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inquiringquilter · 5 months

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Quilt Block Mania - December is Forest

Welcome to my stop on the Quilt Block Mania Blog Hop. Each of the designers participating in the hop are sharing a block pattern inspired by this month’s theme, which is Forest!

I love walking in the woods, and for this month’s block I imagined a quiet evening in the woods at Christmas. Above, a single star lights the way. The only witness? A tiny cardinal.

To learn how to get my free pattern, see How Do I Get the Free Silent Witness Pattern? at the end of this post.

To me, a cardinal represents a small glimmer of hope in the bleak winter landscape. So in Silent Witness, although no one else is there to see the bright star that lights the way, the cardinal witnesses it and becomes a reminder to us of hope.

I call my block Silent Witness. It uses raw edge fusible applique techniques. I hope you’ll make my block and tag me on social media @inquiringquilter!

To learn how to get my free pattern, see How Do I Get the Free Silent Witness Pattern? at the end of this post.

There are lots of designers in this hop so be sure to visit all of them for your free pattern. Here are links to all the blocks in the Quilt Block Mania Forest Series:

Owl by Carolina Moore Silent Witness by Inquiring Quilter Forest by Inflorescense Designs Forest Tree by Scrap Dash Bear Paw by Epida Studio Snowy Forest by QuiltFabrication The Grove by Patti's Patchwork Mushroom by Penny Spool Quilts Reindeer by Crafty Staci Christmas Tree Farm Enchanted Forest by Sew Worthy Mama Wolves by Paleofish Designs Fat Bear Week by Sallys Sewing Circle Chipmunk by Katie Mae Quilts Fox by Appliques and More Heart of Oak by Flowerdog+Co Snowman by Colette Belt Designs Mountain Forest by Oh Kaye Quilting Starry Sky by Patchwork Breeze

I used to make my block into a mini quilt so I could display it at work. Now that I’m concentrating on my business, I don’t seem to have the time! But you can make mini-quilts with each month’s Quilt Block Mania block from me, or you can collect the blocks from all the designers in each month and make a quilt.

Scroll through my past Quilt Block Mania blocks. By the way, if you missed any of my previous Quilt Block Mania blocks, they are available in my shop.

US CUSTOMERS INTERNATIONAL CUSTOMERS

Quilt Block Mania returns next month with a surprise theme, so be sure to come back on the first Tuesday of the month to see what I create!

How do I get the free Silent Witness block pattern?

My Silent Witness block pattern is free to my email subscribers. I send out a short newsletter every Sunday with news about blog hops, sales, and the goings on here at Inquiring Quilter and I also include a code in my newsletter for downloading this month’s pattern for free.

The newsletters go out each Sunday, with the next one on December 10th. Watch for it in your Inbox! Inside the newsletter is a code that will enable you to download the block pattern from my shop for free.

If you’re already a subscriber, you don’t need to do a thing except wait until my newsletter arrives. Then open the newsletter and use the code to download my pattern.

If you aren’t a subscriber yet but you’d like to be, click here to sign up. Then watch for my newsletter on Sunday to get your code!

Before you go, let me tell you about everything that’s going on here this week.

Happenings Here at Inquiring Quilter

If you follow me on social media or subscribe to my newsletter, than you know that I’ve just opened up the My Quilty Neighborhood membership for the first time!

I’m so excited to create this special place for you to continue your quilting journey as you build strong friendships with other quilters.

Right now, the My Quilty Neighborhood membership is open for founding members at the lowest price it will ever be--$10.99 per month. The founding members and I will be deciding the things that the membership should include—so we'll be building our perfect quilty world together.

I don't know for sure what the membership will include because I'll be guided by the desires of the founding members, but most likely it'll include monthly Quilty Q&As, Sip and Sews, Sip and Chat meetings, free patterns, and tutorials. If the founding members wish it, the membership will also include challenges, swaps, BOMs, and anything else we can dream up!

I would love to have you join us! Hurry though—the doors close to the My Quilty Neighborhood at midnight EST on Tuesday.

If you're not sure, you can always join for the first month and then quit if it's not for you. Fair warning though—I don’t think you’re going to want to because this is going to be wonderful! The founding member price however will only remain in effect as long as you stay a member.

My weekly show and tell linkup, Wednesday Wait Loss is six years old! Over the years, my little weekly group has encouraged many wonderful finishes. Join us by sharing your latest project.

Here’s a link to this week’s show and tell link up.

If you’re looking to make new friends, join me on Facebook this Saturday for my weekly online quilting retreat I call my Saturday Sew-In. The fun starts at 8 AM EST and runs through 6 PM EST. It’s not live but there are get to know you prompts throughout the day to spark discussion and friendship. This is a fun and friendly group and you’ll soon make friends—real friends.

In addition, you’ll be inspired by other quilter’s projects and you’ll gets tons of encouragement as you share your own. If you’ve been missing companionship since COVID started, I guarantee you’ll find it here. Saturday Sew-In takes place in my private Facebook group. Click here to join my Facebook group. Be sure to answer the questions so I know your not a bot.

Thanks for stopping by!

This post may contain affiliate links. By clicking on a link and making a purchase, you help offset the cost of running this blog at no additional cost to you. Thank you!

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Tell me…will you be making my Elephant block?

#Free #Featured #Quilt Block Mania

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steele-soulmate · 9 months

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Tattooed Wings, CHAPTER 392, Peter Steele & OFC, Soulmate AU

SUMMARY: Mary Claire Bradley meets her soulmate- literally- the famous Peter Steele of metal group Type O Negative. But will obstacles including trauma, stalkers, and toxic family members get in the way of their life?

WARNING: mentions of child rape (nothing graphic) PTSD, milk kink, soft smut, grinding, assault, fingering, hand jobs, blow jobs, 69, P in V sex, blood, noncon rape, blood, violence, death, vandalism, graffiti, attempted kidnapping, break-ins, wild animal attacks, terrorist attack (sabotage)

WORDS: 1133

Quilted puffer vest, in DARK EMERALD GREEN, size M

Cute winter hat, scarf, gloves set, in GREEN SNOWFLAKE PATTERN

Warm thermal underwear, in GREEN AND BLUE POLKA DOTTED PATTERN, size M

Cute Hiking Boots for Women, in BLACK COLOR, size 6 ½

Wool Socks in Cute Patterns, in GREEN STRIPES, size S/M

Moisturizing ChapStick, in VANILLA BEAN, size 3 pack

I Love SF Sunglasses, in RED HEART

Winter Sweater, in DARK GREEN ARGILE and BRIGHT TURUIOSE BLUE and PALE EMERALD GREEN and SOFT BLACK and DEEP ROYAL BLUE, size M

Fleece Lined Demin Jeans in SOFT BLACK, size S/M, QUANTITY 4

SPF Sunscreen for Sports, in 120 SPF

I nibbled at my lip as I browsed the Amazon wish list that Peter had made for me, titled HONEYMOON FOR MY SWEETHEART. He had carefully selected stylish and comfy articles of clothing for me to buy, choosing different hues of greens with bits of blues sprinkled in.

I scrolled to the bottom of the list and promptly turned bright pink at the sexy lingerie set that he had added in a soft sweet green color. I also added bright poppy turquoise colored lace to my shopping basket and then went to check out.

I checked out, turning to where Peter was doing his rehabilitating workouts with the babies as weights. Even now, he still couldn’t stand for long periods of time and was currently about to graduate from using a custom made cane tuned to his height and weight, but if there was one word to describe my husband’s work ethics, that word was determined.

He hadn’t said it out loud, but I could tell that he was itching to get back into shape so that he could protect his family from those intending to do harm onto us. While I was appreciative of his role as the family protector, I understood that he had been gravely injured and that he now needed to fully heal before he could honestly do anything else.

Peter had told me that Type O Negative was going to go on tour in November and that he wanted the entire family- myself, Baby Tommy, Daisy, Elizabeth, Elle, Katie and Jing- to accompany him. He had told me that the band manager was looking into hotels for the family to stay in while the band went on a six week tour of the east coast, to which my response had been that I would need to make arrangements for the girls to be homeschooled and for the house to be looked after in our absence.

The Ratajczyk family patriarch had told me that the band would be hitting up to five cities a week, and that by the end of the tour, Type O Negative would’ve visited thirty three cities. He had given me a rundown of where our stops would be. I was so excited- Salem, Boston, Philadelphia, Charleston, Baltimore, Savannah, Myrtle Beach…

“We are going to have so much fun,” I giggled the night before while we were curled up around each other. “Do you want me to call up Adam and ask him if the twins can come with?”

Peter’s face glowed with happiness as he tugged me to lay on top of his burly chest as he peppered my face with kisses.

“I love you.” KISS “I love you.” KISS “I love you.” KISS “I love you.” KISS “I love you.” KISS “I love you.” KISS “I love you.” KISS “I love you.” KISS

“I love you, my handsome silver daddy,” I giggled, cuddling into him as a late night infestation of bedbugs swarmed the bed. “Hihi kids.”

“Mamamamamama…” babbled Baby Tommy as he awkwardly crawled up to us before falling into my pillow and snuggling into the sleep aid. “Mamamamamama…”

“To what do we owe this late night visit to?” Peter rumbled as he opened his arms for the kids to come in and tuck themselves into his side.

“Little girl wouldn’t stop whining,” Elizabeth explained, tugging the adorable two year old girl and Elle into her side and rolling onto her back.

“Poor little girl,” Peter crooned, allowing her to crawl up onto his as well. “Is your baby anxiety make it hard for you to sleep?”

“Papa Pete,” mewled little girl as she settled down for sleep. “Papa Pete. Papa Pete. Papa Pete. Papa Pete. Papa Pete. Papa Pete. Papa Pete. Papa Pete.”

“Little girl’s baby PTSD will pass soon enough,” I told the family as I began to gently stroke her chubby leg.

“Oh!” Katie gasped, sitting up suddenly. “Before I forget…” She tore off out of the bedroom, leaving me and Peter to exchange glances. She returned about five minutes later, holding a neatly wrapped parcel, which she handed to her baby sister. “Happy birthday little girl, from Lizz Lizz and me!”

The already spoiled birthday girl happily tore into her present, unwrapping a little cloth dollie. Much like Baby Tommy’s mini me, it was carefully hand crafted in light brown cotton fabric for the skin, with dark red yarn for hair and a petite white diaper and bright pink t-shirt.

“Mee mee!” squealed little girl as she hugged the plush toy tight to her chest. “Mee mee!”

“Liddle gurl?” Baby Tommy asked, holding up his own well-loved plush toy. “Baabee Tom Tom? Liddle gurl? Baabee Tom Tom?”

I giggled as I watched the babies comparing their favorite toys before they settled down for bed, cooing as they held each other’s hands.

“Sweet babies,” I cooed, settling myself down for the night. “Goodnight my love.”

“Goodnight sweetheart,” he chuckled in a deep rumble.

“See you in the morning.” I settled my ear against his chest and drifted off to sleep listening to my favorite sound.

THUD THUMP

TAGLISTS ARE OPEN/ ASK BOX IS OPEN/ REQUESTS ARE OPEN/ PLOT BUNNIES ARE WELCOMED

If you liked this, then please consider buying me a coffee HERE It only costs $3!!!

PETER STEELE TAGLIST

@starchild0985

#Real person fiction (RPF)#Tattooed Wings #Peter Thomas Ratajczyk #Type O Negative #Vanessa Rose Pickings/ little girl #Special needs baby #Aria Bradley #Evie Bradley #Deaf #American Sign Language (ASL)#Elizabeth Ratajczyk #Alopecia #Thomas Joseph Ratajczyk/ Baby Tommy #Autism #Katie Ratajczyk #Down's Syndrome #Matching tattoos soulmate AU

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comfortwriting · 3 years

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Diamond Flower - F.W

Masterlist, Requesting Rules, Writing Prompts

Fred Weasley x Fem Reader

Prompts 25, 28 & 30.

25: “Do you think she’ll like the ring?” He asked sounding nervous.

28: You held the letter close to your heart and blushed, giggling like a little girl.

30: Tiptoeing into your room, admiring you dreaming away, he placed your presents at the end of the bed and left.

About: The reader hates her birthday and Fred wants to change that.

Warnings: food and eating, death of y/n’s mother during birth.

Sitting down at the dinner table with the rest of your boyfriends family, you looked around the kitchen to see where he and his twin were, Molly muttered under her breath in annoyance and you couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Where are they! those two would be late to their own bloody wedding!” she huffed, passing you the dish of mashed potatoes.

“I’m sure they just got carried away, you know what they’re like” you reassured her, putting the mash on your plate “they’ll be home any minute”

Fred and George went to Diagon Alley for the day, they said they had business plans to handle with the shop being so successful but instead, George was helping his twin look for an engagement ring.

“bit naff proposing on her birthday though, isn’t it?” he asked, looking at different rings.

Fred shook his head walking over to the next cabinet “she hates her birthday and we already talked about this years ago, it would give her a reason to be happy and to celebrate it.”

George spotted a ring with a sparkling ruby, pointing at it “so that's the only reason why you’re proposing then?”

Fred rolled his eyes and slapped his brothers arm, looking at the ring and shaking his head, focusing on the other ones.

“is it fuck, you’re starting to sound like Ron, Georgie.”

Fred stopped in his tracks, picking up the perfect ring, the diamond shaped like a flower. “I’m marrying Y/N because I love her, George.”

Fred tapped on the glass and called out to the saleswoman behind the counter “Can I get this ring please?”

Fred turned to face his brother “I just want the most depressing day of the year for her to be one of the happiest, something for her to be happy about, you know?”

The saleswoman took out her wand and unlocked the cabinet, picking up the ring. “the ring size?”

Fred took out his square piece of paper and handed it to her, the lady smiled and tapped the ring with her wand, changing its size.

All three of them walked back over to the counter, the saleswoman putting it inside a sleek dark blue box.

“but why is she so against her birthday?” George asked, focusing on the ring box.

Fred focused on the ring box too “because her mother died whilst giving birth to her, Y/N blames herself.”

The saleswoman took the gold from Fred and handed him the ring box, him and George walking out back into the evening cold.

“Do you think she’ll like the ring?” He asked sounding nervous.

George nodded “she’ll love it, mate.”

Ron took the dish from you, his mouth full of Yorkshire pudding “there’ll be none left by the time they bet back”

Hermione scowled at him “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Ronald!”

“None of what?” You boyfriend, Fred chimed in, sitting next to you and placing a kiss on your temple.

George followed behind and sat next to Ginny, flashing his mum an apologetic look, muttering that he would explain later.

You loved Sunday roast dinners at the burrow, surrounded by the Weasley family, Angelina, Hermione and Harry, all of you one big family - you missed the presence of Bill and Fleur but the new baby meant they had to take advantage of any shut eye they could get.

Casual talk went across the table, work, work, more work, and you were thankful - at this rate your upcoming birthday would go unnoticed and not mentioned. Unfortunately, a glint of excitement flashed in Molly’s eyes when her focus landed on you.

“Oh Y/N! How could I forget dear!” she beamed, getting out of her seat, swishing her wand collecting all of the empty plates “your birthday in four days, do you have any plans?”

Fred and George shared a nervous glance, Fred’s hands now under the table, playing with his fingers.

Hermione went quiet and flashed you a sympathetic look, she knew how much you hated celebrating your birthday and she felt guilty for not telling Mrs Weasley that you preferred to spend the day alone.

You shook your head, moving back whilst your plate hovered in the air, flying towards the other pile of plates on the worktop “no” you replied, smiling slightly “just going to stay home and catch up on some reading”

Molly waved her hand and shook her head “that's no way to celebrate your birthday! Ginny and I will bake you something special, won’t we?”

Molly walked over to her daughter and stood behind her seat, placing her motherly hands on Ginny’s shoulders. Ginny smiled widely and nodded “of course! been wanting to get more practice for ages!”

You knew if you were to back out now Molly would take it personally, and you didn’t want to hurt her feelings after everything she has done for you since Fred welcomed you into his home five years ago.

You smiled and looked at Fred, his expression slightly sad with a splash of worry “is that okay with you?”

Fred nodded and smiled “it’s your special day, darling.”

You pulled back your quilt and got into bed, pulling the sheets back over your cold legs, Fred leant against the door frame and stared at you for a moment, he walked into the bedroom and got undressed, climbing into bed next to you.

“I’m sorry love, you know what my mum is like” he murmured through a yawn, spooning you.

You nodded and dimed the lights “it’s okay Freddie, she doesn’t know”

The two of you were silent for a moment, Fred slowly placing loving kisses on the back of your neck. You remembered the looks he and George were giving each other over dinner, the low muttering and whispers.

“what were you and George up to?” you asked quietly “you were late to dinner and kept giving each other odd looks.”

Fred didn’t answer, his breath hitched in his throat “uh, we... a trial for one of our new products didn’t go to well” he lied, shuffling slightly.

You knew Fred wasn’t telling the truth, you could always tell when he was lying - but you were too tired to push his buttons and you just wanted the next four days over and done with.

“okay” you yawned, sinking into the mattress, drowning in Fred’s arms and covers “goodnight Freddie”

“goodnight love”

The morning of your birthday, Fred got up bright and early, the shop hours today were altered so he could be home earlier to support you, but with that he needed to be up and out the house earlier too.

Fred put on his coat, nearly ready to set off for work, he got out your presents and a special card in a deep blue envelope that matched the colour of the ring box which he hid behind the photo frame of the two of you at the Yule Ball.

Tiptoeing into your room, admiring you dreaming away, he placed your presents at the end of the bed and left.

Fred couldn’t stop his nerves, between serving customers and stocking the shelves with products he couldn’t help but chew George’s other ear off with his worries.

“what if Y/N says no?”

George shook his head and rolled his eyes “don’t be a plonker, she isn't going to say no, now get those bloody skiving Snackboxes out!”

Once you were able to roll out of bed, you took a bath and tried to stop the guilt from taking over you, opening your presents you were so touched by the beautiful gifts Fred had got you - feeling very grateful and slightly better than you were expecting.

As the day went by, like Fred, you felt more and more nervous, your stomach doing flips and your hands shaking like a tree in the wind - you didn’t know how ready you were for a big cake, all the singing, blowing out the candles, and cheering; but you couldn’t back out, not now.

Dragging yourself into your room, you put on your best dress which sparkled different shades of purple in different lights, and you put on your favourite earrings - a present from Freddie for you first year together.

Hearing a cracking noise, you turned around and gripped your dresser, trying to catch your breath. Fred apparated in front of you with a cheerful expression on his face, he pulled you into a tight embrace.

“you look gorgeous, Y/N.” he kissed your head, pulling away from the embrace.

Fred was already dressed in his smart suit, he kept turning his head and looking over the the living room.

“do you hear that?” he asked you, walking out of the bedroom.

You shook your head “no, what is it?” and followed him into the living room.

Fred stood in front of the same picture frame on the wall, staring at the two of you smiling in your best outfits on Christmas Day.

“you shook see what's behind it, love.”

You looked into Fred’s eyes and knitted your eyebrows together, a rare smirk spreading across your face. “no funny business” you warned him, chuckling slightly.

Walking over to the picture frame and pulling it out from the wall, the dark blue envelope hiding behind it swiftly fell to the floor, landing on your feet. Bending over and picking it up, your name was written across it in silver.

You looked at Fred for a moment, he looked back at you with a nervous look on his face.

“Open it, sweetheart.”

Opening the envelope, you pulled out the letter inside.

You held the letter close to your heart and blushed, giggling like a little girl.

Fred knew how much you loved his love letters, the two of you used to write back and forth whenever you were apart.

You pulled the letter away from your heart and started to read:

Dear Y/N,

Words can’t ever explain or describe how much I love you, how much I adore you, what you and your smile does to me and my heart. You are perfect, you are my sunshine on a cloudy day, you’re my liquid luck.

I know this day is never easy for you, but please know it wasn’t and never will be your fault.

I feel so blessed to have you in my life and I don’t ever want to experience a life without you - I know I’m stupid sometimes with all the pranks and being the hilarious one in the relationship, but you are my everything and you keep me grounded, you make this house feel like a home.

Please put down the letter and say yes.

- Freddie.

Moving the letter out of your view, your jaw dropped and tears of happiness instantly pricked your eyes and filling them. In front of you, Fred got down on one knee and looked up at you, holding out a beautiful engagement ring, the diamond in the shape of your favourite flower.

“Miss Y/N Y/L/N, my liquid luck, my everything - will you marry me?”

Putting your hands over your mouth you nodded your head, blinking away the tears “yes! I will Freddie!”

Fred got up, tears in his eyes too and placed the stunning ring on your finger, pulling you into his arms and sharing a long and special kiss.

Blowing out the candles on your toffee cake, everyone in the burrow cheered, George flashing Fred a huge smile once he saw the ring on your finger.

Cutting the cake into slices and putting each slice on the duck egg blue plates, you handed Molly her slice of cake, her eyes widening when she spotted the ring. Leaping out of her chair, she pulled you into a tight hug, tears in her eyes matching yours and Fred's.

“Oh everyone, look!” she gabbed your hand, making you show off the beautiful ring “Fred and Y/N are engaged!”

Looking into the eyes of your future husband, you smiled and mouthed “best birthday ever”

Taglist: @reeophidian @amourtentiaa @inglourious-imagines

#fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley x you #fred weasley imagine #george weasley #george wealsey x reader #george wealsey imagine #george weasley fanfiction #George Weasley one shot #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #Harry Potter fanfic #imagines #oneshots #fanfic #fanfiction

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sadaboutniall · 3 years

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Without Fear

masterlist | tag | wattpad

Chapter One. January.

remember that first laugh? all it changed once I had that // like a hurricane, but I don't care where I land - rome, dermot kennedy

The whole thing had started out as a joke. Or maybe a pipe dream. Or maybe a massive mental breakdown and a poorly thought-through trip to the passport office for a rush renewal and a visa application.

No matter how it had started, Luna hadn’t actually thought it would pan out. Two and a half months ago, standing in her parents’ kitchen in New York, reading the lawyer’s letter, it had been a shiny, exciting, half-baked idea—an escape she could cling to while everything else was going to shit. It hadn’t been a reality.

It was hardly a reality even as it began to happen: Luna, packing her bags on a Friday night, deciding which pictures of her ex to keep and which to toss; Luna’s dad, hoisting her bags into the trunk of the car for her; Luna’s mom, petting her hair as she hugged her goodbye at the airport.

And it wasn’t real when she got to Inis Mór either: her snug little apartment above the coffee shop, the smattering of mismatched furniture that her Great Aunt Niamh had left behind, Ruairí, the black cat her new neighbor had been feeding, the mess of her suitcases, exploding on the floor, markedly different to the seemingly ancient chairs and quilts and sweaters that Niamh left for her.

Or, just left. It’s been hard for Luna to tell what’s for her and what isn’t.

And even now, nearly a month into living here and it only half feels real, the way she gets up every morning and putters down to the shop to open up, the cat following behind her, meowing for breakfast and Siobhan, the baker, already well on her way to done with the morning’s pastries, the smell of cinnamon and dough and vanilla and the cold air outside wafting through the shop to wake Luna up sweetly; the way old Mr. Whelan is always her first customer, never deviates from his order of a black coffee and a croissant, toasted; the rush of cold air every time someone opens the door, feeling like it’s flaying the shop open, sending napkins fluttering to the floor, causing Ruairí to hiss in protest and curl up closer to the fireplace. There’s nothing real in the way the sun sets at 4pm these days, quick as a wink over the hill outside the window, a flash of orange and purple the only reminder that day once broke in this place that always feels dark, under cover. There’s nothing real in the way Luna needn’t worry about anything here—her rent is paid and there are no deadlines anymore, no screaming bosses, no one angry with her for dropping an artist file or fucking up a coffee order. It’s not real, not even when she calls home and talks to her parents, when they tell her about her brother Sam’s new PhD research and his girlfriend Mary’s trip to Honduras. It’s not real, any of it. And it works. It’s fine. And so is Luna.

It’s hardly real on a Monday night at the end of January, either, after Siobhan has already left for the day and Luna is quietly closing up, tucking mugs into cabinets and dropping bits of pastry on the floor for the cat. She’s not thinking about much of anything—in the month she’s been here, Lu’s found the very start and very end of her days to be the most relaxing, the way she can clear up the shop or fire up the coffee maker without having to talk to anyone, think about anything. It’s so markedly different from what feels like a lifetime ago: bustling into the office at 8:30 and still feeling like she was late, a tray of coffees balanced in one hand, someone’s dry cleaning in the other, 12 voicemails already waiting for her, 30 emails, more coming through as her phone vibrated in her pocketbook. This is quiet and slow: Ruairí is weaving between her legs, meowing gently when he wants more treats, and outside it’s dark and still and cold, despite it being only 7pm. Luna is tired but not wiped—a feeling she forgot existed before leaving New York—and it occurs to her that she can have a slice of cake tonight in front of the TV, and maybe a glass of wine, while watching Law and Order until she falls asleep.

She’s lost in that thought—and the already building annoyance at the fact that she knows she’ll inevitably wake up on the couch at 3am and have to stumble to bed—when the door creaks open, nighttime wind rushing in, a boy stumbling after it.

“So sorry,” Lu looks up from where she’s been wiping down the counter behind the pastry display. “I’m closing up. But I still have a few leftover slices of cake if you want—”

“Oh, erm,” the boy stills, maybe surprised, and Lu does too. He’s—well. Lu hasn’t seen anyone here who looks like him.

He’s a mess of hat hair, dark at the roots and an unnatural blonde at the tips, curling over his ears and flopping over one eyebrow. He’s bright blue eyes, wide when he looks at her, and cheeks flushed red to match the tip of his nose, and a smattering of stubble along his face, darkening in the dimple of his chin, his pink lips chapped where his tongue darts out to soothe them. He takes her breath away for half a second—or maybe that’s the rush of wind that crashed against her chest when he opened the door.

The boy is clutching a guitar by its neck, gloved hand wrapped almost reverently around it, and his white high-top sneakers are mucky where the rubber soles have been sludging through the perma-mud outside. He looks like something out of a dream, maybe, Lu’s heart catching a little in her throat.

“Hi,” he says, finally, looking just as out of sorts as Lu feels. She’s not sure if that’s good or bad, but he carries on. “I wasn’t expecting—I didn’t think you would be so… uh. American? Uh,” gently, he tucks the guitar under his arm and tugs off his navy blue gloves, the cotton pilling from wear. “I’m Niall,” he reaches out a hand. It’s cold when Lu takes it to shake, when he wraps it gently around her own. “I live Kilronan.”

“Hiya,” Lu’s voice comes out softer than she expected it to. “I’m Lu. I work here.”

“Right, right,” Niall nods, swallows thick. “You’re Niamh’s niece? I was so sorry to hear about her passing—she—”

“Great niece,” Lu rushes over Niall, exhausted, even a month later, of every introduction on this island starting with a condolence. “I actually only met her once. But it sounds like she was a force.”

“You—once?” Niall shoves his gloves into the pocket of his puffer jacket.

“Yeah,” Lu shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine. Was there, uh,�� she doesn’t want to get rid of him, but doesn’t know where to go next. “Did you want one of those slices of cake? I’m sorry for you to come all the way from Kilronan for nothing.”

“Oh,” Niall looks like he’s only just remembered where he is. “No, I didn’t come for cake. I, uh, I have a… a question? An idea?”

Briefly, Lu worries if she should be nervous—but crime doesn’t happen here, not like this, and Lu knows the statistics when it comes to stranger attacks. Either way, Niall keeps talking before she can spiral, the words tumbling out like he knows he has to speak before he thinks better of it.

“I, uh, I was wondering if there’s any chance you were looking for someone to, like, play guitar and sing a bit? Like, live music in the shop for a couple hours a week? You don’t have to pay me or anything, ‘m not asking for that, but I could maybe leave my case open for tips? I can do covers or requests or—whatever you want, really. And I can give you my work schedule and we can work around that; I’m free on the weekends mostly, except for when I coach football, but also on weeknights if you’d prefer that and if you want to split the tips I understand, we can do that too, and also—”

“Niall,” Lu can’t take it. He’s speaking so fast it’s shuttling her toward an anxiety attack, and throwing up on the shoes of the first cute boy she’s seen in a month was not on her agenda for today. Meeting a cute boy in general was not on her agenda for today, but Lu’s been learning that things don’t tend to pan out the way she plans them. “I like the idea. That sounds cool.”

“I totally understand if—wait, really?” Niall pauses, hand halfway up to his face, like he was going to cover his mouth, or rub his eyes, or bite his nails. His brow furrows and his mouth drops open a little, like he didn’t expect it to be that easy. Like he didn’t accept Lu to be agreeable at all.

“Yeah,” Lu shrugs, then nods at the guitar still tucked under Niall’s arm, “but you’ll need to audition for me,” she bites back a cheeky smile, watches Niall do the same. “I can’t have a crap singer driving away all my customers.”

“Ah, fair play,” the left side of Niall’s mouth pulls up into a smile, and Lu pointedly ignores the kick in her chest. “What would you like to hear?”

She shrugs again, as if “casual” or “easygoing” were ever words people would’ve used to describe her back home. “Your favorite song?”

“My favorite—” Niall scoffs, but there’s no malice in it—it’s playful, inviting, fun. It makes Lu feel like he wants to keep talking to her. Like he wants her to keep winding him up. “You think I can narrow it down to one favorite song?”

“I can,” Lu smiles, soft, “I’m good at making decisions.”

“Go on, tell us then.”

“You first,” Lu gestures toward a table, the only one in the shop that isn’t rickety when there’s too much weight on it. “Then I’ll tell ya.”

Niall hums under his breath, approval, and settles himself on top of the table easily, feet perched on the chair, guitar natural in his lap. He strums once, to check that everything is in tune, and then glances up through the bit of hair that’s fallen over his eye. He’s striking—bright blue eyes, a shock of blonde at the tips of his hair, a lone dimple digging into his filled out cheeks—and Lu feels her stomach swoop and kick again. She takes a deep breath, crosses her arms over her chest. Niall sits up straight.

“Alright,” he says it so quietly that Lu thinks it might just be for him. She’s suddenly struck with the notion that she’s intruding on something, a moment between Niall and his guitar and himself that isn’t for her—that, maybe, this isn’t something a lot of people get to see.

And, if that’s true, Lu realises the second he starts strumming, it’s a damn shame.

It takes Lu a second to recognize the song, but it doesn’t even matter. With a guitar in his hand Niall is even more mesmerizing. Hypnotizing. Completely, incomprehensibly, irresistible.

And then he opens his mouth. And Lu feels sick.

It’s “With or Without You”.

But there’s none of the corniness, none of the playful groaning and eye rolling that usually accompanies a U2 cover. Instead, Lu feels frozen to her spot in the middle of the shop, Niall, seated atop the table, eyes down, an anchor in the middle of this island. His voice, lower than she expected, and raspy in all the right places, is somehow vulnerable and confident at the same time—somehow makes her want to simultaneously hold him and be held by him, to protect him and let him protect her. It’s real. It’s vulnerable. It’s terrifying. Lu doesn’t know what to do with it.

The song lasts forever and is over in an instant. Eyes closed, Niall carries out the final, desperate, confident, terrified, “I can’t live, with or without you,” as he stops playing and lets his voice take over. The whole shop shakes with it. Or maybe that’s just Lu, trembling.

His eyes don’t open for a few seconds. Lu can feel herself breathing, she can feel her heart beating, she can feel the wind, outside, throwing itself against the shop’s ancient windows. She can feel it when Niall opens his eyes.

“Was it that shite?”

Overwhelmed, Lu exhales an unstoppable, lovely laugh. Niall’s cheeks are red and his eyes are a little glassy and he runs a hand through his thick hair, his bicep flexing just a millimeter. Lu already knows there’s no way this can last.

“Terrible,” she smiles. “Worst I’ve ever heard. When can you start?”

####

They work out the schedule together, leaning over the only good table, comparing planners. Lu still keeps her old Moleskin, dark purple, embossed with her college seal and the year she graduated. She hasn’t needed it much lately—after years of her work, and eventually her social life, revolving around Google Calendar, she feels a freedom in being able to jot down appointments and approximate times in a messy journal. Niall’s got a battered leather one—doodles on the front, his name in script on the first page. He flips through it quickly, keeps it close to his chest.

He works at a local furniture and home goods boutique most days, as a design consultant, and coaches the middle school’s co-ed soccer team on Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday afternoons, with games on Saturdays. Lu tells him not to overbook himself but he does it anyway, and they settle on Monday, Thursday, and Friday nights, as well as Saturday mornings, starting the next week. He says he’ll have a friend work up posters to advertise, and tries, again, to tell Lu he’ll split his tips.

At 10:30, he notices the time, his cheeks pinking up, his chapped lower lip caught between his teeth. They’d been splitting the final two slices of cake, and there’s a tiny glob of chocolate caught in the corner of his mouth.

“Fuck,” he says, looking reluctant, “I’ve got to go, I’m meant to be at work at 8 tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, God,” Lu feels a bit like she’s coming out of a daze, that feeling she gets, sometimes, when she’s been reading a book or watching a movie and then has to reimmerse herself in the real world. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you.”

“No, no,” Niall rushes, “you didn’t. I—thank you. For the chocolate cake. And the, uh, opportunity.”

“Don’t mention it.” Lu presses her lips together, resists the urge to lean forward and thumb at the chocolate on his mouth. “You’ve got, uh, a bit of chocolate,” she touches the mirroring spot on her own mouth, “right there.”

“Right,” he smiles, tongue darting out to catch it. “I won’t. Thanks.”

Lu gathers the plates and cups and totes them to the sink while Niall gets his things together. When she turns around, he’s bundled in his coat and scarf, hat pulled low over his brows, free hand shoved into the pocket of his puffer. She doesn’t know how to look away from him.

“I guess I’ll see you next week, then?” He asks, fiddling with the zipper on his puffer. He hasn’t got all the chocolate—Lu wonders what it would taste like against his lips.

“Next week,” she echoes. “Yeah.”

“Brilliant. I’ll, uh—I’m excited. Have a good week.”

Lu’s “and you” gets lost in her throat as she watches Niall head toward the door. His hand is on the knob when he turns back around.

“Wait, Lu.”

The sound of her name in his mouth makes her heart stutter. She hopes her raised brow will pass for a response.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“What?” She gets that out, at least.

“Your favorite song of all time,” Niall smiles, dimple prominent. “What is it?”

Looking back, Lu has no idea where the sudden confidence comes from. But, somehow, it does. She smiles, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Not sure I want to tell you yet,” she says, kind. “I want to see if you figure it out for yourself.”

####

taglist: @missy14us @coconutdawn @ficnarry @okaaayniall @theresnooneheretosave @niallgolden @tinyfelthat @adoremp3 @thelifeofbo @crocodileniall @niallsguitarthings

Join the tag list here.

#one direction #1dff #one direction fan fiction #niall horan #niall horan fic #niall horan fan fiction #niall horan imagine #niall #without fear #eeeeek!#ok hope you like this!!#im nervous

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bffsoobin · 4 years

Text

Windflower

01| 02|03|04|05|06

↳ after a heartbreak you find yourself in a small town looking for purpose. you find employment with Choi Soobin and his impressive ancestral home. when you start to fall in love again, there’s no way for you to predict what you find in the depths of the home and Soobin’s mind.

➤ hanahaki au, fluff, angst

Word Count: 2,438

Warnings: Light swearing, Soobin being a cutie pie, me not proofreading. I think that’s it??

A/N: This does include the writing that was part of the preview post I made, but it is the first official chapter of Windflower! Please know that genre and warnings will change with every chapter I post! I also don’t quite have an upload schedule, sorry about that!! Hope you all enjoy nonetheless!

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•

Your car groaned in protest as you turned into the parking lot of the quaint diner. Giving the dashboard two loving yet harsh hits with the palm of your hand seemed to do the trick. Now silent, the beat up blue car seemed to quietly thank you as you settled between the white painted lines of a parking space and shut off the engine. It was a gray, overcast day but humidity hung in the air wherever you went, making your hair puffy and the back of your legs stick to the cracking leather of your driver’s seat. Heaving a sigh at the uncomfortable stickiness, you pulled down the mirror from the roof of your car to survey the reflection staring back at you.

It’s a startling thing, to look at yourself in a mirror and barely recognize your face. Your skin was dull and starting to break out, the bags under your eyes had seemingly never been more prominent than they were in this moment. Your fingers danced over the darkened skin, wondering at what point of your trip you began to look so worn down. Was it the moment you left your apartment? The twelve hours of mindless driving with no destination in mind? Or had this degeneration begun the moment you found yourself completely alone in life?

You snapped the mirror back up against the roof and rubbed your hands over your face. Mindlessly, you pushed through the items littering your passenger seat until you clasped the familiar quilted fabric of your wallet. As soon as you stood up outside of your car, a wave of dizziness sent you grasping at the top of your car for support. You needed food more than you had originally estimated. Your legs were still a bit shaky from disuse as you walked toward the small white building. Portions of the paint had peeled off in jagged strips to expose the tightly stacked brown bricks waiting underneath. The simple clear door displayed a sun-faded open sign with handwritten hours of operation. As soon as you pushed the door open, the smell of grease and fresh apple pie invaded your senses and your face involuntarily shrunk up in disgust. Another thick paper sign attached on a tarnished metal stand boasted a cheerful cursive that read “Please Seat Yourself!” You could hear a radio playing faintly from somewhere in the building.

Almost every booth in the rectangular dining area was vacant, save for one elderly couple sharing a plate of fries. The floor was sticky under your feet as you made your way to a booth, and whether the texture was a result of the humidity or a lack of cleaning, you couldn’t tell. Sliding into the booth was familiar, almost comforting as you thought back to all of the times you had slid into booths with your friends at dinner, or slid yourself into a booth at the coffee shop near your apartment to work on a paper. Well. Your old apartment. The thought of adjusting to past tense created a scowl on your face as an unsuspecting waitress approached your side. She cleared her throat and caught your attention. To your surprise, she was fairly young, maybe in her late 30s; and she stood in her bright blue blouse and skirt uniform with a cock to her hip and a serving tray tucked under her arm.

“Hi, hun. My name is Melissa, what can I get ya?” the woman’s tone was deceivingly cheerful, given the slow restaurant and heavy air. You heaved a sigh and looked down at the thin paper menu. It wilted in your hand as you picked it up and you soon abandoned the idea of even trying to read through it.

“Hi. A vanilla milkshake and fries, please.” The order was so simple that Melissa didn’t even write it down, just nodded and turned to head into the kitchen to relay your order. A dull buzz warned you of the beginning of a headache but you expertly pushed the feeling aside and decided to ask for a glass of water when she came with your order. Mindlessly, you began searching your phone for places to stay in the tiny town you had stumbled upon. This hadn’t been the kind of place you expected to end up for the summer, but you were never one to plan anything. Enthralled in your scrolling through motel listings, Melissa scared you as she set your order down in front of you. She caught a look at your phone and your face flushed in embarrassment. How much of an obvious tourist could you be? You asked for a glass of water in an attempt to shoo her away, but when she came back with a glass covered in condensation she didn’t leave.

“Not from around here?” it was a rhetorical question, but you gave her props for trying to ease you into the conversation. You shook your head, not really caring to elaborate on where you came from as you shoved a few fries into your mouth.

“I don’t usually talk to customers like this, but; well, we’re dead today and I saw you looking at places to stay on your phone. I don’t recommend any of them. Especially not to a young pretty girl like you. Most of them are way too pricey for their rooms. And the Moonlight motel is literally run by a druglord. He’d gobble you up,” she shivered at her own words.

“Well, where should I stay, then? Unless I missed a Best Western on the way in, I don’t have many other choices,” you deadpanned, hoping to hide the nervousness that was rising in your stomach. If you didn’t stay here, where would you go? But then again, why do you want to stay here so bad in the first place? You took a slurp of your milkshake as you contemplated.

“Look, it’s sort of a town secret, but you remind me of my niece, so I’ll just tell you now. There’s this estate- gated, two story house, old timey stuff, gorgeous garden” Melissa waved her hands around as she spoke, chipped red fingernails putting on a show of their own. “It’s called the Flower House, actually. It’s been passed from generation to generation, since the town was founded. The boy who owns it now is just about your age, but he’s been living there alone since his cousin moved away for college years ago. He’s a lovely boy, we love when he comes into town, it just isn’t often.” you raised your eyebrows at her, trying to figure out how this mysterious boy and his ancestral house had anything to do with your housing predicament. “Long story short, he came around a few weeks ago looking for anyone who would be willing to help him keep the house and yard clean. No pay, but it’s free living in a beautiful home. And he’s not bad looking either.” she winked suggestively. “If you want, I can give you the address and you can go talk to him?”

You looked into her eyes, sparkling with hope of giving you a helping hand. “Okay, yeah. Sure, what have I got to lose?” Melissa hurried away to get writing materials as you continued eating with renewed vigor.

As Melissa cleared your minimal dishes away, she set a ripped piece of paper in front of you that simply read;

“Choi Soobin, 476 Gardenia Dr.”

After paying and being sure to leave your helpful waitress a generous tip, you hopped back in your car and began your journey to discover the mysterious Flower House.

The drive through town was oddly peaceful, even with the grumbling of your car to accompany you alongside the pop songs on the radio. Air whipped into your windows as you drove by houses, small restaurants and one single chain grocery store where everyone seemed to be shopping. Stopping at an intersection with a single blinking stoplight, your phone instructed you to turn left. You passed the town’s schools, elementary and highschool; all huddled onto one campus with a large parking lot separating the two. The electric sign posted reminders of the last day of school for the students as you sped by. The farther you got away from the school, the older the houses became. Some were rotting apart, others covered in creeping vines. The street gradually slanted upwards as you continued to drive towards your destination. At the end of Gardenia Drive stood a towering home with a multitude of windows circling the entire building. A large chimney stood out on the top, one of the only signs of the home’s age; as the outside was wonderfully kept. The most impressive feature was of course the garden, for which the house gained its nickname. Your mouth hung open as you tried to fathom the sheer amount of flowers that were in full bloom on the front lawn. Blues, pinks, purples, reds and whites all stitched together in a beautiful quilt of florals. Some ivy was growing up the old wrought iron gates and the trunks of a few towering trees. While the growth made other houses look dated and worn down, the ivy here only added to the elegance that took your breath away. With your car parked on the road right outside, you exited your car to approach the gates.

Fumbling with your hands, you navigated over the brick path leading up to the intimidating 10 foot tall gates. Despite the obvious history of the metal, a modern doorbell buzzer and camera system was installed just to the left of the entrance. It was harder than you’d like to admit to raise the courage for pressing the button. Your mind blanked as you performed the action, not knowing what to expect. A voice crackled through the speakers and made you jump.

“Who’s there?” a smooth voice inquired. Suddenly you were unsure of what to say.

“I, uh. I’m Y/N. A waitress at Russ’ Diner told me to come talk to you about an um.” your mouth was suddenly going dry. “A living arrangement?” A small exclamation of understanding was music to your ears.

“Okay! Hold on, I’ll be right over to the gate!” The static disappeared with the voice. You looked down at your phone out of habit and realized you had no reception. Figures, as you were sort of in the middle of nowhere. It didn’t matter right now anyway. You put the device in the back pocket of your shorts just as the gate began creaking open and welcoming you onto the property. You could faintly make out the shape of a body making its way toward you through the dense trees.

When he stepped into your line of sight, sunshine managed to peek through the thick blanket of clouds that had been permeating your entire visit and bask him in a wash of gold. He was tall, with long legs covered in the material of light wash skinny jeans. The knees were a bit dirty, and you recognized the stains as a mix of grass and dirt. He was wearing a simple white t-shirt that clung perfectly to his wide shoulders and showed off his defined waist.

Not only was he dressed in a way you definitely didn’t expect, but his looks threw you even farther into surprise. His face was evenly tanned, and not a single blemish could be found. Suddenly, you became all too aware of the dismal state of your own complexion and fought the urge to bring a hand up to cover your face from him. Dark, hooded eyes examined your form as you stood awkwardly on the path and waited for his next words. He seemed amused by your lack of introduction, and chuckled a little as he asked, “Y/N?”

Hearing your name broke the spell that his beauty had put you under and you nodded. His face lit into a smile as he beckoned you further onto the land with a waving hand. You followed him closely and caught his words as they floated in the wind back to you. “I’m Soobin. This house belonged to my great-great-great uncle and his wife. Well, wives.” He chuckled to himself as he led you into a gazebo. Soobin settled into one of the wooden chairs situated around a matching table and gestured for you to sit in the one across from him. A pit of nervousness built in your stomach at the close proximity between the two of you. The table was only three feet wide, and Soobin’s long leg stretched in front of him and decreased your distance even more. Up close, you could see the permanent upturn of the corners of his mouth, and the sparkle in his brown eyes.

His honey brown hair ruffled in the breeze that passed you by and he closed his eyes at the feeling for a moment. “So,” he began suddenly, “you were at Russ’? Who sent you my way for the job?” He clasped his hands together and rested his chin on the new structure. He blinked owlishly as you took a deep breath.

“Yeah, I just came into town for the summer. Melissa served me and she told me that all of the motels here are pretty shit,” Soobin laughed and nodded at that, and your heart skipped a beat. “So she gave me your info. Said you might be able to give me a better place to stay if I helped you out.”

“Ah, I see. Melissa is right, though. Those motels are awful. I definitely wouldn’t want to see you staying there.” He appraised your face for a second while he paused. “If you want the job, it’s yours.” He stated as if it were the most casual thing in the world. You sputtered.

“Wait, what? That quick? You don’t even know anything about me! I could be a murderer!” He laughed openly at you now, and the sound stirred an emotion in your stomach you hadn’t felt in months.

“Well, are you? A murderer?”

“No! Of course not.” Soobin nodded and crossed his arms over his chest.

“So, can you clean? Cook a decent meal? Drive to the city for groceries? Water some plants?” You nodded at every question he raised and watched as his smile upticked more with every bob of your head.

“Then you’re perfect. Welcome to the Flower House.” He stood, frame towering over your still sitting being and offered you a strong looking hand. Ticking his head toward the massive home behind him, he grinned. “Tour?”

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allsassnoclass · 3 years

Note

“i bought you a fuzzy sweater!” with cake maybe??

Peyton I love you here is a fluffy winter fic

cake: “I bought you a fuzzy sweater!”

Winters in New York City get romanticized in every holiday movie ever, but in reality they're full of contradictions. The city does get a certain air of excitement to it and there are countless outlets for fun winter activities, but it gets bitterly cold some days. The commute to and from work is frosty and unpleasant in the mornings and long and tiring at night. Calum has gotten into the habit of leaving a little early, simply so he has a few moments to unfreeze once he gets to work before he needs to don his apron and start serving customers. Coming home is easier, because once he gets through the door Luke is almost always there, bundled in blankets and lifting up the edge of a quilt just enough for Calum to sneak in and plaster himself to his side, leeching all of his body head. Luke always complains, then holds him closer as soon as Calum offers to get up and make hot chocolate instead.

The drafts in this apartment are worse than any other one they've been in. It's not a bad place, all things considered. It's definitely better than their last apartment, which is currently a pile of rubble due to termites being found inside the walls, and while it's further from the restaurant Calum works at and the department store Luke is a manager for, it's also a bit bigger. It's a good deal for a New York apartment on their budget, and the neighbors are fine. The only issue is how cold it gets. They've already bought a fluffy rug for the bedroom so their toes don't freeze every morning, and Calum has tried politely inquiring about the heating with the landlord a few times already. Apparently it's not individually controlled, and raising the heat for them would turn a few of the other apartments boiling.

Luke bought an small electric heater. It helps, but they can't keep it on while they sleep and there's only so much it can do when it has to fight with all of the cold air somehow getting in through the windows and under every crack in a doorway.

"I'm cold" is quickly becoming Luke's most-used phrase. He does worse in the chill than Calum does, and while he says he loves winter, Calum knows that he only loves it when he can come inside and thaw out easily with no more than one blanket and a warm beverage. They haven't even hit mid-December and this winter has already been hard on Luke's body temperature and Calum's patience. He loves Luke more than anything, but there's only so much complaining he can handle.

"Hey," Calum says one morning, Luke already wearing fuzzy socks and a sweatshirt and still somehow shivering slightly. Calum thinks his shoulders are probably permanently tense from the constant defense against the cold. "I might be home a little late. I have an errand to run after work."

Luke hums, still trying to wake up. Calum presses a cup of coffee into his hands and kisses his temple.

After work, Calum heads to the nearest department store and makes a beeline for the first employee who looks like they might help him.

"Hi, I'm looking for the warmest, fuzziest sweater you have," he says.

"You've come to the right place," the worker says, then leads him to a rather impressive sweater collection. There's more variety than he was expecting, argyles stacked on stripes and displayed next to ones novelty items that have phrases and pictures on them that could be found in an elementary school classroom. There are fancier knit pullovers and heavy wool zip ups. Calum doesn't even know where to begin.

"Oh wow," he says. "What's the warmest, do you think? We're talking heavy-duty, survive in Antartica warm."

"I'm not sure," the employee says. They wander through the aisle, pinching fabric between their fingers before perking up in front of another display.

"We've gotten really good reviews on these ones. They pill a bit in the wash, but they're super warm and pretty comfortable. I have one and it's like wearing a blanket."

They hold up an incredibly fuzzy, slightly bulky blue quarter zip. Calum reaches forward and is immensely pleased to find that it feels just as soft as it looks.

"It has pockets and a hood, too," the employee says. "We have it in a whole bunch of colors. I'm sure you can find something that works!"

"This will be perfect, actually," he says. He finds an extra large, because Luke will enjoy feeling extra cozy if it's a little big, and heads to the register, refusing to get sidetracked by any of the other bright patterns. The price makes him cringe just slightly, but it'll be worth it. It's for Luke, and Luke deserves a fuzzy sweater and to not feel cold at every moment in their apartment. They're scheduled to play at a coffee shop next week, and they'll make up this money then.

Calum hurries home, tucking his chin into his coat in an attempt to keep his neck warm. He needs to remember to bring a scarf when he goes out. Every day gets a little bit colder, and his mom got him a nice one when she found out he was serious about staying in New York.

The apartment door sticks, so Calum has to kick it open after turning the knob. Luke, for once, is not bundled up on the couch.

"Luke?" he calls.

"Kitchen," Luke calls back, which probably would've been the last place Calum checked. Sure enough, he's standing near the stove with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, eyeing the kettle intently.

"I'm making hot chocolate! This is very lucky timing," he says, getting down another mug then immediately hiding his hands back under the blanket. "How was your errand? What was it?"

"I bought you a fuzzy sweater!' Calum says, revealing it with a flourish.

"For me?" Luke asks, smile unfurling like a flower in the sun. "Cal, you shouldn't have."

"I wanted to," Calum says. "I want you to be warm, and I've been guaranteed that this is one of the warmest sweaters around."

"Can I try it on?" he asks.

"Yeah," Calum says. "I'm not going to show you and then withhold it. That'd be mean."

Luke makes grabby hands, letting the blanket fall to the floor while he slips the sweater over his head. It creates some static, making a few of his curls fall into disarray until he runs a hand over them again. Calum reaches forward and zips it up all the way.

"What do you think?" he asks.

"It's nice," Luke says. "It feels warm so far, and it's soft." He smiles again, looking down at where the sleeves end then back at Calum.

"Can I say something really cheesy?" he asks.

"Choose wisely," Calum says. "This is the only cheesy comment you get tonight. All others will have to be saved for tomorrow."

Luke takes Calum's hands and puts them in his pockets, pulling them closer together. Calum looks into his eyes, baby blues that should suggest cold but somehow are filled with warmth instead, and feels any residual ice from outside melt away.

"I don't need a sweater when I have your love to keep me warm," Luke says, then giggles.

"I'll love you extra hard this winter, then," Calum says. He leans forward and kisses Luke's nose, then his lips. The teapot whistles, interrupting any further kissing, but Calum knows Luke won't go far. They'll drink their cocoa while cuddling on the couch, then have dinner and spend the rest of the night with each other. Luke will snuggle further into the sweater and shove his cold fingers against Calum's side, and Calum will try to squirm away and absolutely fail. It's okay, though. As cheesy as it is, Calum has to agree with Luke: he doesn't need a fuzzy sweater when Luke is there to keep him warm.

#my writing #drabble #cake #this made me want snow!!!#it doesn't feel like winter and typically by now it feels like winter and I think it's because I haven't seen snow yet

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elsanna-shenanigans · 3 years

Text

December Contest Submission #12: Candles and Blankets

words: ca. 4,500 setting: mAU, candle shop AU lemon: not really cw: (SPOILER) fire, depression

Have you ever fallen in love with the gorgeous fiber artist across the street but she’s a really kind person and you aren’t sure if she’s into you or just being courteous, so you invite her to a romantic candlelit dinner for your own birthday in the back of your own candle shop?

Hey there.

My name is Anna, and …my life? Is pretty crazy.

I guess you could say the stars aligned for Elsa and I to meet.

It was a Tuesday.

New moon, new beginnings.

The sky was brightening with the dawn as I twisted my key around in the tricky lock. I really needed to call a locksmith soon, but I wasn’t sure if my business insurance covered new locks. Fires and floods, come at me; but an inconvenient lock… I probably wasn’t so lucky.

After a minute I finally heard the heavy click as my ears also noticed the sound of a car pulling up behind me. The hair on the back of my neck prickled, but instead of turning right around, I cautiously used the glass store windows to take a peek.

My shoulders relaxed. A blonde woman my age was behind the wheel.

I pretended to struggle even more with my key until I heard her get out of her vehicle. Then, I spun around with a smile on my face too bright for the hour.

“Good morning!” I greeted her. As she stepped into view to pay the meter, I couldn’t help but raise my eyebrows. You would’ve done the same if the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen just parked in front of your candle shop at 6:30 AM in the middle of October.

“Hi,” she smiled gently. I’d never seen eyes such an icy blue give off so much warmth on a chilly fall morning. She glanced up at my sign, ‘Anna’s Awesome Aromas,’ and her smile brightened. “Oh! Do you sell candles here?”

A little confused how she parked right in front of a shop she didn’t know sold candles, but not one to judge, I answered, “Yes! I make them and sell them. In fact, I’m Anna herself.” I offered my hand out to shake.

She leaned forward to shake with a cold hand and then gestured across the street at the vacant shop building. “I’m here to look at the building for lease. Nice to meet you! My name is Elsa.”

“Elsa! Wow!” This woman was flawless right down to the name. “Wait, you’re looking into Kristoff’s old place? Sweet, what’s your business?”

“Oh,” she nervously reached a hand behind her neck. “I just make blankets.”

“Just? That’s amazing! Do you knit?” I wasn’t about to let this stranger downplay her talents.

“I, um, knit, crochet, quilt, design fleece patterns, and mess with a few other styles every once in a while.”

“Wow, so you can do everything! That is so cool, Elsa. Seriously.”

Her cheeks were turning magenta. “I still have a lot to learn. I’d love to see your candle shop!” She said, deflecting the attention from herself. “Maybe after the realtor and I do our walkthrough I could take a look inside?”

“Absolutely!” I nodded. “In fact, if you’re done around lunch time, come on in and I’ll share my lasagna with you in the back. I brought enough for a small army.”

The way she smiled at me, crinkling her eyes, before she turned and walked across the street had my insides feeling… cozy. Comfortable.

Safe.

——————————

That Christmas was the best I’d had in a long time. Elsa had set up her blanket shop in early November, and we became fast friends. I never ate another lunch alone - we alternated between her office and mine, always able to keep an eye on whichever shop was unattended across the street.

December was a busy sales month for us both, with lots of customers needing candles and blankets to warm themselves and their loved ones in the cold holiday season. For that reason, I cherished our lunches as the only time we had to get to know each other as new friends. We both worked long days keeping our shops running smoothly and churning out new products in our evenings, often late into the night.

Neither of us had any employees, even a business partner, let alone a life partner; so sharing lunch with a like-minded and equally hardworking woman was honestly life changing.

The week leading up to Christmas was so busy with last-minute-gift shoppers, we called off our lunches to keep our shops open every precious minute. In a stroke of luck, Christmas fell on a Sunday, so we both closed up shop for the whole weekend, giving ourselves a true holiday.

Naturally, we spent it together. After convincing her she wouldn’t be intruding, Elsa came over to my apartment on Christmas Eve and we relaxed all day with no talk of businesses. She spent the night on my couch and our Christmas Day was filled with lazy cooking and laughter.

She gifted me a beautiful tree skirt that she knit especially for me with stripes featuring all my favorite blankets she’d made. For Elsa, I made a candle with ten different layers, because she was always saying her favorite scent was my whole shop, with all my aromas melding together.

“I can’t believe we gave each other the same thing!” She had laughed.

“It’s perfect,” I was grinning wider than I had in years. “We’re perfect,” I wanted to add.

—————————————

It’s amazing how something as simple as having a friend can make time fly by. As winter melted into spring, both Elsa and I were entering our “off season,” as people no longer craved the warmth our products provided. Even so, the days didn’t drag on.

I still lunched with Elsa every day and we never ran out of things to talk about, from crazy customer stories, to new products we’ve tried to create, to old childhood memories. There was always more to learn about each other, even after I thought Elsa might know me better than I knew myself.

But then there was the concern: did she know me well enough to figure out I had an enormous, ever-growing crush on her? And did I know her well enough to figure out if she might feel the same?

That was my main source of anguish as the weather turned as warm as my three wick candles.

Every day I sat with Elsa as she ate her chicken caesar salads or Taco Bell (there was no in between), and I ate my peanut butter sandwiches, or Campbell’s soup. And every day I’d stare at her light shining hair and blushed cheeks, as she smiled sweetly and laughed at all my jokes with a sound more gorgeous than fucking wind chimes. And every day I could feel myself falling further.

I used to live and breathe for my candle shop; I woke up with a purpose to create new scents and gorgeous colors, experimenting with different types of wax. It was usually what I dreamed about.

Now… I was dreaming about Elsa. I was waking up excited, not about how many candles I might sell that day, but how many times I might make Elsa laugh during lunch. Will she flash me that look, the one where her eyes sparkle and the corner of her mouth smiles, making it look just for a second that she had glimpsed my soul - and liked what she saw?

I just didn’t know what to make of it, because Elsa was too nice. She seemed to interact with everyone the way she interacted with me. Granted, nobody else got to spend lunch with her everyday, or talk about our small businesses together, or drop by to visit on our rare days off. But how was I supposed to find out if she was romantically into me without risking everything good that had come into both of our lives?

It was June when I had the idea. My birthday was coming up the following month, so why not plan something special? Something …romantic? Then if there was anything to blossom between us, it would have the perfect environment to happen without forcing anything or asking potentially devastating questions.

Perfect!

It wasn’t hard to plan out once I had the idea. I chose the restaurant I’d be ordering out from, and easily convinced Elsa to come over to my shop after we both closed.

I was wearing my favorite green summer dress - the flowy one with pockets - and kept my hair down for a change. At the stroke of 7 I closed up and headed out to pick up the dinner and suddenly it hit me. Was it weird to plan and host my own birthday dinner? A birthday dinner for only me and the girl I was in love with?

Well, it was too fucking late, if so. I came back with the food and spent the next half hour setting up a table with nice place settings and lighting my sexiest scented candles all around my office and store. As the sun set, eight o’clock rolled around and Elsa closed up her shop, too.

As I watched her delicately make her way to my side of the street, I chewed my lip. Here goes… everything.

I came to my shop door to let her in as she approached my dimly lit building, and was stunned by how beautiful she looked. She was wearing a shiny blue sleeveless top and tight white capris, with heels to match her blouse and the kicker - a white bow tie hanging untied around her neck. Her wavy hair was gently bouncing around her shoulders with each step. I opened the door for her and the bell above jingled loudly.

She beamed when she saw me, stepping inside to set down her leather backpack purse and white gift bag to give me a big hug. “Happy birthday, Anna,” she said softly into my shoulder.

“Thanks, Els,” I squeezed back, breathing in her perfume. It was my favorite scent, one I’d never quite been able to replicate at home - something between the ocean breeze and a floral woodland meadow.

As we pulled apart I glanced down her outfit one more time, “You look incredible.”

“So do you! And well, you said to dress nice, so… that’s what I’ve got,” Elsa laughed nervously.

“It’s perfect. So!” I clapped my hands together, “Shall we head to the back?”

“After you, lovely,” Elsa grinned and picked up her two bags again. As we walked she began to notice the candlelit atmosphere. “This is really something, Anna. You went through all this trouble just for the two of us?”

I winced. This was a weird thing to do… Play it cool. “Oh, it wasn’t much trouble at all! I thought we deserved something nice. Something special.”

“We do! Especially you, Anna. You work so hard.”

“Not as hard as you,” I countered, as we stepped into my cozy office. My desk was in the corner by the window-wall facing out to the street, and in the front area by the couch we usually ate our lunches on, I had set up our small dining experience.

The only light was from all the candles I had placed around the room; a few were on the little table itself, which also held our take out dinner that I already plated up.

“Wow!” Elsa was standing wide-eyed behind me, a huge smile creeping onto her face. “This is — it’s incredible. Did you get Romeo’s?” She recognized the food from the local fancy Italian restaurant.

“Bone apple teeth!” I grinned. “Shall we eat, before it gets any colder?” I said, gesturing to a chair.

As we settled in to eat, my racing heart calmed a little. This felt right, it felt like us, sharing a meal like we did every day. Just… fancy.

“I’m thankful you got me Alfredo,” Elsa said a few minutes into our meal. “Or my white pants may never be the same.”

“Oh man!” I said with spaghetti hanging out my mouth, “That was a lucky guess. Imagine if I made you get tomato sauce on your pants!”

Elsa laughed. “I imagine I’ll be taking them off.”

“What?”

“Um, I said I imagine I would be taking them off. If I stained them.” A blush was forming on Elsa’s cheeks.

I felt my face warming too, wondering if Elsa had meant what she had first implied. Then, Elsa set her fork down and took a deep breath.

“No, you know what,” she said, looking me intensely in the eye. “You went out on a limb here with this dinner, and so will I. Anna, I really like you.”

Was I supposed to hear the blood rushing past my eardrums?

“Everything has been better since you came into my life - or since I came into yours, whichever way you want to think of it.” Elsa smiled sincerely, “I didn’t realize what was happening right away, but I’ve known for a while now that I’m just - just helplessly in love with you.” Her gaze shifted down to the table as she kept talking, “It’s hard to pretend that I can keep my cool around you when all I feel is the warmth of friendship, of …love. Of something deeper. Something I’ve never felt before, and I’d never want to feel with anyone who isn’t you.”

She cleared her throat and looked me in the eye once more, “So, if this dinner was your way of saying you might share some of those feelings for me too… first of all, at this point I fuckin hope it was; and secondly… that was it, I can’t remember…”

By the time Elsa had trailed off her words, I was next to her chair, cupping her face with my hands. “Can I kiss you?”

She touched one of my hands, holding it to her cheek as she stood up. Taking a step away from the table, Elsa slid her other hand behind my waist. There was a moment we just looked into each other’s eyes as the pull between us became stronger. “Please,” was all she whispered before our lips came together like the pages of a closing book.

I had never kissed anyone - I had… no idea it could be like this. Her lips were so soft as they moved with mine, and it felt like they were asking permission with each caress. A small tear escaped one of my closed eyes.

I felt so emotional as she ran her fingers through my hair, stroking my scalp. She - Elsa, she wanted me, too. She loved me, too. And I realized I hadn’t actually said that yet — I pulled away suddenly and watched her open her eyes in surprise.

“I love you, Elsa.”

She smiled in relief.

I rested my forehead against hers, standing on my tiptoes to reach. “I just wanted to make that clear.”

***

We did not finish our meal.

The folding chairs sat forgotten as I laid Elsa down on the nearby couch and straddled her hips as we both reached for clothes we no longer wished to wear. I took a second to be grateful for the partial wall that blocked the couch from the view of anyone passing by the shop’s windows.

Elsa tugged on one end of her bow tie and it slipped out from behind her neck in one fluid motion - probably the sexiest move I’ve ever seen.

As I lifted my dress above my head, Elsa was gazing up at me, hypnotized. I let the dress fall to the floor beside us. “You’re falling a bit behind, love.” All she had taken off was her tie, and I already sat in my under garments.

She reached for the bottom of her blouse. “One advantage to dresses I suppose,” Elsa said. “If you’re into that.” She sat up a little to whip the shirt off, exposing a black sports bra.

“God, how are you so hot?” I didn’t let Elsa answer before leaning down to kiss her again. I reverently felt her soft skin as I ran my palms over her sides and found the small of her back. “I’ve, er, never done this before.”

Elsa gave a slight squeeze to my hips. “Me neither. It’s ok. We can figure it out together, but I’m probably gonna need to take my pants off first.”

I laughed, “Alright, I’ll get up.” When I planted a foot on the floor and stood up, I paused. I took another breath through my nose. “What’s that smell…?”

Elsa looked at me. She sniffed the air. “Is something burning?”

I turned to the doorway leading into the hallway to the store. An orange glow far too bright made my heart drop and my stomach fill with dread.

“On second thought, keep your pants on.” I grabbed Elsa’s top, threw it at her, and grabbed my dress, pulling it on haphazardly. I ran to the doorway and stopped when I saw how big the fire was in my shop. It looked like everything was engulfed in flames. Nothing could be saved from there. Oh my god.

Pop!

Pop pop!

Candles on my shelves were exploding. Oh god oh god oh god.

“We gotta get outta here!” I slammed the office door shut to hold off the blazing heat of the main store’s fire, trapping us in my office. I ran to the wall of windows by my desk, grateful there was no second floor.

Elsa met me at the wall with her bags. “Can we send this through the windows?” She pointed at my filing cabinet.

Together we pushed the metal cabinet to the window wall and then heaved our combined body weight into it, sending it crashing through the panes. Shards of glass rained down on us, but only a few pieces were sharp enough to cut. The cabinet toppled over onto the pavement outside.

I pushed out a few extra pieces of glass to make way for us to squeeze through. After I got out I helped Elsa climb in her heels, over the filing cabinet out onto the sidewalk. Together we pulled it farther away from the building.

“You call 911 and stay back from here,” I yelled as I ran back to the broken glass. “I have to get a few more things.”

Elsa looked terrified as she pulled her phone out of her pocket and took more steps backward into the deserted street. Turning toward my shop, my hand shook as I reached forward, crouching through my broken window, back into my smoldering office.

The room was starting to fill with smoke and almost constant candle explosions could be heard through the wall. I decided the most important things to get out first were my computers. I grabbed my laptop and quickly unplugged everything from the desktop computer tower. I didn’t need the keyboard or monitor.

Stifling a cough, I crouched through the glass and carried the computers to the curb. As soon as they were down safely, I turned and ran back in.

I couldn’t help but cough this time. Soon the door holding back the inferno would bust - or maybe the shared wall would be engulfed first. Either way, I was running out of time. The air was so, so hot.

One of the candles across the room burst. A searing hot glass shard lodged itself in my arm, near my elbow. I screamed, brushing it away, and the scream turned quickly to more coughing and sputtering.

Through the attack on my lungs, I grabbed everything I could hold off my desk - my purse included, and made my way out as fast as I could.

As I climbed out onto the sidewalk, I felt the office door behind me blow out. In the split second I had, I hurled everything I was carrying as far out as I could and then threw myself to the side in an attempted barrel roll just as the fireball rolled out and licked at my heels.

I sputtered and coughed on the ground as Elsa sprinted over to me. She grabbed a flat piece of debris and swatted at the edge of my dress that had caught fire. Once it was out, she lifted me over her shoulder and took me over to her building where she had been taking the items I rescued from my office.

Setting me down gently, she kept my hand in hers. “They’re on their way.”

My coughing still wouldn’t let up but I couldn’t actually feel my aching lungs anymore, or even the searing gash in my arm, as I sat on the concrete, numbly watching my store go down in flames.

Watching everything I worked for burn away.

———————————————

I didn’t notice August.

They held me at the hospital for two days for the smoke inhalation, my burn wound, and other minor cuts. Then I was released and I sat in my apartment.

I didn’t have a job to go to. My work was gone.

The insurance claim was going to take 90-120 days to go through but they assured me I would be covered for the total loss. So I wouldn’t go into massive debt, but I still mourned. I had no business, no product, no motivation.

So I sat.

I threw out all the candles in my home.

Maybe it was anger, maybe it was guilt, but it most definitely was fear. I never wanted to see another candle again in my life. The destruction they caused - my own creations did this to me. My own negligence. My own lust.

I had also shut Elsa out.

I knew it wasn’t fair to her but I couldn’t even think about her without reliving the terror of the fire. I just couldn’t handle seeing her… so I said I needed space, I needed time to recover alone.

It’s been over a month though, and while the pain still hasn’t gone away, now loneliness has joined it in my torment.

I missed Elsa so much it hurt. And not even in the we-didn’t-even-get-to-have-sex way; I missed my friend.

A week into September, Elsa begged me to come to her apartment. She said she just needed to see I was ok, just needed to talk.

It wasn’t a hard decision with the way I felt like I was dying without her in my life. But I needed her to initiate it or my guilt never would’ve allowed me the opportunity. So I went.

I couldn’t bring myself to change out of the sweats I’d been wearing for at least a week, but I managed to put on deodorant. My hair was pulled into the cleanest messy bun I could muster. It would probably be the bags under my eyes that she would comment on first. The two main subjects of my dreams were now either nightmare fuel or guilt trips, so I had barely been sleeping.

The biggest surprise to me when I met her outside were the matching bags under Elsa’s eyes.

As I walked to her she met me halfway with a warm hug. I saw the look of mixed relief and concern on her face as she took in my appearance.

“Anna,” she whispered as she held me close.

I drew in a shaky breath. “Els,” my reply was like a reflex and I melted into her embrace. With a little sadness I noticed she wasn’t wearing her perfume, but everything else about the hug was all that I had been craving.

“Come on,” she led me into her apartment.

It wasn’t hard to tell I wasn’t doing ok, and neither was she for that matter, so the question was never brought up. Instead she made me tea and held me on the couch, murmuring soft things like, “I’ll keep you warm.”

When I was calm from the tea, Elsa went to get something from another room. She returned with the white gift bag from my birthday, though it might have been replaced with a new gift bag, given how pristine it still looked.

“I still want you to have this, Anna,” she said softly. “But first let me tell you about an idea I’ve had. I just want you to listen to it, no need to respond right away.”

I nodded.

She sat back down with me. Her voice never raised above a light trickling of a fountain as she spoke, “I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve been going through. But I do know what trauma feels like. So I have a clue about what you may be feeling toward what you used to do; what you used to love doing now feels painful. Maybe even terrifying…”

Elsa took my hand in hers. “I got this idea a couple weeks ago when I accidentally dropped my bottle of perfume into your gift bag.” She chuckled grimly. “It all spilled out and your present soaked it up.”

She reached down into the bag and turned her head to me, “Would you mind closing your eyes?”

I closed them.

With a soft whoosh, a thin, but nicely heavy blanket settled onto me. As I breathed through my nose, suddenly a wave of familiar comfort washed over me. Her perfume was scenting the whole blanket. I wanted to cry. “Elsa,” I whispered, my hands shaking.

She rubbed my leg through the fabric. “I know, sweetheart,” Elsa sat back into the couch, cuddled close to me and I kept my eyes closed as she continued to talk. “After that happened, I thought… nobody really does this. Creating scented oils just for the purpose of dripping onto fabric like blankets for an extra comforting experience. Like I know essential oils exist, but that’s just the beginning of the potential you would have if you, say… wanted to become my business partner, to create scent drops for my blankets…”

She trailed off and let that sit there with me to think about. I felt the same revelation she probably experienced coming up with the plan. “Elsa,” I said with my eyes still closed. “That’s brilliant. When I’m ready… I would love that.”

I felt her sigh with relief. “Can I see the blanket now?” I asked.

She sat upright, “Here let me hold it up for you to see. It might bring up some emotion. I swear I had no idea what was going to happen when I was making it…”

The blanket was lifted off of me. I slowly opened my eyes to see… a perfect image of my shop in all her glory, hand stitched and glowing softly yellow through the windows. Around the edges of the blanket were the words, “Anna’s Awesome Aromas,” repeated in a pattern. I sobbed.

“I’m sorry,” Elsa said, gathering up the blanket. “It’s too soon, I shouldn’t hav—“

“Stop,” I said while tears dripped down my face. “It’s perfect,” I stood up and flung myself into her arms, making the blanket fall to the floor at our feet.

“You’re not upset?” she asked.

“I’m only upset that I shut you out for so long. I’m sorry,” I held her tight. “You are everything I need, how could I not see that?”

“It’s ok,” Elsa kissed my forehead. “Some things aren’t meant to be seen; they have to be felt, or smelled, maybe tasted.”

With a gentle kiss, she began my healing.

#elsanna #submission #december 2020 contest #prompt: warmth #cw: fire #cw: depression

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junie-bugg · 4 years

Text

Prospects and Propriety - Chapter Two

Summary: Everlark Jane Austen AU

Katniss Everdeen and her younger sister Prim are the adopted daughters of Mr. Haymitch Abernathy, a wealthy man with no biological heirs. By the rules of Panem society, an older sibling must be married before the younger can wed. In a time when women have no means of making their own living, marriage is the only way for Katniss to save her sister from destitution and set her up for a happy marriage of her own. Katniss sets her sights on Mr. Gale Hawthorne, a wealthy man who just moved to Whitley and who seems to have his eye on her. But what of the poor baker’s boy who once took a beating to save her life?

Read here on Tumblr or on my AO3 account: izzacrosswriting

Warning: I do plan on this series getting a lil smutty. There will be graphic depictions of violence, sex, and possibly death. I’m still working everything out:)

Nature ambiance(s):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UZ9uyQI3pF0&t=1694s

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hUjUhZ1Yy7Y

Music:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hQbx-OkfN-M

(If you want to listen to this song on Spotify it's called Symphony No.5 in C Sharp Minor: 4. Adagietto (Sehr Iangsam))

Word Count: 3125

Chapter Two

Prim and I have the next day off of lessons. We’ve been homeschooled ever since we came to live with Haymitch, but the weekends are saved purely for whatever we see fit to fill them with. For me, that’s mostly hunting and being out in the woods, unless the weather is bad, and sometimes not even then.

If I decide to stay at home I usually lounge around with a book and see what Prim is up to. It’s mostly knitting, dress-up, or playing with the ugly cat Haymitch let her keep a few years back. Prim named him Buttercup, claiming that his matted, ruddy coat matched the bright yellow of the flowers she so adored. I had wanted to drown the thing in a bucket when we caught him stealing scraps from the kitchen, but Haymitch had laughed, even picked the thing up by the scruff of his neck and shook him around.

“Look at this little guy, sweetheart. He’s a survivor. We can’t kill him!” He had placed the dirty, mewling kitten into Prim’s arms and the thing had hissed at me. I was worried he’d give Prim some kind of disease but he never did. I don’t feel gratitude towards him though. Only suspicion. It could still happen.

When I want to be alone I go to my greenhouse. Really it’s Prim’s and my greenhouse, but ever since she found maggots in the compost pile nearly two years ago, she hasn’t stepped foot in there. The greenhouse is small, maybe a third the size of my bedroom, but it’s peaceful. Especially when it storms and I can hear every hollow beat of the raindrops on its glass roof. It’s situated on the edge of the grounds by the tree line that morphs into the large forested hill behind Victor Greene, Haymitch’s estate. Over the years I’ve planted herbs and flowers and medicinal plants I’ve found on my journeys into the woods. The plants do well here in the rows of dark soil I’ve fortified with compost and fertilizer. The whole place smells of earthy rot and there’s something about how sunlight scatters lazily through the frosted windows that calms me. There’s a nook on the far side of the greenhouse, past all the plants, where I’ve scattered some quilts and pillows on a wide triangular window ledge. It’s a perfect place to read or sleep. Or sing.

This is the only place where I let myself sing. I don’t even do it in the woods, always afraid someone else taking a stroll will hear me or that I’ll scare away game. Ever since Prim and I were placed under Haymitch’s care, really ever since our dad died, I refuse to sing in front of others. Maybe it’s because I’m shy and I don’t like people listening to my voice swelling and breaking on the high notes. Or maybe I’m lying to myself and I don’t sing in front of others because it’s too painful to remember a time when my life was filled with music. Mountain aires and lullabies and love songs, all sung by my father. I guess I don’t like breaking apart when there’s an audience. But when I’m alone I can shatter beneath the notes for a time, before I’m needed back up at the house.

Today, however, instead of knitting or playing hide and seek in the gardens, Prim has informed me she wants to walk to the village. “You need new ribbons for the ball!” She squeaks as I button up her light pink dress from behind. We have servants available who help us dress or bathe or brush our hair but I always like helping Prim myself. She looks like a tiny little princess with her frilly dress and her curls pulled back with a pearl white ribbon. In contrast, I look plain in a forest green frock and my light brown shawl.

“I told you, Prim. I’m not going.” I struggle with the last button. Prim has been going through a growth spurt and soon she’ll be too big for this dress. I feel sad, watching my little sister growing up so fast.

“I heard Mrs. Winthrop and Ms. Trinket talking and they said you had to go,” She’s grinning so hard I can see the slight gap between her two front teeth. “Because Mr. Hawthorne is going to be there.”

Ah, yes. My supposed husband-to-be. So even Prim has heard about Ms. Trinkets’ ridiculous arrangements. A man with that much money has his pick of the litter when it comes to choosing brides. I’m not ugly, but I’m no exquisite beauty either. Not like some of the girls I see around Whitley. I have no fortune of my own, really no status either besides being Haymitch’s ward and that will go up in smoke the second he dies. Most likely Mr. Hawthorne will look right through me and move on. But the news that I’m being forced to attend the public ball worries me. The whole village will be there. Including him. The baker’s boy.

Maybe some new ribbons aren’t such a bad idea.

We turn down an offer for the carriage and instead walk along the main road into Whitley. My boots have barely brushed the cobblestone sidewalks when Prim is dragging me into the seamstresses’ shop. The dressmaker, Cinna Ludgate, and the tailor, I think her name is Portia Peever, both turn to welcome us. Prim tells Mr. Ludgate about my need for new ribbons and in a flash he pulls down the display from the ceiling, winking at me as he walks back to the counter.

There are so many to choose from. Streams of all colors flutter between my outstretched fingertips like butterfly’s wings. I see ribbons of frilly lace, satin, velvet, and even silk. My eyes land on a simple, white cloth ribbon with a delicate embroidered lavender pattern. I hold it up for Prim’s inspection and she declares I have to buy two in case I manage to get one dirty before the ball.

I’ve just handed Mrs. Peever the money for the ribbons when the bell over the door rings. In walks Ms. Delly Cartright, one of Prim’s closest friends, and her older sister, Ms. Marianne Cartright. Their father is the village shoemaker, so they’re well known and well-liked by almost everybody. Delly is Prim’s age which gives them plenty to talk about. Prim grabs a hold of Delly and begins showing her the latest shipment of buttons Mr. Ludgate has displayed.

Marianne is one year younger than me but we’ve never exchanged more than simple pleasantries. I dread small talk but from my personal experience, a trip into town wouldn’t be deemed official without at least one awkward encounter.

“Are you coming to the ball, Ms. Everdeen? You missed the last one,” Marianne asks. She’s absolutely gorgeous, with big, blue doe eyes and a pouty mouth. Her nose is small and her figure slender. She is what they call a “country belle” in Town. I know at least five love songs written about girls like her. I expect in a few years Prim will grow to be one herself.

“The dancing was splendid. I do hope you’re coming next week,” She continues.

I hold up my ribbons in response. “My tutor Ms. Trinket won’t let me miss it.” I force my mouth into a smile.

“Oh,” Marianne’s eyes have settled on my ribbons. They’re probably a tad dull for her taste seeing as there were velvets and silks to choose from, but I like the simple flower design. The white cloth paired with the purple and green thread looks pretty. “Well, as my darling mother always says: simple never goes out of style.” She smiles up at me but the warmth doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “My sister and I are here for my dress fitting. I can’t wait to show everyone what Mr. Ludgate made me for the ball. It’s a custom piece!” She practically squeals. I nod and bid her goodbye, waving Prim over so we can leave. I breathe a sigh of relief as we exit the shop. I hate girl talk.

With our main objective for coming to Whitley carried out, my feet automatically turn towards home, but Prim has other ideas. “Can we look at the cakes, Katniss?” She begs. She’s like a little puppy. I can’t refuse, though I grow more anxious with every step closer to the bakery we get.

I know what this is. A look at the cakes in the window leads to Prim asking to go inside. It’s happened before and I’ve been lucky enough to avoid him. He works alongside his parents and two older brothers anyway. What are the chances that he’ll be manning the counter and not the ovens in the back?

Prim pulls me through the bakery doors and runs to press her face against the display case. I hear a call of “I’ll be right there!” from the back, followed by a grunt and the shuffling of boxes. I join Prim and am just starting to admire the selection of pastries when I hear a quiet gasp and look up.

It's him. The baker’s youngest son. I don't know him by name but I remember him. Of course, I remember him. I can almost feel the icy sheets of rain and the hollow numbness of hunger from that horrible day as I meet his gaze.

Our father had died three months earlier. He had been a poor wheat farmer but the income from the harvest was enough to support a small household. My mother traded plants and home remedies to supplement what our empty pockets couldn’t buy. One winter, my father had been kicked in the head by his horse. My mother did everything she could but even as young as I was, I knew he had died before he hit the ground. After that my mother stopped eating. She just sat in bed and stared at the walls while her children turned to skin and bone. I did everything to try and rouse her but it was no use. With our father dead so too was her will to live.

At eleven I became the sole provider of the family. I ventured into town alone to sell that damn horse, some old jewelry, and even dresses of my mother’s from her merchant days, but the money ran out quickly and there was more to buy than food. Our hearth sat cold, unused, and wanting of wood, and we resorted to rubbing ourselves raw to keep warm. We stopped attending school in the village, afraid that a teacher would see how hollow we were becoming and would whisk us away to the orphanage. I had seen orphans in the schoolyard, their faces empty and their shoulders slumped in defeat. I would never let that happen to Prim.

We had eaten nothing but dried mint leaves in water for three days before I decided to try selling some of Prim’s old baby clothes in town. The clothes were threadbare and faded so nobody had wanted them. My arms were shaking so violently from cold and malnourishment that I ended up dropping them in a puddle. I decided to leave them there, afraid that if I bent over I wouldn’t be able to get back up.

I found myself stumbling around behind a row of brick buildings. The rain had started and I was soaked to the bone. The smell of baking bread carried over the frigid air and I realized I was behind the bakery. The back door was open and I stood, trancelike, basking in the warm glow of the ovens before a thought floated through my foggy head. Maybe they had food scraps in their trash. A crust of bread or rotting vegetables, something only my family was desperate enough to eat. I lifted the tops off of the bins and my hopes died when I saw that their insides were heartbreakingly bare.

Suddenly, I heard a woman screeching. It was the baker’s wife. She spat remarks about how she was sick of people going through her trash bins and if I didn’t leave she would call law enforcement. As I dropped the lids and backed away I saw a boy peeking out from behind his mother’s skirts. I recognized him from school but we had never talked.

With my final hope gone I slumped against a scrubby little apple tree in their yard. My knees buckled and I slipped down into the mud. I would rather die than go home empty-handed to Prim’s gaunt face and my mother’s sickly, unblinking eyes.

I heard a commotion from the bakery and then the ring of metal on flesh.

“Feed it to the pigs you worthless creature! No one decent will buy burnt bread!” The witch screeched. There was the boy again, come out the back door clutching two blackened loaves. A bright red mark shone on his cheek and my heart twisted when I realized his mother must have hit him. He looked between me and the pigpen, and then glanced back towards the door. His mother must have gone up to front to serve a customer because then I heard him sloshing his way through puddles to get to me.

“Take them!” He urged, pressing the loaves into my skeletal hands. “Take them! Go!” As quickly as he came he was gone, back into the kitchens. I watched him disappear. As he closed the door only then did I realize what he had done for me.

Two loaves of bread! And they weren’t even that burned, really only the crusts had been damaged. I quickly pressed them to the skin under my shirt and hurried home. The searing heat from the loaves roused something within me. I couldn’t die. Not when I had Prim to take care of.

I dropped the loaves on the table and stopped my sister from savagely tearing a chunk off for herself. I sat her down, forced our mother to join us, and then began scraping off the blackened bits. That night we feasted on two slices of bread each, afraid so much food might make us sick. The loaves were hearty, filled with nuts and bits of cranberry. I had never tasted anything so good in my entire life.

As I predicted, it was a teacher that found out about our situation. Upon our absence at school, she had come looking for us and found Prim and I living in squalor with a mother that was too sick to care. I thought that was it, that we were to be sent to the orphanage now and our mother taken away to an institution. But a man by the name of Haymitch Abernathy, wealthy and lacking a family of his own, intervened. He had heard of our misfortunes from hushed gossip around the village and had petitioned to adopt us. Our mother was eventually sent to an institution by the sea and we’ve lived with Haymitch, fed and clothed and taken care of, ever since.

The baker’s boy saved our lives that day. Surely I would have given up and died under that apple tree if it wasn’t for the kindness he showed me. I owe him everything. And because of that, I will never be able to pay him back.

I take him in now. He's taller than he was before. Much taller. His chubby child’s build has been replaced with an imposing stature that takes up almost the entire doorway. I guess a lifetime of hefting bakery pans and kneading dough has left him broad-shouldered and muscular.

“Katniss,” he says. I can tell he’s surprised to see me. His voice is deep and I note that his blonde hair curls with sweat. There’s a streak of flour on his cheek and an apron tied around his waist.

“It’s Ms. Everdeen,” I correct him. It’s out before I can stop myself and as soon as I say it I want to bite my own tongue off. How pretentious I must sound. It's only after Prim has begun ordering a sugar-dusted fruit tart from the case that I realize with a start that the baker's boy knows my name.

His face is flushed and pink when he turns his eyes to me.

“I'll take four of those cookies,” I get out. “The orange lilies.” My voice sounds weaker than normal. I hate this. I feel fragile under this boy’s gaze. And that's when I realize: he must be waiting for his thank you. For the bread that he burned and took a beating for. But I can't do it, either because Prim is with me and it would confuse her and probably embarrass the boy, or because it's been five years and the time for ‘thank you’ is over. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he doesn't remember. He probably only knows my name because it was a source of gossip around town when Haymitch adopted Prim and I. He must remember me from then.

He gives me a timid smile, deftly wraps the cookies in parchment paper, ties them securely with a piece of fringed twine, and hands the package to me. I suddenly feel the need to fill the silence so I blurt: “They’re beautiful. The cookies.”

He manages to turn a shade pinker. “Thank you, I do most of the frosting around here. I made those this morning.” As I hand him the money for the treats, I assume that's it. That was the end of our conversation. But my tongue is moving again.

“They look just like the lilies in the woods. I see them on my morning walks.”

“Yes, exactly,” He grins and reveals a charming set of dimples. “I’ve seen them when I go to the woods to paint.”

I don't know what else to say and Prim has started tugging on my hand. She’s probably anxious to get home so we can enjoy our treats with tea, so I give him one last look and utter one last thank you before heading back out into the crowded square.

“Do you know him?” Prim asks as we begin walking towards home.

“No,” I say, a little relieved to be leaving. I can't catch my breath and my heart is racing like it does when something frightens me. “I don't even know his name.”

“Well, I've never seen you be that talkative with a stranger.” She beams. “Wait until I tell Mrs. Winthrop!”

Is that what he is to me? A stranger? I shake the thought from my head.

He knew my name. The very least I can do is learn his.

#thg #The Hunger Games #thg fanfic #everlark #katniss everdeen #Peeta Mellark #haymitch abernathy #gale hawthorne #everlark fluff #jane austen au #pride and predujice #regency #regency au #everlark fanfiction #everlark fanfic #finnick odair

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deathbyvalentine · 4 years

Text

Character Bedrooms

Amelia

It was a small room, her bed and desk only a few steps apart, her wardrobe with just enough space to open the doors and stand in front of the mirror and no more. The walls were painted an inoffensive magnolia, the carpet dark and unremarkable. But she had draped her beds wooden headboard with fairy lights, the comforter a patchwork quilt, the pillows having a hint of frills.The curtains that hung beside the bed were floral (as was the delicate perfume in the air, roses and something else, something light).

The second hand desk was painted white, a stool tucked neatly in the alcove. On the desk, there’s in-progress projects, open sketchpads, pencils in caddies, paintbrushes in muddy water glasses. Above the desk, there’s a pinboard. It’s covered in postcards, small art prints, photographs, handwritten notes. There’s a forgotten cup of tea in a large patterned mug. There’s two lamps - a short one with an orange shade, apparently used for ambience and a white posable one, used for when she sketched into the night. Peeking out from under the bed were stacks of worn paperbacks, nearly all of them classics, some of them tea-stained or dogeared.

Cramped, but tidy. Safe, warm, hers. It’s seen best in the evening, when gold light pours in from the window, only momentarily dimmed by the lace draped across the glass. If there was just one word you could use to describe Amelia’s sanctum, it was ‘cosy’.

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Cherry Blossom

It had belonged to two boys once. Now it housed one, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the extra space. It was a bare little room, white washed walls and a concrete floor. There was no door, only a beaded curtain in the entryway. No curtains, only a pinned up sheet. A window looked out onto the bustling street - their flat was above a busy shop and peace was hard to come by. Cherry didn’t mind and usually kept the window open. He couldn’t stand silence.

His bedroll sat flush to the wall on one side of the room, pillow and blanket resting haphazardly on top. On the wall itself, several street posters and instruction manual pages were stuck up. Mostly they were from the Brocade Guard but occasionally there were instances of circuses or performers.

His clothes were (or at least, an attempt at) folded at the foot of the bed. A crate sat on it’s side, making a makeshift bedside table. Within it there were a few books, a notepad, some leaking inks, some tangled hand wraps and a first aid kit. Now, if you were particularly observant you might notice two things. One, a number of his belongings were very slightly scorched. Two, there were some papers tucked under his bedroll, one corner just peaking out to show a signature from someone called Duty.

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Astrid

An explosion of pink. A beacon of girlhood. An utter mess. It’s a room that is used and lived in and used as a staging area. Clothes are scattered far and wide, in shades of bright pink and blue. It’s tiny as all the rooms in the Tenements are, but she’d made it her own. One wall is blue, another pink, one is half painted violet. A custom neon sign flickers intermittently. On the floor, there’s a fluffy faux fur rug in (what else?) pink. The bed (unmade) is just big enough for two. There are no windows.

A chest of drawers sits impotently, mostly used for balancing a mirror, a selection of fans, perfume bottles and two jewellery boxes. One contains accessories, spilling out and glittering. The other contains some folded up credits and several small bags of white powder and bright pills. The mirror itself is layered with a hundred lipstick kisses. There’s one or two in a darker shade, indicating that Syn had been here and left her mark.

There’s a door leading to an ensuite bathroom where another mirror lives above a sink. The sink is splattered with make up in every conceivable shade, containers balanced precariously on the porcelain and a fine layer of glitter coats the taps. On the floor, with the wire trailing in from the bedroom, there’s a hair curler. On the back of the door, on a hanger, as if waiting for something, is a kimono.

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Sacrifice

Once the door clicks shut, it’s impossible to tell where it was. The walls and ceiling and floor are a slick, reflective black. There’s an odd sort of light, enough to make the place a room of mirrors. At first, you think it shows you yourself, standing alone in the echoing blackness. A little longer, and you might see other movements, far back in the fractals. It looks like someone you lost.

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Tommy

Tommy technically had four rooms. The shrine to his childhood that his parents undoubtably still maintained, his bedroom at Jones’s, the apartment in Kos with Asclepius and then finally, this one. The one he used as an office and could hole himself up in for weeks at a time - if he didn’t make sure he was there for Jones, which he did. However, the one in Asshole Towers is the most interesting, so we’ll focus our gaze there.

There was technically a bed in there, making it a bedroom. It was a single one, with generic blue and white sheets. The walls too were a generic blue and white, painted by someone who knew his gender and little else. It was a pleasingly large room, being an attic conversion, though that meant the ceilings and angles sometimes sloped or sat alarmingly, waiting to cause a bump on the head. There was no wardrobe, no couch, nothing really adding any sort of comfort to the place. What there was was information.

The wall next to the bed was covered in papers. Pinned, cellotaped and blue tacked. There were newspaper articles, handscrawled notes, pages from books, odd photographs, postcards, maps, tickets and paintings and more. It spread up like mold, covering even the sloping ceiling above his bed. Pieces of string connected them, colour coded with a quick key of what the colours meant scrawled near the light switch.

Another wall was covered by a huge, dark bookcase. The bottom shelf was occupied by heavy leather tomes, the spines peeling with age. As the shelves went up, so did the relative age of the books, the top shelf apparently devoted to Penguin books of myths and basic fairytales.

There was not one, but two desks. One held a laptop, a desk lamp and a stack of books. The drawers were full of pens, notepads and other various bits of useful stationary. The other desk looks like a chemistry lab from the eighteen hundreds. A small iron cauldron sat, surrounded by test tubes and loose plant ingredients. The drawers belonging to that one were rather more chaotic. There was a filofax of untested spells, a calculator, yet more pouches, packets and tubes. The one below that held ritual daggers, old coins, various candles and colours of ribbon. The bottom one held... Medicine bottles and packets? It was almost full, Tommy’s full name printed neatly on the side of each, along with a date from several years ago.

There was one more set of shelves, opposite the desks. One held an odd mix of objects. Olive oil, a small carving of an owl, a waxen heart, a portrait of a peacock, a twist of vine leaves and a small metal snake. Standing aside from the rest, there was an ankh with ‘Ra’ engraved on it. There was also a krater neatly tucked to the side, holding a miniature bottle of wine and a clear vial of water.

The shelf below that had a stone carving from an asklepion, a triskele in ancient copper and a lightning bolt in steel, all set equal distances apart from one another as if in respect. The bottom shelf had several shoeboxes tucked in there. The first held letters, some impossibly old, some simply the age of a grandparent. The second box held more valuable magic items - a glimmering ruby, a candle holder shaped like skeletons and other, more mysterious things. This was his magic room and therefore his work room - sentimental gifts and photos adorned his room with Jones.

The final wall only had one thing to decorate it. Tommy had spray painted a sigil of a labyrinth right onto the wall, the black paint running just a little. Despite the room being busy, it somehow seemed to dominate, pulling the eye straight to it.

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Ash’s Childhood Bedroom

She shared a bedroom with her sister. Technically there were enough rooms in the house for them to have separate ones, but they had chosen to stay together. Luckily it was large. Two single beds lay against opposite, lavender walls. It was undoubtedly feminine, filled with soft pastels and frills. It is, however, abundantly clear who’s side of the room is who’s.

Violet’s side has a bed coated in teddies. There seems to be hundreds of the bright, fluffy objects. When she was asleep there, it was hard to see her amongst them, looking as doll like as she ordinarily did. There were a few picture books tucked neatly on the window ledge, along with a wind up music box and a selection of disney DVDs. There was a small chest of drawers opposite the end of her bed and a few pink toy boxes tucked underneath. Secreted under her pillow was a lipgloss and mascara she had almost certainly stolen from Ash.

The most obvious difference on Ash’s side was the band posters. They were pinned up beside her bed clumsily, slightly tilted. They were a little frayed at the edges, well loved or cut from magazines. Amongst them there were snapshots of her with girls her own age, usually laughing or pouting, posing for the camera. A laptop sat on top of a deep purple blanket, stickers covering the pink case.

Her chest of drawers was a little over-packed, the top drawer unable to close completely, shirts spilling out of it. There was a jumble of converse sitting at the bottom, kicked off and abandoned. On top of the drawers, a mirror sat, eyeliner and cheap eye shadow palettes cluttered around it. There were also childish pieces of jewellery, bright and plastic, or merchandise from various gigs. There was a small bedside table tucked flush to the side. Under the lamp, a family photograph was framed, and then one of just the sisters. There were books stacked in the alcove below the drawer. They were mostly YA novels, one or two schoolbooks mixed in with them carelessly.

The middle of the room was a jumble of objects. Toys mixed with schoolbags, Ash’s jackets mixed with Violet’s pyjamas. A wastepaper basket contained empty soda cans and screwed up childish sketches. It wasn’t quite enough to be a mess - their mother saw to that. But both of her daughters had the unfortunate habit of walking into their room shedding everything in their eagerness to be done with school.

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Horatio

His room is technically in the servants’ quarters, though everyone and their mother who works there knows he spends much more time in his master’s room than his own. It’s a simple place, two steps down into a stone room, scrubbed clean with pride. You might notice a slight looseness on one of the steps - inspect it and a stone comes away, revealing a gap where a swathe of letters sit, tied together with a blue ribbon. There’s one window, set high in the wall so it peeks out at the ground level of an impeccably maintained garden.

There’s a bed pressed underneath it, a wooden carved frame and a knitted blanket sitting on top, a sign of love from the cook or matron perhaps. It looks comfortable, though the mattress is no longer firm with age and the pillow poking out with a few feathers. But then, a bed in the servants’ quarters is always going to be considered comfortable. Next to the bed there’s a neat, if precarious, stack of books on magic.

There’s a shelf on the opposite wall above a mirror and basin. On the shelf, a few carved figures sit, momentos from a childhood he was apparently not entirely free from, no matter how long he lived in a manor. There were also a few withered, dried flowers and scorched unidentified objects. Early experiments. The only other object in the room was a wardrobe, oddly full compared to the sparseness of the rest of the space. There were outfits from plain white shirts and aprons for dashing about in the kitchen to lush evening jackets - though never quite as beautiful as his employers of course. No matter what, he was still a ward after all. Otherwise, he’d have a room upstairs.

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Matthias

Like everything Matthias keeps in his life, it’s beautiful. Walk through the west wing of the villa, open the end door and here you are. One wall is completely open, spaced out with carved pillars. The view looks out over the mountains of Kahraman and the small grove of trees that his parents have managed to cultivate here. For when the weather (rarely) turns, there are thick curtains to pull across between the pillars, turning it into a wall of sorts. The floor is tiled and shines brightly, reflecting the candles that light the room.

The room is dominated by two things: his bed and the pool. The bed is four poster with thin crimson curtains and soft red sheets, edged with gold fringe. It was piled high with pillows of every shape and colour, making it almost impossible to actually lie in the bed. There was a small, but still intimidatingly large, mountain lion asleep on the bed. The pool was at the far end of the room. It was shallow, the mosaic pattern (a flame, naturally) at the bottom clearly visible. It was his fancy to drink syrah on hot days, his feet resting in the cool water and perfectly angled to gaze out over the nation.

There’s a three chests in a row against the third wall, underneath a long stretch of mirror. They hold his clothes, once they were all mixed together but now one belongs to Flame, to Dust, to Glass. They look like treasure chests and to him, they are. There’s another mirror on a different wall, but this time a shelf stretches underneath it. On the shelf sits small coloured pots of paint and moisturiser, paintbrushes and flakes of gold. There’s jewellery too, chains to hang from his antlers and neck, jewels to sit on his fingers, twists of gold to serve as a bed. There’s also a small bowl that glitters beautiful, over spilling with mana crystals. In a much more official looking box, engraved with a labyrinth is some small bottles of liao.

There’s art dotted around, from blown glass vases to a painted mask from the League, a book from Highguard that has hastily been bound in orange fabric, a firmly locked display case for his coin and resources. Glass and metal lanterns hung from the ceiling and scented candles burnt. The most striking art though is the wall beside his bed. There’s portraits, dozens of them. Those with sharp eyes might notice such famed kohan from the Golden Harpies and an unsmiling portrait from Sol, perhaps a little tear stained. There’s others with very dramatic red crosses slashed across them. Matthias does not handle break ups well.

This was not his only room of course. He was a Freeborn. This place was a base, a place for his family to use as storage, to come and go, to arrange to meet. There were also the tents he resided in and that often formed around the villa to house every one of his relatives of which there were many. His sisters scorned permanent rooms altogether, much preferring their tents or the open expense of the sky - at least until it rained.

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Trick

Trick’s room was the smallest, bar the bathroom. He called it a cupboard with pretentions, fondly but with a more than a hint of truth in it. When you opened the door too harshly, it immediately cracked against the wardrobe that sat directly next to the frame. In order to make it so he could open the wardrobe, he had disregarded a bed frame and there was just a mattress and a tangle of blankets on the floor. There was a small metal radiator underneath the sliding window, painted white with flaking paint. The walls were not in better shape, condensation and heat causing it to curl at the edges. It was not an attractive room.

He had made it his though. Posters of The Smiths, The Cure and Blondie splattered the walls, along with a hundred Polaroids of him and the Burnouts in a hundred different poses and situations. Almost half of them were solely of him and Mel, arms around each other, pulling faces, talking, drinking. The offending camera sat inoffensively in the corner, along with a boom box and a bunch of cassettes. Trick clearly liked his music, it only over shadowed by his love of books. The room was filled with them. He had no bookshelves so he lined the walls with them, balancing one on top of another. King, Barker, Shelley - all the horror greats were represented along with the fifty p paperbacks you could pick up at car boot sales with terrible writing names. There was also a tottering stack of comics and a smaller stack of newspapers beside it. Pens and notepads were beside the bed, along with a lamp and a plastic typewriter. It was beloved even if it was cheap and he would not have given it up for the world. His wardrobe was not just for his flannel shirts and jeans. With a lack of storage space, it was crammed with other bits and pieces too. School bags, a skateboard, a eyeshadow palette, a bottle of vodka hidden in a boot, a single photo of his mother, a note signed with an F. There was all the debris he needed for his many jobs too, a heavy toolbox, newspaper bag and car manual amongst them.

It was a room that seemed too small to contain him as well as thee meagre belongings here and when he was in it, he did feel like it was a cage designed to hold him, suffocate him and keep him here forever. It was succeeding. The longer he stayed, the harder it would be to leave. Once he gave up, perhaps it would stop hurting. This town was like drowning.

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Alexei

The child who had once lived in little more than a shack now lived in a palace. Sometimes they marvelled at how far they had came but mostly, it just felt like they were where they were always meant to be. They adjusted to royalty as if they had been born into it.

The room was huge and felt like walking into a cavern. The walls were painted pitch black, the carpet a thick, dark red, like drying blood. It was cold, almost enough so that you could see your breath mist in front of you. The western wall was dominated by huge, arching windows that let in the cold winter light. The curtains were swept to the side, the heavy velvet barely used. Alexei liked gazing out of the windows too often. They would sit up in their (four poster, naturally) bed, the silk red sheets and heavy black blanket pooling around him and with young eyes he would watch the snow, or rain, or dark. He only used the curtains in the summer, when sun attempted to invade his sanctum. There was no need for the sun - a candelabra hung from the ceiling and there were candlestick holders scattered on top of the surfaces in white, black and red.

All the furniture in the room was carved out of dark wood, ornately carved. The patterns were birds, flowers, figures, sometimes entire stories across the top of a chest or doors of a wardrobe. When a surface was smooth, it was polished to such a shine you could see your reflection in it. Not that you had to - on the south wall a large oval mirror hung, it’s frame curling with black leaves and vines. It wasn’t magic, but it may as well be. Alexei gazed into it fairly often and seemed to come away dissatisfied or glowing.

There were a few more recent additions to the wall. Stencils of crows, ravens, magpies on the strips of wall between the windows. That was not the most recent addition. The scarlet hand print placed over every one of them was. Alexei’s hand print, naturally. He couldn’t help but be a witch at times like this. Magic curled around him like smoke. Which explained the shelves of odd items and mementos - a lot of bones, a crystal ball, talons, feathers.

There was a door to an ensuite bathroom, black tiled and with a huge clawfoot tub placed in front of a crackling fireplace. There was magic here too, of a different sort. In front of the mirror there were pots of rouge for his lips, a shine for his cheeks. The truth was Alexei rarely used make up - his appearance was naturally a creation of extremes, but sometimes you needed a little ritual, for yourself. There was another place for rituals in his room.

There was a well worn desk, the inkwell full, a long black quill sitting and waiting. Pages and pages of parchment. There was a bookcase beside it, a small, unassuming one. It was filled with hand bound books, ones that Alexei had written. He could throw a scarf over it to hide it if the royal soldiers came a-knocking, but it would take a substantial amount of guts for a single one of them to step inside their territory. The entire place was doused in death and ghosts.

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Lance’s Childhood Bedroom

It is absolutely a teenage bedroom. The bed is still unmade, crumpled sheets in rich fabrics. The walls are covered in pictures of fighters, cross section images, propaganda shots. There’s a few bigger ships mixed in, but it’s clear where his heart lies. There’s an occasional pretty boy, girl or other gender pin up but these are few and far. The shelves at the end of the room hold a few (surely incredibly valuable) books. There’s also a few data slates, a few models, a few old dolls of knights and power armour. An empty hamster cage. A few picts of a very young Lance and his mother. More of him and his father. A couple of him and Astrid, painfully teenage and not yet into his confident phase.

There’s a desk covered in tools and bits of machinery, half made experiments and devices. It’s organised chaos, a notebook open with scrawled text and notations, bits of paper labelling a few pieces on the flat surface. Some of it looks alarmingly advanced. Between that and the books and dataslates, it seems Lance was slightly more nerdy than he cared to admit. There’s some drawers tightly shut.

There’s other random clutter of course, and a messy wardrobe with everything from formal clothes to boiler suits. There’s a hole in the wall suspiciously fist sized, a broken mirror, a stack of older notebooks left in a corner. Storage boxes under the bed, a las pistol tossed aside, something that looks like it might be some sort of ceremonial sword. A bedside table. There is not a single aquila in the room.

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Aeneas

He supposed it counted as a bedroom at this point. He’d been staying in it for almost a year after all. It was a motel bedroom, not quite the cheapest there was but not too far off. In the slow, unintentional way it often did, it had become personal.

A sheer red scarf had been draped over the ugly lampshade besides the bed, softening the harsh glare of the white bulb and bathing the room in a rosy glow. Next to it there was an ash tray, heavily used but often emptied. A pack of cigarettes and a lighter waited expectantly beside it. The bed itself was neatly made, though not by a maid - there was a sign hanging outside the door as it had done for months, warning staff to not disturb. Under his pillow, there was a knife. He didn’t trust so easily, especially now. There were people who would see him dead in a moment.

There was a cheap table that had been treated as a desk. A huge amount of newspapers lay scattered upon it, certain pages torn out or highlighted, articles cut carefully out and placed aside. They all appeared to be about Zeus, the massacre in the Trojan district or Helen. A notebook lay amongst them, full of notes and theories. There were a few cheap books from the library exchange downstairs, crime novels or dry historical non-fiction. He had to while away the evening hours somehow. The half empty bottle of whiskey resting there too showed that much.

He had unpacked his few clothes, each neatly placed in a drawer in the bureau. He didn’t have enough clothes to fill it even half way. Consequently it looked a little lonely whenever he got dressed. He had managed to sweet talk the desk downstairs into giving him an iron so at least the clothes were clean and pressed perfectly. It was in these small ways he felt like he had a modicum of control over his life. He needed that right now.

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Dimitri

He slept in a dormitory. He didn’t mind. And besides, it’s not like his particular Light temple managed to bring in a whole lot of revenue so grumbling wouldn’t have done much good. There were ten beds in this particular dorm, five on each side, neatly spaced out and with a trunk at the bottom end and a bedside table carrying a candle at the top. Dimitri was especially in luck as his bed was underneath a window, allowing him to use the sill as a smidge more storage space. Not that he had much to store. He used it for his symbols of the Light, letting them bask in the morning sun, making them warm to the touch when he picked them up and put them around his neck each day.

The trunk was merely full of clothes and weapons polish. He had arrived here only with the clothes on his back and despite the years passing, the only other objects he had gained had been a few weapons and the trappings of a paladin of the Light. He took great pride in both these things. His tabard was always clean, his blades shone in the sun like diamonds. He tried to be a good example in all things, not just the heroic or exciting stuff. The little things mattered too, like praying every day and practising the magic that flowed through him just as much as his weapons.

The only other things he owned were in his shelf in the bedside table. A collection of small bottles, glimmering green, red, and blue. Healing and magic restoration potions of various types. Then a silver knife rested, waiting.

#prose #characters #descriptions #ocs #bedrooms

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roseonhissleeve · 5 years

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yellow // chapter two

Ollie drove in the fast lane on the freeway, her acoustic playlist playing in the car through her phone USB. The passenger windows on the car were covered in condensation and she blasted cold air in her face to do away with the warm summer heat, rain falling all around her once again as she left trails of mist behind her vehicle. She had a take out cup of coffee in the cupholder beside her seat, filled to the brim and a light beige colour. You'd think that after driving around so much she'd be better at not driving when she was feeling sleepy, but she was the kind of person who could sleep absolutely anywhere and it sometimes got the best of her.

Finally, after a half hour of driving, she turned onto a familiar street--the dark green street sign was crooked and the second she turned the corner, she could tell that the atmosphere was different than the rest of the city. She continued to drive until she reached the end of the dead-end road, pulling her car over in front of a small house.

She stepped out of her car finally and grabbed a pillow from the backseat, as well as her guitar and a bag that had been previously packed with a set of pajamas and an outfit for tomorrow. It had stopped raining by then, and she could feel the droplets of mist in the air situate themselves in her voluminous hair. She looked up at the small house in front of her--the porch steps were chipped a little, and the paint was coming off of the garage door. The garden in front, however, was thriving--patches of roses and daisies sprung to life and drank in the sudden influx of water, a blessing that so many took for granted.

Ollie walked up the driveway and sat down on the front steps, turning her attention towards the house that was right across the street.

The first thing she set her eyes on was the bright yellow door. She had painted it with her mother when she was little--her mom had to pick Ollie up off of the ground in order for her to reach the top. Ollie had wanted to paint it rainbow colours, but her mother had to draw the line somewhere, so she made Ollie pick her favourite.

It was strange how lived-in the house looked, even though Ollie knew that no one had gone in since two years ago when the landlord gave up on it. All of the lights were off, but the vines that grew on the bricks and created a canopy around her bedroom window were still flourishing, and every part of her missed sitting in her bedroom above the garage and waiting to hear the door open as her mother got home from work.

Home.

"Olivia?"

Ollie heard a soft, familiar voice behind her. She stood up off of the steps and turned around to look at Señora Margarita, her godmother, her mother's best friend.

She was a middle-aged woman, about fifty years old. Her hair was bright red, and she had a set of glasses that hung too low on her nose but that's exactly the way that she liked them. She was wearing a light blue nightgown and a watery smile on her face, her house keys clenched in her hand.

"Regresastes," Margarita said, "You came home."

"Of course." Ollie replied, a small smile colouring her lips.

"I thought I heard your car pull up," Margarita explained, stepping closer and engulfing Ollie in her large, soft arms. "Ven aca."

Ollie wrapped her arms around the large woman and closed her eyes, immediately tearing up. Margarita wore the same perfume that Ollie's mother did, and it got to her every single time. Ollie had given it to the both of them as a present, because they shared the same birthday--they shared practically everything. Sometimes they even shared Ollie.

"Are you okay? Are you fed? You haven't called--"

"I ran out of change for the phone booths," Ollie explained, picking her pillow up off of the floor and tucking it under her arm while holding her guitar by its neck. "I'm sorry. It took me a little longer than I expected to get here from New York."

"I told you, if you need money, you tell me." Margarita scolded, but her face remained soft and warm. Ever since Ollie was little, the woman could never bear to be angry with her for longer than a moment.

"I know you don't have money to go around sparing, madrina." Ollie smiled. "Estoy bien. I'm okay."

Margarita gave her an apprehensive look and nodded her head, turning around to open the front door. Ollie followed her in just as a yawn slipped from her mouth--she got there just at the right time. The inside of the house smelled of empanadas and chicha and her mother's perfume, and a wave of peace flooded over her. As Margarita locked the front door behind them, Ollie walked over to the closet in the hallway and pulled out a large quilt, walking over to the couch in the living room. She set her things down and started pulling her pajamas out of her bag when Margarita came back into the room.

The older woman walked towards her and simply put a hand on Ollie's cheek, looking at her as if everything that had been wrong in the world was suddenly fixed in that moment. It was a lot to take in, a lot to hope for, and a lot to let go of.

"Buenas noches, mija." Margarita said before turning around and finally heading back up the stairs, leaving Ollie in the living room by herself. She looked over at the wall clock that hung on the opposite side of the room, illuminated by a combination of street lamps and moonlight. 4:56 am.

Ollie closed her eyes and allowed sleep to overcome her.

***

"Harry, you've got to let it go!"

"This just sounds better!"

"We're never going to get anything done at this rate."

Liam sighed as he ran his palm across his face, sitting on the couch in the tiny recording studio that the boys had cramped themselves into. The air was tense--there were advantages to working with people whom you considered family, but one disadvantage (if you could even call it that) was the fact that there were absolutely no reservations about bickering at each other, and sometimes it was more counterproductive than not.

"I'm going to go grab coffee, anybody want anything?"

"Can you just bring four back, Liam?" Niall chimed up from across the room where he was staring intently at a sheet filled with lyrics that seemed beautiful individually but like complete and utter garbage once strung together in any way, shape or form.

Liam nodded and turned to walk out of the studio after his third hour of sitting and listening to the bickering. The first few days it happened he tried to mitigate and be the peacekeeper, listening to everybody's ideas and trying to incorporate them as best he could. But eventually it just got so hard to mesh together four different sounds into one cohesive unit, and he got frustrated--he was only human.

He walked out of the studio into the half-populated street. This was a part of L.A. that was barely inhabited, which was probably a good thing for not getting noticed. He walked down the street and towards the coffee shop at the corner, his mind flickering to Ollie as he walked by the dive bar that he went to last night.

He walked into the coffee shop and there was thankfully no line, so he walked right up to the cashier and ordered four black coffees. He got a couple of stares here and there, but nothing out of the ordinary and nothing too excited. He glanced around the coffee shop and, suddenly, saw a flash of purple out of the corner of his eye.

Ollie.

He waited until he got his drinks and tucked them all onto a tray before walking over to where she was sitting, right in the corner of the establishment--she was tucked away quietly, listening to music on her headphones and glancing down at the loose papers that were splayed all over her small table, her mug of coffee balanced very precariously at the corner of it all. It made him nervous, but she seemed very content with the placement as she picked it up and took a sip while setting it right back down in the same location.

"Don't you worry about making a mess?" Liam said as he went up to her, sitting down across from her and holding the tray of drinks on his laps, afraid to disturb her arrangement. "And how can you write music while listening to other music?"

"I'm not listening to anything," she says with a knowing smile, pulling her headphones off of her head and setting them down on the table, "This just keeps nosy people from coming up and talking to me."

"Well, it's a good thing that you like me so much, then." Liam grins, glancing down at her pages. "What are you writing?"

"Just lyrics." She replies while taking a sip of her coffee once again, this time holding the mug close to her mouth after she finished her gulp. "What brings you around?"

"Our recording studio isn't too far from here," he said, and suddenly there was a twinkle in his eye. His eyes widened as he stared at her, his grip tightening on the tray of coffees that he was holding on top of his thighs.

"What?" Ollie laughed, taking her last sip of milky coffee before setting the mug down on the table, leaving a deep red lip print from the lipstick she was wearing that day. "What, Liam?"

"Do you want to come with me?" He asked, grinning as he stood up off of the chair.

"Me?" She snorted. "What do you need me for?"

"Just come on," He nodded towards the door, cradling the coffees to his chest. "Please. I mean, if you want."

She shook her head in a combination of disbelief and intrigue as she stood up off of the table and reached over to set her mug on the tray of dirty dishes that had been set out for customers, gathering up all of her sheets of paper and stuffing them in her knapsack before swinging it over her shoulder. "You're going to give me an aneurism, Payne."

He simply grinned even wider as he walked out of the store and down the street, practically hopping up and down.

"So what are you all doing?" Ollie asked, pulling her sunglasses down to cover her eyes and shoving her hands in her pockets.

"We're trying to put together a new album right now," he explained.

"All together? Like a reunion?" She gasped, her own eyes widening this time.

"Something like that," he laughed, "We're trying to come together again. We've had our time, but it's proving to be a little bit more difficult than we thought."

"I'm sure it is," she nodded, "It mustn't be easy to go from touring solo for a few years to having to account for another three people all over again."

"It definitely isn't," he replied. "But we want to do it. For the fans, but also for ourselves. We've missed each other. We do love each other, as much as people like to pit us against each other. We're just having some trouble...recalibrating."

"Understandable." She nodded.

They walked in silence for a few moments until they got to the entrance of the recording studio, and Ollie opened the door while Liam walked through the narrow entryway with the tray balanced in his hands. He led her through the narrow corridor and into a small room that smelled of cigarettes, mahogany candles, cologne, and coffee. When she walked in the was greeted by another three pairs of curious eyes.

"Hullo." Harry said first, being the one that was closest to the door.

"Lads," Liam said, grabbing his cup of coffee and handing the tray over to Harry, "this is Ollie."

"Nice to meet you all," Ollie said with a smile, setting her bag down on the ground next to the couch and running her hands through her hair. All the boys smiled and took turns walking up to her, shaking her hand and introducing themselves.

"I think Ollie can help us." Liam said, taking a sip of his hot coffee without wincing in the slightest.

"Help us? With what?" Louis said from the corner, holding the tray of coffees that had eventually made its way over to where he was standing.

"You haven't noticed that we bicker like a pair of two year olds arguing over the same colour crayon?" Niall chimed in, huffing from where he was perched on top of the sofa's armrest. Something caught Ollie's eye from the corner--it was a beautiful Les Paul guitar with gold finishes and a deep red colour on the body. She felt giddy with excitement at the sight of it.

"Go ahead, Ollie." Liam said before turning his attention back to the boys once more, who had already started arguing again over what they should do about their situation and how to make it work. In the meantime, Ollie walked over to where the guitar stood and picked it up--the feeling of her fingertips against the smooth surface sent chills down her arms, and butterflies in her belly. She swung the strap over her shoulder and held the guitar close to her body, smelling the scent of melodies and harmonies that flowed from the strings.

The bickering in the background became nothing other than white noise, and she experimentally plucked a few strings, closing her eyes as the sound entered the world--full, strong, and complete. Three things that she's always wanted to be but was secretly never sure she would ever accomplish. She wasn't sure that she'd ever held a guitar that expensive, and she felt ambushed by the realization.

She lifted her eyes to really look at the room, closely, without inhibitions. The walls were covered with pictures of artists that had recorded there previously, all with signatures on the glossy photo what were barely legible, but the faces on them certainly weren't strange to her. Her stomach dropped when she realized just how high profile some of those people were.

The switches on the soundboard were completely intimidating and hypnotizing all at the same time. There were easily over a hundred of them, and how all of them could have a different purpose completely baffled her. She wasn't often out of her element when it came to music, but this was one thing that she never had the privilege to be exposed to.

"Can I go in there?" She asked, pointing in the direction of the sound booth that was covered in carpeted tapestry and a glass panel.

"Go for it." Liam replied, looking at her for a split second before turning his attention back to trying to diffuse the situation between the boys.

Ollie's hand rested for a few seconds on the smooth doorknob before opening in slowly, guitar against her chest, heart pounding with energy and excitement. It smelled of wood and metal and she adored it.

She walked into the room slowly and hesitantly, like a small child exploring an undiscovered corner of the world. The smile on her face couldn't be wiped off--she sat herself down on a stool in the middle of the room, facing away from the glass through which the boys could be seen talking intensely. She began to pluck at the chords quietly, playing the familiar intro over and over again before parting her lips.

Her voice echoed between the walls in a way that she'd never felt before, and it startled her at first. It was almost as if the sound waves were bouncing back towards her and forming a coat of armor around her delicate body, daring anything to try to harm her.

She continued singing--it was like a game that she played with her voice waves, going back and forth, pushing each other to be stronger, louder, more vulnerable, more talented. Before long, she had been in there for four minutes and sang the length of the entire song.

"Ollie, that was amazing."

Ollie jumped off of the stool as she turned around to see Harry hunched over the soundboard, pressing the microphone button that gave his voice access into the room. She hadn't realized that they could hear her, but she smiled regardless, performing a small curtsy.

A mischievous grin dancing across her lips as she cradled the guitar close again before strumming a familiar tune.

You're insecure, don't know what for, you're turning heads when you walk through the door...

She saw each of the boys break into a toothy grin, all of them sporting their own quirky reactions. Harry giggled loudly, so much that it rang through her eardrums because he forgot that he was holding his hand down to the microphone. Niall was bent over the sofa in a cackle, and both Louis and Liam were grinning ear to ear.

Ollie gestured for Liam to join her with one quick motion before strumming again, pausing the words until her got in the room and stood at a microphone. She began swaying her hips side to side with the rhythm, voice loud and proud as Liam joined her melody to the familiar tune.

Before long, the rest of the boys joined them in the studio as well--both Niall and Harry grabbed guitars as well, and Louis surprised everybody by taking a position at a set of drums and banging along. It was by no means a talented display of rock and roll, there were awkward pauses and giggles and dance breaks and sudden note changes, but it was the most lighthearted that Liam had seen the boys in weeks.

Hours went by of them playing their old One Direction favourites, Ollie hopping in whenever she saw fit and all of them switching instruments every once in a while and dancing around the recording booth.

"Guys!" Ollie said after the music finished, turning to look at all the boys who were all grinning ear to ear. "That was so fun!"

"We haven't played that in forever," Harry smiled, setting his guitar down, "not as a group."

"Well, you should more often," She smiled, setting her instrument down as well, "it was the start of it all, wasn't it?"

"I suppose so." Liam said.

"So, what's going on with you all?" Ollie asked, sitting up on the stool and glancing at all of them. They immediately grew a little bit uncomfortable and she could see a couple of them shifting their weight from one foot to another.

"Look, I'm a fan, okay? Not a crazed fan by any means, I never tried to sneak into your hotel rooms because I can only imagine how disgusting they would be, but I know what you have all been up to. It can't have been hard to be apart after a constant five years of being together, and now it can't be easy getting used to being together again after a few years apart," She said, voice calm and steady. "So why don't we all just admit that it isn't as easy as you thought it would be, so that you can deal with it and move forward?"

They all glanced at each other briefly, and she could practically see the gears turning in their heads. She sighed.

"Liam?" She said impatiently, glancing over at her new friend.

"I think she's right, lads," Liam admitted, his hands in his pockets as he shifted uncomfortably, "I think that we all got so used to doing our own thing that we're clashing now that it's time to come together."

"There's just so much pressure," Louis chimed in from behind the drums, "We know that the fans are expecting something amazing. Something to make all these years worth it and to remind them that we still love each other and want to work with each other. I can't bear the thought of putting something out that doesn't live up to that."

"He's right," Niall sighed. "I think that we've all been so worried about all the pressure and expectations that we've been taking it out on each other."

"Seems like it to me." Ollie agreed, her hair dancing as she nodded her head. "Also seems to me like you all ought to remember where you came from. You weren't all always starring in movies and judging the X Factor and releasing hit albums. You're not immortal. You're not always going to produce content that everybody likes. So quite frankly, get over yourselves, and just create the shit that you used to love creating together."

Harry snorted from where he stood, shaking his head as he looked down at the ground. "Well, that's a wake up call if I've ever seen one."

"And you need one," Ollie smiled, crossing her arms over her chest, "Because the losers that I used to know would never have let the fear of failing get in the way of just having fun with each other. So wake the hell up."

Ollie sighed, turning around to walk out of the booth. "Get your things and follow me."

She grabbed her bag filled with loose papers and pens and left the room, not stopping to look over her shoulder. The four boys glanced at each other for a split second before piling out of the booth, practically toppling over one another as they got limbs tangled in an attempt to grab their own bags with their own notebooks before running out of the room.

"Last one out locks the door!" Niall yelled as he jogged down the hall to catch up with Ollie, and the rest of them followed faithfully, their youth rejuvenated.

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silverfootstepswrites · 5 years

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Lullaby [30%]

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Read Equinox here and come back!

“This is laaaaaame,” Hidan whined, sprawling across the seat. Temari shoved his head off her shoulder with a look of disgust. His head fell against Kakuzu instead, who hit him even harder.

They sat on the patio at the bar. This was supposed to be the party for some important person’s something-or-other. None of them had really listened to the many speeches. All they knew was that Tobirama had sent Hidan, Temari, and Kakuzu in his place. And Madara, who had another event to attended, had begged Sakura to go too.

“Make the boss stop sending us to shitty parties, Sakura,” groaned Hidan.

Sakura lowered her cocktail glass, eyebrows rising. “What do you want me to do? He’s your boss.”

At this, Hidan sat up, Clasping his hands together, he fluttered his eyelashes to simper, “Oh, Tobi-baby. Be nicer to Hidan and my other less-talented friends for me!” And then he lowered his voice, miming throwing his arms around her. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

Sakura wrinkled her nose at him. She contemplated kicking him before Temari got up to grab her hand.

“Let’s head somewhere else. Didn’t you say one of your friends has a place around here?” Temari asked, already pulling her in the direction of the stairs.

“Huh? Oh yeah. Let me give him a call.” Sakura hooked her arm through Temari’s.

Genma picked up after four rings. “Graymalkin,” he answered with the name of the bar.

“Gen, Sakura.”

“Hey!”

“You guys busy tonight? I wanted to drop by with some friends.”

“Are they hot?”

Sakura hung up. Rolling her eyes, she looked over at Temari. “He says we can come,” she sighed.

Genma’s bar was tiny. Squeezed between a taco place and a fortune teller, it glowed soft orange, funky music playing low over the speakers. It was always busy, but not in an unbearable way. Like tonight, there were no free seats open at the bar, but there were a couple empty tables.

Graymalkin was a hipster hangout. There was no denying it. If the sheer amount of facial hair, black glasses, and plaid didn’t make it obvious, the number of people wearing suspenders did.

When they walked in, Genma stood at the cash register, chatting with a customer. His face lit up when he spotted Sakura. He waved at her. She winked in response.

“Cute,” Temari commented as they made their way to a table.

“The bar?” asked Hidan.

“...Sure... The bar,” replied Temari, looking over at Sakura, who sighed.

“I think Gen’s single, if you’re that interested,” Sakura told her. And Temari’s whole face lit up. She dug through her purse to find her lipstick to reapply.

While Hidan and Temari settled in, Kakuzu and Sakura walked up to the bar. Genma was too busy to take their order, so they asked the other bartender instead. He gave Sakura a not-too-subtle once-over as he took their order. Sakura ignored the look.

A couple minutes later, they returned to the table with the drinks.

It wasn’t a bad night to be here. The mood was good and the music selection wasn’t horrible. Hidan went to get them another round of drinks later. And when things finally calmed down, Genma came over to join them. Sakura didn’t have to really break the ice. Genma was a natural charmer. And he and Temari seemed to hit it off right away.

Genma was in the middle of telling one of his wild stories when Sakura thought she heard something. She tilted her head, trying to catch the sound better.

Sakura’s eyes widened. “Hang on,” she said to Kakuzu. He just grunted vaguely at her.

And that was the last thing she remembered before she opened her eyes.

Sakura jolted awake in an unfamiliar room.

“Oh no. Shit. Fuck,” she hissed, fingers tangling into her hair.

Her head whipped around as she tried to figure out where she was. The wall directly behind the bed was made of old, weathered bricks. From the rafters hung a fan that rotated in a lazy, almost sleepy way. A potted fern sat on top of the dresser, which was a weird place to put a plant, in her opinion.

And while this room was nice to look at, there was nothing she recognized. No photos. No posters. This was a stranger’s place.

She slid her hands down to cover her bare chest. The shame burning her cheeks, the heat slipping down to her neck, her shoulders as she wondered who to call. Maybe Ino? Or Temari?

“Oh, you’re awake.”

She burst into tears when Itachi walked through the door with a mug in his hands. Which he almost dropped when she began sobbing. He plunked it onto the dresser before he hurried over to her.

“Heyheyhey shhhh,” Itachi murmured, his arms wrapping around her. “What’s wrong?”

Sakura couldn’t do much else but hiccup and whimper as he hugged her. Her hands grabbing onto his as the tears spilled down her cheeks. It took her a long time for her to calm down. Even with Itachi rocking her back and forth, murmuring soothing words into her ear.

Sitting at the kitchen table an hour later, Sakura sniffed. Her eyes puffy and her nose bright red. The quilt from the bed wrapped around her shoulders. She stared blankly ahead as Itachi set a glass on the table. He poured her a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice.

“Do you feel a little better?” he asked, pushing it towards her.

Sakura shook her head.

“You should drink something. You’re dehydrated,” he said anyway.

Wrapping both hands around the glass, Sakura took a sip. Which turned to a gulp. Itachi refilled her cup with an anxious expression, hovering around her with all the nervous energy of a hummingbird.

“Sorry,” she finally managed to croak.

“For what? Drinking all my juice? I can always make more,” he replied, finally settling in the seat across from her. She only noticed then that he was wearing an apron. There was a little black bird stitched into the pocket.

“Do you feel like talking now?” he then tried again.

“I got confused... because... this doesn’t look like your place,” she mumbled.

Itachi looked around at the white walls. And the weathered wooden rafters above. “I told you that I was moving.”

“I forgot.”

His gaze returned to her.

“So... I thought that... for a minute that- that...” Sakura trailed off, rubbing her face with both hands.

He began to look a little nervous as he took that in. “I didn’t think you were drunk. Do you... not remember last night?” asked Itachi, leaning his elbow on the table.

“I do now. Not when I just woke up.”

She had recognized his voice at Genma’s bar. She had always been good with voices. And she had dragged him over to their table to laugh at Genma’s stories. His arm wound around her waist, thighs pressing together on the hard, wooden seat.

Cheeks gin-warmed, Sakura had waved goodbye to her friends and left the bar with him. Laughing into the cool night as Itachi caught her up on his busy week. Arguing with Itachi as he tried to insist on carrying her purse for her.

And as she thought, she remembered now. How the lease for his last apartment had ended and he had moved to a bigger place. White walls full of windows and the burning city lights. The sills crowded with potted cacti and souvenirs from his many business trips.

After a tour of his new place, and a glass of red wine, they had climbed the steps up to his bed in the loft.

“I’m an idiot,” Sakura sighed.

“You’re not,” Itachi assured her. He leaned across the table to put his hand over hers. It took a moment, but she answered him with a smile. She pecked him on the lips.

They had breakfast and then walked to the subway station together. They parted ways after the turnstiles. He kissed the top of her head as he gave her a hug.

“Have a great day.”

“You too,” Sakura replied. And it was almost drowned-out in the metallic screech as a train pulled up to the platform. Their heads swiveled to check the colored circle stuck to the windows. It was his train uptown. Itachi waved before he squeezed in with the crowd rushing toward the doors.

Tobirama stood in her office by the time she got to work. He held a shopping bag in one hand, the other in his pocket. He wore a black sweater with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It had been a few months since he had covered up the chord diagram tattoo on his left arm with a new one of Apollo. He took one look at her puffy face and sighed.

“Itachi texted me. You okay?” he asked as she set her purse down. She sat on the edge of her desk, kicking off her shoes.

“I’m tired,” was all she could think to say. Which was true on a lot of different levels.

She lifted her chin when Tobirama pushed the bag into her hands. When she peeked inside, she found clothes. After a little digging, she recognized them as a sweatshirt and jeans she had left at his place a while ago. There were also two plastic packages obviously bought from some cheap pharmacy on the way there. One of socks and one containing underwear.

“Thank you, Tobirama,” was all she could say as her throat began to feel clogged.

She watched as he began moving around her office. Pulling down the blinds and drawing the black curtains shut. He locked the door and pulled down the shade on the window too. And then he sat on the little grey sofa pushed up against the wall.

“So?” Tobirama asked.

Sakura turned her back to him before she shed her jacket and then unbuttoned her blouse from last night. She folded her clothes, setting them inside the empty bag.

“I woke up in Itachi’s new apartment and I thought I went home with a stranger last night. I thought he texted you,” she grumbled. She yanked her socks off in big motions. Tossing those into the bag too.

“He did. He just said you had a rough morning and probably wanted some fresh clothes,” replied Tobirama.

“Oh.”

Sakura peeked over her shoulder. Tobirama with his too-long legs watched her with- She didn’t know what that expression was supposed to be. She quickly turned away to finish yanking her arms through the sleeves. Tugged the rest of the garment down to cover her stomach.

“So that’s why you cried, huh?” he then commented. She pretended not to hear him.

“Let me see,” Tobirama then requested.

“Don’t look at me,” grumbled Sakura.

“I can’t even look at you now?” Tobirama asked. His voice so soft that she almost didn’t register what he was saying. That made Sakura peer over her shoulder at him again as she pulled her panties on. The cheap elastic snapping over her skin. She glared at him, especially at the way he looked so innocent.

Sakura rolled her eyes when she realized what he was doing. She squeezed into the jeans. Pretended she couldn’t feel his hand reach out to touch her hair. Or that he brought it to his lips to kiss it. She swatted his hands away when she felt them creep up around her waist.

“Ugh, you’re so clingy,” she pretended to complain as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his lap.

“I wanna look at you,” Tobirama whined. He kissed the back of her neck, her shoulder. Her scowl dissolved into giggles as his lips tickled up the side of her throat. More kisses peppering around the shell of her ear.

“Quit it! You’re so annoying,” she laughed, pushing his face away with both hands. It wasn’t until much later that she realized what he had been doing. Snuggling and annoying her until she forgot what had made her so upset in the first place.

Sakura got a call from Itachi a few nights later. There was a soft opening of a mediterranean restaurant in the city that a friend of a friend had invited him to. They browsed the stiff new menus with the glossy pages. When the waitress stopped by to offer them a drink menu, Itachi and Sakura exchanged a look.

“...Just water, thanks,” Sakura told her.

And as the waitress walked away, Itachi nudged Sakura, leaning in close. Like he was about to whisper a secret. Instead, he remarked, “Should we stop by Genma’s after this?”

He laughed as she smacked him in the forearm with the menu.

#equinox #writing #multisaku #itasaku #lullaby #tobisaku

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talesofthebnha-marvel · 5 years

Text

Tales From Peter Parker: Foreign Exchange Student - The Grapes of a feather Part 1

"WHAT THE HELL AM I LOOKING AT!" A raised voice coming from Flint Marko alias the Sandman.

It's called 'anime' Marko, learn the damn culture sand for brains!" Herman Schultz alias The Shocker responded by scolding and ripping the anime case from Marko.

"So what like them cartoons in the U.S.?"

"Its so much more than that its a way of life for this country, I'm what the Japanese kids called a Weeabo!" Herman said with such a prideful tone.

"....... Da hell does that mean?"

"It means I'm a fan who enjoys the highest of quality animation." Shocker responded in a staunch stance.

"And those finer things include gauking at underage girls?"

"Don't cheapen it like that, thats a gross and misleading interpretation of the anime culture!" Herman felt insulted by Flints simplified observation of the genre.

"Plus I don't do Lolicons I'm attracted to the more firm and volumptious woman of great beauty like Oda's One Piece." Herman corrected while making vulgar hand gestures.

A short silence fell between the two, as Flint tries processing what his quilt attired allied has just uttered.

"Okay whatever youse say, The Vibrator lets get our videos and bail out already." Flint mockingly smiled as Shocker only responded by a gritted face of irritation.

At the Kiyashi Ward Shopping Center is a mall that specialize in selling various goods pertaining to a citizens body type and quirk type. But aside from selling speciality items for unique quirk users, the mall houses a variety in the entrainment medias as your standard "electronic store." Where we see now, one third of the Sinister Six members Sandman and Shocker wearing oversize tan trenchcoats in the middle of summer at the local video shop on, DVD purchases.

"Lets see we got "Godzilla 1945" for Beck, the original film, "The Ring" for Gargan, something on "the Japan's monorail system" for Toomes and nothing for Dmitri."

"Dmitri not so much a movie goer?

"Nah I just hate that Russian prick, OH HELL YEAH!" Hermans eyes popped with excitement as his sights met with his choice of DVD.

"The last copy of "Monster Museum" and its within my grasp!"

"Okay and what's, wait y'know what I do-"

Jumping away from the DVD, Herman immediately cutoff Flint to explain.

"It's a raunchy harem comedy about sexy monster girls trying to win the heart of the male protagonist tenant as he cleans up after there orgies and survives there cuddles of death." Herman with such graphic detail of the animes premise.

Many of the customers looked there way disturbed by the man in the yellow quilted suit unashamed manner and lack of censoring. The stares from customers embarrassed Flint heavily as he desperately wanted to use his powers to slink his head inside like a turtle away from prying predators. Instead all he could do was plant his face into his palms like a meme from the internet.

"What are you all looking at, scram you degen- Where's my Monster Harem?!" Cutting off his rant Herman sees a small boy with "grape hair?" making a quick dash as if his life depended on it.

"That little turd is stealing my monster harem, Flint circle around him will cut him off from the register!"

"Schultz its just a freaking cartoon!"

"Its not about the cartoon its the principal!"

"Principal of what?!" But Flints yell fell on death ears as the former linebacker sighed a heavy breath.

"Why do I even bother?" Flint thinks to himself.

Back to the boy with grape hair. Continuing to sprint with dear life as his mouth salivates he thinks to himself his almost clear.

"I'm almost at the register and than pure unadulterated smut will be mine to-"

His thoughts were interrupted as his head made collision with Flint Marko mid section sending the grape haired boy tumbling backwards in a daze. He tries to turn back only to have his chaser Herman Schultz, lifting the small teens hair by the palm of his left hand.

"Sup que ball, you have something of mine."

"Hey guy in the yellow, cushion suit?" A teen with spiky yellow hair calling out Herman confused by his clothes.

"Drop the perv he's a UA student and my best friend!"

"And if there's one thing I can't stand Kaminari its villains picking on my fellow classmates!" The red spiked hair schoolmates chimed in.

"Hey now were not looking for trouble-"

"But your little turd friend here was stealing fro- Where did he go and what the @$#% is this crap on my hand!"

Flayling his arms in panic, the sticky ball stuck to his hand would not budge as it simply jiggled from his thrashing.

"I wouldn't use your other hand if I were you unless you want to get stuck." Said Minetta with a smug tone.

"Get this crap off me!" Herman yelled at the boy.

"Oh I will, But only on one condition."

"Kid I swear if your trying to extort me I'm-"

"THATS RIGHT!! IF YOU WANT YOUR PRECIOUS HAND FREE YOU'LL FREELY ALLOW ME THE "Monster Museum" COPY!" Minetta demanded dropping his previous calm composure to that of a creature of lust.

"Dude sweet move!" Kaminari followed with a fist bump to Minnetta.

"Minetta don't you think thats a bit underhanded" Kirishima confessing his discomfort at this display of villainy.

"You little turd, we came all this way from the U.S. just to enjoy some peace." Herman walks closer to the boys.

"Than you steal from me, put this weird stuff on my hand and now you blackmail me!" The boys feel a bit a trembled as he inches in.

"Well I got one thing to say about that deal, Flint kick the crap out of these losers!

"WHAT!?" The UA perv duo said in unison.

"Pfft Hell no, I ain't gonna beat up some teens that made youse look bad."

"OH COME ON, these punks are asking for it especially that little bastard!" Herman points angrily at Minetta.

"And I told you my names Minetta if you want my sticky ball off, give m- GAHH!!" A blunt slap struck Minetta collapsing him to the floor.

The pink girls hand that struck his back head still burned from the strike.

"OW! What the Hell Mina!?

"You know what you did Minetta and as for you!" Her gaze met with Kirishima.

"I would expect Minetta and Kaminari of this, but you I thought you were better than this."

"I wanted to stop them Mina, but those two guys were bullying Minetta and-"

"And you thought bullying them for extortion was better?! Shame on you Kirishima!" Mina rubbed her fist into Kirishimas head.

"Its obvious what these guys are!"

"It is?" Herman and Flint said simoultanously as they both looked in the others direction nervously.

"The bright costume on that guy in oven mitts, the foreign accents, and that big guy in the green stripe shirt."

Hermans brow sweated intensely, his breathing erratic while Flint unable to sweat tries to inch backwards as slowly as possible.

"There Pro heroes!!" Mina proclaimed ecstatically.

"It all makes sense now, how could I be so stupid please forgive us sirs!" Said Kirishima as he bows repeatedly.

"Wait what-"

"Um yeah that's right! Were uh, undercover pro heroes is what my partner was trying to say, right Flint!" Said Herman as he tries to forcefully wink towards Flint.

Flint gives a simple shrug and a half hearted smile towards the school uniformed wearing students.

"That. Is. So. AWESOME!" The pink, horned girl exclaimed with an unyielding reserve of enthusiastic energy.

"Please let us introduce ourselves I'm Mina Ashido!"

"Eijro Kirishima!"

"Denki Kaminari!"

"And Minetta!"

"And were from Class 1A of UA High training to become Pro Heroes." Said Mina enthusiastically.

"PLUS ULTRA" The group said in unity as they poised dramatically.

A long awkward silence soon proceeded as Herman and Flint try grasping what they just witnessed.

"Umm... Okay well I'm Flint Marko and quilt man over here is Herman Schultz."

"How many times I gotta tell you Marko quit calling me Quilt man, besides (ex nay on our "hero" names)!" Herman whispering that last detail in secrecy.

"Look congrats on your whole training to be heroes but uh, Mineta right? I'm gonna need you to take this damn thing off now."

Mineta tries to look away but soon turns away as the steely gaze of Mina stares back.

"GAH! Okay fine! I'll take it off!" He begrudgingly agreed.

"So I gotta ask what are a couple of Secret pro heroes from the U.S. doing in Japan?" Kaminari questions.

"Well um, yeah see, we uhh..-"

"And why are you guys in a video store buying anime porn?" Kaminari's question continue to corner Flint.

With Shocker getting Mineta and Mina to help remove the sticky ball from his hand, Flint knew he had to dig deep to pull off an elaborate, B.S. lie that would make even Mysterio proud.

"Well ain't it obvious Pin Cushion, were staking out for any bad guy yahoos trying to uh.... rob this place so we was just trying to blend in and be all "conspicuous"

that answer your twenty questions?"

"My name is not the damn Pin Cushion! Its Kaminari you ignorant tourist!"

"Why does this kid make me want backhand him like Electro." Flint said to himself as he struggles to keep calm.

"Kaminari! You shame pro heroes every where with that disrepectable talk! Kirishima scolded.

The blonde haired boy was shaken by his classmates scornful tone, a feet he thought only the explosive Bakugou was capable of.

"Forgive my friends jerk behavior sir but if your looking for recommendations-"

"Stow it half pint, Hermans the one who's into the anima or cartoons stuff I'm looking for something with a little bit more teeth, present company excluded of course."

"My names not half pint its, Kirishima" the young man protested more annoyed by the nickname than the teeth remark.

"I got the anime that's right for you, its Jojo's Bizarre Adventure Part 3 and I bet my entire code of manliness to convince you!"

"Manliness?"

"It's Kirishimas whole mantra of machismo don't encourage it." Kaminari explained.

"Who asked you Sparky! And as to you Kiri-shama was it, any man that puts there code on the line has my attention."

Flint held his fist high towards Kirishima.

Knowing the gesture well, Kirishima moved his arm in response to fist bump Flint in dramatic fashion.

"Did I hear explosions, Flint said to himself."

And Flint would be right for unbeknownst to the group, several armed men garbed in sophisticated helmets and harnesses storm the video shop entrance in a threatening like manner of ill intent!

TO BE CONTINUED!

---------

Tales of Peter Parker is an expanded story of the main series Peter Parker: Foreign Exchange student comic by @alexdrawsagain check him out!

#peter parker: foreign exchange student #tales from peter parker: foreign exchange student #spider-man #sandman #flint marko #john baker #shocker #herman schultz #bnha #my hero academia #mha #mina ashido #kaminari denki #kirishima eijirou #minoru mineta #jojo bizarre adventures #sinister six

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whumpeinsamkeit · 5 years

Text

Bright, bone-warming sunlight pours through the bedroom window. Nine scrunches his face and opens his eyes halfway. He smiles. His apprentice, Axyll, will arrive soon. His first task of the day will be to arrange flasks and little jars of spices on the shelves. Axyll will hum the same song again and again as he works, and Nine will hang on every note while he mixes a fresh brew in the back room of their apothecary. If they’re lucky, they’ll have time to talk over a light breakfast before the first customers walk through the door.

Nine shakes his head as realization cuts through his euphoria. For a brief moment, just like every morning, he thought he was home again. In truth, he’s nowhere near his little shop, in regards to time or space. And his apprentice…he only hopes the stars found favor in Axyll and he is still alive.

He takes a deep breath to clear his mind. A delicious scent drafts up from the kitchen directly below the little loft that serves as his bedroom. Maple and butter. Cypress must be cooking again.

Nine raises his arms to the ceiling in a long stretch and pushes aside the quilt. Cypress calls out a jovial “good morning” the second his feet touch the floor. The things his friend’s ears pick up—Nine swears it’s magic. But it’s not. Not really. He’s seen magic. He knows magic. And Cypress’ exceptional hearing wouldn’t hold a candle to it.

After making his way down the stairs, he turns the corner into the warm kitchen. Cartons of blueberries and strawberries sit opened next to a plate stacked high with French toast. Cypress stands behind the counter, holding a spatula in his prosthetic hand. He’s shirtless and the steam rising from the griddle has flushed his face a light red. Shivaa is coiled around his other hand, her small, pastel pink head bobbing close to inspect the grilling toast.

“Hot, Sheev,” Cypress warns. “No touch.”

Nine clicks his tongue twice, and the little snake stiffens on alert. Unwinding herself from Cypress, she slithers across the granite countertop to weave in between his outstretched fingers.

“I thought you were going to sleep in,” he says to Cypress.

“So did I. But Sheev woke me up and said she was hungry.”

Hungry! The familiar echoes, milky eyes gleaming up at Nine. Her tongue pokes out between two sharp, white fangs. She’s grinning in the strange, unearthly way only a snake could.

“So…you’re feeding her…French toast? Cypress, we’ve talked about feeding Shivaa human foo—”

Cypress waves his hands. “No no. I fed her earlier. But I just thought hey, I’m not getting back to sleep so why not make something? You know?” He shoves the spatula underneath a slice of bread and flips it neatly onto the already towering stack on the plate.

“Holy stars, that’s enough French toast to feed a small army.”

The young man only shrugs and reaches for a stick of butter. There’s a crunching, whirring sound as his metal fingers fumble to take hold of the item. When he picks it up, it falls from his grasp. He takes a deep breath and tries again. His brow wrinkles from the effort. His fingers eventually curl around the butter and he moves it in awkward swipes across the sizzling griddle. Nine hears a soft sigh under Cypress’ breath.

Sad, observes Shivaa.

As he watches Cypress flip slices of French toast, Nine’s eyes lower to the inch-long scar on the left side of his friend’s chest, just below his collarbone. Seeing Cypress’ scar, the small bump underneath the skin makes him feel uneasy, but Nine would never say it to his face. Cypress doesn’t need any more reminders of the past, and Nine is one of the few friends who hasn’t abandoned him.

He swallows hard. “Sorry. I know you worked a lot, and it looks great. Can’t wait to dig in.”

“Who says you’re getting any?” Even though his head is lowered, he can tell that Cypress is smiling. It lightens his heart a little to see his friend like this. So different, he thinks, from the months before. Those were dark times. But now, things are getting better.

As he sets the spatula on the counter, Cypress’ face contorts in a wince. His good hand clutches the place where his prosthetic ends and his residual limb begins. Shivaa extends her long body until she’s stretched halfway across the counter in midair. Her head cocks to one side; she’s inspecting him. Hurt?

Cypress sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth. Nine stiffens at the sound. It takes him back to a place he doesn’t want to be. The air feels heavier, overwhelming. He can smell that awful odor of fuel, metal and sweat clouding his senses. It’s still so painfully fresh in his mind, and no doubt it’s the same for Cypress. If only he hadn’t…

Nine manages to find his voice.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Cypress replies, but his words are forced.

“Are you okay?” He repeats.

His friend stares at him, opens his mouth and then shuts it again. He shakes his head.

“Phantom pain again?”

“…yeah.”

“Give your arm a rest. I’ll finish up the toast.”

Cypress grins, but it looks less like a smile and more like he’s gritting his teeth from the pain. “I don’t trust you. The only thing you can’t burn is cereal.”

Nine swipes up the spatula and shoos the young man away from the counter. “Take off your prosthetic and eat your breakfast. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“Apothecary’s orders then.”

A knot twists in his stomach as he realizes what he’s just said. Cypress must understand too because his smile vanishes and his brow furrows as he lowers his gaze. The room is quiet except for the sizzling of melted butter.

Home. Shivaa’s pink head lowers to rest on the back of his hand. She misses their little shop too.

Cypress is silent as he pulls his left arm out of the prosthetic and unloops the harness that stretches across his chest and around the opposite shoulder. His arm ends just above where his elbow should be.

Putting two slices of toast on his plate, he pours an unhealthy amount of syrup over it, and tops it off with a handful of blueberries. His fork clanks against the china as he balances the plate in his right hand. Then everything is quiet again. Before he leaves the room, he turns and looks at Nine.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Nine replies, too quick.

A long moment passes. “If…if you and Sheev want to go home,” Cypress murmurs. “Don’t let me hold you back. I can take care of myself. And don’t worry—I won’t burn the French toast.”

The corners of Nine’s mouth flicker in a pained smirk. His voice doesn’t raise above a whisper but he still feels it breaking. “Idiot.”

“If you say so.” And then: “But if you want to go home, I won’t stop you. You can leave anytime.”

Nine wants to believe him, but it’s too late now. He shakes his head with a sigh. Second chances don’t happen where he comes from. “I can’t. I want to—I think I want to—but I—I can’t.”

“Come here.” Cypress sets the plate on the counter and extends his arm. Nine hesitates. He’s not one for hugs. But right now, he could use one. He takes a step forward and allows Cypress to pull him into a one-armed hug. Cypress’ voice is soft, reassuring. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

He doesn’t let go and Nine doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t want to. He wishes Cypress could squeeze all of the pain and homesickness out of him. Wishes that he could do the same for his friend.

Smoke, urges Shivaa, but neither human is listening.

The French toast burns to a charcoal black.

#writeblr #drabble #wip #past trauma #writing #cypress #nine #shivaa #ocs #my ocs #apothecary

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bffsoobin · 4 years

Text

Windflower (Preview)

Soobin x reader

Genre: fluff, angst, suspense/horror, hanahaki au!

Requested?: nope

Word Count: 1,273

Warnings: none for this preview post!

A/N: This is just a preview post for this fic! I’m very excited to write it, but it may take a while as it is more involved and might even become chaptered. I’ll make a brand new post for it once I begin with actual posting as well. The setting is heavily inspired by the movie We Have Always Lived in the Castle, if anyone is familiar with the book/movie! Please let me know if you enjoy/are excited for the full length fic!

As Melissa cleared your minimal dishes away, she set a ripped piece of paper in front of you that simply read;

“Choi Soobin, 476 Gardenia Dr.”

After paying and being sure to leave your helpful waitress a generous tip, you hopped back in your car and began your journey to discover the mysterious Flower House.

#txt #soobin #tomorrow x together #txt fic #txt fanfic #txt angst #txt fluff #my writing #hanahaki au #soobin fluff #soobin angst #txt imagine #txt imagines #soobin imagines #soobin imagine #tomorrow x together fluff #tomorrow x together fanfic

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pninastar · 5 years

Text

Bright, bone-warming sunlight pours through the bedroom window. Nine scrunches his face and opens his eyes halfway. He smiles. His apprentice will arrive soon. Her first task of the day will be to arrange flasks and little jars of spices on the shelves. She’ll hum the same song again and again as she works, and he will hang on every note while he mixes a fresh brew in the back room of their apothecary. If they’re lucky, they’ll have time to talk over a light breakfast before the first customers walk through the door.

Nine shakes his head as realization cuts through his euphoria. For a brief moment, just like every morning, he thought he was home again. In truth, he’s nowhere near his little shop, in regards to time or space. And his apprentice...he only hopes the stars found favor in her and she is still alive.

He takes a deep breath to clear his head. A delicious scent drafts up from the kitchen directly below the little loft that serves as his bedroom. Maple and butter. Cypress must be cooking again.

After making his way down the stairs, he turns the corner into the warm kitchen. Cartons of blueberries and strawberries sit opened next to a plate stacked high with French toast. The countertop is coated in a light dusting of flour. Cypress stands behind the counter, holding a spatula in his prosthetic hand. He’s shirtless and the steam rising from the griddle has flushed his face a light red. Shivaa is coiled around his other hand, her small, pastel pink head bobbing close to inspect the grilling toast.

“Hot, Sheev,” Cypress warns. “No touch.”

Nine clicks his tongue twice, and the little snake stiffens on alert. Unwinding herself from Cypress, she slithers across the granite countertop to weave in between his outstretched fingers.

“I thought you were going to sleep in,” he says to Cypress.

“So did I. But Sheev woke me up and said she was hungry.”

Hungry! The familiar echoes, milky eyes gleaming up at Nine. Her tongue pokes out between two sharp, white fangs. She’s grinning in the strange, unearthly way only a snake could.

“So...you’re feeding her...French toast? Cypress, we’ve talked about feeding Shivaa human foo—”

“Holy stars, that’s enough French toast to feed a small army.”

Sad, observes Shivaa.

He swallows hard. “Sorry. I know you worked a lot, and it looks great. Can’t wait to dig in.”

Nine manages to find his voice.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Cypress replies, but his words are forced.

“Are you okay?” He repeats.

His friend stares at him, opens his mouth and then shuts it again. He shakes his head.

“Phantom pain again?”

“...yeah.”

“Give your arm a rest. I’ll finish up the toast.”

Cypress grins, but it looks less like a smile and more like he’s gritting his teeth from the pain. “I don’t trust you. The only thing you can’t burn is cereal.”

Nine swipes up the spatula and shoos the young man away from the counter. “Take off your prosthetic and eat your breakfast. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“Apothecary’s orders then.”

Home. Shivaa’s pink head lowers to rest on the back of his hand. She misses their little shop too.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Nine replies, too quick.

A long moment passes. “If…if you and Sheev want to go home,” Cypress murmurs. “Don’t let me hold you back. I can take care of myself. And don’t worry—I won’t burn the French toast.”

The corners of Nine’s mouth flicker in a smirk. His voice doesn’t raise above a whisper but he still feels it breaking. “Idiot.”

“If you say so.” And then: “But if you want to go home, I won't stop you. You can leave anytime.”

He doesn’t let go and Nine doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t want to. He wishes Cypress could squeeze all of the pain and homesickness out of him. Wishes that he could do the same for his friend.

Smoke, urges Shivaa, but neither human is listening.

The French toast burns to a charcoal black.

#writerblr #drabble #past trauma #writing #Cypress #Nine #Shivaa #my ocs #wip

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