in this past year. So, instead, she gave him a tight nod and zipped out the front door to wait for him outside.

In the clear sunshine of another beautiful LA day, she was finally able to breathe again. Out here, away from the thick tension of the kitchen, it was easier to tell herself Luke was just being nice. Easier to pretend their little moment inside was just some friendly banter. Easier to ignore the implications of Luke’s serious words and caring tone. She gulped in deep breaths, willing her head and heart to cool down. She heard the click of the door latching shut behind her, turned to see Luke standing there, a small pout on his lips, face entirely unrepentant. Good lord she was in trouble.Then a realization hit. She clung to it, desperately hoping it would get them back on a more neutral page, pull them out of whatever had been simmering between them all morning.

“Where’s your car? I know you didn’t drive over here last night.”

Luke’s face changed immediately, chagrin taking over every feature. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he shoved his hands in the front of his jeans.

“I uh...I only live a few houses away from you...”

Now it was Julie’s turn to gape like a fish. Luke Patterson was her neighbor? Since when?

“My parents...we moved to the neighborhood a couple years ago. I...uhm well...”

His hand rose again to scratch at his neck, and she had never wanted to grab at him more than in this moment. That movement was slowly beginning to drive her crazy. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and blurted it out in one garbled sentence.

“Iusedtohidearoundthecornerandlistentoyouandyourmomplayinthestudiopleasedon’thateme.”

Julie was so stunned she nearly tumbled off the top step as she staggered backwards. Only Luke’s quick reflexes saved her from falling flat on her back for the second time that morning. His eyes darted around her face, clearly trying to figure out if she was about to lose it on him or not. Julie struggled to process the info dump she had gotten from Luke in the last couple of days. All of her preconceived notions were slowly being proven wrong and she wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with that. Life was easier when Luke was just another selfish, swaggering upperclassman. How long had she been in his orbit? Years it sounded like. The realization was staggering.

“You...you listened to us play? Why?”

Luke still had his hands wrapped around her wrists. Julie couldn’t find it in her to break the connection. Her voice came out more broken than she intended, memories of sunlit days singing with her mom invading her mind. Luke remembered those days too?

“Haven’t you been listening?”

His voice was strained, his eyes boring into hers like he was trying to telepathically force her to understand. His fingers flexed against her skin, the movement causing a flurry of butterflies to erupt in her stomach.

“You’re a star, Julie Molina. I couldn’t help getting sucked into your orbit.”

Julie felt her eyelids flutter, her chest squeezing like it was going to burst from the rapid inhale/exhale she couldn’t seem to calm. He said her name like a prayer, his lips turning it into something holy and sacred. She was drowning in Luke’s gaze, a riot of emotions swirling around in her brain. Somehow, because he was Luke and apparently he knew her better than she ever expected him to, he could tell that his declaration had gone a little too far. Easing back, he released his hold and rocked away from her just a bit to give her the space she so desperately needed. His eyes were still impossibly soft, bordering on adoration as he watched her come to terms with his bold announcement. Finally, once Julie was pretty sure she had come back down to Earth, he jogged down the front steps.

“We can still drive if you want to, but I think it’s a pretty nice morning for a walk if you’re up for it.”

“Okay.”

It felt like the smallest possible acceptance she could offer him, but the way Luke lit up in response made her want to melt. Head still swimming, she made her way down the steps on shaky baby deer legs. Luke didn’t push, just fell in step with her as easy as pie. Every once in a while, his fingers would brush against her hand, and it took every scrap of will power to keep herself from just reaching out and linking their hands together.

They passed a house bursting with flowers out front. Julie’s eyes caught on an explosion of bright red in the corner of the yard. Dahlias. Her mother’s favorite. It felt like a sign, and another part of Julie’s soul slipped quietly back into place. The next time Luke’s hand knocked against hers she shyly allowed their fingers to tangle. She didn’t need to look to see the smile break out on his face. She could feel the warmth of it filling the air around her like her own personal sun. He squeezed just once. Just enough to acknowledge the move for what it was. She didn’t let go until the school appeared in the distance.

#y'all know the EXACT pout face I'm referencing in this one #also i love working show dialogue into fic dialogue #also also soft boy Luke is going to be THE DEATH OF ME #FUCKING KILL ME WITH YOUR SOFTNESS LUCAS I AM READY #Mads writes #Mads speaks #bless these babies for giving me less angst and more fluff this time #julie and the phantoms #jatp #juke #julie x luke #luke x julie #palina #julie molina #luke patterson #juke fanfic #jatp fanfic #find the strength find the melody

[tosikoarts]

SFW Alphabet | Koito Otonoshin

WAP reference? In my SFW alphabet? More likely than you think. You can check tosikowrites tag for more. Warning: there’s a lot under the cut.

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

First of all, everybody in the radius of two kilometers knows that Koito has fallen in love. He isn’t loud about it but it is written all over his smug face 24/7: when he starts daydreaming about them (which he does a lot), faint blush covers swarthy cheeks and his eyes fixate at the farthest point on the horizon. Tsukishima has to call three times before the Second Lieutenant finally notices his presence.

Okay, maybe, he is a little louder than was previously stated. Koito hasn’t had a lot of love experience so for him it is a bumpy road of trials and errors. Considering his behavior in front of First Lieutenant Tsurumi, easy to imagine how he awkwardly stutters in the crush’s presence, switching between native Satsuma dialect and classical Japanese. As they grow closer, nervousness dies down, and Koito finally talks like normal people do! Oh, he is such a show-off. However, he is a sweetheart as well so his talk comes across as a nice kid trying to be overly cool. Makes tons of compliments but can’t take any himself. No, he does. No, he doesn’t. Koito is a mess that thinks about small compliments for weeks. You say he looks nice with hair parted down the middle and this young man never goes back to his previous haircut.

It is serious when Koito starts rapturously venting to Tsukishima about them. At first, Otonoshin starts asking subtle questions not to seem too inexperienced. Then he asks for advice on how to dress, what to give as a present, how to act in general. If there are any problems in the relationship, Koito will 100% craw to his Sergeant for help.

One of the first and generally the main way of affection for Koito is giving pricy presents. Even when he is trying not to flex on wealth, it comes across as disguised bragging. Gifts given are always unique and of quality, so there is no reason to be indignant.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

His best friend has to be either someone from childhood or the Imperial Japanese Army Academy. Koito won’t befriend anyone in the actual military (except one exhausted Sergeant) since he has a fear of becoming a career trampoline.

Koito squanders the money on entertainment with no remorse and no shame. If he gets a new Western-style suit, his best friend will receive one in the mail too. On nights out Koito generously pays for the food and drinks, saying that they will pay next time but the next time never actually comes. There is some money in his bank account, why not spend it?

His best friend automatically becomes a part of his family and friend of Tsukishima. Koito doesn’t ask, he confidently states it. If they for some reason do not want to be close with the listed contingent, Koito faces cognitive dissonance and, notwithstanding, tries to improve relations between them.

Koito is not a stranger to gossiping and petty drama. He doesn’t get involved ever since his family has a status to maintain, but he knows what skeletons are hidden in the neighbors’ bedroom closet. His best friend hears the phrase “You won’t believe what I know” more often than “First Lieutenant is so amazing”. By the way, yes, Koito is still that fangirl and they have to deal with it.

Eh, you can’t rely on him in troubles, though. He will unapologetically push the blame on another person to stay an innocent good boy that was accidentally dragged in the mess, but he will make amends after the noise dies down.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

He is so touchy-touchy-lovey-dowey, oh my god, just like you would expect from a touched-starved young man. Koito has no problems with PDA, he enjoys gazes fixed on him, so it is not uncommon to see him with the partner on the lap. Tsukishima learned to turn a blind eye and do some extra work to give the Second Lieutenant more time with his loved one. Koito prefers spooning to any other position so he can press them against his chest and fall asleep in their warmth. Sweetheart cradle is the second-best option but, honestly, Koito is down to anything that includes any of his limbs resting on their body.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Too young (especially in the mental sphere) to think about settling down. He is 20 years old or something, right? Koito doesn’t even know what he wants, what his principles are, what his life guidelines are, so no, there’s no way he thinks about settling down any time soon. Perhaps in 3-5-10 years, after his father knocks some sense into the guy, Koito will come to the conclusion that it's time for a new chapter in his life but definitely not now. Oh, also, he is useless in the household. He can’t cook, he can’t clean (and he can’t tell how he got this ring).

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

That doesn’t go well at all. Pangs of conscience do not give him the chance to pretend and delay the moment for too long but Koito can’t just say “yeah, that’s it” and walk away as nothing happened either. He chooses the most feckless option – cruelly distancing himself and making them lose interest in the relationship. Once the decision is made, there’s no going back. Koito's interest in his military career rises significantly and, suddenly, he is always busy disciplining juniors, taking additional trips wherever First Lieutenant sends him, surprising everybody with an overwhelming passion for small arms… Yeah, I’d say that boy sus.

If the time spent apart doesn’t kill their fire, Koito will go full mean mode and start acting like a literal jerk. It’s small comments that hurt the most: he finds them too loud or too quiet, too touchy or too cold, yadda yadda. Unreasonable ostentatious attacks of jealousy? Hell yes. His goal is to get on their nerves even if it means still small voice will whisper what a terrible person he is. Regrets the childish behavior months later but won’t admit it no matter what. Fights the desire to crawl back to them for a year or so.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

It's too early to talk about it. Again, he is standing on the doorstep of real-life and significant changes like getting married and starting a family are not even close to his vision of the future. Koito hesitates much and overthinks more so there is no point in waiting for a proposal in the first two years of a relationship. There are vulnerable moments when he doubts his own suitability for marriage. They may lead either to deep conversations with psychological aspects (remember the gnawing feeling of being a family failure?) or to abrupt distancing but in both cases, Koito pulls himself together and remembers: if such an amazing person chose him among another than he must be special.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

One of the few soldiers who were left damaged but not broken, so gentleness does not just smolder, but burns in Koito's heart. When it comes to being gentle, he is a physical manifestation of fondness: it beams from his eyes, radiates from his touch, and hides in his choice of the words. Someone may find it inconsistent, but brutality outside the battlefield, in any type of relationship, seems unnecessary to him as well. In a physical sense, Koito is quite remarkable in his raring, so his actions can come off a little sloppy, rushed, and aggressive.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Exciting hugs! Koito trembles from the top of his head to the tips of the toes when he gets a chance to hug his loved one even if it is the tenth time this day. Most often, he starts with a fast welcome kiss on the cheek before pulling them into the tight embrace: it is heartwarming but never the same, which makes a person wanting to come back for another dose of unconditional love. Koito is down to hug at any time of the day, of the week, of the month and, honestly, he sees it as one of the most gentle and innocent expressions of affection.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

Blurts it out by accident after half of a year of stale dating. The delightful feeling of sentiment overwhelmed him to the point of blinding adoration so Koito couldn’t stop himself from an unexpected confession. With head resting on his hands and cheek muscles twitching from the continuous wide silly smiling, Koito just blurted out what came to his mind at the moment, realizing what that was a few seconds later. To avoid embarrassment at all costs, he played dumb even though everything was written on his face in bright red color. Whatever. Conscious confession isn’t that easy. He is full of love but translating it in an understandable voiced statement is freaking work.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Whether he is a witness to his loved one being a flirt or his loved being hit on, Koito is l i v i d. In the first case scenario, his ego is hurt so badly, he storms from the room to avoid throwing a tantrum right there on the spot. Any attempts to speak with him after what happened result in loud indisputable “don’t touch me” and silent treatment for a good week or so. The mere thought of being replaceable terrifies poor Koito, it forces him into unhealthy coping like acting demonstratively independent and detached to show them he can do it solo. We’ll pretend it is not a desperate tactic to punish them, ok ok. When his love is being hit on, Koito does not even assess the situation. He rushes to the partner to save the day, steps between them and another person, laughs it off, and asks his rival if there’s any problem. Usually, confrontation is pretty effective against unwelcome suitors. Thank god, because Koito wouldn’t want to get physical anyway.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Awwww, have you ever imagined yourself as a teacher? Too bad because as much as passionate he is, Koito is hopeless. Literally. Lack of experience affects his (non-existing) technique. Couldn’t figure out he had to open his lips for a French kiss, leave alone any abstruse tricks, and knowledge of more sensitive spots to pay attention to. All preferences in the form of instructions have to be said aloud: Koito may act like he doesn’t need them, he is so cool and mature, and only losers need to be guided, but in reality, the opposite is true. Thanks to the above-mentioned features, his favorite kisses vary from pecks on the cheek to thigh and hand kisses but they never include kisses on the lips. If the partner is the same height or taller, he prefers to be kissed on the temple and top of his head. In other cases, doesn’t have any preferences.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

There are times when you have to do what you have absolutely no idea how to do, and it perfectly describes Koito’s relationships with kids. Somehow, they are on the same level but at different poles: he would rather cry because of how annoying capricious baby is than find any way to calm them down. Changing a dirty diaper is a challenge like no other, and going to the continent for a little girl protected by the company of bloodthirsty, armed to the teeth veterans sounds a lot easier (and not so disgusting) than babysitting a single baby. Older children are fine if they know how to keep themselves occupied and out of the sight. On his watch, there is always a small chance that the house will catch fire or the most active child will break their arm. Requires obligatory supervision of a more experienced babysitter.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

No one is leaving the bed in the morning. Sleeping in is inevitable. Do not plan anything for the first part of the day because if Koito chooses to devote the weekends to the lovely company of his partner that means he will squeeze every single second spent together out of it. It doesn’t matter what they do in the bed, like cuddling, talking, doing something spicy (youtube censorship much?) as long as they remain under a warm blanket. Koito giggles a lot catching their soft gaze on his lips, tickles them when silence falls. If the couple stays in the family house, servants are ordered to prepare the tastiest breakfast with gourmet chai tea as well as to find possible entertainment for the day.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

The end of the day is the last opportunity to let off steam before getting into a slower pace, and, finally, going to bed. To no surprise, Koito prefers activities aimed at the work of muscles and not of brains. Nothing too extreme though. Horseback riding is a common pastime if they are not in the mood for anything else. In other cases, Koito offers to play cricket in the summertime and go ice-skating in winter but his all-time favorite is swimming in sun-warmed waters of a crystal clear river. Despite the cold underwater currents winding around the ankles, Koito can swim in circles for hours without letting his loved one go ashore. If they are up for a challenge, competitions for who can hold their breath longer and swim to the other side faster are always a choice.  

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

As soon as they let Koito know that they are interested (doesn’t matter in him personally or in him speaking), the dam breaks. He is ready to talk about anything, from how the day was to the meaning of life, the role of the monarchy in the future of Japan, and what influence Heinojou’s death had on him. So to say, Koito sees no problem in opening up early in the relationship. There are no forbidden topics in his mind except, maybe, what is so below the beltline: starting any intimate conversation reduces Koito to a red stammering (in Satsuma dialect of course) mess. It gets better with time.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Chill enough? Not in the Tsukishima’s sense of “I have seen too much shit in my life so I am no longer surprised by anything and I expect nothing as well” but in a cheery and optimistic outlook. If he breaks a plate or cup, it is a reason to buy a new one, not to throw a tantrum on how Japan no longer makes quality dishes. How boring life would be without nuisances, huh? However, Koito immediately blows off when it comes to serious matters like life-threatening situations. Overall? Absolute ray of sunshine, anger is unnecessary, keep calm and take it easy.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Remembers nothing but anniversaries’ dates. Seriously. Don’t expect Koito to compliment your eyes’ color, he doesn’t remember it. Favorite food or place? Did you mention them at all? Hm. Blame it on the charm of the moment that hypnotized Koito and sent him into oblivion. He doesn't bother himself with writing down any facts and details and is visibly surprised if the partner expresses frustration with his forgetfulness.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

Perhaps it will be a surprise but the most memorable moment for Koito would be doing “bad stuff” together. As for a person, who has not yet emerged from cheerful adolescence, drinking, smoking cigarettes, and, who would have thought, opium together leaves a weird feeling of agitation and gaiety. Hiding with the partner in crime, bottle covered under the lieutenant's coat as if he is some kind of thief, is something Koito won’t ever get used to. He drinks and mumbles gibberish then pulls his loved one closer for some sloppy smooches that never work out: someone keeps missing lips and laughing like a goofball after every failure.

Smoking opium, which happened exactly one time, was the complete opposite of previous experience. They ended up in semi-darkness in a distant room with artfully painted paraphernalia and one carved pipe that was passed back and forth for the whole night. An intoxicating sense of calm and emptiness hit Koito in the head as he was watching his loved one fusing with the thin lilac smoke: a situation they were in was too bizarre to be real but magical too so he had no right to complain. Memories of that night stayed with him for the whole life but Koito never had a desire to go for a smoke again.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

For the sake of justice, Koito has a protective side, but the carefree character often overshadows it. He meets dangerous situations in conditions where one large group of opponents confront another so everyone covers each other's back. When Koito has to fight one on one he can fully rely on the own strength and reactions but when there is someone to protect things get messy really fast.

Koito is ready to cover them with his body to save from a whistling bullet but this thought comes from a place of “I can’t come up with a plan what do I do what do I do” and not from rational thinking or self-devotion in the name of love. Nah, boy just no thoughts, head empty but HEART FULL.

Would want to be protected as well? He has no problem being viewed as one who needs help. Won’t want them to act recklessly though, exchanging their life for his isn’t fair a bit.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Youthful maximalism and all-encompassing love push Koito to new feats every day: he racks his head over which place to choose for a date, should he buy them expensive things or no because what if they look at him as at tasteless braggart, maybe, he should have not brought a bouquet today, maybe, he is too annoying… At the beginning of the relationship, he is excessively enthusiastic and scarred to mess everything at the same time. Often this mixture leads to an awkward situation but with some guidance, Koito calms down and begins to feel a partner on an intuitive level. Anniversaries will still be celebrated on a grand scale though. He has literally no chill when told to make that one day special. Lacks consistency when it comes to everyday tasks: either puts all of his effort in building a stool or does nothing the whole day.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

The bloated ego doesn’t seem a big problem at first but it keeps popping up now and then in the conversation and overall behavior. Again, it is not even close to megalomaniac extend but can be pretty annoying when Koito keeps putting himself in every story and boasting with every minor achievement.

Not the most independent, kinda clingy guy that needs somebody that he can always rely on. We have already seen Tsukishima's fate and this is what awaits for the person who decides to tie the knot with him.

LOUD. SO LOUD. DEAFENING! If you think Koito would lower the voice down or, for the frick’s sake, stop screeching but no! Excited? Yell! Scarred? Yell! Surprised? Yell! I can see him screaming louder than his newborn baby shocking midwives in the maternity hospital. Pray to God that it is not inherited.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Not to call him obsessed, but Koito takes good care of himself and tries to be attractive in the eyes of others. He may spend a little bit too much time staring in the mirror during the mourning routine, brushing hair locks just the exact way he wants them to be. Several creams are lying in the drawer of his nightstand and Koito replenishes its stock with enviable regularity. Of course, he looks sharp: when circumstances do not oblige Second Lieutenant to strict dress code, he pulls off well-tailored looks, both traditional Japanese and Westernized ones. Just imagine him dressed to kill, wearing an all-leather long car coat with skintight gloves. Koito is too powerful in his handsomeness.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Has zero knowledge of how to handle break-up and that pretty much describes what a hell ride it will be for Koito. Obviously, the violent reaction is accompanied by complete confusion, he is at a loss for words and can’t find the right ones even in the Satsuma dialect. Well, if he had a gut feeling that they are planning on leaving later or sooner, Koito would lash out at them in the worst way possible: every wrongdoing suddenly transforms into hidden signs confirming that he was not loved at all, never ever. He makes a loud scene with eyes brimming, screams whatever nonsense comes to mind to stop them from speaking further. No explanation can overpower his growing resentment. If break-up comes up out of a blue, Koito remains silent, listening to whatever they have to say. None of the words makes any sense to him and there is nothing he can tell or ask. Nothing makes sense. He sighs while rubbing his temples, eyes shut tight to separate from the world as much as possible, and turn down the white noise coming out of their mouth. Koito leaves without saying a word with a plan to avoid them in the next few weeks.

In the case of their death, Koito is in no hurry at breakneck speed to take revenge but that definitely doesn’t mean he is indifferent. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and even such a hothead as angered Koito is can wait for a better moment to strike.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Since Koito joined the army, celebrations turned from long-awaited days into in minor verbal congratulations aaaand that’s all. The atmosphere is just not the same. In the beginning, he tried to keep head up but general disinterest killed his vibes and left him bitter.

The only person who does not mind supporting the Second Lieutenant is Tsukishima: he gladly watches Koito happily screaming as he launches a colorful kite into the air, joins playing hanetsuki and sugoroku on Japanese New Year, once he even gave Koito pochibukuro as a joke. Otonoshin was merry and embarrassed at the same time since, you know, pochibukuro is given to kids, not adult men who shoot people for a living.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Mysterious silent people aren’t the company Koito can tolerate. He hadn’t had a good experience with Ogata back in the 7th Division and doesn’t see himself with anyone hiding behind a duplicitous smile.

Scolding Koito for his frivolity won’t do anything good, quite the contrary, it will force him into acting withdrawn in their presence. Attempts to change Koito are pointless since action generates opposition: the more he is told to be a serious man, the more infantile he will become.

By the way, it is important for Koito to see a class in his surrounding. He himself carries an elusive aesthetic so lack of taste and sense of beauty is a bummer. Good thing they can be acquired just like other skills.

Comparison. Do not compare Koito to anyone, ever. His father probably did it a lot back in the days when talking about Heinojou’s success so Otonoshin became allergic to any “you are just like/you act like/you look like/wish you were like” comments.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)

The most normal person in the 7th Division when it comes to sleeping. There’s literally nothing to describe: Koito falls asleep fast, he doesn’t have any problems with falling asleep or waking up, doesn’t use any medication, doesn’t have any evening rituals. Dreams are a rarity. Loves to sleep with someone by the side, so he can hug a person from behind with both arm and leg, and if the place next to him is cold and empty, Koito may hug a pillow or rolled blanket.

#golden kamuy #golden kamuy imagine #golden kamuy headcanon #koito otonoshin #tosikowrites

[invisibleinorange]

Chapters: 8/? Fandom: Bridgerton Rating: T Warnings: Presumed Character Death Relationships: Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington,  Eloise Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington(besties),  Bridgerton Family Dynamics, Simon Hastings/Daphne Bridgerton Characters: Colin Bridgerton,  Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton, Anthony Featherington,  Benedict Bridgerton,  Portia Featherington, Violet Bridgerton Additional Tags:  Bridgerton, Polin Summary:  Unexpected bad news arrives for the Bridgerton Family (and friends) regarding Colin's travels. This will be a series that is set after "The Duke and I" or season one of the show. It is a companion piece to "Goodbyes". 

It would seem that Viscountess Violet Bridgerton could not wait  for the arrival of Duke or Duchess's much anticipated bundle of joy to add to her family.

It is reported Lady Portia Featherington seems to have finally rid herself of one of her daughters.  While this Author, cannot be certain of the circumstances, it has been reported that not only has said daughter has been seen coming and going from Bridgerton family home quite frequently but household staff have been spotted with taking personal effects from one home to the next…

 LADY WHISTLEDOWN'S SOCIETY PAPERS, 30 SEPTEMBER 1813

 --

A few short weeks ago, she’d been practically dragged back to the home to warm up and get something to drink.  The next thing that she knew, Violet Bridgerton was telling her mother in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t be returning home that night or ever if she didn’t desire it.

Penelope had been appreciative to sleep in a guest room, to feel part of an actual family at their meals and to have a mother in her life that actually saw it fit to care about what she wanted. 

She was never judged for reading a book and more often than not she encouraged to have more to eat.  She’d taken to barely eating in her own home to attempt to stave off comments that implied she was some sort of a pig. She never felt shamed for just existing here.

It was becoming increasingly hard to imagine ever going back even if she knew she inevitably would have to.  This wasn’t her family and she didn’t want to become a burden to them.

No one felt that she was a burden though.

Her presence had managed to bring some small joy to a mood that was very much morose.  They’d managed to memorialize Colin without his body and it had helped them.  The house still smelled of the flowers that once filled it but the wake had passed and his brothers had handled the delicate matter of religious ceremony.

 Even though the grief wouldn’t entirely fade away, they were all weren’t standing still anymore. They might have all still been in black but there was the slightest glimmer of joy there.  The dark clouds that had enveloped them for weeks seemed to be leaving.

Penelope felt a bit guilty for starting to think that things could actually be okay.

--

Benedict hadn’t exactly bridged the subject since the night of his failed proposal. 

To say that he was surprised when his mother had all but moved the girl into their home would have been an understatement.   He had spent the first few days waiting for something to be said but he had the sneaking feeling she was avoiding being alone with him and while she never indicated anything was amiss at family meals, the fact she wouldn’t meet his eye said plenty.

Anthony had advised him to leave it be for now. Eventually things would boil over and they could make another go of it.  Was it really smart to let her integrate into their family like this only to eventually leave it?  Surely, she didn’t intend to stay there, unmarried for the rest of her days.  It was hypocritical to think when he didn’t particularly mind if he ever did himself but still, there was concern.

After pilfering a cigarette from his Eloise, he’d stepped out to smoke it.  A part of him wondered if he could slip away, spend the evening expressing himself in the only method he knew how: his art. Everyone else was starting to act like themselves again and he just felt useless.

Long legs swung in front of him cigarette moving between his hand and his mouth as he let his mind drift between the various things he currently saw as shortcomings.

“I owe you an apology,” he heard before he even realized he wasn’t alone anymore.

His eyes flickered up, finding Penelope standing there in front of him. There was something determined in her voice like she’d been building herself up to even speak to him.  He was caught so off guard at an apology that he wasn’t about to argue it.

“You don’t,” he told her simply, gesturing to the vacant swing, welcoming her to join him.

In some ways, this was most inappropriate but he didn’t think there was anyone who would say anything. He’d spent plenty of nights sitting out with Eloise and talking about their lives but Eloise was his sister.  Penelope, as much as people seemed to have forgotten, wasn’t.

“I do,” she told him honestly. “I just want you to know that it’s not you that I’m against.”

He stubbed out the cigarette, deciding to focus on the conversation at hand.  His jaw tightened slightly but his eyes softened.  There were plenty of reasons that he could think of for her aversion to his proposal but it was at least nice to know that he wasn’t the offensive part of it.

“Do I dare ask what you are against?” he couldn’t stop himself from inquiring.

“Entrapment, sympathy -  I love your family and while I know I’ve always been closer to others within it, I respect you too much for that,”  she confessed, giving him a valid reason.

“It’s not entrapment when you go into it with your eyes open,” he said honestly. “I stand by my offer though I know I cannot force you into it.  Surely, the past few weeks have made you see that you belong with us though.”

It felt a bit like a betrayal to nod at the words but Penelope knew nothing he was saying to be a lie and Benedict for his part meant it. Penelope did feel like part of the family.

“I don’t need to be married to you or anyone else to be part of it though,” she said after an extended moment of quiet.  “I know that you think the certainty that such a marriage would offer me but you would be miserable.”

“You say that as if I won’t be miserable regardless of who takes my name,” he said with a shrug. He had the find the balance between sincerity and areas where he might find himself in danger. “If I could change places with Colin, I would in an instant but I cannot do that. If you would only consider my proposal though you would see that I could be more than kind. You would be financially cared for -- you would have freedom to do as you please. Most importantly, you could officially become part of our family. Remove any potential stain from this … estrangement with your family.”

It was a hard bargain to turn away but also one that made guilt bubble up in her.  

They were doting on her, making her part of their family and they didn’t even know that about the money she had hidden away. She had more money than she would ever need to independently care for herself.  With everything happening in recent weeks, Lady Whistledown’s identity hadn’t been a topic of conversation.  Penelope didn’t even know how she’d continued to write about little tidbits she managed to hear through it all.

“I have to confess something,” she finally said after a long moment, deciding that perhaps it was time to unburden herself.  She could tell Benedict and maybe then he could understand.  Maybe once he knew he wouldn’t even think the prospect of marrying her was such a good idea anymore.

“I’m listening,”  he told her clearly prepared to hear her out.

“I’m –“

The words were cut off and anything she intended to saw after wouldn’t have been heard.  Eloise had apparently decided to come look for the both of them and thought it would be funny if she pretended to be someone chastising them for breaking the rules of society.

“You know that you shouldn’t be alone without a chaperone,” she said, making a mockery of the whole thing, crossing her arms as she played it up. “What will people say?  They might think that you’re corrupting our house guest, Benedict.”

It was Benedict who rose from his seat, shaking his head to make room for his sister to take possession of his swing. 

“I’ve been trying but I’m afraid she isn’t as debauched as you and I, Dear Sister,” he said musing Eloise’s hair with his hand. “Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

He did pause before moving to depart in order to address Penelope again.

“We can finish this conversation some other time but think about it,” he said with a nod and then he was gone.

Any prospect of revealing her identity as Lady Whistledown went out the window.

"Well now that he's gone I can steal you away. You have a package," Eloise advised.

Penelope certainly wasn't expecting anything.

#⚜ writings — polin #colin bridgerton #penelope featherington #bridgerton

[chelsfic]

Wish You Weren’t Here (part 1) - Diego Jiménez x Reader - Power fanfic

Read Part Two

A/N: Whatttt am I doing? Can anyone tell me? Thanks to @1zashreena1​ and @symbiont13​ @sparrows-books​ for being so enthusiastic about this. Oh, and (not that anyone cares lol) but I make a casual reference to Cesar Millan in this fic (wtf is this?) and I am actually firmly opposed to his dog training philosophy. SO. Just to go on record.

Warnings: Smut!!, Threatening, Exhibitionism, Forced Audience to Exhibitionism, Crack!Fic

You stare at the spray of white powder smeared over the top of the glass coffee table. How…how does one clean up cocaine? You nervously twist your cleaning rag into a tightly wound rope as you ponder the options. It’s expensive, right? Would Mr. Jiménez be angry if you cleaned it up? Should you–what?–sweep it into a dustpan and set it aside for later? There’s not a huge amount but if you swept it all into a little pile there would probably be enough to…use? What the fuck do you know about cocaine? What if you use your spray bottle on the coffee table and it goes into the air and you breath it in? Would you get high? This is ridiculous.

It’s your first day working for Diego Jiménez and you’re nervous. Actually that’s an understatement. You have a pretty good idea of how powerful he is and you desperately want to make a good impression and keep this job. The pay is more than you’d make cleaning ten houses. The downside being that the facts of household cleanliness with regards to Class A drugs are now–apparently–required reading.

You’re still hovering indecisively when Diego strolls into the living room. He walks with a confident swagger that you can’t help admiring. Your new boss might be intimidating, but a tiny part of you finds that intensely attractive. Maybe a not-so-tiny part. A part that really needs to pipe down because, at this rate, you’ll be fired before the end of the day anyway.

You don’t want to seem like you’re just standing around idle so you start to carefully scoop the powder using the cloth, plowing it into a neat pile that you intend to–you guess–set aside for now and see what happens. You think he has any tupperware?

Diego’s stride stutters to a stop as he catches sight of what you’re doing. He snaps his fingers at you like Cesar frickin Millan scolding a Pomeranian. You definitely feel like a Pomeranian right now. And he’s a…he’s a Doberman currently staring at you with murder eyes. Fuck.

Your typical response to fear and stress is word vomit.

You freeze in mid-swipe and look up at Diego with eyes wide as saucers, “Uh…sorry. Is this not–okay? I wasn’t sure if I should just leave it how it was. But it looked so dirty and I want to do a good job so I thought I’d just–”

Diego cuts you off with a hand on the back of your neck. His fingers dig into your skin, firm but not enough to hurt…yet. You squeak in alarm as he drags you away from the table and toward the huge, floor-to-ceiling windows that make up one whole wall of the living room.

“Uhh…Mr. Jiménez–sir! This didn’t come up in the interview, but I actually am not the biggest fan of–”

He marches you up to the window, steering you with his hand on the back of your neck until you’re pressed up against it, cheek mashed into the cool glass. And–as if your stupid body is in cahoots with your psychotic boss–you look down. You look down at the busy street which seems like it’s about five miles beneath you. Your head spins and your breathing picks up at a rapid pace. You can’t shut your eyes. Why can’t you shut your eyes? If you shut them you can pretend that you’re someplace safe…on solid ground…and not on the top floor of a high-rise with only a few inches of glass standing between you and death.

“Um!” you squeak, ripping your eyes from the view below and trying to crane your neck enough to see Diego looming behind you. You can just see him from the corner of your eyes, grinning maniacally.

“You. Don’t. Touch. The Product. Understand?” he hisses the words into your ears in that growling, tenor voice of his that is already imprinting itself in some of your shameful fantasies. What is *wrong* with you?

Your words come out in a rushed whisper, “Yes! I understand, Mr. Jiménez. Completely. I-I-I apologize. I wasn’t–you see, I’ve never actually seen cocaine before, you know? And I didn’t know if you’d want me to clean it up or save it for–for later. Or–another worry I had was what if I touched it or, or it went into the air and I breathed it in. Would I get high? And that would be very bad because, um, I don’t like being high. And also it’s my first day of work and I just–” your stutter over your words, gaze drifting back down to focus on the murderous drop to the street below, your eyes are welling with tears now, “–I just wanted to do a good job, sir. I’m sorry.”

He finally lets go of you, his hand dropping away and leaving behind the ghost of his fiery touch on your skin. He steps back to let you turn around and he’s laughing at you, “You thought you’d get high if you touched it?”

You’re too preoccupied with getting away from the window to reply at first. You take a few giant steps away from the glass and then you’re crouching down and planting your palms on the marble floor to remind yourself you’re on solid ground. Fucking phobia.

Diego’s looking at you like you’ve grown another head and you feel the need to explain, breathlessly, “I…don’t…like…heights.”

He steps towards you and you have a great view of his shiny, leather shoes as he crouches down to your level. He catches your eyes with a look that’s warmer than anything you’ve seen from him in your short acquaintance. He smiles apologetically and reaches out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. 

“Seems like more than a dislike,” he muses watching you as you struggle to take deep, calming breaths.

“Okay…” you answer, “I’m fucking afraid of heights! Uh…sir. Sorry! Sir. Mr. Jiménez.”

How can he have such a megawatt smile after manhandling you into a plate glass window and threatening you? And those dimples? Are you kidding me?

“Call me Diego,” he says. 

You look up at him, falling into his dark, fathomless gaze and thinking to yourself, Son of a bitch.

“Diego,” you breathe. 

“If you find a mess like that again just leave it, okay? I’ll have one of my guys clean it up. There are going to be some things about this job that you’ll just have to get used to. The most important thing,” here his eyes harden, “is that you don’t tell anyone–ever–about anything you see or hear while you work for me. Do you understand?”

You are seriously over your head, aren’t you? When you just stare dumbly back at him, Diego takes your face in his hands and bores his eyes into yours, “Do. You. Understand?”

“Yes…Diego,” you finally answer. Because what else can you say? You suppose at this point you’ve already seen enough that you aren’t free to just…walk away.

“And Y/N?” Diego says, standing up to his full height, towering over you, still crouched on the floor at his feet. “You think you can manage cleaning these windows?”

The look on your face as you glance over at the intimidating wall of glass is comically horrific, but you try to sound casual in your response, “I’ll…manage.”

He laughs and starts to walk away, “Good, because you left a smudge mark with your face just over there.”

You narrow your eyes at him as he leaves. What a little…but even as you’re thinking up a proper insult your eyes lock onto his butt in those tight jeans and notice the way his shirt strains to cover his broad shoulders and…yeah, what were you saying?

***

Later that night you’re finally finished with your work for the day just as guests start to trickle into the penthouse. You wonder if Diego spends every night this way–is his life one big party? You’re sweaty and your back aches and you’re still feeling wobbly from forcing yourself to get right up to those windows and give them a thorough cleaning. You just need to check in with Diego before you leave for the night but he’s still cooped in his bedroom upstairs and you don’t really want to interrupt him. So you’re just trying to blend in with a potted plant against the wall as supermodel attractive women mill about, outnumbering the male guests by about 3 to 1, you’d judge. You feel beyond shabby in your jeans and t-shirt. But at least you’re not wearing one of those housemaid dresses you had to wear for your last employer.

Diego still hasn’t made an appearance, and a younger guy in the crowd has apparently taken notice of you. You can feel every muscle in your body tense up as he starts prowling over to you. You just want to go home and take a bath and maybe think about the way Diego’s butt sways a little when he walks. Ugh, stop that!

“Hey, girl. You not having a good time?” he purrs in a manner he surely thinks is seductive but you’re very tired and very ready to leave.

“I’m not–”

Diego interrupts you, putting a proprietary hand on your shoulder and squeezing a little, “She’s not for you, Ángel. Leave.”

The guy’s whole demeanor changes when he sets eyes on your boss and he backs away with a little bow of respect that has you really, strongly questioning your sanity in A. Taking this job and B. Insisting on being attracted to your potentially psycho-killer employer.

You turn around and Diego is giving you that megawatt smile again. For a minute you just stand there like a deer in the headlights until your brain kicks back in.

“Um…I’m leaving for the night, Mr. Jiménez. I mean–Diego. If you don’t need me for anything else?”

He arches a wicked brow at you and his lips hint at a playful grin. “Anything else?” he laughs. Is he making fun of you? Toying with you? You watch as his eyes focus on a woman strutting by who’s probably half a foot taller than you and 60 pounds lighter. She’s wearing…not much. He licks his lips like a lion about to dig into a zebra. 

“Okay, then…” you murmur, backing away a little. 

Diego turns back at your words looking a little chagrined but still playful, “See you tomorrow, little girl.”

You make a beeline for the elevator, finally letting out a shaky sigh as the doors close behind you. There’s something about Diego that is irresistibly attractive to you. Despite his threatening aura or maybe–maybe because of it? He’s dangerous and powerful and a very bad decision waiting to happen. But–you think about the woman he eyed before you left for the night–who are you kidding? The decision isn’t yours and there is no way Diego Jiménez is interested in the likes of you.

And that’s a good thing.

Probably.

Definitely.

Hmmm…

***

You begin to form an understanding of why this job is so well compensated when you arrive to work the next morning. The whole main level of the penthouse is…a mess. And there are random people passed out asleep on the floor and couches. Glasses and bottles cover every surface, the floor is stained from spills. Napkins, plates, random articles of clothing. Quelle frickin nightmare. 

You take a deep breath and drop your purse into the closet by the elevator entrance. This is…fine. This will be fine. You just need to compartmentalize your priorities. You’ll start with the trash and move your way forward. You have to step over the sleeping form of one of the many female guests from the night before and an unkind thought pops into your head in relation to starting with the trash.

Not nice, you admonish yourself. But then you wonder if the girl had her hands on Diego last night and you find that you don’t really care. Why are you getting so territorial over this man already? Some of the only contact you’ve had with him has been him slamming you against a window to punish you for “touching the product.” That shouldn’t…that should certainly not be a turn on. 

No.

The place starts looking a little better as the morning wears on. By the time Diego emerges from his bedroom, bleary-eyed and dressed only in an expensive, black robe, you’ve nearly finished cleaning up and are just starting to wonder what to do with all of the people still draped all over the place. Your thoughts are abruptly torpedoed when Diego staggers by and the robe partially opens to reveal how naked he is underneath. 

You freeze in place, eyes fixed to the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen and–possibly–straining to see if the robe will part even further to reveal a bit further south.

Diego catches you looking and offers you a seductive grin, “I knew you weren’t as innocent as you seemed.”

“I–what!? Yes, I am! I mean…no. I don’t know?” Stop. Talking.

Diego looks around at all of the passed out bodies and you jump when he suddenly lets out a vicious bark, “Out! Everybody out! This isn’t a fucking sleepover!”

You marvel at the immediate response as people start stirring and lurching upright, walking zombie-like to the elevator. Diego is walking towards you by the couch when he grabs a girl’s wrist as she skirts around him. 

“Not you,” he growls, collapsing onto the couch and letting his robe fall open entirely, revealing the large, proudly straining erection between his legs. Your mouth drops open and you feel your cheeks blush like the heat of a thousand suns. The girl goes to her knees in front of Diego and he lets his head loll over the back of the couch, just casually gesturing with a hand at his cock. “You know what to do.”

Before anything gets…started…you’re talking again, “Oh. My god. Okay, I’ll just go somewhere else while you…uh…do that–”

“No!” Diego barks, grabbing your hand and holding it tightly so you can’t move away. “I like an audience.”

You let out a little whimper of protest, but he just tightens his grip on your hands. You try to cover your eyes with your other hand but he grunts, “Look, look, look, Y/N!”

You let your hand drop away and are forced to watch as the girl takes his massive cock into her mouth. Diego’s head drops back and his shoulders heave as he groans with pleasure. He looks over at you, capturing you in his dark gaze as the girl starts bobbing up and down. He loosens his grip on your hand a little, squeezing gently and stroking your fingers almost…almost lovingly. God, this is–you don’t know what this is.

His face is open and vulnerable, completely destroyed with lust. His mouth hangs open as he emits broken grunts and moans. You can’t look away. The sounds he makes as he unravels, the way his facial expression twitches and crumples as his orgasm nears, his other hand grabbing the girl’s hair and forcing her to take him deeper as he roars with his finish. It’s all beautiful and sick and overwhelming and hot. So hot. His dick falls from the girl’s mouth with an obscene pop and he growls without ever looking away from you, “Get the fuck outta here.”

The girl scurries away and he’s still staring into your eyes, his erection rapidly softening between his spread legs. You must look like a beet, you’re blushing so red. And you’re so worked up with a mixture of embarrassment, arousal, jealousy and shame that there are tears in your eyes. This man has brought you to tears twice in your two-day acquaintance. That can’t be a good omen. 

“You’re jealous,” he whispers, reading your thoughts. “You want my cock in your mouth, don’t you?”

You finally shut your eyes against his relentless stare and a single tear falls over your cheek. 

“Please, Diego. Let me…let me go,” you need to be released from the intensity of this moment before you do something stupid. For a second you fear that he won’t listen, but his fingers loosen and he lets your hand drop away from his. 

You flee. Rushing to the bathroom and shutting yourself inside. Rather than burst into tears–which is what you’d been expecting–you stagger against the wall and greedily rip at the button of your jeans, diving your hand inside your panties and stroking yourself with abandon until you come with a silent sob.

Yup, trouble. You’re in it.

A/N: There’s going to be more of this!

IDK, @flower-petal-blooming​ @glowingpena​ this is bonkers, sorry.

#Diego Jiménez #Diego Jiménez x reader #Diego Jiménez imagine #starz power #maurice compte #chelsfic #smut #Damnit Diego

[pikapeppa]

Felassan/f!Lavellan: The Vagaries of Names

Chapter 6 of The Love That Grows From Violence (Felassan x Tamaris Lavellan) is up on AO3!

In which Felassan and Tamaris are still bumming around the mansion talking and eating, and Varric comes to pay a visit. 

~6400 words; read here on AO3. Featuring beautiful art by @lethendralis-paints​!! Please check out the chapter for the full piece!!! 

Tamaris scraped her hair back from her face. “...and he was all, ‘we must be beyond reproach and give them no reason to think we’re suspicious even though the orb is elvhen.’ And that’s when he mentioned Skyhold. We spent the next three days tromping through the snow, and then there it was: an entire fucking castle in the middle of the Frostback Mountains that nobody knew about.” She tapped her fingers moodily on the open copy of This Shit Is Weird. “So yeah, what Varric described was pretty accurate, minus the stuff Solas only said to me.”

“Interesting,” Felassan said. He pushed the book aside and placed a plate in front of her. “And the part about the fledgling Inquisition singing your praises to the heavens, quite literally?” He shot her a grin as he started spooning food onto her plate. “Was that accurate too, or a colourful embellishment?”

She groaned, and Felassan laughed brightly. “Oh, no.” 

“Oh, yes,” she drawled. “They sang me a Chantry hymn. A Chantry hymn to praise the most non-Andrastian elf in the fucking Inquisition.”

“Non-Andrastian because you believed in the elvhen gods instead?” he asked. 

She shot him a hard look, and he raised his eyebrows expectantly. After a moment, Tamaris sighed again. “Fine, all right, yes. I did.” She gave him another resentful look. “As much as anyone can believe in a bunch of ‘gods’ who are either ignoring their people’s prayers or who got trapped by a tricky wolf.” 

Felassan smiled faintly, then spooned another poached egg onto Tamaris’s plate. She waved irritably for him to stop. “Quit it, will you? Sit down. I can serve myself.”

“Can you?” Felassan said. “Or will you eat straight from the pan given half a chance?” 

She eyed him flatly without replying. She couldn’t give him the satisfaction of being right. “Don’t give me a hard time,” she retorted. “I saw you eating grapes straight from the icebox yesterday. You didn’t want to put them in a fancy serving bowl first?”

He tsked at her sarcastic tone. “There’s a difference between being hedonistic and being slovenly. But fine, since you insist.” He set the pan down in front of her, then picked up a piece of toast and tossed it carelessly onto her plate before taking another piece of toast for himself and sitting beside her.

He leisurely kicked his feet up on the table and bit into his toast, and Tamaris watched him with a combination of amusement and exasperation. He carried himself with such elegant confidence, almost like a noble with no doubt about his place in court. It seemed so incongruent with his humble beginnings as a slave in Andruil’s household.

He swallowed his bite of toast, then raised a roguish eyebrow. “Enjoying the view, are you?” 

She ignored his playful flirt. “You’re strange.” 

He smirked. “It takes a special sort of mind to see its reflection in the eyes of another.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ha ha, yes, I’m strange too. I just mean…” You don’t act like someone who used to be a slave, she thought. Not that she had met many people who had lived most of their lives as slaves, in truth. The only former slave she’d spent any real time around was Hawke’s husband Fenris, so maybe her expectations were biased by how taciturn and unsmiling he was during his and Hawke’s brief travels with them – when Hawke wasn’t teasing and flirting with him, at least. 

She tried to find a more tactful way to state her thoughts. “I wouldn’t have known you were a slave if you hadn’t told me,” she said.

“Because I don’t act like one, you mean?” he said, and he took another bite of toast.

Fuck, she thought. She should have known he would guess what she was really thinking. “Yeah,” she admitted. “That’s a shitty thing to think, I know.” 

“I’m curious now how you think slaves are supposed to act,” he said. “Should I be crawling on the floor beneath your feet? Making myself unheard and unseen as I walk around your mansion trying to pretend I don’t exist?”

His tone was laced with humour, but Tamaris didn’t smile. “Nobody should have to act that way,” she said quietly.

His impish smile softened. “You’re right; they shouldn’t. And there was once a time when I walked with my head bowed and my eyes on the ground. But eyes on the ground does not mean that those eyes are closed. Silent servants are the ones who hear the most. Nobles always seem to forget this, whether their ears are pointed or round. You’d think they’d learn eventually, but…” He shrugged and took another bite of toast.

Tamaris nodded thoughtfully. Sera had often said the same thing, in her annoyingly roundabout sort of way.

“In any case, I haven’t been a slave for several millennia,” Felassan said. “I have, however, been many other things over the course of many years.”

“You mentioned that before,” Tamaris said.

“It is the truth, and not just for me,” he said. “After all, were you always as you are now? A–” 

“A bitch?” Tamaris helpfully supplied.

He grinned, but went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “A warrior with sharp edges and a soft heart? An elf with eyes that are far older than the rest of her face? A woman who dances with fire?”

She stared at him for a long moment with her heart in her throat. He was smiling still, but there was something intense about his catlike amethyst eyes – and something unnervingly warm. 

Her belly was wriggling – and not in an unpleasant way. She dropped her eyes to her plate and picked up her fork. “Get your fucking feet off the table while I’m eating.” 

Felassan chuckled and slowly shifted his feet back to the ground. “By all means, eat. It’s better when it’s hot.” 

Tamaris eyed the breakfast Felassan had made. He’d poached some eggs in a pan of savoury sauce made from tomatoes, sweet peppers, onions and red wine, drizzled with olive oil and flavoured with something that smelled sweet and spicy at the same time – some interesting herbal mixture, probably, knowing him. The dish was actually semi-familiar to her, thanks to some strings Josephine had pulled to get a Nevarran chef to Skyhold for one of her fancy formal dinners, but the spicy scent and the vibrant crimson of the sauce weren’t quite what she remembered. 

“This is a dish from Nevarra, isn’t it?” she asked him. 

He raised an eyebrow and swallowed another bite of toast. “Would it shock you if I said it was an ancient Elvhen dish that the Nevarrans stole?”

She lifted her eyebrows slightly, then scoffed and dipped the tines of her fork into the sauce. “Not at all.”

He twisted his lips ruefully. “Ah. Shame. Because it’s not.”

She gave him an exasperated look, and he chuckled. “The Nevarrans didn’t steal this dish, but we had something very much like it in Arlathan. Not surprising, really, given how simple it is to make. Although the spices–”

Tamaris cut in. “Let me guess. Your own special herbal mixture?”

He tutted. “So dismissive! I heard no complaints from you last night when you were inhaling that salad.”

She opened her mouth to make a snappy remark, then paused. “Okay, fine, that salad was really good,” she admitted.

“So is this,” he said, and he tapped the edge of her plate. “Now eat. You look like you need it.”

“I look like death warmed over, you mean,” she grumbled. Last night was the first night in some time that she hadn’t drunk herself to sleep – a fact that her persistent headache and nausea were not-so-kindly reminding her of. 

“Such bluntness is your hallmark, not mine,” he said airily. “Besides, I would never speak such a lie.”

She gave him a chiding look. “Yes you would. You were a spy.”

“I was, but no longer,” he said. “Now I can say whatever I want. For example, that you look perfectly alluring despite your sickly pallor.” 

She tsked. “You’re so full of shit.” Even more irritating was the fact that Felassan looked like the picture of health. His tawny skin was glowing and his glossy hair was pulled back in a tidy tail at his nape, which only made Tamaris more aware of her own untamed curls. And he was so fucking chipper.

He chuckled and took another bite of toast. “Eat, Tamaris. It’ll help.” He picked up This Shit Is Weird and kicked his feet back up on the table.

She eyed his feet hopelessly. I give up, she thought, then took a bite of egg.

It was, of course, delicious: savoury and sweet and creamy from the perfectly runny egg yolk. And spicy.

Very spicy. 

Tamaris cleared her throat, then sucked in a breath. “Damn, this is hot.”

“Too hot for you?” he said slyly.

“No, actually,” she retorted. “I love it. It’ll kick my headache right out.” She dipped her toast in the sauce and bit it with relish.

He bowed his head politely. “I’m sorry to hear you’re still having a headache. With any luck, we can get our hands on the herbs I need to make that tea.”

She swallowed her toast and shrugged. “Varric will probably show up today to see if I’m dead, so we can ask him to get what you need.” She took another bite of eggs and sauce.

“It is a shame that I can’t collect the herbs myself,” Felassan said. “They’re more potent when they’re fresh.”

“Varric said we can get anything in this city if you look in the right places,” Tamaris told him. “He can get your herbs fresh if that’s what you need.”

Felassan nodded. “Of course.”

She looked at him. He was gazing at the fire, and his expression was slightly wistful. 

Before Tamaris could ask what was wrong, he turned to her with a mischievous smile. “So. Skyhold. What did you think of Fen’Harel’s beloved fortress?”

She swallowed her eggs and gave him an odd look. “Why do you call him Fen’Harel?”

He tilted his head quizzically, so she elaborated. “You call Solas ‘Fen’Harel’. But he told me that Fen’Harel was an insult from his enemies.”

Felassan laughed. “Ah, the vagaries of names. Fen’Harel was an insult seeded by the Evanuris and their followers, yes, but he relished in it at first. ‘They should bear dread for me,’ he said, ‘for it’s through my forces that their atrocities will be laid to rest.’” He gave her a knowing look. “Pride once took great pride in the title of the Rebel Wolf.”

Tamaris frowned. “Rebel Wolf?”

He smiled faintly. “Words change, as do people and their places in time. It makes sense, really. I can understand how the word ‘rebel’ became twisted with negative connotations due to long association with the mighty gods’ greatest detractor and foe.”

His tone was irreverent, but Tamaris frowned thoughtfully as she considered what Solas had told her a year ago. “Rebel Wolf… yes, I can see that.”

Felassan nodded. “Fen’Harel proudly adopted the insult as his informal title among our ranks. It bolstered courage among our people, and importantly, it allowed us to laugh at our foes. Ridicule can be a powerful weapon against those who hold themselves in such high esteem. But those of us who called ourselves his friends still called him Solas, for pride is who he was to us.”

Tamaris scoffed. She’d suddenly remembered the way Solas had once described himself to Blackwall. “Young, cocky, and ready to fight?” she drawled.

Felassan smiled slowly. “He said that, did he?”

“Not directly to me, but yes.”

He shook his head and let out a soft little laugh. “Yes, that’s… that is exactly who he was, once, and it was glorious. But as time wore on and the Evanuris’s tactics grew more vicious, Solas became…” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Not disheartened per se, but… serious. He was no longer quick to laugh like he once was. His title and its insult began to chip away at him. So I began calling him Fen’Harel.”

“Why?” Tamaris asked.

Felassan blinked. “To cheer him up, of course.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You insulted him to cheer him up?”

“Of course,” Felassan said. “It cheers me up when you roast me.”

She laughed despite herself. “I don’t roast you.”

He smiled. “My humorously wounded feelings would say otherwise. But yes, I called him Fen’Harel in jest, but also to remind him what it meant to those of us who followed him and fought for his cause. He was the young and uppity Rebel Wolf to the Evanuris and their ilk, but to us, he was the man who snatched us from the jaws of slavery and, for many, of a certain and ugly death.” He waved his hand in an elegant gesture. “So yes: I called him Fen’Harel as a reminder of all that he was trying to achieve.” He shot her a wry little smirk. “Perhaps it was too effective a reminder, given the position we now find ourselves in.”

“You feel sorry for him,” Tamaris said.

She realized belatedly how accusatory she sounded, but it was too late; the words were out, and Felassan was gazing at her with a rather contemplative look on his face.

“Don’t you?” he said.

“No,” she said instantly. “I feel sorry for everyone in this world that he’s trying to murder for no good reason.”

Felassan nodded an acknowledgement, but Tamaris wasn’t finished. “He was only awake in this world for one year before deciding there was nothing of value in it. And then he spent another entire year with us, and he still has so much disdain for us that he’s going to try and kill us all?”

“It is not a matter of disdain for your people that drives him,” Felassan told her. “It’s a matter of guilt for ours.”

“That doesn’t make it better!” she snapped. “And you — you’re from his time, and you still purposely fucked up his plans. You must think there’s something of value in this time.”

Felassan slowly ran a hand over his hair. “I understand change better than Fen’Harel does,” he said.

“But you think there’s something of value here,” she pushed.

“I think there is value to be found everywhere, if you look in the right places,” he said.

“Then how can you feel sorry for him?” Tamaris demanded. “He tried to kill you, for fuck’s sake. How can you feel sorry for someone who was once your friend, betraying you like this?” 

He looked her in the eye, and Tamaris scowled. He was wearing that soft and world-weary look again – the one that smacked of thousands of years of life and knowledge and war.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. 

His eyebrows rose. “Like what?”

“Like I’m a fucking child,” she said in a hard voice. “If you have something to say, just say it.”

He frowned slightly. Then he reached out and lifted her chin with a gentle hand.

“Do not mistake my sympathy for a lack of anger,” he said quietly. “You know that it is possible to harbour both.”

She couldn’t reply; her mouth was suddenly dry. Her chest was jangling, partly from the delicacy of Felassan’s fingers on her chin, but mostly at the ferocity in his eyes. His odd violet eyes were so bright and clear, and Tamaris couldn’t tell if the uncanny light in them was from conviction or from a hint of untapped magic.

She took a deep and slightly shaky breath. “Good,” she said. “I’m glad I’m not the only angry one.” 

Felassan stared at her without replying, and she gazed helplessly back at him. She still couldn’t decide if his eyes were actually glowing, or if it was the fierceness of his expression that was taking her breath away.

Then his lips started to slowly curl at the corners. By the time his face was lit with that full breathtaking smile, her heart was pounding in her ears. 

She swallowed hard. “Keep it in your pants, Felassan,” she breathed. 

His smile curled into something wicked, and a tantalizing rush of heat raced down her throat and into her chest. 

Then someone knocked on the front door.

Tamaris jumped, and Felassan’s hand fell away from her face. Then Varric’s voice called through the door. “Hey, Cuddles. You alive in there?”

Felassan’s smile widened. “Cuddles?” 

She curled her lip at him, then rose from her chair and went to open the door. 

Varric sidled inside, and his eyes darted over her face. “You okay? Hey, it smells good in here.”

“You’re just in time for breakfast,” Tamaris said. She gave Varric a long-suffering look and lowered her voice. “He cooks.”

Varric gave her an odd look. “Is that a bad thing?” he asked.

“No,” Tamaris muttered petulantly.

He raised one eyebrow, then turned to Felassan, who had wandered over to join them and was leaning casually against the doorjamb. Varric held out his hand. “Hey there. Varric Tethras, reluctant Viscount of this fair city-state.” 

Felassan bowed his head graciously and shook Varric’s hand. “I am Felassan. Former Tranquil and current victim to Tamaris’s dubious hospitality.”

Varric snorted a laugh, but Tamaris straightened with indignation. “‘Dubious hospitality’?” she said archly. “I told you this house is yours as much as mine!”

“And you got mad at me for reading Varric’s excellent book,” he said.

“That you stole from my pack!” she exclaimed.

Felassan shrugged elegantly. “A minor detail. Varric, come and eat. Tamaris, yours is cold now.”

“It’s cold because you won’t stop talking to let me eat,” she complained.

Felassan tutted. “Always so focused on the details,” he said. He shot Varric a smirk, then sauntered toward the kitchen.

Tamaris grumbled in annoyance, then turned to Varric. “Look, he’s actually a really good cook. Do you…” She trailed off; Varric was giving her a funny look.

She frowned. “What?” 

He continued to eye her shrewdly. “Remind me how long he’s been here?” 

“Three days,” she said. “Why?”

Varric’s eyebrows rose even higher. Then he chuckled and shook his head. “Andraste’s ass. I know how this story ends.”

She scowled. “What the fuck are you on about?”

He patted her elbow. “Nothing, elf. I am hungry, though.” He made his way toward the dining table, and Tamaris grumpily followed him.

Varric took a seat across from Tamaris’s now-cold breakfast. “So you’re okay then? Not, uh, sick?”

She sat down and picked up her fork. “I’m good. I’m going to stop drinking.”

His eyebrows rose. “Oh. That’s… yeah, that’s probably good.”

She nodded brusquely. “It helps that I ran out of hard liquor,” she said. She took a bite of egg and gave Varric what she hoped was a reassuring half-smile. She still had some wine and beer in the house, but it seemed likely that Felassan would use it in his cooking at some point.

Varric returned her smile, and Tamaris felt a pang of guilt at the obvious relief in his face. A moment later, Felassan wandered out of the kitchen with a clean plate and utensils for Varric. 

He set them in front of Varric, who raised his eyebrows. “Hey, thanks,” he said. He peered at the pan of eggs and sauce with interest. “Is this…? It looks like that Nevarran dish.”

“It is a similar dish,” Felassan said. “And there’s coffee in the kitchen if you’re in need.”

“I’m surprised you’re not offering him tea,” Tamaris said snidely. 

Felassan grinned at her as he made his way around the table. “Don’t worry, Tamaris. My special teas are just for you.”

She rolled her eyes and took a vicious bite of toast. Felassan draped himself lazily in the chair beside her and smiled at Varric. “It is good to meet you. As our lovely hostess mentioned, I have been reading your book. I was just asking her what she thought of Skyhold.”

Varric chuckled and helped himself to breakfast. “Oh, I’m sure she had a lot to say about it.”

Felassan grinned at Tamaris. “Do you, now? I imagine it must have been quite the shocking change from your aravels.”

She swallowed a mouthful of toast and egg. “Hey, I like aravels, all right?” she said defensively. “They’re homey. And I like sleeping outside, too, if you want to make fun of me for that.”

“I’m sure I will, eventually,” he said pleasantly. “Now come, tell me what you thought of Fen’Harel’s stronghold.”

She shrugged and took another bite of eggs. “It was a good headquarters for the Inquisition.”

Felassan nodded. “It is an excellent headquarters for an organization to grow its power, yes. What else?”

“It was…” She shrugged irritably. It had been a year since she’d lived in Skyhold, and everything felt so different then compared to now. “I don’t know what you want me to say. It was fine.”

“Fine?” Felassan chuckled. “I’m sure Fen’Harel was disgruntled by that assessment.”

Tamaris scowled and took another bite of her food. Then Varric spoke to Felassan. “She was like a nervous cat for the first week we were there. And every time something got renovated and the castle got nicer, it was like she got nervous all over again.”

Felassan laughed brightly, and Tamaris shot Varric a resentful look. “I’m a simple girl with simple tastes, all right? I don’t like fancy shit. I’m not used to it.”

Varric smiled. “Hence the Avvar decor in the Great Hall.”

“Exactly,” she said. “Although that also had the benefit of pissing Vivienne off.”

Varric chuckled. Then Felassan addressed him once more. “Your book mentioned that Solas had a preference for the rotunda. Is that correct?”

Varric nodded. “He painted huge murals on the walls, like the ones in that Shattered Library place.”

Felassan’s eyebrows rose. “So the murals are still intact there as well? Interesting.”

Tamaris pushed her empty plate away. “Did Solas spend most of his time in the rotunda back in the olden days too?”

Felassan shot her a chiding smirk — likely at her irreverent reference to the ‘olden days’. “Some, but not most. The rotunda is where he gave his rousing speeches.”

Varric huffed in amusement. “He gave rousing speeches? I can’t see it.”

“I can,” Tamaris said quietly.

Felassan nodded and lifted his feet onto the table. “Oh, he was very inspiring. But the rotunda was likely much larger in our time than it is now.”

“What do you mean?” Tamaris asked.

“The fortress you lived in can’t possibly be the same as the one we knew,” he explained. “The original fortress was a thorough melding of the magical and the mundane. The castle you occupied was likely built in parts and pieces over many ages.”

She stared at him. She felt stupid for not having thought of this before, because it made perfect sense. Of course Skyhold couldn’t be the exact same building as the one from thousands of years ago, especially if it was originally a merging of the Fade and the real world like the Vir Dirthara was.

Varric, meanwhile, seemed unsurprised. “Yeah, that makes sense. Gatsi — our head stonemason — he said the castle was a mishmash of styles and stone from different places and eras.”

“But Skyhold felt like a whole,” Tamaris put in. “Even if it was a mishmash, it didn’t feel like one. It felt like it was supposed to be as it was. It felt… It didn’t feel like a patchwork or anything.” She wrinkled her nose. “I… It’s hard to explain what I mean. It felt—” 

“It felt like safety. Didn’t it?” Felassan said. “It felt like coming home.”

She looked at him sharply. “Yes,” she said. “It… it took a while, but yes. It did.”

He nodded an acknowledgement. “A lingering quality of Fen’Harel’s magic in the foundations. Skyhold was a refuge for freed slaves as well as a fortress. It too played many roles over time — including beyond our time, clearly.”

She frowned thoughtfully as she pulled a joint of elfroot and embrium from her shirt pocket. “It’s where he made the Veil, isn’t it? Or triggered it or whatever.” She lit the joint and took a drag from it, then blew the smoke over her shoulder before looking at Felassan.

He was staring at her intently. She blinked at him. “What? What’s wrong?”

“How do you know that?” he asked.

She frowned. “It’s… he practically told me. He said the castle was named ‘Tarasyl’an te’las’ back in your time. ‘The place where the sky was held back.’” She huffed and lifted the joint to her mouth. “In retrospect, he obviously meant the Veil, but hindsight is perfect, blah blah and so on.”

“When did he tell you that?” Felassan said. He reached for the joint in her fingers, and she handed it to him.

“When he was still with the Inquisition,” she said. “We’d been living there for… I don’t know, maybe eight months. We had a bunch of scholars studying the castle just for interest’s sake, and he told me that little tidbit and said I could pass it on to them.”

Felassan released a mouthful of smoke. “He told you that while he was still with you? Fenedhis.” He shook his head and smiled. “He really wanted you to figure it out, didn’t he?”

She gave him a skeptical look. “His whole ‘not telling me shit’ thing would say otherwise,” she drawled. She reached for the joint, and Felassan took another quick drag before handing it back to her.

“Truly, I’m shocked at how much he revealed to  you,” he said. “There was only a handful of us who called the castle by that name, and only then when times were so desperate that the Veil was all he could think to do.”

She blinked. “Really? What did you call it before that?” She tucked the joint at the corner of her lips for safekeeping and started gathering the dishes.

Felassan barked out a laugh. “Oh, nothing nearly so lyrical as Tarasyl’an te’las.”

She paused and looked at him. “Come on, tell me.”

He shook his head and chuckled. “I can’t tell you what we called it.”

“Why the fuck not?” she demanded.

He waved his hand in an expansive gesture. “We once prided ourselves on our wonderful use of metaphor. The castle’s common name was… not very poetic.”

She gave him a flat look. “Just tell me.”

He sighed. “Twist my arm, why don’t you. We called it Arla’fen.”

She frowned and took a slow pull from the joint, then lifted it away from her lips. “‘Home of the wolf’? That’s it?”

He rose to his feet and continued collecting the dishes. “It meant ‘the wolf’s den.’”

Tamaris raised her eyebrows, then snorted. “That sounds like a place where a bunch of rowdy boys gather together to watch each other getting into fighting matches.”

“And wouldn’t that be undignified,” Felassan said without turning around. 

She stared at him, then smiled slowly. “That’s exactly what you did, isn’t it? You and your rebel buddies would have fighting matches for fun.”

He smirked at her over his shoulder. “I told you it was not very poetic.”

She could feel her smile growing wider by the moment. “Did you howl at each other like wolves too?” she said.

“It is possible that there was some howling involved,” he said in a dignified manner.

She laughed, and Felassan grinned at her as he finished stacking the dirty dishes. “Well, if you’ve finished roasting me, I’ll go to the kitchen to deal with these.”

“This is hardly a roast,” she said. “When I decide to roast you, you’ll know.” She lifted the joint to her lips once more.

Felassan reached out and plucked it from her lips. “I’ll look forward to it, avise.” He placed the joint between his own lips and smirked at her, then picked up the dishes and walked away.

She huffed in amusement and shook her head, then plopped down in her chair again and looked at Varric.

His chin was propped on one fist, and his eyebrows were raised. Tamaris gave him a flat look. “Come on, Varric, out with the judgment. Let’s hear it.”

“What was that he called you?” Varric asked. “Avise’?”

“It means ‘fire’,” Tamaris said. “Or ‘flame’.” She shrugged. “It’s a long and stupid story.”

Varric didn’t bat an eye. “He’s got a nickname for you?”

“You have a nickname for me,” she pointed out.

“I’ve known you for four years,” Varric said.

“You started calling me ‘Cuddles’ two days after we met!” she exclaimed.

He tilted his head, and Tamaris folded her arms. “So what then? Do you want to chaperone us? Feel free to move in. Mythal knows this fucking place is big enough.”

Varric sat back in his chair. “No no, I won’t interrupt. Just… be careful, huh?”

She softened. He was just trying to be a good friend. “Seriously, don’t worry,” she assured him. “Nothing’s going to happen. We’re both too fucked up.”

Varric frowned slightly. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re doing okay.”

She shrugged, and Varric leaned toward her. “Seriously. It’s good that you’re going to cut back on the drinking. We were all a little… well.”

“You were worried,” she mumbled. “I know. I get it.”

He shrugged and leaned back in his chair again. “Just looking out for you, Cuddles.”

She tsked at the nickname, and Varric smiled and stood up. “Well, I just wanted to check in since I hadn’t heard from you. I should probably get back to the Keep. Bran will be getting tired of running my meetings by now.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You had meetings this morning?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I didn’t really need to be there, though. Besides, when you miss meetings, people think you’re all the busier, and they’re less likely to try and bother you unless it’s really urgent.”

Tamaris scowled. “If that’s true, why did Josephine always insist that I had to be at every fucking meeting?”

He chuckled. “Don’t ask me. I wasn’t one of your advisors.” He started to make his way toward the door.

Tamaris stood up. “Oh hey, hang on a second. Can you get supplies for us while we’re cooped up here?”

He glanced up at her in surprise. “Cooped up? Why can’t you leave?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for Felassan to be alone until he gets a better handle on his magic,” she said quietly. 

Varric’s eyebrows rose. “Oh. Shit, yeah, okay. What do you need?”

“We made a list,” she said, and she reached into her pocket. “It’s right…” She trailed off and rifled around in her pockets for a second. “Fuck, where is it? Felassan!”

He poked his head out of the kitchen. “You bellowed?”

“Do you have the supply list?” she asked.

“I do,” he said. He came out of the kitchen and pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket, which he handed to Varric. “Are you leaving already?” he asked.

“Yeah, unfortunately,” Varric said. “Viscount duty calls.” 

“That is a shame,” Felassan said. “I was hoping to hear some of your stories first-hand. Your lovely ex-Inquisitor is not the strongest weaver of tales.”

Tamaris tutted. “Excuse me. Who’s roasting whom here?”

Felassan smiled at her, and Varric chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back and I’ll tell you some stories then. Let’s see what you’ve got here…” He unfolded the parchment and peered at it. “Hmm. Yeah, this is… oh, black lotus, huh? And deep mushroom, all fresh? That’ll be tricky. But I know a guy. Might be a couple days, though.”

Felassan bowed his head politely. “Your effort is appreciated, truly. More by Tamaris than myself.”

Varric looked at Tamaris. “This is for you? Why?”

She shrugged. “Withdrawal. He’s going to make me some kind of fancy tea.”

“Oh, yeah. You mentioned that.” He looked at Felassan. “You a healer?”

Felassan waved dismissively. “More of an amateur herbalist.”

“Not amateur,” Tamaris protested. “You have herbs for everything.”

He smiled at her. “I do believe that was almost a compliment,” he said, and he gave her a small but still somehow mocking bow. 

She rolled her eyes, then paused and looked him over. “Hang on. Where’s my joint?”

“I finished it,” he said.

She slumped in exasperation. “But it doesn’t even do anything for you!”

“It held the sweetness of your lips,” he said. “That’s more than enough for me.”

Varric’s eyebrows leapt up, and Tamaris winced internally. Fuck, she thought. Now Varric was really going to worry about something brewing between her and Felassan.

Before either she or Varric could speak, Felassan took a step back. “Varric, it was a pleasure,” he said warmly. “I look forward to your next visit.” He turned and made his way back to the kitchen, but not before Tamaris noticed the tips of his ears turning pink. 

A pang of sympathy twisted her heart. He clearly hadn’t meant to say that comment about her lips out loud.

That also meant he didn’t really mean it, which was for the best.

She turned to Varric, whose eyebrows were almost buried in his hairline. “He’s just… it’s the Tranquility cure,” she explained lamely. “He’s all over the place. It’s not… he doesn’t mean it.”

A sudden image intruded in her mind: Felassan’s fingers on her chin and his wickedly heated smile. 

She ignored the memory. He didn’t mean it, she thought. Varric, meanwhile, was still eyeing her skeptically. 

“Uh-huh,” he said, and he turned toward the door. “I’ll check on you every couple days, and I’ll have Bran set you up with a raven so you can send letters if you need something sooner.”

“Sure,” she said, and she followed him to the door. As he stepped outside, however, she stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. 

He looked askance at her, and she gave him a serious look. “Listen, Varric, I didn’t come here to be a burden on you,” she said. “I didn’t… this is a pain in your ass. Checking on us and bringing supplies and shit. I – you’re busy with all your other responsibilities, I know, and I just wanted—”

“Hey,” he cut her off gently. “Don’t worry about it. Maker knows you did enough for us over the past few years.”

She nodded and awkwardly ran a hand through her hair. “Just… thanks, okay? I really appreciate it.”

He patted her metal elbow. “I know, Cuddles. Don’t worry about it. Just take some time to look after yourself. Things’ll be busy once you’re ready to get back into it.”

She sighed. His reminder about the tenuous situation in the world was fair but unpleasant. “Yeah, okay,” she said. “Thanks again.”

He smiled faintly. “See you in a couple days,” he said. He waved casually and walked away, and Tamaris returned to the house.

Felassan was finishing the cleanup in the kitchen. When she sidled into the kitchen to join him, he turned to her with a smile, and she was relieved to see that he didn’t seem awkward after the provocative comment he’d made in Varric’s presence.

“So here we are, with the full day ahead of us,” he said cheerfully. “What should we do with it?”

Once again, the memory of his blazing violet eyes and his suggestively curled lips rose to her mind. Fuck off, she told herself, and she shrugged as casually as she could. “I was going to start tagging the shit in this house that I want to sell or get rid of. If we’re going to be living here for a while, we should redecorate. Make it more homey.”

“‘We’?” he said with interest. “Does that mean I get a say in the decor?”

“Of course,” she said. “You’re living here too.”

“How perfectly egalitarian of you,” he said, and he bowed his head again. “You have my thanks.”

He was smiling that gorgeous smile, and his polite tone was laced with a hint of laughter. Tamaris grunted and left the kitchen and his stupid tempting smile behind, then made her way upstairs.

She stepped into her bedroom and wandered over to the window, then opened it and gulped in a breath of fresh air — or as fresh as the air in a city could ever get. 

It held the sweetness of your lips. That’s more than enough for me. Felassan’s smooth and lilting voice rose unwittingly in her mind, and she scraped her metal fingers through her hair as though to push away the memory of his words. 

She was being stupid. Felassan was only hitting on her because he was getting over his Tranquility, and she was only responding to his flirts because she was… well, she had no excuse. She was just horny for no good reason in particular. 

She scoffed quietly at herself and took another calming breath of city air. Regardless of the reasons for their shared sexual frustration, what she’d said to Varric was true: neither she nor Felassan were in any position to get involved any more intimately than they already were. Felassan couldn’t control his flirtatious impulses, though, and that wasn’t his fault, so Tamaris would just have to be especially careful to rebuff him.

It’ll be fine, she thought. I was the fucking Inquisitor. If I can foil a qunari invasion and trick the Orlesian court into thinking I have any kind of couth, then I can say no to sex with a handsome man. With that bolstering thought, she pushed away from the window and turned her mind to the fascinating task of redecorating.

#felassan #felassan romance #felassan/lavellan #felassan x lavellan #the love that grows from violence #pikapeppa writes

[honestgrins]

Adventurous || Klaroline

Bill Forbes can’t let his daughter marry a pirate, especially not the worst of his kind.

.

Caroline stared down at her plate, half-heartedly pushing roast vegetables no sailor would be rationed while at sea. The ship rocked beneath their dining table, but that was hardly what made her queasy. "I thought I was being helpful," she pouted. "You asked me to befriend Rebekah so as to endear our family to Governor Mikaelson. I did that, yet you're sending me away."

"You know I only want what's best for you." Her father sounded tired, and guilt only twisted her stomach further. Bill Forbes had never wanted to drag his family into the business, but it became necessary when Liz died, leaving him to raise their daughter in the midst of building his reputation as a respectable merchant. Since finding success in the Caribbean, however, young Caroline had been exposed to far more of the world than he'd hoped for her. Her safety would always be his priority. "You've kept my house for longer than you deserved, precious. Now, you deserve to keep your own, and I think you'll like the Lockwood boy. His father and I have worked together for years, and you'll be back home in Virginia."

Roughly pushing her chair back, Caroline paced the length of her father's cabin. Of all his ships, Elizabeth proved to be the best for personal travel, especially when bringing her along. Their quarters were generous, allowing her to expend all her angry, nervous energy. "I barely remember Virginia! You're just leaving me there with a stranger, who is to be my husband."

Bill squeezed his knife, though he didn't rise from his seat. "We're lucky to find you a decent husband at all, Caroline. You'd be wise to remember that."

All the air rushed from her lungs. She felt wrung out, nothing but shame left clinging to whatever remained of her. The independence granted by her father's business had made her bold, too bold. Sneaking her lover into her bedroom was daring in the first place; allowing him to stay the night had been utter foolishness. The household staff was loyal enough to her not to spoil their secret, thankfully. Rumors of the Klaus Mikaelson falling under her spell, however, managed to reach Bill's ears anyway, the dishonorable nature of his intentions to be assumed as fact - her own intentions and feelings be damned.

With a deep breath, she instead found a rage that had long built within. "I will not keep apologizing for loving him," she finally said, her tone cool and even. "I let you confine me to the house, I let you insist I accompany you on this trip, but it's not enough. You didn't bring me to keep me away from him, you brought me to send me away altogether. Even from you."

Pain filled his expression, and he looked nearly torn. "If I could keep you home, I would," he swore quietly. "Our position on the island has become untenable."

"Because Klaus wants me to be free," Caroline accused.

"Free to embarrass yourself and ruin both families with your...affair."

She shook her head, almost frantic. "Because he loves me! Because he wants to show me the world, because he knows I'll never leave while you need me. Clearly you don't, or else why send me back to Virginia?"

"A pirate feared throughout the sea has staked a claim on my daughter," Bill seethed. "I don't intend to give him the chance to avenge that claim and leave you in the crossfire." When she opened her mouth to argue, however, he raised a quelling hand. "He's a reprobate and vicious man, Caroline. Surely, you understand why I secured you a safe home and a kind marriage far from him."

Despite the pleading words, all she heard was condescension and judgment. "You don't know him. He's spoken to you once and your mind is made up."

"A murderer and a thief dared to ask for your hand over tea in the governor's parlor, as though the whole island wasn't aware of their strained relationship or his own crimes against my colleagues and friends." Leaning forward, Bill pointed at her with his knife. "Whatever you and his sister planned for his redemption, it won't work and I refuse to let him cow me into submission."

A terrible understanding dawned on her. "You think he wants to use me against you," she realized. "A pawn to keep you under his thumb."

"Governor Mikaelson favors me among merchants, your pirate has taken notice. Involving himself in my business and some particular dealings would allow him to destroy his father - politically, financially, and essentially ruin the man."

"Good," Caroline spat, her arms crossed defiantly. Even if she'd liked the governor from their limited interactions - and she didn't - that goodwill was easily cut down by the stories Rebekah had shared and Klaus only alluded to with dark eyes. Had her father managed to include her in his business, she would have made her opinion on the man very clear.

Thankfully, a knock at the door interrupted whatever character reference Bill might have argued, and they both turned to find the Elizabeth's captain in the threshold. Over the years, Caroline had come to consider Enzo a friend, which made him agreeing to bear her to Virginia a betrayal. Well aware of this, he had taken pains to avoid her on the first day of the journey. She glared at him, and he grimaced before facing her father. "Begging your pardon, but a ship approaches. Fast. There are large cannons clearly visible, yet they've made no attack."

"Yet," Bill reaffirmed with a tired, resigned look.

Enzo’s gaze flicked back to her, and Caroline felt her heart race with anticipation. “It appears to be The Rogue, sir. I don’t relish our chances against Klaus Mikaelson, even if we weren’t running a skeleton crew."

It had been a rather hasty voyage, with little actual cargo to stow or protect on board. Speed was of the essence, and they’d left port as soon as the sails could be raised and managed. Few would challenge a rig without valuables onboard; apparently Klaus was one of them - though Caroline could argue that Klaus found her person to be very valuable.

Sighing, her father pinched the bridge of his nose. “What would you have me do, Captain?”

"There's a small chance we could outrun them if their current pace slows to meet us and we catch a favorable wind before they do," Enzo offered without any of his usual bravado. "Otherwise, we allow the ship to be boarded and hope for a polite negotiation. At worst, he sinks us all."

"He wouldn't do that." Caroline ran to the door, slipping past her father's grasping hands to storm out to the deck. Her head whipped from side to side, only to find an anxious group of sailors awaiting orders and staring at a break in the horizon. With a tight grip on the railing, she could feel her heart pounding. "He wouldn't do that," she said again, her voice a mere whisper as she tried to convince herself.

Klaus Mikaelson wasn't a good man, she knew that. Every story she heard would be worse than the last, blood trailing behind him at every dock. The Rogue and its crew of brigands were infamous for stealing an empire and enforcing their pirates' code on less honorable - yet somehow more respectable - traders. For all the proper training her father tried to instill in her, Caroline always adored the image of a life at sea. None seemed more romantic than that of a pirate, the raw freedom of it all so tempting.

As she grew up, however, her responsibilities grew as well. Freedom was all well and good, but someone needed to keep the house in order and ensure their family was above reproach. Oddly enough, it was her father's suggestion to create ties and affection with the governor via his daughter that led her to crave freedom once more.

Her nails scraped at the salt-worn wood, the ship in the distance appearing slightly larger with every minute that passed.

"Sure you know what you're getting yourself into, gorgeous?" Enzo had managed to sidle up next to her without her noticing, her focus utterly absorbed by the thought that Klaus was coming for her. "If we don't run, you'll end up on that ship. Maybe for the rest of your life."

A smile lifted her lips. "A girl can dream," she answered wistfully.

One afternoon at the governor's estate, Rebekah had waved off a turn in the garden, claiming the sun was too much for her delicate skin. Caroline, unable to help herself, eagerly enjoyed the chance to explore without a chaperone. She'd pretended to be surprised when she found Klaus lounging beneath a tree, laughing when he pulled her down to enjoy other explorations. They later basked in the warm light, her left hand tucked into his shirt, just over his heart.

"What's it like to sail wherever you want?" she had asked, curious. "How can you even decide where to go with the whole world before you?"

His fingers had brushed over her back, gentle at the loosened ties of her corset. "The whole world is before you, too, sweetheart. All you have to do is decide you want more of it. Then, you take it."

She had chuckled and propped her chin on his chest to meet his eyes. "And if I wanted more of you? These stolen hours are lovely, but few and far between."

"I'm here for the taking," he'd vowed, his grip on her tightening as he reached for another kiss.

Smiling against his lips, Caroline had wanted to believe him - that he could be hers. "I thought you were the pirate."

"There's nothing a pirate loves more than enticing another to join the crew." Another deep kiss had distracted them for a long while. "Once you're on my ship, I'll take you wherever you want."

"And I'll be the captain's mistress?"

He'd smirked, kisses turned sweet. "You'll be the captain, and I your most devoted servant."

And his ship was there, racing on its way to her.

"Caroline," Bill said in that disappointed tone of his, approaching her from behind with arms crossed. "Whatever he's promised you, whatever it is you're hoping for, it will only end in heartbreak and danger. You cannot risk our family like this, not for him."

The sea breeze on her face smelled fresh and wild, and she could almost pretend she were a bird soaring above them all. To be so light and joyous and free, everything her father was trying to take away from her. "I can do whatever I want," she grinned. "Klaus helped me to see that."

But her father scoffed. "Of course he did, because he's convinced you that you want whatever he wants. Convenient, isn't it?"

"He asked me to marry him," she pointed out, breathless when she could finally make out shapes on the other ship's deck. People. Him. "Even if it's all a trick, he needn't go to such lengths."

"So he can trap you and our family into furthering his interests, Caroline. I raised you to be smarter than this!"

She pursed her lips. "To me, it seems I'm getting married regardless of the outcome. You lose me anyway. Why shouldn't I choose the path that might make me happy?" They stared at each other, both too stubborn to look away first.

Enzo coughed, clearly uncomfortable. "Sir, it's time. What course of action would you prefer?"

Pleading with her eyes, Caroline still refused to beg aloud. She watched as her father took in the serious lines of her face, his own conflicted for the first time since she'd challenged his plan. Two deep breaths, and that conflict gave way to a sad calm. "If she's right, there's no use running if he intends to catch us, however long it takes. Drop anchor, let the pirate prove he can board peacefully. That he means us no harm, outside of stealing my daughter," he muttered to himself.

Caroline gripped his arm as Enzo moved to instruct the crew, and she squeezed when the ship noticeably slowed. "Thank you." He covered her hand with his own, and she pressed a kiss to his cheek. "He's not stealing me."

"No," Bill gravely agreed. "You're going of your own volition, which is much worse."

If he had slapped her, it might have hurt less. She backed away on instinct, only for him to hold her more tightly. "Trusting a pirate is going to get you killed, Caroline. I won't be able to protect you. Not from him."

It wasn't worth spitting the bitter defenses back in his face; he wouldn't be swayed. Her heart broke knowing he would never forgive her for this. She thought they had done things right, she and Klaus. They fell in love, made promises to each other. Klaus had even gone so far as to try and get her father's blessing to marry. How many pirates would do that for a woman they'd already bedded? It had to be real.

It had to be for her father to look at her like she was lost to him. Her eyes burned with tears, but she refused to let them fall. Instead, she looked out to watch The Rogue approach and prayed she wasn't wrong.

.

His grip tightened on the rigging with only the speed of the ship to comfort him. Elizabeth wasn't much of a conquest on a normal day with smaller than average cargo holds meant for travel supplies and more living room for passengers. She could be quick when she wanted to be, but the main sail had slackened considerably, and Klaus released a pained breath as the gap between them closed. 

He'd caught her. If he didn't think Caroline would run away by her own desire should he try, he might never let her out of his sight again. Oh, but that was a fight to be had when she was back in his arms.

The crew had given his tense form a wide berth as they rushed around him, pushing the ship faster than was probably wise. When their captain had called them to action, he was near to growling at them until Marcel swept in to give commands. "Let me worry about the sailing," his first mate had reasoned with him. "You work on how to get your girl back without bloodshed. From what you've told me, the lady isn't likely to forgive harming her family." 

Unfortunate paternal affection aside, Bill Forbes had proven to be a surprisingly difficult adversary, one that couldn't be borne for much longer. For her, Klaus was willing to negotiate the boundaries of her father's influence with generous terms; since learning of his plan to dispatch her to a husband in Virginia, however, that spirit of generosity had been greatly tested. A part of him feared he'd kill the man on sight, had given Marcel his pistol and knife as a precaution. The rest of him couldn't climb from the horror of what might have been had Rebekah not alerted him to the plot.

As often as he'd offered his sister a chance to escape Mikael's house, he couldn't help but to be grateful that she'd resisted so far. Otherwise, she wouldn't have overheard their father complaining about losing Bill's input for the month it would take to deliver Caroline to Virginia. Worse, he might not have met Caroline at all.

She'd looked beautiful the day he first saw her, peering through the titles in the library. Embarrassed to have been caught, her cheeks had flushed a pretty pink, clutching the hand that had been gently stroking spines to her chest. But then she frowned upon seeing him, eyes tracking down to his worn clothes and dirty boots. She greeted him warily, excusing her own presence as a guest of Miss Mikaelson.

"They're not my books, far be it from me to forbid you from them," he'd teased, helping himself to his father's rum. "Bekah doesn't usually take to others, I'd hate to scare off a new friend."

Her eyes had narrowed. "You're awfully familiar. One of her brothers?"

He smirked behind his glass, giving her an appreciative glance. "Smart as you are fetching, though I'm quite sure my name isn't welcome in these hallowed halls."

"But your person is," she noted with some humor. "What's your profession, Mr. Mikaelson, if I may be so bold to ask?"

"Bold, indeed." He'd always liked that about her; Caroline was a curious one, a question on the tip of her tongue and just itching to ask. Whenever they were alone, she never bothered with polite rules of conversation, instead following her own train of thought until she knew what she wanted to know. "I'm a sailor by trade, Miss...?"

Staring at him with fascination, she seemed to light up with an expression he knew well. Many of his men wore the same one as they looked out on the open ocean for the first time, or when they noticed some new creature crashing against the bowels of the ship. She held a spirit of adventure in her heart, kindred to his own. "Oh, that must be so exciting. My father runs a merchant's fleet, but I don't get to sail nearly as often as I'd like. Even less now," she added, her smile fading.

Klaus hadn't liked the despondent weight that fell over her, but Rebekah burst in before he could ask about it. "Nik! Father will be home in an hour, but you must stay for tea. Ah, I see you've met Miss Forbes," she rambled on imperiously, leading one of the servants into the room. "We'll need an extra place setting, Marie."

He gave a mocking bow. "I am at your leisure, dear sister." Turning to his new acquaintance, he dipped his head more graciously. "Miss Forbes."

"Caroline," she insisted with a quick dip of a curtsey. Despite the sheen of manners, he could see the wheels turning in her mind, and his grin widened at the moment of realization. Her voice turned faint, but not with fear, he was pleased to note. "You're Niklaus Mikaelson."

Rebekah was quick to correct her, "Captain Niklaus Mikaelson."

"A captain." Caroline had nodded, and he could hear what she really wanted to say. A pirate.

"So you've heard of me." His smile turned predatory, showing off his teeth like he was baring fangs. "Fantastic."

But Miss Caroline Forbes wasn’t one to be cowed, no matter the many horrors attributed to his ruthless greed. Instead, she asked voraciously about his travels, the places he’d been that she could only dream of. In one breath, she would condemn the violence he’d committed in a nearby port and wonder at the people he’d met there. Her life had become increasingly sheltered as her father’s business grew, many of the characters he cavorted with not unfamiliar to Klaus in his own work. 

Rebekah had bored of the conversation quite early, choosing instead to design her next dress while they argued the merits of one bounty over another he’d collected. Lively and fierce, Caroline had no qualms in disagreeing with him, sure his opinion of her wouldn’t hold much sway in the marriage market she and his sister had dreaded together. 

Though he had fun teasing the prospects bandied about for Rebekah’s hand, Klaus was confident he could gather the funds necessary to bribe their dear father to hold off any negotiations she wasn’t thrilled for. After all, Governor Mikaelson was a proud and ambitious man, and there would always be a better offer down the line. 

When the topic was Caroline’s intended fate, amusement was the last thing on Klaus’s mind. No amount of money would lend him sway with Bill Forbes, a man determined to hate him and everything he represented. Holding his daughter hostage was a card the man was all too thrilled to play if it meant keeping her away from a pirate - even if that pirate would do anything to have her.

Even though, against all odds or reason, he loved her.

His love could have been married across the ocean before he had a chance to say goodbye. A paralyzing rage bled through him at the thought, and it wasn't eased by the fear Caroline was a more willing participant than he assumed. She’d never hid the duty she felt to make a safe match, if only to stop her father worrying after her. With the right husband, her life wouldn’t have to change overmuch. An absent father had left her rather independent, marrying another merchant or even a rising Navy man would lend to a similar freedom should he permit.

“And what’s to stop me from seducing the mistress of the house while the poor sap is away?” Klaus had teased that first time he’d stolen into her bedroom, eager to tempt her out of her dress. It wasn’t love yet, not for him, but it was a desire so strong that even the possibility of being shot upon discovery couldn’t force him to behave - not with her hair falling in soft waves down her back or the enticing length of her legs as he slowly lifted her shift. 

She scrabbled at his back beneath his shirt, just as eager to taste him and the rebellion he offered. “The mistress herself, I trust,” she flirted, though reinforced her point with a dig of nails into his skin. “I wouldn’t want to dishonor my husband, after all.”

Hesitating ever so slightly, Klaus forced a huff of a laugh before distracting them both with a well-placed hand between her thighs. The thought had haunted him long after he left her sleeping peacefully, that she would be tied to some other man, to whom she’d make promises for the rest of her life. There would come a day when he might slyly glance her way, only to find her watching a husband she called hers.

Over time, he realized why that image bothered him so much.

And now that she was his, well and truly his, Bill Forbes thought he could tear them apart. But he’d caught them; Klaus could finally see her on the deck, eagerly leaning against the rail. Caroline was always eager, the implicit danger of the ocean beneath being half the fun of it. His heart pounded with how beautiful she looked, her hair flowing loose in the light wind his sails caught, bringing them together.

Impatient and fuming, he climbed up into the rigging and tugged one of the ropes that seemed long enough to breach the distance between ships. A few sailors milled about the Elizabeth’s deck, though none seemed to be prepared for a fight. No weapons were drawn, in any case, and Caroline wasn’t being held back. She only smiled up at him, relief and love clear in her eyes. “Marcel,” he called out.

The men barely looked up from their efforts to prevent a collision, and his first mate shouted back without a thought. “Go!”

A firm grip on the rope and a deep breath was all Klaus needed to let his weight carry him from the Rogue, his legs strong as they absorbed the impact onto the other ship, like he had a hundred times before. As a pirate, Klaus had learned to be prepared for the fight - even a peaceful boarding could turn nasty fast. He was lucky, then, that Bill Forbes recognized defeat and didn’t try to kill him anyway, because Caroline launching herself into his arms wiped every threat from his mind. Instead, he squeezed her tightly, desperate to believe he would get to keep her. “You’re alright, sweetheart,” he reassured them both, murmuring it over and over in her ear. “You’re safe.”

“You came,” she cried into his neck. Her arms clenched around him, nails digging into his worn vest. “You came for me.”

“Always,” he promised. His grip wouldn’t slack, and fingers carded through her hair without permission. Still, he lifted his eyes to her father, enraged in his own right. He couldn’t hurt the man, not without hurting Caroline as well, and the quarrel seemed moot if the Elizabeth had given up the chase. “I meant what I said,” he nodded as he invoked their last meeting in the governor’s parlor. The attempt at appearing respectable had only deepened the contempt in Bill’s eyes, despite the more than generous offer of a loving marriage for his only child. “She will want for nothing, and all I have and am will be hers. Is hers already.”

Pale and shaking with ire, Bill wagged a threatening finger in his face. “The wealth of a pirate is short-lived and wasted on drink and whores,” he accused. “You’ll bring nothing but pain and suffering on my daughter, a pirate’s wife,” he all but spat.

Caroline finally lifted her head, but her arms only tightened around his waist as she faced what remained of her family with a stern glare. “A captain’s wife,” she corrected, nearly snarling. “Whether or not you believe it, I know he loves me.”

“Ruin,” Bill warned. “He will ruin you. He’s already destroyed any prospects that would have kept you on the island.”

“I don’t need prospects, I have exactly who I need.” She tilted her chin up to Klaus, and he swore never allow himself to dim the fire in her expression. He loved her for everything she was, for defending him when his own parents never bothered. For choosing him, time and again. “Marry me, Klaus.”

Her eyes flicked to the captain lurking on the edge of their group, a supposed friend of hers she’d mentioned once or twice. Blinking, comprehension dawned upon him. Klaus squared his shoulders, not letting her go for a second. “Captain,” he said in his politest tone, the one reserved for pestering Bekah in public or particularly testy parleys. “Might you honor us with your witness?”

“Please, Enzo,” Caroline added, her eyes wide with hope.

Wetting his lips, this Enzo slowly looked to Bill. “Sir...”

Caroline suddenly lurched from his arms, but Klaus forced himself to calm as she reached for her father’s hands. She was fighting for him. “I understand if you’ll never forgive me, and I even understand if you choose to disown me after this. Please,” she entreated, “please stand with me while I marry the love of my life.”

On his honor as a pirate, whose word was only as good as his actions, Klaus would be a husband she could be proud of - a love worth testing that of her own parent. When her watery eyes met his, his chest filled with a warmth that weighed him down in the best way. He felt grounded despite the rocking of the ship, settled in a way the ocean would never be.

It was how he first knew he loved her. He had put off a number of voyages to woo her, under the guise of paying his sister long neglected visits, only to spend more time with the pretty guest and her sharp tongue. Tumbling into her bed once - then twice - had been good fun, tentatively growing into an unfamiliar affection. The time came when Marcel had a line on new quarry, the crew restless to get back to the sea and fill their pockets again, and he didn’t relish leaving Caroline behind as he had so many others. 

Rebekah must have warned her, for she had clearly been expecting him when he climbed through her window, pulling him in with tender kisses and gently urging him back to her bed. With the hours dwindling, though, he reluctantly collected his clothes while she watched. “Wait,” she’d called, rushing to her desk wearing only a hurriedly fastened dressing gown. Pressing a sealed letter to his chest, she allowed him a soft kiss goodbye. “For when you can’t sleep.”

He never could the night before sailing, an affliction of overwrought planning and impending adventure that no amount of rum or tea could solve. Frowning in confused amusement, he slipped the paper into his jacket and left her with yet another lingering brush of her lips. 

How many other lovers had written him a message upon departure, Klaus couldn’t begin to count. Sweet promises of a home for him to return to, wicked plans for when he did. As the moon shone into his quarters that night, curiosity overwhelmed him as to which woman Miss Caroline Forbes would prove to be. Regardless of the contents, he was more than sure he’d loyally return to her all the same. 

Then he opened the letter, his smirk falling slack. She’d written nothing, merely touched the paper with her favored scent. He closed his eyes and held it to his nose, breathing deeply enough he could almost imagine her on the ship with him. 

And he slept peacefully, resolved to bring her along the next time - perhaps to never let her go again. Once they married, he'd never have to. She would be his.

His wife.

“No.” Bill’s spiteful tone was clear, and Klaus curled his fists at the way her face crumpled in response. Her father, however, felt no such compunction to offer comfort to his only child. “I can’t. I won’t. I might not be able to stop you, but I refuse to be a party to what I truly believe is the worst mistake you will ever make.” Ironically, he’d never seen the family resemblance so well until Bill trained a stern glare upon him.

Caroline rolled back her shoulders and stepped more surely between them, secure with Klaus at her back. “You’re wrong, but at least it’s my choice,” she replied, her voice calm despite the somber note of disappointment. 

Shaking his head, Bill tossed his hands in the air as he stalked back toward his cabin. He called out, still angry. “When you regret this, don’t ask me to rescue you!” A door slammed shut, leaving them on the deck with a chagrined Enzo.

"He'll come around, gorgeous. He always does," her friend offered, watching Klaus with a wary eye. "Still sure about marrying this one?"

With a low growl, he was relieved to have left his weapons with Marcel. He dropped his lips to Caroline's ear, trying to ignore the stream of tears running silently down her face. "We can head back to port, let Bekah handle arrangements for a more dignified wedding, if you'd like." His enmity with his father limited certain opportunities, but the Mikaelson name and the exotic treasures of a pirate would enable some social dignities. "It's up to you, love. Always."

Finally, she managed a wan smile, growing brighter by the second when she turned her face up to him. "You raced here to save me," she teased quietly. "A wife seems a nice prize for your efforts."

"Caroline."

Her hands lifted to cup his face, determination clear in hers. "I won't regret this. I want you."

"You have me," Klaus vowed. "Forever, I am yours."

"My husband." A weight appeared to lift from her as tears filled her eyes again, this time with a happier sheen. "Good enough, Enzo?"

Clearing his throat, this Captain Enzo barely covered a laugh. "By my authority on this vessel, I declare you married." They were kissing before he even finished, and he didn't bother to stifle his amusement. "All right, carry her off, Mikaelson. I'll get her things tossed over to the Rogue before you graciously leave my ship in peace."

Without looking away from his bride, Klaus nodded. "My first mate will be on hand for you," he said, sweeping Caroline up into his arms. His voice dropped as she nuzzled into his neck. "Ready to board, sweetheart?"

She laughed, a bright noise that hit straight to his heart. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

He took advantage of his hand placement to pinch her ass. "Your smart mouth is going to get us in trouble, I just know it."

"Only the fun kind," she promised. She furrowed her brow at the narrow plank Marcel had managed to fit between the ships, and Klaus felt her hold around his neck tighten. "Klaus."

Shrugging, he kissed her temple. "Where's the adventurous woman I married? Hard to see the world if you're scared of a life on deck."

Caroline winced. "It's the between I'm worried about, Captain."

Not wanting to worry her further, Klaus hurried across with all the confidence he'd earned over years at sea in far more dangerous circumstances. He landed hard on the Rogue, though his grip on her didn't waver in the slightest. "Ye of little faith, wife," he joked, enjoying the way she blushed with pride. "And I believe you're the captain now, with I your most devoted servant."

Her expression fell in utter shock, a pure delight shining from her eyes. "Wherever I want to go?" she recalled, wonderstruck. 

"As long as I'm with you." One close call at losing her was more than enough for one lifetime. "Where will it be?"

"The captain's quarters," she decided at once, gamely ignoring the hoots and hollers of his - their - crew listening in. "Then...everywhere."

Grinning, Klaus leaned in for a kiss, again earning whistles. "Aye, aye, love."

#klaroline #klaroline drabbles #i should not admit this is long overdue from kc au week #and yet #day 5: different time period #because I wanted pirate KC #fic: adventurous #almost everything

[lexiconoffear]

Well, what do you know? A tragic glimpse to my right presents a view of a little stranger with a charm for whispering nonsense to the air. Fucking Harper Lee over there is writing shit all on her frosted green MacBook with the creativity of a blunt hacksaw. That she casually smiles with a hint of disdain towards those that give her the stern eye when she infrequently cowers behind Jane Austen books is nothing less than revolting. Why do I sound surprised to see these people at Verve? All of them with the usual brand of “I want to make it in Hollywood too”. Here’s a newsflash for you. Stop pretending that you like to read Lady Susan and Sanditon. Oh and Miss Fucking Perfect, we know you haven’t read any classics in your sunny shell of an existence. I would also like to add that drinking five cups of mint mocha and mumbling your shitty screenwriting lines is a non-starter with any professional worth a damn. It’s insulting that people like you think otherwise. But you like giving out shitty blowjobs to every one of your followers on Insta if it gets you some undivided attention. The nerve. For once, I would like to rip open her fucking head and look inside. But we all can’t take unnecessary risks. Can we Joe? Cut to our little hideaway in that golden Americana cul-de-sac. Repose feels great in the evening. Some might beg to differ. Now, it’s time for some pressing news. Shock. Horror. A domestic violence case in our own quaint suburbia. To say that I'm intrigued to see how you handle this crisis is a bit of an understatement. Typical. Color me fucking surprised. You try to console yourself with many crafted truths. A bad case of false reporting. Lack of circumstantial evidence. You even blame it on something out of your control. But I'm glad to hear that you’re slowly dying on the inside. The world can finally find comfort in knowing what a stand-up guy you are, Joe Goldberg. You want a do-over? Some respite from public heat? No bueno. Why will it be any different this time Joe? Do you honestly think that low of me? Every word you espoused was a lie. Like crimson etches that forever stains our vision of what’s real. Comeuppance is nothing but a decorum now. The viewers of the media and our community love to crucify every fucker that slowly chips away at the perfect household image. The perfect family. Our fucking so called perfect lives as couples that be. But that’s the least of your concerns. What you should worry about most is a woman who owns her narrative. Her story. Her triumphs. She doesn’t pretend to be some victim of circumstance. She is a fucking survivor. Fucking America loves this piece to death. People love it. They all can't get enough of that shit. As soon as it's served up, everyone eats it up like magic rice. You were too oblivious to see what is at stake here. Don’t give me that dirty look as if you're entitled to it. Really, it’s a fitting retribution. Any scorned lover would see this punishment as fit for the crime committed. Did you think for once that the cost to all the insanity you inflicted was justified? Has nothing sacred ever matter to the likes of you? You weren’t like this before we grew and settled. Those restless struggles. Endless disputes. Our relationship certainly wasn’t the easy paradise that we pictured in our minds. That much I can tell you. But it was worth fighting for. Nothing else meant more than the first word we chose to define our union. Don’t tell me it meant nothing the moment you pulled closer at a wedding and reassured me with vows that came to be. Don’t you dare lie to me and say that our love was an illusion that ended while we fucked each other in my third trimester. When you saw me for the first time at Anavrin, you witnessed that wonder. A one-of-a-kind love. That incited all this madness and ecstasy. I was the cool girl you envisioned in your hopeless dreams. That cool girl who did everything right. Who like every asshole envisions as the definitive girl they like to fuck and bring to their family home for Christmas. Manic pixie version. She is that fucking cool girl. The same girl with a mouth that is sure to win some prizes in any department. What a fucking joke. To think that I shaped myself to be the ultimate lover. Unmatched in both scale and vision. Did you think that my fucking name was a joke to you? Yes, that’s a rhetorical question by the way. One fucking word. Love. How the fuck did you fuck that up? My charming hardened New Yorker guy with a wounded soul. I remember when you were different. Smitten by a dumb joke about fucking fruit of all things. I saw that darkness in your eyes. A wit that followed with a charming presence. Can’t also deny you weren’t easy on the eyes either. This had to be it. The thing we both searched for our entire lives. Love. In Hollywood of all places. You were all in and nothing else mattered. I loved you unconditionally. Yeah, that’s a fucking cliché if I hear it again. We fucked each other, blew one another and rose in the morning like fucking squirrels on mescaline. Perhaps, that’s a little too intimate for the ears. Forgive me for not censoring shit that needs to be heard. So, how the hell did we end up here? Call me a little jaded now, if I don't look back at our history with rose-tinted glasses. I should have seen the signs. Yes, love can make us do terrible things and be blind to each other's faults. That's a fucking given. But I never thought I would lose trust in you. The one who finally brought a sense of ease to my heart. The same guy who later cheated on me and fucked a woman from behind. Our neighbor no less. On a day that very well should have marked the death of me. Just one glance and I saw the vision of our nuclear family undone. All you ever pursue is another work of project in sight. That’s how your fucking story always is. Just like Delilah. Just like Beck. Add that cutthroat bitch with a revenge agenda to the fucking equation too. You killed assholes. Left. Right. Center. Yet, you stand there and face me with a familiar look. A smugness that reeks of self-righteousness. That appearance of hypocrisy. The very look my mother gave me when I didn’t do my part in taking good care of Forty. The same look is all I see now. Disappointment. Disgust. Revulsion. Like a damaged commodity that you pass on when you’re done. You didn’t even have the balls to tell me what you really felt. It’s all a delusion that you hold to encourage that shitty desire of buying new merchandise with an exclusive item on the side that some cunt upsells you at Walmart. Forgiving the unforgivable is not in my fucking rule book. You think you can get away. Unscathed. Unfazed. Unhurt. No, you don’t. No fucking way Joe. Now, I know the truth. I wasn’t destiny. I wasn’t love. The worst part is that you made me believe in hope. Made me hold onto faith. Then, you reduced me to a foil in your self-absorbed romance story. But make no mistake, you will pay the price. Mark my fucking words. Don't think I won't make plans well ahead in advance to fuck you over. You will see what I'll bring to the table. I must thank you though. You brought something else out of me. Something I tried to hide for a very long time. All it took was a little nudge in the right direction. The follow up act was less painful. But you wouldn’t care, would you Joe? You never thought about family. The lengths that many would go to protect their kind. To spare them of any anguish. A quick head dash into a collective antique vase from Montalcino should do the trick. Maybe, a little cut on the arm with a help of a few broken shards. That will save myself from the shame. From the silent screams. The undying pain. Nothing compares to the deep cuts of the heart. All I see now is a vivid painting of torture. Filled with cinnabar streaks all over the Vermillion carpet that my late brother cherished. What a perfect expression of grief. The dull ache. The fading memories. The wild stench of blood. When your other half dies, nothing eclipses the misery of loss. That’s what I told myself. Family is everything. It always came first. Above all else. But when I fell in love again, my entire perspective changed. Until reality hit me in the face. Sheared off in patches and defiled like every other celebration past the fourth of July. Do you really think I wouldn’t see to it that justice will be sought for the unseen wounds, the unheard abuse, and the million masks people like you wear to fool their loved ones? Don’t kid yourself Joe. It’s time we put an end to this fantasy. One way or another.

Love Quinn (YOU)

#gone girl #you on netflix #you netflix #netflix you #love quinn #cool girl #monologue #joe goldberg #joe x love #relationship #quote #season 3

[madllamamomma]

I Think I Have a Problem.... (A personal true story).

So as the title suggests, I have a strange problem…. Just as a warning, this is about my view of my younger self. It is about religion, and gender identity. This is not how I see the world anymore. It was how I told how the world should look. If you are offended in any way, please know this is a vent post and nothing to hurt anyone else. This is just what happened to me as a child. Shit….. This is about to get very long winded, so buckle up and here we go… *takes deep breath*

So a little backstory on your Mother Llama: I was raised in a weird backward ass “Independent” Baptist church most of my young life. If you guys don’t know what those are, be thankful…. But I guess I should explain it the best way I can…. they are a borderline cult. Yes. I said it. I’m not sorry. It may sound like an extreme accusation, but hold on. Just listen to me.

Now, I have no problem with Christians, or religion. You should believe whatever you want to believe in…. I do however, have a problem when religion is used as an excuse to not educate minds about the real world, force them to not let them think for themselves, and when someone questions any of it, they are punished or shamed for it instead of thinking about an answer. If you can’t tell, I am still a little angry about that shit. Imma try to keep on topic here….

I wasn’t taught science (real science anyways, it was all about ‘creation’ bs—OH! And being anything but a cis straight person was compleltly unexceptable. Woman were the weaker sex and were made to raise babies and take care of the husband. Men were superior and should be taken care of.) nor about World history or about other cultures, other than biblical of course. And when they were mentioned, they made them look evil and behave like heathens because they didn’t believe the same as they did. Everything changed when I went to public school half of fourth grade when my family moved to a different state and there wasn’t any church school like I went to. I learned a lot those years, that ‘The World’ wasn’t as bad of a place as they said it was. It was vast and had many things to offer. (No, not the World, Dio’s stan power from Jojo’s bizarre adventures—that is what our pastors called anything outside of the Baptist approved realm. Something ‘Worldly’ was basically something sinful and ungodly and therefor was bad and wrong).

So this may seem like a strange Segway in to what I am actually getting at, but I had a huge crush on this boy back when I was young and it started when I was about 12 or 13 years old and ended when I was 16. He was the same age as me, and he was the son of a pastor of a small church of about 20 people, mostly military families— we will call him.... D.... for dick...

I thought for a long time that I ‘loved’ D. I thought that ‘God made him for me’ (yes I really said that and it hurt to even write it). I really thought I knew what love was back then, but I was very wrong.

D was homeschooled, he didn’t have many friends and was also a navy brat like I was. So, naturally, we got along very well, and I would hang out with him at his house sometimes. We mainly played video games I was terrible at and he would always bet me. But I liked hanging out with him, so I didn’t care if I won or not. My heart for some reason was totally head over heels over D. And he liked me too for a while… or at least I thought he did… He however never made a move. I always thought D was just too shy, and didn’t know how to ask me. Any time I tried holding his hand, I’d chicken out. It was a stalemate. But this particular church did a thing where people had to court. Yes... COURT someone, not DATE (Courting is where you had adult chaperones keeping an eye on you two, you were never really alone. Ever, because apparently you can’t be trusted?). When we both turned 15 yo, D started a private Christian school. Being the awkward girl I was, I never told him how I felt, I just waiting for him to say something. Time passed, and I still waited and waited for him to ask me out.

But here’s the thing! He didn’t know the real me.

I was in public school, in middle school, and I started to become a weeb. Like a super cringy weeb that didn’t like anything else but anime—I was also kinda emo/punk kid thought I was edgy. (Yeah rock music was bad too, it was ‘Worldly’).Not a very good mix for Baptist I know. At school, I was one person, and at church I was another.

Well, being an anime fan meant I was exposed to a lot of things like the LGTB+ community for the first time. A lot of my friends at the time started to come out other than straight and that was very new to me.

During that time, I soon was starting to secretly question my faith, my understanding of my own sexuality and gender. Like, maybe people liking the same sex or both is actually not a bad thing after all (if you haven’t seen any of my works, hopefully you guys know that I know better that what I was taught—I am a proud fuckin’ ally! I still consider myself cis-straight, but some days I feel like I’m bi-curious, and that’s ok! It took me a long time to realize that, but I’m here now. Gender roles are dead and stupid.)

So here is the kicker~ One faithful day we had a guest pastor join us for a few weeks from another church. This mother fuckin’ nasty ass old white man from Alabama came with his ‘perfect quiet godly’ wife. Who badly ever spoke a damn word. She always just sat in the corner all ‘ladylike’.

—Oh!!! Another fun fact, I didn’t wear pants for a year when I was 10 yo becasue that was considered “cross dressing”— I’m dead fucking serious. My parents then decided after attending sporting events and stuff like that to drop that ludicrous lifestyle, becasue it was stupid. So, Outside of church, my family and I still wore pants and shorts and whatever, but in church we pretended that we didn’t wear anything but modest skirts, dresses, and long culottes. (That’s a little damaging…. don’t you think? Telling people your one thing, when in reality you're not like that at all??)

Anyways— I hated skirts, especially wearing them in the state we lived in, it was way too hot and I’d get chafed (these had to be knee length or longer btw). And of course that guest preacher would preach about the sins of women wearing pants, but I didn’t care. I wore them for so long, it just made me angry anytime someone would bring that up. I liked my jeans and I was starting to become a rebel teen who gave less than a fuck and started to speak my mind. Which was dangerous to that community…. Also I had a bad tendency of not keeping my legs together when I bent down, and one time I accidently showed my underwear (that’s really embarrassing btw, it’s not cute, it’s not funny, it’s awful when you're 14 yo-- really any age actually).

So, one day I wore a long jean skirt for a youth outing with the church. I was required to wear it, but I always wore leggings underneath so I wouldn’t accidentally show my undies if I fell down or the wind blew it. This fucker had to say something about it. The old man turned to me with a wrinkled smirk as I was passing by him and dared to utter, “Now, don’t you feel most femine and ladylike in that skirt? I’m sure Jesus would like seeing you like that.”

My shoulders clench up tight, my brow furrows. All I can remember seeing is fucking red and actually trembling with fury. (This was happening in my pastor, D’s father’s, own living room mind you.) D was there watching as I blanched about ten shades of red in anger and embarrassed because that prick of an old man called me out in front of everyone. I turned to him and half shouted, “NO! I don’t!” I could see my pastor’s mouth drop to the floor as I began to completely obliterate this old man. But I couldn't stop myself as I started to further cut into him. “—I hate wearing skirts! I don’t feel ladylike! In fact, they make me feel vulnerable! What if some guy tries to rape me! They won’t have any problem getting to me!—Why is something with a whole on the bottom more ladylike than something that actually covers me?! I like pants! They are comfortable and they make me feel safe! Why is that a sin to wear something that is more covering?!?! I’m not cross dressing, my mom bought them in the girl’s session!! [Keep in mind that was a long time ago, I don’t feel like people should care about what section they get their clothes from, wear what you want] And what do you know about wearing a skirt?! You’re a man! You try wearing them! They suck! You need to stop telling me what I can and can’t wear! I’m not dressing like a whore for wearing something with a crotch!! SO LEAVE ME ALONE!!” Everyone in the living room was just stunned at my audacity to dare speak to this pastor like I did. But he was so fucking quiet after that. And I stormed out of the house and the guest pastor never spoke to me again about it. Luckily my mom came and picked me shortly after that. She was angry too after I told her what happened. That old fuck singled me out and I was pissed off. I was a teenager and that shit was embarrassing!

But I made the mistake of showing my true self. I think after that moment, D stopped liking me after that.

Some shit went down south with my parents behind closed doors of my household, and eventually they got divorced. They left the small church because the pastor didn’t approve of it. Pastor said that my parents just needed more counseling but he didn't understand that they just needed to not be together. Sometimes you can’t make things work. Especially when your dad is a toxic piece of shit that only cares about himself.

Anyways, everyone in my family left the church, but I stuck around that shit-hole just to see if D would ask me out. I was so desperate, I felt like I waited forever, but really it was like 2-3 years, and I felt like I couldn’t give up. Eventually D and I turned 16. He started to become distant and a little mean towards me and I became confused and started to realize the worst. Finally, I was tired of waiting so I asked his older sister if he liked me on the way back taking me home. I could see it in her face, that she didn’t want to have my heart broken, but reluctantly she told me no. He actually liked another girl at his new private school and was going to ask her parents to court her instead.

I was so devastated.... It hurt so much, I cried myself to sleep that night, and most of that week I was very sad.

Obviously, after that, I stopped going to church entirely, I couldn't show my face anymore. Finally let myself question my faith, sexuality, gender roles, and humanity all together. And realized that religion was stupid (in my opinion at the time) and I came u with the conclusion that people can be sheep. I was a sheep for a long time. And I refuse to be one ever again.

High school was very enjoyable after that, and I let myself grow and started to love other religions and world history, and tried to stop being so judgmental of others and what they felt like. I even got into a relationship with a sweet boy around my age.

Eventually in college, after a break-up with my high school sweetheart, I reconnected with D via FB. Apparently, the church went under and his parents moved away to Greece to be missionaries or something. D still lives in the same town I’m in, but graduated from a “Christian academy”—not Catholic, Christian. Catholic colleges are accredited at least. But he basically told me he was a secret “bad boy” now. He lost his virginity in highschool, (like I did) and he was totally trying to booty call me. Not even hiding it either! He was like, “Hey, Llama, you wanna fuck?”.

And I was like, “D! You broke my fucking heart when we were young! Don’t you remember that???”

And he was like, “Oh no! I had no idea! (the fuckin’ liar). Well, we can fuck now!~ *wink, wink*”

🤨

This is where I was a jerk.... Because he broke my heart. I led him on, told him I would meet up with him at his house to sleep with him, and just didn’t show up—ghosted him ever since. The worst part about that, is I still don’t regret doing that to him. I hope I hurt his feelings and felt like an ass like I did.

So years have passed, I consider myself as a rather successful woman now. I’m 27, I consider myself Buddhist (I am a terrible Buddhist I know), I am an Occupational Therapy Assistant and I have a great husband (I married the guy I was with in high school). And he loves the real me—the crazy closet weeb, cartoon watching, creative, expressive, me! The person who also writes fanfiction about a romance novel and he is fine with it. Because he is a huge nerd too and we are both nerds together.

My husband is my best friend and I don’t know what I’d do without him. When I write about Rhemi and Muriel, I draw a lot of inspiration with our conversation we have and how relationship dynamics are and I think it makes the writing more authentic and makes them feel a bit more real.

I love my husband more than anything… So why do I keep dreaming about that stupid asshole that just liked the fake me? D was and always will be a total tool. He is like the basic bitch of a man. And yet I still find him creeping in my dreams and I try to cheat on my husband with him in them. I wake up feeling totally terrible and weird after them too. D is a terrible fucking person—the worst person you can be in my opinion—The kind of person why lies and tells people one thing, but hides the fact that he’s really just a nasty fuck boy. If you are one, just be honest! Don’t tell another woman you're a good christan man, when really you’ve slept with not just one, but multiple girls! That how you get fucking STDs! I hate being lied to, and I’m sure other girls do too! So I guess that’s why I do, because I felt like I was lied to my entire life. Then again, why should I even care?! Why do I feel like I still obsess over him? I hate him so much now! So why do I even care? Why do I still find myself stalking him on social media? Why does it even matter? Why do I want him to see I’m happy without him? Why do I want him to see what he could have had with me? We were just stupid teenagers! Why did I care so much? Why did it hurt so much when I found out he didn’t like me?! It’s been over a decade, and we didn’t even really date! Why did this affect me so hard? …. FUCK!

So yeah. That’s my long ass rant for you all… thanks for coming to my ted talk.

#story time #mad llama momma story #true story #weird dreams #why does my brain do this? #anybody relate? #does anyone get me? #vent post