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autumnleaves1991-blog · 3 years

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Could I have 13 and 70 from the smut list with King Arthur?

A/N: Yes, yes, you can. :D Also took some inspiration from the live-action Cinderella movie. Thank you for reading, reblogging, commenting, and liking.

Pairing: King Arthur x F! Reader

Warnings: 18 + only for smut, p in v

Masterlist

Prompts: “Your parents would be royally disappointed if they saw what you have on right now. Even more disappointed at what I’m thinking about doing to you.”& “I know all of your weaknesses.”

You fidgeted in your pretty gown for the eighth time in the last ten minutes, and your mother was less than pleased. “Stop moving, ungrateful child, this is your chance to impress the King! A chance for us to rise among the nobles!” she hisses at you, pulling your shoulders back. A ball in King Arthur’s court, wearing a corset that did little to help in the way of breathing, and your overbearing mother is breathing down your neck. Your sister beside you covered her giggles with a cough as you rolled your eyes.

“Oh, Lady Charlotte!” Mother smiles and thankfully leaves you for a moment alone. You take a deep breath and lower your shoulders, eyes scanning the room for exits.

“She will catch you, you know,” your sister giggles again, “and drag you right back.”

“I feel more like a prized bird on display than a woman,” you scoff, “does she honestly believe that the King is going to look at me in this ridiculous get-up and fall madly in love? We are peasants; how did we even get invited to this? Besides, I haven’t even seen this King before; what if he’s some hideous brute? Maybe that’s why they haven’t commissioned any portraits of him.”

“I’ve heard he’s quite handsome and young.”

“The average life span of a person is only fifty or so years, so how young can he be, twelve?” you groan at seeing the large plume of your mother’s hat coming back your way. “I need to get out of here before mother sells me to the highest coin.”

“Quickly then,” she shoos, “I know why you don’t want to meet the King; he’ll never compare with your handsome stranger.” She grins mischievously at you, and you hold your breath waiting for the fallout.

“How did you know about that?”

“Sister, darling, you are not very good at hiding your feelings.” You glare at her, and she giggles, “I also saw the two of you by the creek when I was out fetching berries last week. He’s quite handsome.”

“There you are!” Mother returns and puts her hands on your shoulders, pretending to show affection. “The King is coming,” she whispers with a grin and moves to stand between the two of you. You look over at your sister and give her your best pleading face, mouthing the words, ‘please don’t tell’ she smiles and nods with a wordless ‘promise.’

The trumpets sound loud, and a man stands forward to announce the King. People sitting rise to their feet, girls around you giggle like children, several pushing up their chests, biting their lips, or pinching their cheeks for some extra color. You stand there with a lump in your throat, trying to swallow around it.

When the King makes his entrance, the crown glistening off the top of his head, your mouth slowly falls open on a gasp. “Art?” you whisper, your mother shushing you; you can feel your sister’s eyes burn into the side of your face. Everyone around you bows and curtsies low in honor, but your body has frozen, your limbs no longer working.

“Curtsy,” your mother grabs your hand and pulls you down with a hiss, and you gasp, nearly falling to the floor with force. The noise draws his attention, and when the crowd rises, his eyes are staring intensely into yours. Those eyes you love, Art the apprentice, is the King of England. “He’s staring at you,” you can hear the glee in your mother’s voice, but all you feel is dread.

The music begins to play, and several Lord’s come up to him showing their offspring off like a cow at the market. And for a moment, his eyes leave yours, and you bolt. “Where are you going?” your mother moves to grab you, but your sister intervenes; God bless her. You walk as quickly as your skirts will allow towards the door to the gardens, and when you are on the threshold, an arm comes out to stop you.

“Wait, milady,” you freeze, half wanting to rip your arm from his grasp and slap him across the face for his misdirection, the other half wanting to turn and get lost in the deep blue of his eyes. “My love,” he whispers only for you to hear, “let me explain.” The second half wins, and you turn slowly, noticing the entire ballroom is watching the scene with rapt interest. His eyes, as blue as the sky reflecting off the sea, have you unraveling before him. “Dance with me?” he straightens to his full height, letting go of your arm and holding out a hand, “please.”

Your hand trembles as you bring it up and place it in his. The warmth that is usually so comforting seems to set your skin ablaze as you follow him to the middle of the ballroom. The music is slow, and you follow the steps with him in a carefully orchestrated dance. “Talk,” you whisper, “why did you lie to me?”

“I didn’t lie,” he grins, “not exactly; I am still learning my trade, just like an apprentice.”

You know all the eyes are on you, and you smile when he gives you a turn, stepping hard on his foot when you come around. He grunts but doesn’t stop the dance, continuing each step. “That wasn’t very nice,” he smiles and says under his breath. “Did you forget love? I know all your weaknesses.” His words light the fire in your belly, and you see the mischief in his eyes as the dance comes to a close.

“Would you join me for a stroll in the gardens, Milady?” he asks loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Your Majesty?” Sir Bedivere strides over quickly, “there are many ladies who wish to dance with you, my King; you wouldn’t want to insult them.”

“I need to make sure to give each of the ladies my adequate attention. Isn’t that what you told me, Sir Bedivere?” he grins as the other man nods with a thin line of his lips. “I won’t be alone, don’t worry, Sir Tristan will be my guard.” He looks over at the Knight, who has several ladies of his own to tend to, who nods with great reluctance. “See?” he claps the older man on the shoulder and offers you his elbow. “Milady?”

You don’t have much choice, taking his elbow and following him over the threshold and into the gardens. Sir Tristan follows several steps behind, and you walk into the sprawling greenery. When you are about halfway in, he turns with a whistle, “Oi, Wet Stick, bugger off for a bit; we need to have a chat.”

“You know this bird, boss?” he asks with a raise of his brow.

“Yeah, she’s the one I asked you to bring the invitation to,” you look up at him, alarmed.

“You invited us? Well, aren’t you just full of surprises,” you huff and walk further into the orchard part of the gardens, far from the prying eyes of the partygoers.

“Shit,” he follows quickly behind, and you hear Wet Stick snigger and walk off in the other direction. “Wait, darling, please.”

You whirl around with a finger pushing into his chest, “What game are you trying to play? Find some pretty peasant girl, make her fall in love with you, and then embarrass her in front of all the Nobility in England. Was that your game?” You walk away from him and pace back and forth, “I can’t believe I was so naive to think you cared.”

“I do!” he reaches for you and holds you by the shoulders to face him, “I do care, love. I didn’t want you to love me because I was a King, I wanted you to love me! Arthur, the man, not the crown. I never lied to you,” you glare at him with a hand gesturing to the crown on top of his head, “okay I neglected one small detail.”

“One,” you huff out a laugh pushing away his hands, “one small detail?! Arthur, you’re the fucking King of England! I’m only a poor seamstress, with an insufferable widowed mother, who only dreams of becoming a part of the upper class!” You feel the tears swell in your eyes as the truth all comes crashing down on your shoulders; the man you’ve been in love with for months is unreachable; theres’ no way he can marry you.

“Listen to me,” he reaches for you again and takes three enormous strides pushing your back up against one of the apple trees. “Look at me.”

Your mind won’t slow down, “what was your goal with having us come tonight? So you could shame me? Show off to the nobility that you are one with the people? Do you fuck every peasant girl you meet?”

“Listen to me!” he shakes your shoulders, and your eyes widen, looking up to see him. “Listen to me,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to your own, “there was no game. I saw you in the market ten months ago when I was in the city.”

“Ten months ago? I’ve only known you for six….”

“I didn’t know how to approach you; I couldn’t just go up to you and say hello I’m the King of bloody England, fancy a pint?” You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips, his curving up at the edges. “So I dressed in my old clothes, snuck out of the palace, and started slowly talking to you. Then we went for a walk, and I couldn’t stay away. You’ve bewitched me, love. My love for you is more powerful than the magic of the Mage.”

“Honest?” you ask quietly with trepidation, “do you mean that Art?” He smiles at the nickname he gave you, leaning down to kiss your lips softly.

“Promise, love. It’s only ever and will only ever be you.” He runs his hand against your cheek, and you lean into his touch, letting yourself breathe for the first time all evening.

“I love you too, Arthur; I’m in love with you.” His eyes soften as he gazes down at you.

“We have to go back soon,” he whispers, kissing you softly, “but do you think we got time for?” He wiggles his eyebrows, and you smack his arm with a laugh.

“Is that all you think about?”

He grins and takes a step back, “turn around,” he whispers with a wink. You turn around slowly, gasping when your hands are pressed further into the tree trunk. “Quiet love, don’t want anyone to hear us do we?”

He moves quickly, unlacing the top of your corset and peeling the back open, letting it fall to the ground, your breasts sagging with the relief of being free. He palms your breasts, placing rough, scratchy kisses over your exposed shoulders. His hands come around to his waist, and he pushes up several layers of your skirts, reaching for your pulsing heat. He turns you around, and you reach your hands quickly down to palm him through his leather breeches.

Your hands falter on the fabric, and you look down with wide eyes, “I-I made these,” your voice shakes, “they were commissioned a few weeks ago.” You look up to meet his warm eyes as he nods.

“I wanted to support you, and you are the best seamstress in the city. Only the best for the King,” he murmurs, almost shy.

“Well then, my King,” his eyes darken, “I will need to show my appreciation.” You tug open the breeches, and he slips them down his thighs, lifting your skirts the rest of the way.

He fumbles with the layers, and you giggle at the annoyed look on his face. “I swear, when we marry, I demand you just walk around naked at all times. These skirts are ridiculous.”

You don’t have time to respond, the words caught in your throat, as he lifts you and slides inside with ease. “Fuck, always so wet for me, love,” his hips snap inside you, and his mouth tangles with yours, swallowing your moans.

“Arthur,” you moan, feeling him stretch you on his majestic royal cock. This is not the first time you’ve fucked, having given Art the apprentice your virginity in the woods several months ago, but this was the first time you’ve fucked Arthur, the king, and he didn’t disappoint.

“That’s it, love, let me hear you, but only me, don’t want any of them damn nobles to know I already made my choice. That I already fell in love months ago with a beautiful seamstress in the market.” He grunts, and your cunt flutters around his cock with every word. The love between you flowing over with each thrust of his hips.

“I- ah, I love you, Arthur,” you whimper against his neck, slick with sweat. The air is thick tonight, the incoming storm leaving the air thick and dripping.

He pulls back to look at you, punctuating each word with a snap of his hips, “I love you, you’re my Queen, always have been.”

You buck your hips against him, cumming with a silent cry, head thrown back in ecstasy. He thrusts three more times, and then you feel him cumming deep inside you, thick and warm it dribbles down the inside of your thighs. He’d never done that before, always pulling out at the last moment. You open your eyes and look at him; his pupils are wide, almost black as he stares at you.

“Now they can’t say anything,” he mumbles, and you furrow your brow. “You may be carrying a little Prince or Princess now; I have to marry you.”

You grin at what he’s done, his cock still buried inside you. “You’re naughty,” you giggle.

“I’m naughty?” He asks with a smirk, “your parents would be royally disappointed if they saw what you have on right now. Even more so at what I’m thinking about doing to you.”

“And what’s that?” You shift your hips, and his eyes widen as you tighten around his cock.

His eyes soften, and he cups your cheek gently, bringing your lips softly to his own. The rub of his beard is rough on your cheek as he moves to your ear, “I’m going to end this party early and show you. I already made my choice a long time ago. But, are you ready?” He pulls back, looking deep into your eyes, “Can you stand by my side and love Arthur the King, as much as you love Art, the apprentice?”

Your heart catches in your throat, blood roaring in your ears at his words; you lean into his hand warmly and on your cheek and close your eyes. Opening them slowly and looking into the sea of blue, “I love you, all sides of you, that doesn’t change because of a shiny crown and a title.”

He slowly pulls out, and you whimper as he lowers you back to the ground, pulling down your skirts and fixing your corset. You both work in silence to be presentable again, his eyes bright as he smiles at you, “Then, let’s go,” he murmurs, reaching for your hand, “I think it’s time to announce our engagement.” He snickers as you walk along beside him back towards the party.

“What are you laughing at?” you chuckle, watching his eyes filled with mirth.

“Your mother is going to faint,” he laughs beside you.

You groan and roll your eyes with a laugh, “Good, maybe she will be quiet for a few moments.”

He booms out a laugh and pulls you close, kissing the top of your head, “oh my love, our life will never be boring.”

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#King Arthur x Reader #Female Reader #King Arthur Legend of the Sword #charlie hunnam fanfiction #charlie hunnam #Autumn Writes

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fortheloveoffanfic · 2 years

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Makeshift Mistletoe

12 Days of Christmas Writing Event- Day 2

Thomas Shelby x Reader (A/n- You can find my other Thomas Shelby works on my Ao3, which is linked in my masterlist. A/n2- using the same mood board for all 12 fics cause I'm lazy as hell)

Masterlist

Prompt 5 - “Mistletoe, means you have to kiss me.” "That’s parsley.” “Close enough"

requested by @green-day-fangirl

Warnings- none, just fluff ft. Thomas

The aromatic smell of a roast, intended for Christmas Eve dinner, seemed to touch every room in Arrow House. It was just one day before Christmas, and there wasn’t a thing out of place; decorations had been hung with care, from garland wrapped around the railing of the staircase to ornaments fixed to the grand tree in the drawing room, presents had already been wrapped by the woman of the house, every nook and cranny had been cleaned and polished to perfection and all the shopping had long been done.

Christmas, as Thomas had learned very quickly into their courtship, was Y/n’s favorite holiday, and after they’d married, he had allowed her to take all control of everything; the menu for Christmas dinner, what color the decorations were and how the place settings looked. It all seemed like far too much work for him anyway, and if it were up to Thomas, he’d have delegated the entire thing to someone else. But Y/n loved all of it and had told him that she’d prefer to end every day bone tired through November and December than reassign the work.

They staffed some of the best cooks in England and she still wouldn’t let them do the baking or cook Christmas dinner.

That night, Thomas had been holed up in his office for far longer than anticipated; he’d really been trying his best to split his time equally between his family and work. It was tirelessly daunting, but he was doing his utmost best. Finishing off his drink, he casually ripped his spectacles off discarding them on his neatly packed desk, on a stack of papers before rising from the back-aching leather chair. It was nearing dusk, and the sky hadn’t quite darkened yet, but it was slowly beginning to dim and the lights had been turned on to wash the room with a warm yellow glow, while a fire had been started to chase away winter’s nipping chill.

Briefly, he contemplated pouring himself another drink, though, when he reached for his glass, his sleeve brushed the frame of a photograph that had made a comfortable home among the others on his desk. It was new, taken earlier that year and displayed his wife sitting in the garden near her favorite flowers. Upon noticing it, Thomas disregarded the glass, instead deciding that he’d wander down to the kitchen to see if Y/n was almost done. They were hosting Christmas Eve dinner that evening, and Thomas had promised Y/n that he’d be out of his office before plates were severed, so deserting work didn’t seem like too much of a poor decision. Especially where the alternative was a cross wife.

Deserting the room, Thomas made his way through the familiar halls of his home, strolling past portraits that once roused the ache of grief, that still brought up bittersweet memories, and others that Thomas quite enjoyed looking at. Among his favorites was one of him, Y/n and his children. They weren't her own, but she'd done her very best to treat them as if they were, and likewise Charles and Ruby adored her. That portrait, specifically, made him smile every time. A left turn into the dining room found him glancing at the already set table, decked with pristine china, delicate, silver cutlery and sparkling crystal, with small, red and green, floral centerpieces with candles in the middle peppered amongst the empty spaces for the dishes. No doubt it was Y/n's doing, she definitely had an eye for decoration and Thomas often marveled in the fact that a woman who could have easily been the lady of England's finest houses had chosen to marry him.

By the time he was nearing the kitchen, Thomas had already bumped into Francis and a couple of the other maids, who were busy putting the final touches on things around the house. They'd told him that Y/n was still in the kitchen, though, she was almost done and probably wouldn't have minded his intrusion.

She was at the counter, near the sink when he strode in, hands in pockets and looking around at finished dishes populating the surfaces, the symphony of aromas making the room smell the way one would expect Christmas too. There was something in the oven, a cake he thought, and Y/n was too busy whisking something in a bowl to notice him.

"Need an assistant, eh?" He probed lightheartedly as Thomas approached his wife, touching the small of her back and stepping into the spot next to her.

Startled, Y/n jumped, dropped the whisk into the bowl with a clatter and clutching the center of her chest. "Thomas!" She protested, fighting a grin, "You can't do that! What if this were a knife?"

He chuckled, rubbing his hand affectionately up and down her back, "Then you'd have dropped it sweetheart."

Y/n scoffed, hiding her amusement, "Don't call me that after you scared me half to death," she admonished, reclaiming the whisking and continuing with her former task.

"Yeah," Thomas sought that spot on her neck, right where he knew she was most ticklish, pressing a chaste peck there and rousing a squirm and an eruption of laughter. One of his favorite sounds, the reason he loved going home in the evening. "What should I call you then?"

Humming softly, Y/n pretended to give it some thought, "You know what? I changed my mind, you can call me that, even if you did almost kill me,” she teased, evading Thomas when he tried to capture her lips, “But you don’t get kisses.”

Scoffing, Thomas kept his arm around her while looking around the counter for something he’d spotted earlier, and then, when his eyes finally landed on the tuft of deep green, all but completely hidden by the clutter, he grabbed it, holding it over their head, declaring triumphantly; “Mistletoe, means you have to kiss me.”

Rolling her eyes playfully, Y/n briefly deserted her task once more, “That’s parsley,” she corrected with an amused huff after glancing up at what Thomas had been holding.

With a short, “Huh,” and another scoff, Thomas shrugged. “Close enough,” he dismissed, not even giving Y/n a moment to protest before pressing his lips to hers in a stolen lip-lock. It had barely been a handful of seconds before she responded, and in no time, their lips were working in tandem. The saccharine taste of her lips electrified his senses, as if he were kissing her for the first time, all over again, while the dulcet flavor of her tongue reminded Thomas that if home was a person, it was Y/n. If true, remedial and unconditional love was tangible, then it was right there, with her.

“I love you,” she whispered when they broke for air, her words warm against his lips.

“I love you,” Thomas mirrored, bending his head a bit more so their foreheads were pressed together, “What about another? Because it's Christmas,” he enticed lightly, discarding the parsley on the counter, freeing his hand so he could cup her supple jaw, rough pad of his thumb roving the apple of her cheek and smiling when Y/n instinctively leaned into his touch.

“Only because it's Christmas,” Y/n permitted, arms encircling his neck and fingers affectionately caressing the back of his head, just as Thomas sealed his lips with hers once more, finding in them the same pleasure that he always did.

#thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinders #thomas shelby x you #cillian murphy #thomas shelby x y/n #12 days of christmas writing event

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spencersweetie · 3 years

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Coincidence (Spencer x GN!Reader Onseshot)

Category: Fluff

Summary: Spencer and Reader accidentally have a museum date when they run into each other.

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: none <3

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“Y/N!” A familiar voice called your name. You turned around and faced a familiar man whom you’d met through your friend Penelope. Spencer stood smiling at you with his hands in his pockets. He energetically waved at you.

You grinned back at him. “Hey Spencer! What a crazy coincidence, us both being here at the same time.” You had spontaneously decided to visit the National Gallery of Art since you had a free day to yourself over the weekend.

“Totally!” He responded. “I’m supposed to have the whole weekend off so I thought I’d revisit the gallery. How are you?”

“I’m alright! You’re revisiting? How many times have you been here? This is my first time seeing the gallery.” You had been to other art museums in Maryland but never the National Gallery of Art since you had recently moved to D.C. a year ago.

Spencer chuckled lightly. “This would be my ninth time coming here. I saw the gallery for the first time when I was nine years old and couldn’t keep myself away from this place.

“Wow!” You exclaimed. “I don’t blame you, I’ve only seen the sculpture garden and the first few pieces in this wing so far and everything is gorgeous; I’m in love already.”

“You know what, I’ve got the building memorized!” Spencer eagerly informed you. “If you want, I could be your personal guide and show you the best parts of each exhibit and take you on the most efficient path through the museum! I mean, you don’t have to say yes, it’s up to you.”

“Spencer, that’d be awesome, I’ll totally tag along if you’re cool with that!” You beamed at him, trying to hide your excitement. You usually went on trips like these alone so it was nice to have someone who could enjoy the same thing as you by your side.

“Great, let’s go!” Spencer turned and gestured towards the next exhibit.

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As you and Spencer explored the museum together, you noticed how abnormally comfortable you felt around him. You two had never hung out without Penelope so this was a first for you both. Even without your mutual friend, you found that Spencer was both easy to listen to and easy to talk to. He of course knew a lot about the art in the gallery and thoroughly explained each piece to you but you appreciated that he never talked to you like you were dumb or lesser than him. He regularly asked if you were okay with his infodumps as well, which you completely didn’t mind. You could tell that he undoubtedly had a passion for the arts, and you liked that he was so enthusiastic to share that with you.

While you did certainly find Spencer’s interesting facts to be intriguing, you couldn’t help but let your mind wander as you looked at him from the side. He didn’t notice your looking as he faced the painting while he talked to you, completely occupied by the piece that was on the wall in front of him. You liked the way he spoke about the art that he showed you. Spencer was very animated, clearly demonstrating his excitement about whatever he was explaining in the movement of his hands. His face was quite expressive too. His eyebrows rose and fell as he talked and his eyes squinted and widened as he conversed with you. You hadn’t noticed how pretty Spencer’s eyes were until now, how his irises were brown but with little gold specks on the inside. You liked that when he wrinkled his nose in the middle of a sentence, his scrunch reached the top of his nose bridge between his eyes. His nose was a nice nose, you thought. It enhanced his side profile and turned slightly upwards when he smiled too. And his lips. Today you noticed that his lips were quite… pink. And full. And plump. You had to catch yourself when your eyes traveled down from Spencer’s eyes to his mouth when he spoke, then hope that he didn’t notice your distraction. You just liked that way he smiled, that’s all, you told yourself. He often kept his smile as he talked and continued to smile when you spoke to him too. You liked the way his lips puckered when his smile grew bigger as he finished his sentences. It seemed like an uncontrollable habit of his-

“Y/N?” Spencer interrupted your thoughts. He looked at you with his brows slightly raised.

“Hm, yeah?” Your mind snapped back to the present moment. “I’m sorry, could you say that again?”

“Are you okay? Am I boring you? We could stop here if you want!”

“No, Spencer- it’s fine!” You jumped to explain. “You’re good, I promise! I’m not bored, I just got lost in my thoughts for a second. Um, the only da Vinci painting in the U.S. right? Is this one here?”

“Exactly!” Spencer lit up and straightened his posture. “Da Vinci painted less than 20 oil paintings throughout his career; this one was bought for $5 million and arrived in D.C. in 1969!”

“Damn!” You exclaimed. “So that makes this portrait like, the Mona Lisa of the National Gallery, huh?”

“Absolutely!” Spencer agreed with you. “The gallery has other Da Vinci pieces displayed but none that are as rare and valuable as an oil painting of his. This one, Ginerva de’ Benci, is a portrait of a daughter of a banker, most likely commissioned when she was about 16 and just engaged. You know, the juniper bush is what’s in the background. Juniper represents chastity which was one of the most significant traits of a woman in the Renaissance era. It’s kind of a subtle little pun, including the juniper plant, because in Italian the plant is called ginepro.”

“Oh! Ginepro, Ginerva! That’s so cute, I love it!” You told him. “I like how there’s like no fancy jewelry or finery on her in this portrait too. It’s different from the Renaissance portraits of the other ladies that we saw.”

“Yeah, it’s a little bit of a surprise when it comes to a portrait like this that she isn’t completely dressed up! It doesn’t reveal her family’s wealth like portraits commonly do. I love that you noticed that.” Spencer’s lips turned at the corners in appreciation of your attention to detail. “Let’s move onto the next one!”

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You and Spencer moved on through the exhibit, then through the rest of the museum. You two enjoyed each other’s company for the day and were able to see all the art in three hours. As you exited, you found yourself laughing as you and Spencer recalled the events of the day. “I still can’t believe they kept trying to pay you for a private tour even after you insisted you weren’t a museum tour guide!” You laughed into your hand which was clapped over your mouth, trying not to draw attention to you and Spencer.

“Shut up!” Spencer jokingly rolled his eyes at you. “I hate that they were gathered around me too, attracting a crowd while trying to hand me money. I don’t even wear a uniform like the other employees!” Spencer cracked up along with you, shaking as he pictured himself standing next to you, explaining to a group of strangers that he was just visiting with a friend, not working for the gallery.

You shrieked with laughter, uncontrollably gasping for air as you tried to calm yourself. “Then when they said they would call the gallery and get you fired for denying customers!” Tears were coming out of your eyes from being unable to stop laughing. “And you just went ‘Okay!’ and walked off without me!” You missed a step and tripped, grabbing Spencer’s arm as you fell into him.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” You were half still dying from laughing and half freaking out from your mistake. “I didn’t mean to grab you, I know you’ve got a germ thing! I think I just got a little carried away and wasn’t careful enough to watch my step!” You frantically apologized to Spencer. “Are you okay?”

Spencer grinned at you and dusted you off on your shoulders. “Relax, Y/N. I know you’re not germy; I’m not gonna freak out if you touch me. And I’m fine, you’re the one who fell!” He reassured you. “Are you okay? Do you need a second? You’re pink in the face, I don’t know if from laughing or from tripping on the step.”

“I’m fine, I’m good! Thank you Spencer.” You replied, still hot around your face. “Let’s just get out of here before I start to laugh and embarrass myself again.” You chuckled. “Are you free for the rest of the day? We could get something to eat if you’re hungry!”

Spencer smiled at you. “Yeah, I’m free! Do you like Indian? There’s this new place that’s about 10 minutes from here-”

A loud ringing cut his sentence off. Spencer sighed and apologetically looked at you before whipping his cell phone out of his pocket. “Yeah?” He spoke into the phone.

He listened for a few seconds before speaking. “I’m in D.C. but I’ll be there as soon as possible. Thanks, Penelope.” Spencer hung up and shoved his phone back into his coat.

“Got a case?” You asked.

“Yeah. I’m so sorry, Y/N, I know we were supposed to-”

“Spence!” You stopped him. “You don’t have to apologize, we didn’t even plan on hanging out today!”

Spencer’s eyes softened; he expected you to express disappointment before anything else and was surprised that you were understanding instead. He smiled and nodded. “Okay, but we could still check out the new Indian place another time, yeah?”

You felt butterflies in your stomach emerging. “Of course. Thank you for today, Spencer. I had an amazing time.”

“Me too, Y/N. I’ll text you when we get back!”

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

Thank you for reading! Feel free to comment your thoughts or send anon feedback, anything is appreciated <33

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the-firebender-girl · 4 years

Text

Teacher’s Pet (Zuko x Reader) : Part 1

-> Fire Lord Zuko meets his daughter’s favorite teacher.

*Y/H/C: Your hair color

Warning: The storyline is a bit depressing at first, there’s a mention of death and a lot of self deprecating thoughts.

A princess of the Fire Nation. A title that should’ve guaranteed that she can get anything and everything that her heart desire, but Princess Izumi’s life is far cry from the fairytale life of princesses in her bedtime stories.

To feel a mother’s love, that is her one true desire for as long as she can remember. What she constantly seeks from the moment that she understands that there is a missing puzzle in her life. A hollow gap.

There hasn’t been a Fire Lady of the nation ever since Izumi came into this world. Her birth also marks the day that her mother passed away due to immense blood loss after childbirth, life and death hovering soo close together, one soul in exchange for another. There wasn’t even a celebration in her name, only a funeral. What was supposed to be a joyous occation turned sorrowful. The nation was in mourning for their lost queen.

At the age of 13 years old, Izumi can’t help the grim thoughts that constantly plagued her mind, “You did this... your mother died because of you”. A nightmarish and hideous burden indeed for such a young mind to bear. Of course no one ever said that to her face, but she can feel it, in the quiet whispers exchanged between her fellow students or teachers, in the pitying glances that the palace staff throws her way when they thought she’s not looking, or maybe even in the way that she still sees the longing stare of her father.. late at night.. standing in front of the late queen’s portrait.

They all think that she doesn’t know, doesn’t notice, doesn’t understand. But she does. After all she is a child who is forced to deal with great loss way too soon, and that changes a person regardless of his or her age.

———————————————————————

Fire Lord Zuko showers his daughter with love and attention, never letting his responsibilities towards the nation get in the way of being the best father that he can be. Izumi deserves the world and he intend to give it to her.

Looking at his daughter’s face brings him both immense bliss and grief. She is the splitting image of her mother, a piece of her that is left in this world from her sudden departure. An ache that will probably never go away for the rest of his miserable existence. Maybe it’s just Zuko’s bad luck, the people who he loves most always got taken away from him one way or another. Why would it stop now?

Despite his best efforts, Zuko sees his daughter becoming more distant as she grew older. He tried to reach for her but he too is downspiraling. Down and down and down the both of them go. How are they supposed to save each other when they’re pretty much stuck in the same dark hole with no sign of escape or an end to it?

The least that he could do for her is sign her up to a normal Fire Nation private school, not to the Royal Fire Academy for Girls as tradition demands. He doesn’t want her to live a sheltered life just as how he and Azula was raised. Cloistered and living amongst tight circle of nobilities, never knowing how the rest of the people live. He wants Izumi to see the world at full extend and so he did, in hope that one day she’ll be a great and just ruler, a champion beloved by her people, his gift for her should all else fails.———————————————————————

Izumi loves school, the only chance for her to get away and buried herself amongst books, nothing else exists and she let herself got carried away. Absorbing as much knowledge as she could to fill her mind with light and possibilities. Of wisdom and science, both old and new.

She has a handful of friends at school, but even then she prefers to spend her time alone. Spending breaks in the library or aimlessly wandering the school ground.

But perhaps a change is in order as a new face entered the school in the form of her art teacher. The former art teacher, Laoshi Zhixin is a lazy old man who made a hobby of neglecting his every duty, Izumi often wonders how he even managed to land this job since he clearly has no passion for it whatsoever. “Good riddance,” she thought.

The replacement teacher though, she is entirely something else. “A walking living art,” that’s how the rest of the students describe her, Izumi hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting her though, not until today as it is her class’s turn for the subject.

When Izumi walked into the art classroom and saw her, she finally understood what the buzz is all about. And she too sees why people described her that way.

Laoshi Y/N is young for a teacher, from the looks of it she’s probably still in her early twenties. Her (Y/H/C)* hair is pulled into a messy bun, the skin along her arms are covered with dry plain splotches in several different colors. A kind smile gracing her lips as she watched every student who enters her classroom one by one.

When all of them are seated in front of an easel, she walked to the center of the room and opened her arms wide to the side in a welcoming gesture.

“Good morning students! i’m Laoshi Y/N, your new art teacher” She started chirpily.

A chorus of good mornings and hello Laoshi Y/N resounded around the room.

“Today we’re going to paint, as you can see i’ve taken the liberty to set up the easel and blank canvas for you.”

A few students groaned but then one of her classmates raised his hand, “Are we going to attempt to remake a drawing of landscape just like Laoshi Zhixin always makes us do?”

Laoshi Y/N eyebrows quirked, “No, not at all” her statement is followed by lots of relieved sigh. Even Izumi must admit that if she has to paint one more of those stupid lakes and hillside she would’ve chuck her canvas.

“So what then?” a different student voiced the question.

Laoshi Y/N chuckled, “Patience, we’re just getting there”

“I want you to paint... emotions”

Izumi’s face morphed into one of confusion, but she’s not alone, the rest of her classmates have the same look plastered on their faces.

“Let me elaborate, by emotions I don’t mean face or a drawing of a human smiling or crying and the likes. I want you to pick an emotion and imagine it in your mind, if it has a form what do you think it would look like? what color would it has? reach deep inside and pick an emotion that resonate with you. Be it happiness, sadness, fear, anger, or surprise... help it takes form”

Now this is a lesson that she has never received in any of her prior classes, one that she can learn to appreciate. Laoshi Y/N brought something new to the game, something fresh, what art is supposed to be like in the first place.

“Is my instruction clear enough or is there any other question?” she clapped her hands once, “None? alright then chop chop”

Sounds erupted around the room, scrapping of dragged stools, clatter of paint trays, the tapping of paint brushes against glass of water. The atmosphere itself came to life.

Izumi look fixedly at the blank canvas in front of her, contemplating long and hard about which emotion she would pick. What was Laoshi Y/N’s words again? “...pick an emotion that resonate with you” now that would be quite a challenge. Izumi’s inside is a maelstrom of emotions, trying to pick it apart from one other is an impossible task. Even she herself never understood what exactly it is that she’s feeling most of the time.

“Chaos” she thought to herself. That’s the word she’s looking for, what best describes her inner turmoil. And that is what she’s going to paint or at least attempt to, we’ll see.

———————————————————————

Y/N walked around the classroom, observing her students work one by one. So far most of them picked either happiness or anger, that much is clear by their choice of colors or the stroke of their brushes. She hummed a tune under her breath, murmuring encouragement or approval every now and then.

As she neared the back row, a piece caught her attention. This one is not made of the bright colors of happiness or fiery ones of anger, the brush strokes neither soft or harsh. Black, dark grey, and deep blue, those are the main color components. Growing darker the closer it gets to the center. But there’s also a few nebulous strokes of angry bright red and some splatter of murky green. The longer Y/N stare at the painting, the more its unrest clawed at her, submerging her into it.

Y/N realigned her focus towards the painter, reigning in her surprise when she realized who it is. Izumi, Fire Lord Zuko’s only child. It made her even more curious as to what goes on inside that mind for her to create this piece? Of course she knows all about the tragedy that has befallen their family, but never did she once consider of the depth of the impact. What it did to this girl who is now under her care.

“What’s the name of your painting?” she asked her.

Izumi’s hand halted mid air, she was too engrossed in her pursuit to pay attention to her surroundings. Realizing too late that now her teacher is standing right behind her.

Izumi glanced over her shoulder, “Chaos... I call it chaos”

“A fitting name” Y/N replied, once again letting her eyes roam over it. “Any particular reason why you chose to paint this?”

“You told us to paint what resonates most with us and this is it for me” Izumi said complete with a shrug.

Y/N can see past the walls that this girl put up around her, separating her from the rest of the world. There is indeed a chaos brewing inside, plain as day, but she knows it’s not her place to pry. So she offered her some words to ponder over instead.

“Art is a media to freely express oneself be it in the form of melodies, dances, or in my case drawings. Should words fails to explain, art is the substitute... maybe you’ll find some comfort in it too” Y/N said, sending a smile her way. There is soo much more she wish she could do for her, but for now she hopes that this is enough. She laid one hand on her shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze before she turned to survey the others.

Izumi stiffened in her seat as what her teacher’s said sinked in. No one has ever bothered to reach out to her, let alone comfort her in any way. They probably think that she’s got it all figured out and the material things that she got at her disposal are more than enough to deal with the loss. After all she’s a princess, there are others who suffer more and worst. But does that make her less deserving of their sympathy? for her pain to be acknowledge?

And yet Laoshi Y/N gave that support to her, a mere stranger. Freely, without as much as a second thought. And for the first time in many years, Izumi felt hope blooming inside her, that there is someone who is capable of understanding her. Of seeing her past the crown, fancy robes, palaces, title... and see the broken girl inside.

———————————————————————

That very same day at sometime past 3 in the afternoon, Izumi is done with the rest of her classes. But she found her feet taking her once again in front of the art classroom. Spying the lone silhouette moving inside through the tinted glass. She raised a hand, hesitating for a second, but then decided to knock in the end.

“Come on in” came the soft reply.

The door made a creaking sound as it swung open, revealing Laoshi Y/N who is sitting in front of an easel located at the very front of the room. She spared a glance her way, “Ahh Izumi, it’s you”

“I’m sorry ma’am, am I interrupting? I can come back another time” She asked hesitantly.

“No, dear. Don’t be shy, come and take a seat beside me” Y/N replied, gesturing her to come closer with her free hand.

Izumi dragged a stool and position it to her teacher’s left side. Taking her place there. Izumi watched her, admiring the expert stroke of her fingers. She’s drawing symbols... of all four nations together. It looks magnificent even in its nowhere near finished state.

Y/N dunked her paint brush into the bowl of water and set it aside. Shifting her attention on the girl sitting beside her.

“Is there anything that I can help you with?”

“To be honest... i’m not so sure myself ma’am” Izumi replied quietly.

“Well if you just want some company then you’re free to stay here for as long as you like, no talking required” Y/N said encouragingly.

“How long have you been painting? it looks incredible, I could’ve mistaken you for a professional painter” Izumi suddenly asked.

Y/N cocked her head to the side, pondering the answer, “All my life I guess, I started very young and now it has become a part of me”

“It must be nice to have an outlet for conveying your feelings” Izumi said again, “I find it hard to talk to the people around me, useless even”

“It certainly does... you know you can have one too if you want, I saw your painting earlier. You got a raw talent in you, dear one”

“Can you teach me? I don’t mind if we do it after class” Izumi asked, those amber eyes staring at her cautiously, but filled with hope nonetheless.

Y/N smiled at her, “I would gladly do that, starting tomorrow then?”

“Yeah...” Izumi answered, “—Tomorrow” that one word weighing in like a promise.

———————————————————————

Fire Lord Zuko scrunched his eyebrows, creating lines in his forehead. His daughter has been coming home late, far later than she should’ve. He knows for sure that school ends at 3, but everyday Izumi always comes home at 5 in the afternoon. At first he brushed it aside, thinking that it’s no big deal and she probably has an extra something to wrap up at school, but this has been going on for a month and Zuko can no longer turn a blind eye to it.

“Is she seeing someone? does she has a secret boyfriend that she’s been hiding for me?”

“Oh dear Agni, what if she’s involved with a gang now?”

“Is this a part of a normal teenage rebellious phase?”

A thousand thoughts running through his mind, becoming more and more ridiculous with every excuses that he conjured up.

“Perhaps you should simply ask her before you drove yourself mad” Uncle Iroh’s voice broke his train of thoughts. He even had the audacity to look amused.

Zuko groaned, “If only it were that easy, she never talks to me anymore, I feel like a failure of a father”

“Enough of this nonsense, Zuko. Go and talk to her right now” Iroh said with an edge of finality in his tone. “Only the two of you can fix this and it starts with opening up so that is what you’re going to do”

———————————————————————

Zuko founds himself standing in front of the ornament door that leads to Izumi’s parlour. Pacing back and forth, his anxiety sky-rocketting. He didn’t manage to get one more step before the door opened on its own, with Izumi standing behind it.

“I was just about to knock” Zuko stammered out, rubbing the back of his head.

“Your nervous pacing was so loud I heard it all the way from the bedroom” She replied matter of factly, looking at her father with a bored expression.

Izumi made a gesturing motion and took a sit at the divan. Zuko following in suit and made himself comfortable in an armchair across from her.

“Is there anything that I should be aware of?” He asked.

Izumi raised her eyebrow his way, “Why are you suddenly asking me this?”

“Because you, young lady, has been coming home late day after day and I would like to know why” Zuko said, his eyebrows once again scrunching in together, whether in confusion or agitation, Izumi couldn’t decide which.

“I have an after school painting lesson” She answered.

Of all the possibilities that Zuko considered, this was certainly not one of them.

“Have you taken up painting as a hobby then?” He asked curiously, silently determining whether or not this is a ruse.

“I wouldn’t say hobby... it’s more of an escape really”

“Escape from what? why do you need to escape? you have everything here in the palace”

“I don’t have what I need most though” Izumi replied came so quietly it was almost a whisper. “My new art teacher... Miss Y/N, she understands me, father. She not only listens but she truly make an effort to see inside me and see what i’m dealing with. My painting lessons with her, it helps me deal with the guilt and pain from losing mother. I know nobody could ever replace her, but for once in my life I think now I know how it feels to have one”

Zuko is stunned and that is putting it mildly. His daughter’s confession is like a slap to his face, a prove of how much he’s been neglecting her in the most important aspect of her life. Yes, he may have showered her with love and attention, but he left her to deal with her grief alone when he should’ve been there to steady her, to go through it together side by side. He lost a wife, but she lost her mother.

Before he even realized it, a sob escaped him and he is bawling right in front of his daughter when he should’ve been her rock. Tears streamed down Zuko’s face, “I’m sorry” he managed to whispered out, “I’m truly sorry”.

But then he’s engulfed in a warm hug, his daughter’s arms snaking around him like a cocoon. “It’s okay, father... I forgive you”

“I’m sorry too... I promise we’ll be better... that’s what mother would’ve want”

———————————————————————

After they made peace with the grief that has been keeping them prisoners all this time, it’s like a burden has been lifted from his shoulder, but nonetheless it left an empty space in him. And he just felt numb now.

But his daughter... Zuko watched as his daughter’s happiness grew, her smile brighter, her laugh louder. She talked non stop about her beloved art teacher slash confidant. The illustrious Miss Y/N. The beacon of light in his daughter’s life. Paint, and paint, and paint that’s all she ever do now, even Zuko’s office is decorated with all her finished artwork. Not that he’s complaining. He can see the talent in her and the passion that she has for it. If painting is what Izumi loves then he will support it in any manner possible.

But he owed her teacher a visit, maybe a “thank you” wouldn’t suffice for the differences that she has unknowingly brought into his life, but it’s a start. Then he’ll figure out what to do from there.

———————————————————————

The clock showed that it’s now 4 o’clock in the afternoon, “Strange” Y/N thought. The princess is nowhere to be seen when she’s usually already here right after the last school bell rang.

A knock pulled her out of her musing, thinking that it’s probably Izumi, she called out a “Come in, you’re already later than usual”

But nothing prepared her for the view that greets her. Her paint brush slipped through her finger and clatter on the ground as her mouth formed a perfect O as she now founds herself standing face to face with the Fire Lord and him alone.

“I’m sorry I came her unannounced, I told Izumi to take the day off since I wanted to talk to you” Zuko spoke, stating his intention.

Y/N mouth open and close a few times before she finally right her mind from the frenzy that it’s in, “Oh I see.. that’s alright really, Your Highness, no need to apologize”

“But about the talk... what could be so important that you came here in person?” She continues.

“I want to thank you, for everything that you have done for Izumi. She’s in a better place now and you help pulled her out from it, I could never thank you enough for that” Zuko said, giving her a warm smile that melts her inside. Stupid butterflies, you really have to appeared and make it worse don’t you?

“Izumi is lovely... there is soo much burden that she insisted on carrying on her own and I just extended a hand, to let her know that she’s not alone in this”

“—I would’ve done the same for anyone else, nobody deserves to feel alone and undeserving” She finishes, returning his smile with one of her own.

And as she smiles.... Zuko can feel the cracks that started appearing in his own armor, warm comforting lights filtering through the dark hollowness in his chest.

Maybe... just maybe he thought, Y/N is not only his daughter’s salvation, but perhaps she could be his too. Her smile... a promise of a distant chance in the future. Of a shot on happiness long dead and buried but not gone.

516 notes · View notes

letterboxd · 3 years

Photo

Love Thy Neighbor.

With her nineteenth-century American romance, The World to Come—starring Katherine Waterston and Vanessa Kirby—screening now, director Mona Fastvold talks to Ella Kemp about the need to create images, striving for ASMR storytelling, and just how much we owe Terrence Malick.

“We’ve seen a lot of movies during this time period in America about what the husbands were out doing… but they had wives who are at home, living their completely separate lives. What were they up to?” —Mona Fastvold

In the American Northeast in the nineteenth century, life for farmers’ wives is physical, lonely, subject to both the extremes of weather and their husbands’ moods. When Abigail (Katherine Waterston) and Tallie (Vanessa Kirby) become neighbors in The World To Come, their lives become infinitely more bearable.

What unfolds is a careful study of the ways affection and understanding can bloom in the most unlikely places. Based on Jim Shepard’s short story of the same name, Mona Fastvold’s desperately romantic film starts where Abigail’s diary also begins: with a new year, and new neighbors. Through lyrical voice-over and closely drawn scenes, Abigail tells of how, in the wake of unimaginable loss, her life is cracked wide open by the arrival of effervescent, free-spirited Tallie. She speaks of grief and exhaustion, but also of astonishment and joy.

Katherine Waterston as Abigail and Vanessa Kirby as Tallie in ‘The World to Come’. / Photo by Vlad Cioplea

It’s a story felt through whispers as much as kisses, framed by the blustery winds of the East-Coast frontier—and by the spectre of their husbands (Casey Affleck as the downcast Dyer, Christopher Abbott as the jealous, disturbing Finney) finding out about their new love. Fastvold gives each character just enough attention to let the relationships that matter most rise up all on their own. She does so with words, poetry that somehow feels alive, and with music—specifically, a stunningly passionate clarinet soundtrack.

The World to Come won the Queer Lion at Venice last August (where it miraculously had an in-person premiere), and won many more hearts at Sundance in January. It’s Fastvold’s second film as director, after 2014’s The Sleepwalker, which also starred Christopher Abbott, and was co-written by Fastvold’s partner (and Vox Lux director) Brady Corbet.

What did you feel when reading Jim’s story for the first time? Mona Fastvold: It was a home I wanted to move into. It was this feeling of thinking, ‘This belongs in my universe, and I belong in this universe.’ And I all of a sudden had a few images that I felt a very strong need to create. The first thing that I felt really compelled to do was creating this physical expression of joy after the first kiss. I had this image of Katherine in this wide shot, completely open and just exposed. And I was really compelled to shoot her in the snow by the grave as well.

I also wanted to frame her being tied to the house with a rope, working her way through the snowstorm. There was a lot of amazing text and maybe fewer images in the script, because it’s written by these two really wonderful writers and authors of novels, not so much screenplays. So it’s not a very technical screenplay, and there were a lot of things left to me to work out, which I enjoyed. But the foundation was this really good text.

Mona Fastvold on the set of ‘The World to Come’. / Photo by Toni Salabasev

The text is so striking, in the way it’s so verbose but never feels stiff. How did you keep the words intact while bringing these emotions to life? I cast some really good actors, so that helps! Then when you’re working with this kind of text, it’s not really a text that you can improvise or play around as much, you really just need to honor it. For me it’s really about finding the movement that will support the beats of the text. I like the edit to be motivated by a gesture, something that says, “I want you to look at this”. I’m trying to make the rhythm more exciting. Ping-ponging back and forth is less exciting to me.

When rehearsing, we’d create movement either physically, or find changes through long pauses already in the text, and then upon finding those organic beats I’d figure out with my DP how we can stay in one take for as long as possible, until we find that moment which motivates a change. I never like there to be a camera movement just for there to be something cool visually. And there’s all this subtext in the text, all these messages Abigail and Tallie are trying to send to each other. When are you being direct? When are you being understood? When are you not?

Particularly in recent years, we’ve been fortunate to have a number of films that reframe period pieces about forbidden lesbian romances. Why do you think we keep coming back to this kind of story? A lot of people feel compelled to say these stories have always been there, and to claim that part of history. It’s not modern, it’s not a new thing, but it’s just that these stories have not been told much. Especially a love story that takes place among farmers. We know a little bit about upper-class stories from some literature, but not that much from that time period. So part of the appeal for me was to say: this is a part of history. Even though it’s not a story about Napoleon, this story about these two quiet, introverted women is still worth exploring. And we’ve seen a lot of movies during this time period in America about what the husbands were out doing. I’ve grown up watching these movies, but they had wives who are at home, living their completely separate lives. What were they up to?

Finney (Christopher Abbott) reads Tallie’s mail. / Photo by Vlad Cioplea

You mention the husbands—I felt watching this film that it was set in a very different world to the likes of Portrait of a Lady on Fire, which a lot of people loved precisely because of how few men were in the film. But here the husbands play a really important part within the story about these two women, helping to convey their frustration and limitations, without taking over. All characters in a story deserve equal counts of love and attention from the writers, directors and actors. It was incredibly important to portray the men with as much nuance as Abigail and Tallie. It makes for a more interesting story for them, that their relationships with their partners are complex—they’re not just these male archetypes who are terrible and awful. Dyer was an interesting character, in that he’s striving to understand even though he doesn’t quite. And he had different ambitions as well, but this is the situation he’s in, and he’s chosen a practical partner who he respects, and I guess loves and cares for. But they’re running a farm together, they’re business partners as well and depend on each other for survival. When he says “I’ll die without you” it’s quite literal, in a way. I wanted to break these characters open and make them more difficult to deal with, for themselves and for the women as well.

Your picture includes a beautiful, and really unexpected score by Daniel Blumberg—particularly in the use of the clarinet, which feels like its own kind of narrative. Can you talk me through the process of weaving that into the story? I brought in Daniel even when I was developing the script and working on casting early on. I kept listening to ‘Three Pieces for Solo Clarinet’ by Igor Stravinsky, and somehow the instrument felt really connected to Katherine’s voice-over. It was important that the voice-over was not slammed on top at the end. It’s there, I hope, to have a bit of an ASMR effect where you feel it draws you really close to Abigail in a hypnotic way. That you feel like you get this intimate experience of that character by having access to her life even if it doesn’t explain things too much.

So we wanted to have the score speaking to the voice-over, which we recorded long before we started shooting as well. We would play it on set and Daniel would come in and play music there. So constantly being in dialogue between the text being read and the music being played was an important part of the process.

It’s time for some Life in Film questions. What is your favorite ‘forbidden love’ story? A film I really love, which inspired The World to Come, is Olivia. It’s from 1951 and it’s directed by Jacqueline Audry, and it was one of the first lesbian on-screen kisses ever captured. It’s a great movie directed by a female director when that wasn’t so much of a thing. It was an important trailblazer for this film.

Marie-Claire Olivia and Simone Simon in Jacqueline Audry’s ‘Olivia’ (1951).

What’s your favourite “Dear Diary” movie, the one that best uses a confessional voice-over? Terrence Malick pretty much cornered that market with some beautiful, beautiful attempts at that. We definitely have to pay our respects! Particularly Days of Heaven is pretty amazing. The voice-over work there is extraordinary.

What is your go-to comfort movie? It’s funny because I was asked that a while ago and normally I would just be like, “Anything Nancy Meyers makes is just so lovely”. She makes these films that are just like candy. But during the pandemic, it’s just too hard to watch these cozy movies, because it just makes you feel depressed. So right now, the film I’ve watched the most in my lifetime is Eyes Wide Shut. I also find it to be a Christmas movie… If it’s on anywhere, I’ll always leave it on, or just watch a little piece of it.

What should Letterboxd members watch after The World to Come? First of all they should watch Olivia if they haven’t seen it, and then the other day I watched Martin Eden—it’s an incredible movie. So beautifully made.

What is the one film that first made you want to be a filmmaker? I grew up watching a lot of movies. My family are cinephiles and I’ve always loved films. I grew up on a steady diet of Ingmar Bergman’s films during my teenage years, and Tarkovsky too. Seeing those films made a really big impression me. But what really inspired me in many ways was seeing Claire Denis’ films. The way she approaches storytelling is so intuitive. It’s so exciting. That resonated with me, and later on I recognized some of that in Lucrecia Martel as well. I just love how she handles time and logic and character.

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‘The World to Come’ is currently in select US theaters, and will be available on demand from March 2, via Bleecker Street.

58 notes · View notes

xellandria · 3 years

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Our D&D campaign is on its last couple sessions, and after some discussion, or DM told us to maybe start thinking about new characters for the next one. It’s tough, because I’ve been playing Alexus for a long time now, and while the interlude with Zmija was wildly successful and I’m very fond of my time with her, she would not be an appropriate character to pick back up. Also, our group composition will be changing, which will give me a chance to be less “jack of all trades”-y cos the other three will maybe be picking up some of that slack.

Anyway our barbarian is going to be playing a ranged rogue, and our warlock is probably playing another caster, which means that between Kattii and I, one of us will be playing a healer, and one of us will be doing our best to tank. She and I have both not really decided on which of us will be filling which role, though, so I’ve been developing two characters simultaneously, in the hopes of either one of us discovering a preference, haha.

Solaris Amahelan is a fire genasi artificer who believes that all things have spirit(s) that can be shaped and molded to be better, and also that you have to keep your things happy or they’ll abandon you when you need them most. She’s peppy, direct, pretty short (5′2-3″ish, a relic of an earlier iteration where she was a gnome, based on one of my WoW alts), and her hair is super light and has a bit of a wave to it so even though it isn’t on fire, it’s always moving in the slightest breeze and very much looks like it could be. Her last name is supposed to sound elvish but in theory it means “sunflower” because there’s a certain other character I only just realized as I was trying to come up with a last name for this post that she draws a lot of inspiration from (though now that I’ve got words for “sun” in both names I’m wondering if I should swap from Solaris to Ember for her first name. Hmmm. We’ll see, I dunno. I’m not super attached to Amahelan yet anyway, maybe something better will come up).

Ceridwyn Rieve, by contrast, is a (scourge) aasimar who at one point when she was younger was sold to a false cult of Ilmater and became very jaded by her time with them and essentially broke ties with her celestial guide or whatever (or at any rate, she ignores the heck out of them). She still had a penchant for healing so she went into military/mercenary work as a medic, and when that gig ended, became a bit of a wandering physician before joining the party. She’s got a big front of “I’m doing this only because it benefits me” that’s mostly designed out of spite (I was told that my party couldn’t see me playing a character that wasn’t nice or happy, lmao). Rieve is the name of a physician in one of the audiobooks I listen to pretty frequently (though I’m probably spelling it incorrectly). She’s also like, somewhere between 6′4″ and 6′6″ which is pretty tall for a lady human but my brain was like “yes. Ceri big. Big Ceri, big good.” lmao

Anyway that was a lot of typing and all to say that one of these characters will eventually go on the trash heap!* but since I had some downtime between the end of bash art stuff and the beginning of money art stuff, I figured I’d get ahead on things and do their character portraits and roll20 tabletop tokens, in case doing so helped me figure out which I wanted to play more (it didn’t, by the way.)

(* and by “trash heap” I mean “kept in reserve and/or just not played” but y’know.)

#xellart #dungeons and dragons #fanart #aasimar #genasi #fire genasi #scourge aasimar #original characters #ember #ceridwyn #Solaris' last name ended up being Amasurya #for what that's worth lol

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let-the-dream-begin · 3 years

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A Place to Belong Chapter 37: Secure

Chapter 36

Read on AO3

In the months that followed, the situation between Claire and Fergus remained precarious, moving slowly toward something less fragile. He began kissing her on the cheek again after about a month and a half, when leaving the breakfast table before setting off to do his work, or while saying goodnight at the hearth in the parlor, or after telling her where he was running off to instead of just disappearing. Each and every peck left Claire warmed from head to toe, feeling more grateful than she ever had. In the beginning, she told herself that he’d stop eventually, that they were just lasting effects of their reconnecting, and he’d stop coddling her. But he didn’t.

In the end, Claire was glad they’d blown up on one another. It was painful and difficult, but they were all the closer now for it. They’d been able to bare their souls to one another in ways that they’d both been hiding, protecting each other from for years. And now that those things were out in the open, they no longer had to dance around one another; they could just be.

Fergus seemed hell-bent on reminding Claire that he loved her, without saying it of course. Hence the kisses, the reminders of his whereabouts, the little ways he helped around the house and the barn where she did her healing. He was not reverting to the little boy he’d been before, devoid of his own life; rather he was creating a healthy balance of devotion to his family and the establishment of his own life as a young man.

Brianna was none the wiser to anything that had happened; Fergus had never behaved any differently toward her, or any of the children for that matter. He was still their beloved big brother or cousin, the big boy that played the monster in all their games when they needed it. He still swept them off their feet and dangled them upside-down or over his shoulders like sacks of grain, still made them shriek and howl their heads off with laughter. He still called Maggie ‘Little Faery,’ still called his sister ‘Little Rabbit, Petit Lapin,” still ruffled wee Jamie’s and Michael’s hair and carried Janet on his shoulders when she asked.

Claire had approached Fergus one day about perhaps sending him to university in France as Jamie had done, or even Edinburgh if he didn’t want to leave Scotland. But Fergus would not hear any of it.

“Don’t you remember? I belong with you,” he’d said simply. “And petit. I will not leave. Besides, I am a farmer now; what do I need with book learning?”

“Do you want to be a farmer forever, Fergus?” Claire had asked gently. “University can open so many doors for you. Or even just learning a trade. You don’t have to be stuck here. You’re a young man, I understand that.”

“I am not stuck here, Maman,” he said. “I belong here. That is different.”

Claire would never say it, in case he changed his mind, but she was relieved to her core that he did not want to leave. She wanted more for him, of course; she wanted the world for him. But only if he wanted it. And if he was content to work the fields until he found a wife to settle with, then Claire was more than happy to allow it. Not to mention Brianna would be heartbroken if her brother left her.

Brianna was growing, too; it seemed every day she gained an inch in height. She and Kitty had reached full hellion form by the time Brianna was seven and Kitty was nine. If Brianna was Kitty’s shadow before, they were one being now, morphed together, sharing footsteps rather than one following in the other’s. Terrorizing the goats and chickens seemed to be their favorite activity, though it was likely a tie between that and visiting the horses in the stable. They knew better than to rile up creatures that could trample them, thank Heaven. They were shockingly gentle with the beasts, and Brianna loved them.

She’d taken to drawing them lately, the horses. Maggie started sketching at a young age, preferring this quiet activity to the rowdy games the other children played, and by ten years old she’d developed quite a beautiful talent. Brianna took notice and started trying her hand, and, if Claire did say so herself, she was really quite talented. The horses were eerily lifelike for a sketch done by a seven year old. Kitty could not be bothered with such things; while Maggie and Brianna drew or painted side by side, Kitty was busy outside teaching the twins how to get up to all sorts of mischief.

Claire was grateful for this new side of her daughter. Not that she didn’t love her as she was before; of course she did. She could remain wild and untamable for the rest of her life and Claire would be proud as ever. But there was something beautiful about watching her focus on her page, the way she held her charcoal, the way she glanced back and forth between Maggie’s work and her own to see how it held up. Claire never would have guessed that Brianna possessed the patience in her to sit still or to have the attention to detail needed for such a task. It was almost like she was growing up in this way, maturing and blooming in something that nobody had seen coming.

It was beautiful.

Claire loved to sit in the parlor while Jenny instructed Maggie and Brianna, listening to their questions, to their grunts of frustration. Much more in character for Brianna than the patience she’d been exhibiting, she was known to tear at her pages if she was unhappy and throw the pieces in the fire, then stamp away and leave Claire to trail after her.

“I’ll never be as good as Maggie! Or Auntie!”

“Maggie is older than you, lovie. And so is Auntie, much older. That isn’t fair to yourself at all.”

Brianna would then kick the dirt or throw a rock into the stream with a grunt of frustration, then refuse to continue the conversation. Claire waited for this to be the last time, waited for Brianna to give it up every time she had a little tantrum, but she never did. And Claire was more proud than she could ever say.

Now, when Claire looked at the portraits Jenny had done of the children, she could hear her calm and lilting voice instructing the girls on proportions and shading. She kept a miniature that Jenny had done of Brianna as a baby on the mantel in her bedroom. Jenny had done miniatures of all of the children as babies. All except Caitlin, of course. Jenny kept the blanket she’d been swaddled in on the mantle in the Laird’s room, folded neatly in the space between Michael’s portrait and Ian’s portrait.

Claire liked to take the portrait down and sit with Brianna in her lap and tell her all about what she was like as a baby.

“And these squishy cheeks that used to be so easy to pinch and kiss,” Claire would say, pointing to them. “Turned into these.” She’d pinch Brianna’s cheeks and kiss them incessantly until she was squirming away and begging her to stop.

“Apparently they’re still easy to pinch and kiss, Mummy.”

“Listen to her! Apparently she says! This little thing would never give her mother such attitude.”

“This little thing couldn’t talk, Mummy.”

“Not right away. You were eight months old here. But do you remember what I said your very first word was?”

“Dog!”

Jehu always picked his head up at that.

“That’s right. And your second?”

“No!”

“That’s right, stubborn little thing.” Claire tickled her neck. “I suppose you were giving me such attitude from the moment you could speak, hm?”

“Oh, Mummy…”

The children would be due for updated portraits soon. The last ones had been done when Jamie still had baby fat on his cheeks. They hung proudly in the hall with the portraits that Claire had seen the very first time she’d come to Lallybroch, and so did hers.

Jenny had insisted on adding Claire’s portrait to the ranks about a year ago, before wee Ian was born.

“It really isn’t necessary, Jenny — ”

“Dinna be daft, sister. Ye were once Lady Broch Tuarach. There ought to be an elegant portrait of ye in the home. Yer bairn’s on the wall. Ye ought to be as well.”

She’d pointed to the foot-long portrait of Brianna at four years old, Jenny having perfectly captured the mischievous, almost devious grin that Brianna was known to sport at any given time.

So Claire had obliged her and posed for the portrait, and despite her initial reluctance, she was extremely proud to see herself hanging there beside her sister, brother, all their children, even portraits of Ellen and Brian and their children in their youth. Claire already knew she belonged, had known for years. But this final stepping stone made it all feel so generational, almost spiritual. She looked back and forth between Jenny’s work and Ellen’s and could hardly tell the difference. It was almost like Ellen was guiding her daughter’s hand in creation, to fully welcome Claire and her child to the wall of family portraits.

Apart from drawing, Maggie was blooming beautifully into a wonderful gardener and assistant healer. She was now regularly assisting Claire in the barn both with herbs and patients. The ten year old had now seen her Auntie lance boils, tend to styes, set dislocated shoulders and broken bones, and put in stitches enough for several of her small lifetimes. She’d even watched Claire deliver four babies now. She handed her tools and watched intently, never once fainting or becoming ill, despite how close she came sometimes.

She was delicate and sensitive, but not fragile. There could not be a Fraser-Murray child with an ounce of fragility in their soul no matter how sweet they were, and Maggie was living proof. Claire and Jenny had had a fair amount of disagreements over just how much Maggie should be seeing, especially after they’d had a patient die for the first time as a pair, a head injury that Claire was powerless to do anything about. Maggie was beyond distraught, and she wouldn’t come out of her room for days.

Claire knocked on the door and let herself in, sitting on the bed beside her.

“I understand if you don’t want to help anymore, Maggie,” she said gently. “It’s not easy to lose a patient. And your mother is right, you’re too young for such pain. I’m struggling with this one, and I’m a grown woman.”

Maggie sniffled and wiped her eyes. “It’ll happen again, aye Auntie?”

Claire sighed. “Unfortunately it will. If I’d have known how bad it was going to get, I would have sent you away. I’m sorry you had to be a part of it.”

She shook her head. “I just...have to get used to it, then.”

Claire blinked at her in shock.

“Jamie says you’ve seen hundreds of men die in war.”

“That’s true. I have.”

“But ye’re a braw healer, Auntie. Ye didna quit when ye got sad about death.”

“That’s right, I didn’t.”

Maggie picked up her head, wiping her cheeks and setting her eyes on her aunt’s, and Claire felt a chill down her spine, almost certain she was looking into the eyes of someone much older than ten.

“Then neither will I, Auntie Claire.”

Since that day, Claire did take better care in terms of what she exposed the girl to, but she took her training much more seriously. Her first death hadn’t scared her away; she was serious about this.

The other girls admired Claire and Maggie and the work they did, but they showed no interest in the healing side of things. Kitty and Brianna enjoyed helping in the garden, but Claire wasn’t convinced it was for any reason other than that it was permission to get themselves filthy in the dirt. They also enjoyed roaming the grounds for herbs and plants to move into the garden, but Claire had a feeling it had more to do with being allowed to romp and roam freely away from Jenny’s watchful eye. They did pay the smallest bit of attention when Claire gave little lessons about each plant they found, Brianna more so than Kitty.

Brianna’s seizures remained a small fear in the back of Claire’s mind, but it was evident by now that they hadn’t affected her cognitively in the slightest. She was bright and energetic as any child her age should be, her shimmering light only dulling when she was overcome with an episode and the following days of recovery.

She was old enough now to be able to tell an adult when she was feeling off, old enough to know her own symptoms. And Jehu was a wonderful help; the mangy little thing was practically a Godsend. He’d roused the entire house with his yapping during more than one nighttime seizure, possibly saving Brianna’s life by doing so. Claire, and more importantly, Brianna herself, felt secure. And it meant all the world.

Claire, Fergus, and Brianna were also keeping with their annual visits to Jamie’s grave. Brianna still slept with Lamb every night, even if it was no longer part of her line up of regular toys she played with, and she brought it to visit her father every year. It was beautiful for Claire to see Brianna really talk to him the older she got, as opposed to the babbling she used to offer when she was younger.

She spoke to Da about her drawings, how she was trying very hard not to compare herself to Maggie.

“Mummy says I’m my own person with my own...ehm...achievements. So I mustn't compare and I must focus on my own progress.”

She spoke to him about her horse, Alastair.

“He’s copper and gentle and just beautiful, Da. Someday, when I’m big, I’m going to ride him all over Lallybroch and feel the wind in my hair.”

She told him all about the mischief she and Kitty got up to, about Mummy’s garden, and about how she was good at helping Auntie Jenny with the baby.

“Sometimes, wee Ian doesna stop crying unless I hold him, Da. Not even Maggie can get him to stop sometimes. And Maggie is the Mother Hen. Auntie Jenny says Maggie has the touch wi’ bairns, but that Ian must have taken a liking to me.”

Claire and Fergus sat back, hand in hand, watching and listening. And despite the tears lingering on her cheeks, Claire felt at peace.

“Hello, love,” Claire said, kneeling before the stone as Fergus and Brianna disappeared from the graveyard hand in hand in reverent silence. “They’ve both grown so much, haven’t they? God, you’d be so proud of them. Fergus is coming into his own so beautifully and Brianna...she’s just remarkable, love. But sometimes…” She sighed heavily, bracing herself on the stone, fisting the rosary. “When she turns and the light catches her red hair, or I see her smile in her sleep...it takes my breath away. Because I see you. Every day, the older she gets, the more her baby face fades away...the more I see it. And it...it equal parts kills me and gives me life.”

“I wish she could meet you. God, that’s the greatest wish I have. I know you can see her, wherever you are, I know you know how wonderful she is. But for her to meet you, to feel what it’s like to be held by you, to hear your voice…” She stopped for a moment, swallowing thickly. “She knows you love her, Jamie. I tell her almost every day. But to really...feel her father’s love. That is the only impossible wish I have.”

She kissed the rosary and put it back in its place, then fingered the lettering on his name, a practiced, ingrained habit by now.

“Tell our baby I miss her,” she whispered. “I love you, Soldier.”

——

March 1754

“Mummy! Look at me!” Brianna cried gleefully. “Alastair loves me!”

“I see, darling! You’re doing beautifully!”

“Tres bien, ma petit,” Fergus encouraged.

“Merci, mon frère,” Brianna said, the French rolling expertly off her tongue. Eight years old, and she understood and spoke three languages, she was reading The Faerie Queen, she was drawing sketches, and now she was riding horses. Claire leaned on the fence, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand so she could more clearly see the joy on her little girl’s face.

Brianna had been harassing Claire about riding horses since she was four years old. Back then it was simple enough to say: “You’re much too young, darling. Wait until you grow up.”

When Kitty was six and Brianna was five, it was: “Why does Kitty get to ride? She’s little, too!” And Claire could easily say: “You’re five, and Kitty is six. You are still too young.”

But then Brianna turned six. The day after they celebrated her birthday, when she’d finished her breakfast, she’d put down her utensils and quite matter-of-factly stated: “I’d like to ride horses now.”

It wasn’t so simple anymore. Claire was still hesitant to let her do anything physically strenuous, unsure how it would affect her seizures. Claire hadn’t had a single clue how to tell her six year old daughter that she couldn’t ride horses but Kitty could because she had seizures and Kitty didn’t. There’d been quite the tantrum when she tried, lots of rotten things said. Jenny had insisted that Claire let her give the girl a spanking, but Claire had very firmly insisted against it.

“It isn’t her fault she’s too young to understand.”

Now she watched her, grinning ear to ear, her wild copper hair shimmering in flecks of gold in the sunlight. And Fergus; he was truly a man now. He'd been the one to teach Brianna everything there was to know about horses, while Claire had sat in the grass behind the fence and observed.

“Faster, Fergus!” Brianna giggled.

“Don’t you dare!” Claire called.

“I know, Maman, I know!” he answered, laughing at her excessive concern.

“You won’t be laughing when you have your own children, Fergus!” Claire retorted, though she couldn't help but smile in spite of herself.

“Remember what I told you, ma petit, you may not go very fast until you are ten,” Fergus said.

“Twelve!” Claire corrected.

“Mummy! Must ye be such a bore?”

Fergus whispered something to Brianna, and she squealed with delight.

“Fergus! Don’t be putting any ideas in her head!”

“Oh, I wouldn't dream of it, Maman!” Claire swore she saw him wink up at Brianna, and she heard Brianna giggle.

Claire smiled, but she was never one to let up on the rules she set for Brianna. “Fergus — ”

“Claire!”

She whipped around to see Jenny sprinting toward her. “Claire!”

“Jenny?” Claire called back.

“Come to the front of the house, now!” Jenny cried.

Claire turned fretfully back to the corral, where Fergus had stopped Alastair, his hand still on the bridle. “Keep Brianna back here,” Claire said.

“Yes, Maman.” There was no joking in his tone this time. He clicked his tongue to start the horse again. “Mummy has a patient, that is all.”

Fergus’s voice disappeared as Claire ran to catch up to Jenny. The closer she got, the more clearly she could see that Jenny was distraught. She was red in the face, tears in her eyes.

“What is it?” Claire asked, breathless. “The children? Ian?”

Jenny stammered incoherently and took Claire’s hand, dragging her the rest of the way to the front of the house.

“Jenny, you’re scaring me…” Claire said. “Is somebody hurt?”

Jenny once again did not answer, just kept dragging her behind her.

“Jenny, for God’s sake — ”

And then the world stopped turning.

Brianna’s hair, Brianna’s eyes, standing right in front of her on a six-foot, three-inch man.

It can’t be. It can’t be.

Claire’s breathing became shallow, her vision became narrow. She could see nothing, no shape, no color, no light, but him.

Every night for eight years she envisioned his form. Eight years.

It can’t be.

“Will ye no’ say anything?” Jenny shoved her, but she neither heard nor felt it.

“It’s me, Claire.”

God…God…his voice…It was so real…but it couldn’t be.

“I’ve come home to ye.”

She let out a pathetic, strangled sound, and all at once the feeling was gone from each of her limbs.

She hit the ground with an unceremonious thud.

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acciomalfoy · 4 years

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Unidentifiable Drawings (Dean Thomas x Reader)

Summary: reader whats to know what Dean is drawing, and a whole lotta unfortunate timing occurs.

"Whatcha drawing Dean?" I lie down dramatically and fan my face. It's the middle of summer and it couldn't be more hot.

"Nothing!" My best friend shifts his drawing pad so it's out of my view.

"Awe come on Dean. I'll help you!" Dean starts laughing at my proposal.

"The last time you and Seamus tried to help with my drawings you set four of them on fire and you couldn't stop throwing up pencils." I grin at the memory.

"In my defence, that was solely Seamus." Dean scoffs at my weak argument.

"You tried to transfigure Seamus' bed into a set of pencils and instead you threw up for three days." I shove Dean lightly and laugh.

"Yeah but-" Dean cuts me off.

"You're so full of crap. Don't even try to pretend you didn't threaten to jinx me if I didn't let you help." Dean rolls his eyes and resumes drawing.

"Come on! Tell me!" I whine. Dean was my first friend at Hogwarts, and he's so amazing. He can draw unbelievably well, is super smart and is definitely the cutest student here. There's no way in hell I'm ruining our friendship by having a crush on him.

It sucks so much to have a crush. It eats you away until you can't look at that person without reacting in some way. Whether it's blushing bright red, bolting from the room like a bloody madman or putting yourself in a full body bind so you can't run over and hug them, you're screwed either way.

The thing about having a crush is that every little thing they do makes you think they like you. Let's be real, there is not a big chance they'll like you back, especially if their as perfect as Dean. That's just the way the cookie crumbles I suppose.

"Are you okay?" Deans concerned voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

"Hm? Just dandy." I grin at him and try to steal a glance at his parchment. Dean chuckles, a deep, throaty chuckle that makes my insides melt as he moves away.

"No fair!" I pout and cross my arms. Dean just waves a hand and starts drawing again.

"Fine then. I'm going to help Seamus." Dean's head shoots up.

"What? What are you helping him with?" He growls slightly and my eyes widen. Please don't blush, please don't blush, I beg myself. Too bad. I feel a blush creeping up on my cheeks.

"Nothing that's important." I stand up and quickly look away to hide my flushing cheeks. Dean grabs my hand and yanks me down beside him.

"I'm serious. What are you doing with him? Are you two dating?" I burst out laughing, at the thought of dating Seamus who is like a brother to me, and because my blush has faded.

"What? No of course not! Seamus is my bestfriend and is a brother to me!" I try to keep it cool. Shoot, if he thinks I like Seamus then I'm more far in the friendzone than Ginny is in Harry's. She doesn't understand he's gay.

"Then why have you stopped hanging out with me. You're practically adjoined at the hip with him!" Deans eyes have a glint in them I haven't see before.

"He's my bestfriend!" This is not going as planned.

"Then what am I? Your enemy?" Dean gives me a cold glare. Oh Merlin.

"What? No, of course not! You're my bestfriend too!"

"Then why do you ignore me completely!" Dean explodes. He finally snaps.

"I thought we had something. I really did. Clearly you would rather not have anything to do with me. I'll leave you to smother Seamus." Dean abruptly stands up, scrunching his drawing up and throwing it. He grabs his pencils and walks off, leaving me in his wake.

My hands won't stop shaking. Hot tears streak down my face as I wearily pick up Deans abandoned drawing. I uncrumple it and smooth it out, letting out a soft whimper as I see what Dean was drawing.

It was me, but on paper I looked different. I looked somewhat perfect. Dean had nailed my eyes, and there was a bright sparkle in them. My lips were curled into a smile and I looked so happy.

I fold the paper slowly and sadly, regretting the turn our conversation took. I place the drawing that now means the world to me in my robes pocket and stand up steadily.

I wipe my face of the tears streaming down it as I'm walking to the Gryffindor common room but they don't seem to stop. I keep my head down and continuously brush the tears off my stained cheeks.

"Oof!" I gasp as I run into someone on my way.

"Are you okay? What happened? Oh Merlin this is not okay!" My best (girl) friend exclaims. I lift my gaze up from the floor into startling brown eyes.

"Oh. Oh. Oh! It's Dean isn't it?" Hermione knows who my crush is. It's not like you can keep that from the person who knows you inside out. She knows what makes me tick. Seamus knows me as equally as Hermione does.

"Yeah." I manage to get out.

"Right. We are going to go to our dorm. Time for operation A. Aka, getting Dean to like you back." Hermione links our arms and we begin walking to my original destination.

"Mione! Stop saying his name aloud! What if someone hears?" Hermione winces.

"Sorry. Normally I put silencing charms up when we're with Seamus." I nod.

"Race you to the portrait?" I propose.

"Oh you're on!" Hermione gives me a shove backwards before bolting towards the fat lady. I race after her but to my dismay she wins.

"Chivalrous cookies." Hermione said the password that the whole of Gryffindor had thought of and we stepped through the portrait hole.

"Are you okay?"

"Blimey you look a right mess!"

"Ronald!" Harry and Ron are instantly by our side and I sniffle.

"I know Ron. If this is considered fine then okey dokey Harry." I reply to Harry's question and Ron's unfortunate truth.

"We're going to the girls dorms to sort this out. Care to join us?" Ron scrunched up his nose at Hermiones invitation but Harry claps his hands.

"Yeah! Lets go and show him what he's missing out on!" I roll my eyes.

"Guys you don't even know what happened." I point out.

"Aaaand that's why you're going to tell us in the dorms." Hermione tugs on my hand and practically manhandles me up the stairs. Ron and Harry follow closely behind.

Hermione shuts the door and mutters several locking charms and a silencing charm.

"Right. What exactly happened?" I throw myself ungraciously across my bed and groan.

"We got into a fight. Basically about how I never talk to him anymore and he feels like he's my enemy, not my bestfriend." Harry hugs me from behind.

"It's okay. I get into fights all the time with my one true love." Harry lets go and clutches his hands to his heart dramatically.

"Draco and Harry sitting in a tree." Harry gives me a shove and I laugh.

"Stop! If he hears I am so dead." He panics.

"Anyways," Hermione tactfully interrupts, "how exactly are we going to solve this?" The thought of what happened earlier spurs my mind into action and I promptly break down crying.

"Awe honey! It's okay!" Harry coos and holds my head against his shoulder. I let out a whimper and throw my arms around his shoulder. A banging at the door interrupts us.

"Oh shoot." Hermione sighs and undoes the several spells on the door, as well as the silencing charm. Seamus stands in the doorway.

"Oh." He gives me an odd look.

"I didn't know you liked Harry." I shake my head frantically and pull myself out of Harry's arms.

"I don't!" I throw my arms around Seamus and let out a strangled sob.

"I know. He told me." Seamus rubs my back soothingly.

"Seamus!" A shriek from the doorway makes me freeze.

"You said you didn't, said you wouldn't." Dean whispered in shock.

"D-Dean?" I mumble. Dean looked sickened. He ran a hand through his hair and walked away, muttering something.

Seamus pushed me off him and went straight after Dean.

"Harry, Ronald, we've got studying in the library to do." Hermione and the two boys left, shooting worried and upset glances at me.

I gingerly climb into my bed and wrap the sheets around me in a cocoon. Normally I would have Seamus or Dean or Hermione to comfort me when I'm sad.

Silent sobs make my body shake as the thought and very possible reality of losing my bestfriends come crashing down on me. Hot tears cover my face and my hands shake when I wipe them away.

After some time of snivelling and softly crying my bed dips down and strong arms wrap around my bundled up form.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." The person whispers over and over again as they squeeze me tightly. The tears stop flowing and the absence of warmth is a huge problem as the person pulls away. Dean.

"I never meant for this to happen. Honestly." I sit up.

"It's not your fault Dean. It never has been. It's all mine for thinking that if I ignored you the problem would go away." I give a shattered smile to Dean.

"What problem?" Oh Merlin. This was a mistake.

"You! You're the problem Dean! You won't stop occupying my thoughts and I can't get my head around it!" I glare at Dean, as though this is all his fault.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh you know very well what I mean Dean Thomas! I am not saying it."

"Say it." Aggravating fool.

"No."

"Say it."

"No!"

"Say it."

"For Godrics sake! I like you Dean! And not in the way you like me. I like your strangely soft hands, the way you light up a room, and the countless ways you love your friends. I shouldn’t have said anything, fuck.” I shut my eyes tightly, and before I could turn away I felt the warm hands of Dean Thomas cup my face.

"I've been waiting two years to do this." Dean whispered as he leaned in and brushed his lips against mine. I froze for a second, before following him and leaning in as well.

#dean thomas #dean thomas x reader #seamus finnigan #harry potter #hermione granger #ron weasley

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claybefree · 3 years

Text

A Letter to Josh Poteat

To be honest, I don’t know why I’m writing you this. It should have been the art I made for my ex-wife Mary in 1995, that she gave back to me in 2008 after I left her, that I later put in the trash. The art you told me recently got you working with shellac. It should be that I’m giving you, instead of this depressing thing about how I haven’t spoken with the oldest of my children in almost nine months, and the younger not since two Christmases ago.

I guess because when we talked about it before, I can’t remember exactly, maybe you asked in passing, “How’s the kids?” and I didn’t have an answer at the time. Maybe because I think you’ll understand me, like you always did. I haven’t been sleeping again lately, and this is when my mind wanders to the man I read about who died, trapped in a cave, but I don’t want to tell you about him. It’s too awful. If I find my mind lingering on him, I get seized by a whole body panic and I have to get up.

When I first got sober and couldn’t sleep, I went to war nightly with God. My mind was a scorched battlefield, blackened, shelled earth churned from trenches to craters. These days it resembles Zone Rogue in France, given back to nature and forbidden, saturated with ordnance, hundred year old arsenic lingering in craters. The toxic woods, wild and hoary, haunted now by deer and wild boar, trenches filled in with vines.

There is this vision I carry, not quite of myself- An old man alone in a mouldering trailer in the woods, bitter, childless and insane. No doubt, you have known such men. When I first got sober, he figured heavily in my mind- I considered this an alcoholic death even if I managed to stay clean.

It’s cold mornings like these- when I’m up early to feed the yowling cats, but again not quite early enough to manage to write, I wonder if perhaps he’s already arrived. I get on my worn out coat hanging by the leaky back door I haven’t fixed yet and head out into the frozen mud to free the chickens from their coop. The cracked tile floating underfoot like a shit-covered mosaic, and I remember to grab the screwdriver. I’m not using it to kill anyone, it’s to prize the eight little half-domes of ice from cups of their watering bucket. You know how this works. I always figured that, being a country-boy, you grew up with the same tales of horrors perpetrated against these birds, or else, like me, witnessed them firsthand.

Summer gets up and I finish my coffee with her as she tapes up my sprained hand. I try to get out the door before her kids wake. To facilitate quiet conversations that have a better chance of happening if I’m not around.

Pointing the truck toward Southside, it’s crossing the Powhite bridge where it really starts to bother me. Likely because it’s this point on the other side of the bridge, I’m only a mile away from their house. I ignore the river, bloated and steel grey, I’m looking for the nameless creek that empties into it there. I’m sure you know it, completely fabricated, it passes under Forest Hill and the train tracks. It’s cold outside the cab of my truck, but I’m not fooled by the last groan of winter. Studying the woods alongside the road, accessible as they aren’t yet burdened but the weight of all that green, I’m not sure what I'm looking for. Lost children perhaps. The sandy stretch where it emerges from snaking around behind the toll station is lined there with birches, flaking and slender, and shouldered with granite as it runs fast from a glut of late March thaw.

I’ve been going this way for a little over a month, filling a friend’s garage with sawdust from fabricating casework for bookshelves, paying particular attention to whatever happens to be going on with the creek as it seems to determine the flavor of grief for that week. Throughout the winter It’s been ever present, with me to the point I feel like there's something wrong, like a vitamin supplement I'm not taking.

Even though it’s been a string of bad days, the garage is warm enough, and I’ve been doing this work long enough I can rip down material on the table saw letting sadness wash over me without worry of losing a finger. I pay special attention to the music I listen to, so that I don’t have to take time and fall apart. At the end of the day I’ll sweep the dust-pile under the saw into a bucket for the chickens. There’s a ruined tire from the Harley I keep filled for them to bathe in. Which reminds me I haven’t told you about Greg the Bastard.

When Summer brought them home a year ago as chicks, they were unsexed, and as they grew, we inadvertently wound up with two roosters. Even though Greg is much bigger, he’s still number two and it’s made him skittish and unpredictable. Fierce Greg the Magnificent, Hen Raping Greg. He charges the dog as well as the kids now, and he’s even started to buck up on me. He stalks the yard like boys and men you and I have both known all our lives- insecure, large and dangerous. He doesn’t scare me, I’m more afraid the day will come when I will have to kill this animal.

In my twenties, Liz King, who you might know, got me a job after school let out with a woman I won’t name here. Another artist, she lived in an old farmhouse down Jeff Davis Highway and had been sexually assaulted by a man there. My job was to help powder and paint the place in order to put it on the market as she didn’t feel safe there anymore. We painted the whole inside. Flying the back roads in her pick-up to some Paint store way out Hull street, she told me how the man had befriended her dogs beforehand and how he threatened to kill her if she looked at him. I don’t remember asking her about it, just the image of her long legs in cut-off shorts clutching and shifting the small truck all over Southside. I made it most mornings, except after getting home late from a Rancid show in Hampton, I was too hungover and didn’t get to her place til well after noon. She was gone, but had worked the whole morning by herself. Later that day, when I called Liz to tell her how I fucked up, she fired me over the phone.

I bring all this up because she owned a lone rooster named Ajax, who hated me. Specializing in ambush tactics, I wasn’t safe anywhere in the yard from Ajax. The lady usually escorted me in from the gate, but heading out to the shed was dangerous. I can still feel him on the backs of my bare legs. Once, while rolling the living room ceiling and overwhelmed by the fumes of oil based primer, I stepped out on the front porch to dry heave a minute and catch my breath. Ajax heard and came stalking around the corner. Incapacitated, I cussed him, but head lowered, he came for me, creeping up the steps one terrible talon at time.

Later I made a six foot tall portrait of Ajax as best I could remember him. Crimson comb like a child’s depiction of fire out of control, waddles surrounding the beak blazing and reckless. The emerald of the sickle feathers a cyclone of green. Hock, shank and spur a series of harsh, black lines. Very Twombly-esque, it’s still hanging in my dad’s office. Based on this one hangover, I went on to make work for the next ten years depicting the Battle of Troy as a series of cock-fights. Achilles the Terrible dragging Man-killing Hector through the streets of Troy. That sort of thing. The drawing I made Mary came from that run.

I go home by way of the Huguenot bridge, because the Nickel bridge takes me directly in front of the house where my children live, which no matter how I’m doing, always threatens to cave my head in. If I go that way, I always think about stopping, and kneeling outside in the cold, perfect grass, with the thought if I wait long enough they might come out to see me.

I know it’s merely grief, the same garden variety of depression, that Chris Cornell said in an interview once was no less dangerous and could just as easily land a man on the end of a rope.

But that is not my way. I’ll drive home to Summer and her kids, help with dinner, watch TV and bed by ten thirty. Regardless. And if I find myself lying awake and the void comes, I won’t scream into it like the old days, I’ll sing to it. I don’t know why, maybe it’s a lament. Maybe I think my children will walk out of the darkness and into my arms.

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olimpias · 3 years

Photo

THE JUGGLERS OF VENICE - A SHORT STORY BY ELIZA ORMANDY

words: 2k

warnings: death and i can’t be too explicit here, otherwise it would spoil some things, but ill say this: it’ll be very, very disturbing

general taglist: @stuff-lucie-wrote @buster-keaton @bookphobe @write-gallagher

tjov taglist: @withered-rose-unbreakable-lotus

persons of the mystery

Geronimo - a young Venetian gentleman

Erasmo - his friend, the Marquese di Giglia

the old woman - a ticket seller

the man with the Gnaga - a fire-eater

Gaspare - a woodcarver

Floriana - the daughter of Erasmo’s cousin

When autumn arrives and the days begin to be shorter and darker than before, it happens every October that the jugglers come, in their colourful little wagons and their funny fringed costumes, to lure the already rather dusty population of Venice out of their incipient winter torpor and to tell them about foreign lands and people. Here, in the city of the arts, these vagabonds are quite highly regarded and, even though the Venetian way of life cannot exactly be described as colourless, they are seen as a welcome distraction in view of the approaching winter. There are a lot of rumours about the jugglers and a few years ago a child disappeared there whom I even knew (she was the daughter of a distant cousin of my friend Erasmo, the Marquese di Giglia), but even after an extensive search little Floriana could not be found and so her disappearance was explained that she must have fallen into a nearby canal and the jugglers were not further associated with it.

And so it happened that on the very day that the curious folk came to Venice, I was staying at Erasmo’s' palazzo and we passed the time excellently at his expense. "Listen, Geronimo," he said, when we had just emptied our second bottle of wine, "don't you remember that the jugglers are to come to town today?" "How right you are, Erasmo!" exclaimed I. "Let us leave at once, for it will soon be dark!" Briskly we got up, threw on our masks and cloaks and set off.

Never before had I seen the jugglers with my own eyes. Their reputation undoubtedly preceded them and it was said that they were godless, unbridled creatures who knew how to make others laugh but remained as cold as ice themselves. They had set up their quarters near a small square on the outskirts of the city. As dusk had already fallen, most of the visitors had left, and the cold wind was getting into our limbs, so that we wrapped ourselves even more tightly in our coats, but there was a wonderful glow from the little stalls and the most pleasurable music was playing, which made us soon forget all the dark stories about the jugglers.

A stooped old woman stood in front of the stalls selling tickets. She wore a blue and gold half mask, a large tricorn with a cock's feather and her lips were painted a rather quaint red. "Come in, come in!" she cried in a croaky voice. "Two tickets for the young gentlemen? Here you are, here you are, always come in, just don't hesitate! Let us whisk you away into another world! But be warned: no one who goes in comes out as he was!" At this she burst into cackling laughter and Erasmo grabbed my arm in fright.

We left the strange old woman behind and looked at the various stalls. There was the most artificial candy that could even move, daintily built little houses with tiny figures in them, there was a tent where a fortune teller was supposed to be and of course the jugglers, fire-eaters, acrobats and girls with apple-red cheeks offering candied fruit. Every now and then a stately white horse was brought in, with a feathered headdress and a lady in red on its back, wearing a red mask and a red veil.

Suddenly, from behind the stalls, a puppet with a large key in its back appeared and performed a wild dance before our eyes. It threw itself into the air, hit the ground, jumped up again, spun in circles, flailed its arms and shook itself before falling lifeless to the ground. Then a man dressed in black and red and wearing a Gnaga mask leapt into the circle that had formed around the doll and shouted, "Good evening, dear friends! What you have just seen here was one of the dolls of the famous Gaspare, known as the best woodcarver who ever set foot in Italy!" With these words he beckoned a small man of slight stature, dressed all in white, even his face was painted white, but his lips were ghastly red. Gaspare bowed awkwardly and grinned as if possessed. Hesitantly everyone applauded and he spoke in a squeaky voice: "I suppose if the gentlemen would like to take a look at my humble tent, I can show them some more of these amazing puppets."

Everyone entered the tent and Gaspare spread his arms. The walls were covered all over with dolls of all kinds, big, small, men, women, children and mythical creatures, but they all had one thing in common: their ugly, almost devilish laughter, which made me think of Gaspare himself.

But another, smaller area of the tent was separated by a cloth. "What might be behind this, Geronimo?" said Erasmo quietly to me, but Gaspare, who must have heard us, moved around and stared at us. "In this part are the particularly valuable dolls, those that are only brought out on special occasions." All the while he squinted his eyes. I felt uncomfortable in the face of this madman and wanted to urge Erasmo to leave, but Gaspare approached us again. "Would the young gentleman agree if I took his portrait?" he asked with another hypocritical grin, stroking Erasmo's cheek with his pale, bony finger. It is true, Erasmo is significantly more handsome than me and not infrequently I, who looks quite normal and unassuming, have envied him his thick, dark hair, which is entirely without a wig, and his noble, light brown skin, not to mention his flawless features, which immediately make everyone suspect his aristocratic origins. "Well, why not?" he replied politely, even managing a smile, which I give him credit for, knowing how much he hates it when other people touch him. "Don't do that!", I whispered in his ear. "Something is not right here!" But he squeezed my hand tenderly and followed the old man to a moth-eaten velvet armchair where Gaspare told him to settle down. Then he took out some paper and began to draw magically fine lines on it with ink, which joined together to form a face with incredible speed. It was unmistakably Erasmo's, albeit strangely distorted, with huge eyes, a tiny nose and a small, pointed mouth. When he had finished, Erasmo reached out to take the drawing, but the old man snatched it away. "I still need it," he cawed. "You can have it - later. That is, if you still need them then." With these words he slipped through the curtain into the hidden section and came out again a short time later, but without the drawing. "I have work to do now. Out, out!" He suddenly seemed very upset and really shooed us out of the tent.

When we got outside, it was dark and I noticed that we were the only visitors left. "Let's go," I said, pulling Erasmo with me. He allowed it, although reluctantly. The old woman laughed as we passed her.

We hadn't gone far when Erasmo stopped abruptly. "Let's go back!" he said, and I saw in his dark eyes the dangerous mixture of adventurousness and folly that was well known to me. Ever since we were children, I had tried to stop him from doing something stupid, but usually without success. This time was no exception. He looked at me pleadingly and I gave in. "All right," I said with a sigh. "But what do you intend to do anyway?" "I want to get my drawing," he replied, but I knew very well that he was merely using this pretext to get into the hidden area of Gaspare's tent.

So we crept back, under the cover of night. Fortunately, we were both dressed in dark clothes, so we didn't have to be afraid of any passers-by. We arrived at the stalls, but there was no one to be seen. The lights were no longer shining and the cheerful music had stopped. When everything looked so deserted and uninviting, I felt a bit queasy, but I took heart and followed Erasmo, who was walking carefully but purposefully towards Gaspares' tent. He too was nowhere to be seen, neither inside nor outside the tent. We peeked behind the curtain that divided the room into two halves. At first glance we saw nothing unusual. To our right was a workbench with some tools and a candle on it. It was burning. Opposite was a chest and before I could hold it back Erasmo had already opened it. I stepped closer.There were dolls in the chest too, but these ones looked different, more alive in a frightening way. Their eyes seemed to look straight into my heart and their red mouths seemed as if they wanted to say to me: "Listen, Geronimo, what are you doing here? You have meddled in something evil, you can believe us!" I suddenly became so scared that my throat tightened and I turned to Erasmo to ask him to get out of here once and for all, but he had stepped to the other side of the small room and was looking thoughtfully at a cloaked figure leaning in the corner. It reached about to his waist and was strangely slumped. "What do you think this is?" he asked, and even in the dim light of the single candle I could see his eyes shining with excitement.

Slowly he lifted the cloth, but when he saw what was hidden underneath, he stumbled back, startled. "Just look," he whispered with fear in his voice. I walked over and was also struck with fright. The doll looked exactly like little Floriana! Her light brown frizzy hair was twisted up into two elaborate curls, her wide brown eyes stared up at us trustingly and even her cute rosy mouth looked as if it might start talking at any moment.While we were still standing there, barely able to contain ourselves, the curtain was pulled aside behind us. We wheeled around. There stood Gaspare, trembling and gasping. He staggered towards us, yet it was not It was not his sudden appearance or his indistinct muttering that frightened me, but his face, in which the bright madness glowed.I believed he was about to attack us and for a moment I thought my number was up, but he paid us little heed. "Did the young gentlemen discover my masterpiece, eh?" he asked in a trembling voice. "I knew they would come back. You only have to take a look at their inquisitive noses!" He knelt down in front of the doll and clasped it with both arms. "My dearest Floriana," he whispered. "Just look!" He palmed her. "It's her hair and her clothes!" He opened her mouth. "And her teeth!" He jumped up, the doll in his arms. "Never will she grow up, never! She will always be my little daughter. And you," with these words he came up to Erasmo, "you will be my son, and I will delight in your beauty as I make you and Floriana dance, just for me!" His ghastly laughter shook the tent walls. Then at last I awoke from my rigidity of terror, seized Erasmo's arm, and, dragging him behind me, ran as fast as I could out of the tent and past the stalls, not stopping until we had reached the canal on which Erasmo's palazzo is situated. There we leaned against the parapet, breathing heavily. "Poor, poor Floriana," sobbed Erasmo. "And my poor, poor cousin!" I wanted to say something comforting, but I couldn't think of anything.

The next day we heard that the jugglers had left, much earlier than usual, and they were never heard of again, either in Venice or in all Italy. Erasmo and I quietly agreed that we would take that terrible experience to our graves. It is probably better that way, even if I am pained by the grieving face of his cousin who comes to visit now and then. I can only hope and pray that the jugglers have given up their terrible ways, but I cannot imagine it. Surely they will travel around for all eternity until perhaps someone comes along who has enough courage to put a stop to them. But that someone will not be me, that is certain.

#the jugglers of venice #tjov #my writing #my wip #short story #writeblr #amwriting

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procrastinatorimagines · 4 years

Text

I Can Take Care of Myself

Fandom: One Chicago / Chicago PD

Character/s: Reader x Voight, Jay, Hailey

Warning/s: guns, blood

Word Count: 2,405

Request: Could you do a voight imagine where him and the reader are together and theres an age gap and she has to go undercover with jay and vought is hesitant but let's her go and he gets a bit jealous of jay and at one point Voight protectiveness gives it away to the rest of the team that they're together. Add a bit of fluff and a bit of smut if you can. Live your writing by the way ❤

Summary: Y/N and Jay go undercover to bust a wealthy criminal couple, but when the op goes a little sideways, Voight’s overprotectiveness becomes too much

You could tell Voight wasn’t happy about it, he’d been short with you all day even though he was the one who’d given you the assignment. Milling your way through a crowd of rich pricks on the arm of a tuxedo wearing Halstead you tried not to take it too personally, but Voight’s protectiveness was starting to raise suspicion in the unit as to why he was so against you going undercover as Jay’s fiance, especially when he’d seen what you were wearing. Did you wear a dress this low cut to piss him off? Maybe a little. Did he deserve it for being overprotective and jealous for no good reason? Yes.

You’d been with Voight a little over a year, and you’d managed to keep it a secret from everyone you worked with. Sure, there was an age gap, but most of the time it went unnoticed, at least to you anyway, it seemed to bother him more, especially recently as the two of you were starting to get more serious. He seemed to think you’d be better suited to someone more your own age, well, a guy like Halstead now you thought about it. Seeing the two of you together, even undercover, was making him a little more self-conscious than he would ever admit out loud.

It was a high end deal, a rich family, the Andersons, selling valuable stolen property had racked up a bodycount during a home invasion gone wrong, and so Intelligence had been brought in to take them down. Jay had already introduced himself as a potential buyer and the rich husband had invited him to a house party to do the deal, but he needed a date to blend in. That’s where you came in, Burgess and Upton had already interviewed various members of the family, so they couldn’t go with him, and Rojas was working a separate angle with Atwater to find the hired muscle responsible for the robberies. That only left you.

Voight hadn’t been to happy about it, he’d been hesitant to sign off, despite it being your best option to catch these criminals with their hands in the jewel encrusted cookie jar so to speak. But he still wasn’t happy, not when Jay had wrapped his arm around your waist as you took your seats with the theives on their ridiculously fancy sofas, and certainly not when he’d given you a quick kiss before heading off to fetch the first round of drinks.

Men, you thought, equal parts annoyed and amused by Voight’s reaction to you and Halstead, mostly because you didn’t view Jay in that way at all, and visa versa.

“You know what’s up with Voight?” Jay asked quitely as you guys stood waiting for your drinks at the bar. One of the three bars these people had in their house; throwing the cuffs on them was going to be so satisfying. You shrugged.

“Why would I know?” You asked, thanking the bartender for your drink as Jay raised an eyebrow at you, unconvinced.

“Well he seemed really against sending you in, anything I should know?” He asked.

“Not that I can think of,” you told him, suddenly finding the olive in your drink fascinating. There was a dinging of a glass on the otherside of the room before Jay could reply, Mr. Anderson was preparing to make a toast, then Jay was to follow him into his study to make the deal.

“Okay,” he shrugged, not believing a word you said, but there was no time to discuss it now, you had a job to do.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention for just a moment I would like to thank you for coming tonight, me and my wife so appreciate your company-” Mrs. Anderson took her place beside her husband and he gave her a kiss on the cheek, “-now, our servers will be bringing out some light hors d’oeurves and gifts to show our gratitude,”

“Now please, enjoy yourselves,” Mrs. Anderson finished and everyone raised their glasses,

“Here here, cheers everyone,” you all took a sip of your drinks, Jay nodding to you as he went to find Mr. Anderson.

His wife approached you at that point, inviting you into the drawing room for a chat while business was conducted; who the hell had a drawing room? You thought, feeling like you’d traveled back to the nineteenth century as you stepped in, not knowing whether to stare at the enormous portraits of the Mrs. Anderson lining the walls or the ghastly tastled curtains. You took a seat on an expensive looking chair opposite Mrs. Anderson.

“Now dear, while the men are discussing the dirty business, why don’t me and you discuss something else,” she smiled.

“What did you have in mind?” You asked, trying to do your best to sound like you belonged there.

“Tell me something,” she mused, raising from her seat again and heading towards a set of shelves behind her, decorated with a considerable amount of expensive looking items. No wonder they were commiting robberies, if this was where all their money was being spent, you thought bitterly as Mrs. Anderson ran her hand over an ornate box.

“Tell you... what?” You asked, unsure as to where the conversation was heading, you hadn’t even expected to be cornered by the woman, let alone interograted. She opened the box and pulled something out, but what you couldn’t tell.

“Tell me... how long have you been a cop?” Before you could react she turned around, pistol pointing straight at you, you barely had time to dive for the floor before the first shot rang, putting a hole through the back of the chair you’d been sitting on.

There wasn’t room for any consealed weapons in the outfit you were wearing, so you got up quickly, heading for some form of cover as she fired again; people were screaming now, you could hear them running outside the door, not knowing where the shots were even coming from. Where the hell was Jay? Was he okay? Where was backup? You had a camera in your necklace, surely they were on their way in.

You jumped up, grabbing a letter opener from a nearby desk, throwing it at your assailant. She ducked out of the way, giving you enough time to leap over the sofa now separating the two of you, grabbing her wrist as you both struggled for the gun.

Out the corner of your eye you saw Jay burst in, white shirt red with blood you hoped wasn’t his, just as you wrestled the gun from her hand, momentum causing you to lose balance as she kicked you back, causing you to fall and hit your head on a table, then everything went dark.

When you woke up you were still in the drawing room, you’d only been out a minute, according to Jay. Intelligence had come in at that point apparently and the Andersons were in cuffs, the husband suffering some laserations from a glass Jay had hit him with, the wife perfectly fine and cuffed in the back of a patrolcar.

“Easy, you good?” Jay helped you into sitting position and you winced, putting your hand to the back of your head, it was wet with blood but it wasn’t too bad, the pounding in your head was worse.

“What happened? What went wrong?” You asked him.

“Kev and Rojas got the hired muscle, but not before they alerted the Andersons that there were cops after them, we were the only new comers at the party so...” Jay told you as Voight came into the room.

“What the hell happened?!” He snapped at Jay. You shakily got to your feet to try and provide a buffer, stepping forward to slightly block Jay.

“We’re good, everyone’s good,” you said and Voight shook his head, “that’s what matters.” EMT’s tried to come check you out but you sent them away quickly, you’d get looked at once you knew Voight wasn’t about to give Jay a reason to need their services more.

“That’s what matters?! She tried to shoot you, you were alone and unarmed,” he replied, “where the hell were you?” He turned to Jay.

“Sarge I was doing to deal with Anderson, like I was supposed to, I didn’t know Y/N was even with the wife, I didn’t hear anything over the comms otherwise-” he tried to explain but Voight cut him off.

“Otherwise what? You would have done what you were supposed to?” He demanded.

“What I was supposed to?” It was Jay’s turn to raise his voice and you had a bad feeling about how this argument was going to end. “I was doing what I was supposed to, my job!”

“Your job,” Voight started, “is to keep your partner safe, to not let them go off alone where something could happen to them!”

“She-” Jay began but you interuppted.

“She can take care of her self,” you said, “and she doesn’t appreciate being talked about like she isn’t in the room.”

Jay sighed but nodded and backing off a little, but Voight stood his ground. “This is unacceptable, look at you, you’re hurt.” He moved closer, looking like he was about to reach towards you but caught himself at the last minute, but you could tell by the look on Jay’s face that he caught it.

“Look you want to place blame on Jay for not backing me up? Where was everyone else when she pulled the gun, why’d it take so long to storm the place?” You turned it back on Voight, not meaning to blame him but you could tell it stung a bit.

“We lost visual as soon as you entered this room,” Hailey said, approaching the three of you to see what was going on, “this room is teched out, no signals in or out of here. Robbery-homicide wouldn’t let us come in, Jay’s deal seemed to still be going smoothly so they said it was probably faulty tech on our end, told us to stand down.” A sideways glace at Voight told you he’d been vocally unhappy about that.

The EMT’s approached again, and you begrudgingly agreed to go to Med, still a little dizzy and definitely in pain, earning a considerable amount of looks from the rest of the unit when Voight insisted on riding with you to make sure you were okay. If they weren’t a little suspicious at the start of this op, they definitely were now.

So much for keeping work and personal life separate, you thought, out of the two of you you thought you’d be the one to slip up first, but Voight’s behaviour today had you refusing to even look at him in the ambo, and you’d asked your doctor to keep him out while you were being treated. You weren’t a child, you were a cop, this was your job, why was he suddenly not okay with that?

“If you’re not going to talk to me, at least let me drive you home.” He said once you were stitched up and ready to be discharged, a minor concussion but you’d insisted on leaving as soon as possible.

“Fine,” you said curtly, but only because you didn’t want to walk alone in the dark with a concussion, however mild.

Most of the ride was in silence, any questions Voight had about how you were feeling were met with equally short answers and eventually he gave up. As he pulled up outside you place you said: “at least let me walk you inside.”

“I’m good, thanks.” You brushed him off, going to open the doors only to find that he’d locked them.

“Hank let me out,” you said and he shook his head, “Hank, I’m tired and seriously not in the mood.”

“You’re angry with me,” he said.

“Astute observational skills, you should consider a career in law enforcement,” you replied sarcastically.

“Okay that’s enough, you got something to say, just say it,” he demanded. “What’s the matter?”

“What’s the matter?” You turned back to him, shocked that he didn’t know. “Hank you’ve spent the whole day treating me like I’m made of glass, you didn’t even want me on the op in the first place, nevermind that it isn’t something I’ve done countless times before, and then you go yelling at Halstead for not protecting me, like I’m not capable of taking care of myself?! I’m a cop, a good one for that matter, and the way you acted today, overprotective, jealous... it was out of line, and the whole damn unit saw it! That’s what’s the matter with me!” He blinked at your outburst. “Now let me out the goddamn car before I say something I’m going to regret-”

Before you could say anymore he was kissing you, but you pushed him away when you realised what was happened. “No, that... that doesn’t change how I feel, not now, it doesn’t justify how you acted today, I-”

“I love you,” he blurted out, stopping you in your tracks. Now it was your turn to look shocked, taking in exactly what he’d said, why he’d been acting differently recently... Voight was never one to express his emotions like this, so to say this caught you off guard was an understatement.

“Hank-” you began, not really knowing what to say but knowing you should say something. You settled for a kiss instead, pulling him closer to you and resting your forehead on his when you broke apart. “I love you too,” you told him, his relieved smile making your heart swell. “I-”

“It won’t happen again,” he promised, taking your hand, “I know what you’re capable of, it’s one of the many reasons I fell for you in the first place, so it won’t happen again.

You smiled, “thank you. Now could you please unlock these damn doors so we can go inside?” You both laughed.

“I probably shouldn’t go up, we’ve got an early shift tomorrow, Superintendent’s giving up a case from narcotics to work,” he explained.

“And what, you’re worried what the unit’ll think if we show up together?” You asked, his shrug answering your question. “Like they don’t already know after today? Besides, if anyone’s going to get hell for it it’s me not you, you’re still their boss remember?”

You both laughed as you headed inside.

#hank voight #chicago pd #one chicago #hank voight imagine #chicago pd imagine #hank voight imagines #chicago pd imagines #chicago pd one shot #hank voight one shot #one chicago imagine #one chicago imagines #one chicago one shot #one shot

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micheswife · 3 years

Text

media belongs to the rightful owners.

It is good to have you back.

Warnings: fluff, angst, chpt 139 spoilers, romantic????

Ship: Levi x civilian OC.

Summary: Mira has managed to stick by Levi's side ever since he got out of the underground. Now, they finally meet.

Times were simpler back then. Back when the Eldians were unaware of what laid beyond the walls, when salt was a luxury and oceans only appeared in fiction. Mira was just nineteen year old civilian with an ordinary life. She woke up, cooked, cleaned, studied and sewed, enjoying everything life had to offer.

This was until her eyes caught the sight of a certain soldier, he looked rather cold, little did she know she would come to read the smallest changes in his expressions in a few months. The scouts had been returning from an expedition the first time she saw him, he looked devasted and she knew why. She had felt sorry for him, for them all. She so desperately had wanted to do something for them, but alas, she lacked the guts to stand up to the crowd jeering at the soldiers. Nor did she have the funds to donate, nor the courage to join them in the battle. She had been sad when she returned home that day, and her brother's portrait made it worse. He had lost his life outside the walls five years ago, on his first expedition. She ran a thumb over the wooden frame of the drawing, before writing a letter that would be the start of the painful journey that had left her with a heavy heart today.

It was a long expression of her support towards the survey corps, her sorrow towards her own lack of strength and everything in between.

"This is pathetic." She had exclaimed after having gone through the letter, ultimately tearing it apart and discarding it in the fire. The soldiers didn't need to hear her sob story.

The next month, she had rushed to the gates upon hearing the bells, a warm meal and a little note packed in her piece of rag. She secured it with her pink ribbon, tying it in an overly elaborate knot to indicate that it was present. She cringed as she recollected asking a kid to deliver the package. Having a crush does make people desperate afterall.

It was a particularly noisy group of kids she had approached, they were enamoured with the soldiers, but she was certain they were no longer alive today.

"Hey kids, I need you to deliver something." She had crouched down.

"Um...what?".

"You see captain Levi there? This is his lunch, could you please give it to him for me."

The kids were more than happy to have an excuse to interact with their hero, so the box was grabbed immediately. The innocent children never once wondered why the perfectly healthy lady couldn’t deliver that lunch herself.

"That girl wants to give you your lunch! Captain!" Mira heard one of the excited children as she scurried away into the dark alley, rushing home as fast as she could. She was terrified of having any sort of attention on her, more so when there was the possibility of rejection involved. She tucked her feelings in the back of her mind, assuming that the captain had indeed rejected her present. Mira was a pessimist like that.

But she had been wrong, because Levi was more than grateful to have received a warm meal. Even though it had resulted in a lot of annoying comments for the rest of his career, some soldiers had even claimed to have seen the mystery woman. It didn't help that the kids had described her as a thin, brown-haired woman. That was all they remembered, too excited to have spoken with Levi.

He had opened the package to find a note inside. His hopes were shattered when it revealed nothing about the sender, except for her shabby handwriting.

"Tch, could have written it neatly."

He muttered as he kept the note aside and opened the container, food still warm inside. He couldn't help but smile when he tasted the soup, there were tiny bits of meat inside. The vegetables and the freshly baked bread had fixed him for the day. He had washed the container when nobody was looking, but not before folding the note and securing it in his wallet. It was rare for people to address such gratefulness towards him, even after everything he had done.

He'd cherish those words forever, "thank you, captain Levi." Fortunately, people became more grateful after wall Maria had been reclaimed. But by that point, Mira's little notes were the only thing that comforted him. He had a friend who stayed. He would write to her after every expedition, pouring his grief, sadness and anger in it, making sure to leave out the any confidential details. In exchange, she gave him an invisible shoulder to lean on, hoping that the narration of her mundane days would somehow provide comfort. And it did, he liked knowing about the next embroidery she planned to make, he always waited for the next meal to fill his stomach, her next letter to fill his heart. She had a slightly different personality than him in that she smiled a little more, she had more innocence, but they both were equally distant, burying their need for companionship into oblivion.

They used to talk about their days, about their hobbies, but never about their relationship. They never acknowledged their type of relationship they had, but a few feelings would slip out.

Levi had stopped telling her about Hange after he felt a tinge of bitterness in her next letter, he wanted to let her know that him and Hange shared a deep but platonic love. He avoided it, however, not wanting to make things worse. It was at that moment, Levi had made a decision. If him and this mystery girl ever survived their cruel destiny, then he would pursue her. He would ask her name, and invite her over to the same place she kept his lunch box every week. Under a lone tree not far from the headquarters.

"Don't forget the dessert this time, and keep it under that tree with yellow flowers, it is behind the headquarters." He had placed his note in the clean box, and shoved it back into the hands of the same starry-eyed kid.

"Give it to her next time you see her." He wondered what happened to the little boy after their little arrangement was made. He had taken a leap of faith that day and it had worked, the girl had come back next month, she had been looking for another group of enthusiastic kids but the little boy from last month had approached her.

"The captain told me to give you this."

She had to convince him to not go up to Levi and cause and commotion. Little did she know, Levi had already seen her bribing the kid with some homemade candy which was meant for him instead. Over the next few months, Levi would try his hardest to remember her face, contemplating the decision to ask Moblit for a sketch. But he knew that Mira wound not agree, she, just like him was scared of getting too comfortable. Perhaps that fear had been the reason why they both had established such a weird dynamic. They had soon fallen into a routine of exchanging letters, and preserving them. Levi soon found comfort in the increasing familiarity, Mira's behaviour becoming more and more predictable. They both had their own set of circumstances that had prevented them from meeting in person, including the fear that it would ruin the sacred relation they had built. They could not afford to lose each other, Mira had deliberately approached him, and he had actively seeked her out in return, going as far as dealing with a noisy little brat to see the girl for once. They were not meant to cross paths, they were not soulmates, they were hardworkers. Levi barely had the time to sleep, and it took a lot of courage to talk about his feelings, get, he made himself vulnerable in those letters, grateful that someone was willing to listen.

Mira, on the other hand, had to sneak around to deliver the meals. She was poor, a mere house-helper for some rich families, but she worked extra hours to buy those fancy ingredients. Hiding letters from her parents required a lot of tact, so did rejecting each and every man her father introduced her to. All with the awareness that Levi did not and would not love her, ever. She had forced herself to find comfort in her loneliness, unlike Levi, she never poured out her emotions. She only wrote about the things she did, the funny little dreams she saw, but her feelings were a taboo topic. To top the emotional labour, the fall of wall Maria had driven her faraway from the new headquarters, so Levi would sometimes slip in some money to help her out. It felt good to provide for her, to take care of her, especially after she had lost her parents.

The relationship had went on for years, until Levi had finally expressed feeling fearful about his impending death.

"I may never come back, also, do not reply to this letter... I will have gone to Marley by the time this reaches you. Please live a long life." A tear dropped onto the letter, smudging the ink. Levi had been to Marley several times, but this was final. He needed to save the world, not just Paradis. She had cried until her lungs gave out, until she felt lightheaded, but not because Levi would possibly not return. She was scared about the pain he might experience in his final moments. Would it be a titan? A bullet? An explosion?

"God, please let there be someone to save him." she had prayed, and her prayers had been answered. The woman Mira would get jealous of had found Levi in a horrible condition. She had lost her cheer, no longer wanting the responsibility of her position. She had even suggested running away together to the Captain, and honestly Mira would have preferred for him to do that too, afterall, Hange knew him better and longer than her. But the Captain had a promise to fulfill, and he would never just give up.

Mira never knew any of it, she refused to look at the newspapers, too scared of facing the new world of extremists. The walls were gone, some scouts had returned, but she did not see the Captain. Her pessimistic mind assumed the worst, and soon enough, a little plant was dancing on her window in honour of a soldier she had presumed dead.

It had been a long time since the last letter was sent, and Levi was now in a wheel chair. He wondered about the girl, he had never bothered to ask her name, instead he had start calling her Lily, since she always wore one of those in her wavy hair.

He remembered his decision, if they survived the titans, then he would pursue her. This was his last mission life, little did he know, Mira had started pushing him out of her mind. She had been struggling with a phase, she would write long letters addressed to him and keep them tucked away to cope with her thoughts. The cold, lonely nights had been harsh on her, and she was losing her appetite. It was going to be okay though, Levi was already on a ship to Paradis, ready with a ring in his coat. For now, he would go over his speech for the first peace summit in Paradis, and then straight to Mira. He was sure he could find her.

#Levi #levi aot #levi ackerman #snk #attack on titan #aot x oc #snk x oc #snk 139 #levi heichou #levi x oc #rivai ackerman #rivalle #rivaille #shingeki no kyoujin fanfiction #shingeki no kyoujin manga #shingeki no kyoujin levi

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dinosaurtsukki · 4 years

Text

across the sea | a bokuaka fanfic (act. I)

inspired by the movie ‘portrait of a lady on fire’ by celine sciamma which is sad and lesbian

pairing: bokuto koutarou x akaashi keiji

word count: 21.8k words

contains: historical setting (actually the setting is vague bec if i tried to describe it more it would take 5 extra pages), heavy angst, slight fluff, greek mythology references, implied smut

summary: when Bokuto accepted a portrait commission for the young, engaged Akaashi Keiji, he never expected him to be so beautiful. he knows it's a mistake to be attached, a mistake for them to fall in love in a time when they know it's impossible for them to be together.

a/n: i’m a sad gay who loves sad lesbian movies and portait of a lady on fire is peak film. a lot of the things here are based on the film so i suggest you check out this beautiful movie, but i added a few tweaks here and there to make it my own.

chapters: act. I, act. II., act. III

“You’re not the first painter to come here,” the ferryman said. Actually, it wasn’t the first time Bokuto had heard that. And now, he was sitting in the middle of tiny, fishing boat, clutching his tattered suitcase and the thin, wooden box where he kept his canvases for dear life. Mostly due to the fact that if his suitcase or canvases found their way overboard, Bokuto would have no choice but to jump after them.

“Is he a terror?” Bokuto asked, deciding to make conversation with the ferryman anyway.

“A terror? No, none of the painters who came back looked scared. Maybe frustrated or lost is the right word,” the ferryman said. “He never leaves the manor but they say that he’s more beautiful than his suitor.”

“I’ve heard that too,” Bokuto muttered as he gazed over the horizon to the shore where the boat was headed. He wasn’t particularly fond of the job he had to take: a portrait commission. Bokuto would much rather work on the commission from the church in his hometown with his master, painting bodies and landscapes were his specialization. On the other hand, Bokuto was not as confident with drawing the human face, specifically, capturing emotion in the eyes. Which were very, very important for a painter hoping to make his own way into the world. And because of that, his master sent him off to the Elysium Estate, a secluded piece of land nestled along the coast of a provincial town owned by the Akaashi family, to paint Akaashi Keiji’s portrait to send to his suitor.

An hour later, the boat had reached the harbor and Bokuto promptly got off, grateful for steady, unshifting land, thanked the ferryman and paid the fee. Then, clutching his suitcase and canvases, he made his way up a rocky trail to where the estate was. Up close, the large house looked dark and gloomy, as if nobody lived there, at all, but it still looked quite grand with its Greek-inspired architecture and marble columns framing the entrance. Standing outside, as if expecting him, was a young man with short, black hair, dressed in a butler’s uniform.

“You must be the painter, Bokuto Koutarou,” he spoke, bowing formally when Bokuto walked up. “I’m Kageyama Tobio, the estate butler. If there is anything you need during your stay here, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks!” Bokuto grinned. “Um, no need to be so formal though. I’m just an apprentice painter.”

“The madam ordered me to treat you as such,” Kageyama said, holding out his hand to take Bokuto’s belongings. Bokuto contemplated it for a while and handed him his suitcase, keeping his canvases closely to himself. Kageyama opened the door to the estate and they walked into a foyer that was dimly lit by a few candles.

“It doesn’t seem like a lot of people stay here, huh?” Bokuto said as he looked around.

“Only the madam and her son are currently living here,” Kageyama explained, taking an oil lamp from the table and walking down a hallway near the grand staircase. “You will be staying in this room for the meantime,” he added, opening the door to a room that was much larger than Bokuto’s master’s studio. Inside was a large, four-poster bed, windows that almost covered the entire far wall, a fireplace, and an easel already set up. When Bokuto glanced at the wall nearest him, he could see a door that probably led into his own bathroom.

“Wow, this is… a nice room,” Bokuto said, unable to find the words to say.

“The madam and young master Keiji have retired for the evening but he has agreed to meet you for breakfast in the dining hall,” Kageyama said, leaving the suitcase on top of the chest at the foot of Bokuto’s bed. “Would you like me to bring up some supper?”

“Yes please,” Bokuto smiled politely and Kageyama left him in the dark, grand room. Bokuto took the time to start a fire to light up the room. Then, he unloaded his canvases. The wooden box that was custom-made for it was nailed shut and Bokuto pried it open with a small tool stashed in his suitcase. To his relief, the canvases were both as pristine and white as when he first packed them. Bokuto lovingly ran his finger across the surface, already eager to break out his paints and start the commission. Just for the sake of being able to paint again.

After a warm meal of bread and soup, Bokuto lay on the soft bed of his room and fell asleep.

The next morning, he was woken up by Kageyama knocking on the door. Remembering that he would be meeting Akaashi for the first time, Bokuto quickly washed his face and dressed into his best pair of trousers and a clean shirt before hurrying to the dining room. The room was half the size of the manor’s living room, but better lit with tall windows that reached the ceiling. The long table was set for two and already sitting there, was Akaashi Keiji.

The rumors about his beauty were true: with his tanned skin, hair the color of chocolate that fell in short waves around his face, his graceful facial features, and eyes the color of deep emerald that followed Bokuto as he walked to his seat. Under the table, he felt his hands itch for a piece of charcoal and paper.

“U-um, Bokuto Koutarou,” he stammered, remembering that he had to introduce himself. “Pleased to meet you… um, sir.”

“There’s no need for that,” Akaashi waved his hand. His voice was soft but he spoke and enunciated every syllable. “So, my mother sent you to become a companion before I’m carted off to Italy to get married. Hopefully, I get to enjoy some kind of freedom before that happens.” He paused and fixed his gaze on Bokuto. “What do you think about all this?”

“Well, your mother seems concerned about you and your health—”

“You don’t have to talk as if she’s here,” Akaashi interrupted him. “She’s the one who’s paying you, not me. Tell me what you really think.” Bokuto blinked at the interruption and one look at Akaashi told him that he would detect any lie. So, Bokuto decided to tell the truth, or as much as he could without spilling the fact that he was painting his portrait in secret.

“When I entered the workforce to get a job, I never thought I’d have to be hired to be a personal companion,” Bokuto chuckled. “But it beats working in a factory. About your situation however, I think it’s a bit sad.”

“Sad? Do you pity me?” Akaashi’s expression was neutral.

“In a way, I do. It must be lonely having to stay here. Maybe your mother hired me so you’d have someone to talk to. In a way, I guess I am perfect for job,” Bokuto grinned. “People say I’m talkative enough to hold a conversation for two.” Akaashi looked down at his plate, as if thinking over what Bokuto said, and then looked out the window.

“I want to go down to the beach today,” he said, Bokuto silently let out a sigh of relief. He had passed whatever test Akaashi had set up. “Accompany me after breakfast.”

“Yes sir,” Bokuto nodded. In front of him, he saw the corner of Akaashi’s lip turn up.

“I’m younger than you. You may call me Akaashi.”

An hour later, Bokuto made his way down the beach with Akaashi behind him, wearing a dark green scarf around his chin and a jacket over his shirt. Bokuto couldn’t help but notice how Akaashi looked at the beach as if it was the first time he was there, and perhaps it was his first time at the beach. Judging by how thin his frame was and his breathing that was almost labored while he walked down the beach, Bokuto could easily tell how sickly he was. Bokuto considered sitting on the sand with Akaashi, but another part of him wanted Akaashi to experience much more. As soon as they reached the beach, Bokuto kicked off his shoes and socks and walked over to wade in the sea.

“Come on,” he smiled and raised a hand encouragingly at Akaashi who eyed him curiously before taking off his shoes and socks, as well as his jacket and left them in a neat pile beside Bokuto’s things. He dipped his feet hesitantly in the water, before walking forward and joining Bokuto.

“Thanks to you, my mother allowed me to finally come down here,” Akaashi said, squinting at the horizon. “We came to live at the estate because the doctors said the sea breeze might do me good, but they kept me locked inside.”

“What do you do to pass the time?” Bokuto asked.

“Read, mostly. Actually, all the time,” Akaashi answered. “Even if I wasn’t allowed to go out, my father consistently sent me books and tutors so at least my learning was up to standard. My mother joins me in the library sometimes to work on her embroidery.” He looked sideways at Bokuto. “I know a lot of things, like the deepest parts of the sea we’re standing in, the trade routes that cross it, but I’ve never been in it.”

“Well, if it’s any comfort, yesterday was the first time I’ve been to sea,” Bokuto admitted. “I never thought waves could rock a boat so much. I was sick to my stomach and I almost threw up over the side of the boat.” Akaashi smiled wryly.

“Did you?”

“No,” Bokuto chuckled. “The sea was a wonderful blue, I couldn’t bear to throw up in it.”

“That’s good,” Akaashi nodded. “I’ve always wondered about how salty the sea is.” Bokuto raised his eyebrows, bent down, and cupped some water in his hands.

“Want to try it for yourself?”

“As long as you don’t tell my mother,” Akaashi snorted. He cupped his hands down under Bokuto’s and bent down, raising their hands. Bokuto felt Akaashi’s lips kiss the tips of his fingers as he sipped the saltwater. Akaashi raised his head, making a face that was half-grimace, half-look of curiosity, and spat the saltwater back into the sea. Bokuto laughed.

“How was it?”

“The saltiest thing I ever tasted,” Akaashi said. “Even saltier than bacon. But now I know how salty sea is.”

They spent the next few hours at the beach, even taking their lunch there after Kageyama delivered it in a picnic basket. Bokuto took the time to watch Akaashi as he picked up rocks and shells to inspect before returning them where he found them, attempting to memorize his unwilling client’s face. In his head, Bokuto pictured Akaashi in a fancy, green dress jacket that matched the color of his eyes, sitting with his hands folded over each other and perhaps a book on his lap. He kept that image in mind when he asked Akaashi if they could head inside. The madam, whom Bokuto was to meet the next day, called Akaashi to the library giving time for Bokuto to begin sketching drafts of the portrait.

He took his time, drawing different parts of Akaashi at first: his hands, his hair, his side profile and ears, his nose and mouth, and lastly, his eyes. Bokuto had to soap the charcoal off his fingers before joining Akaashi at supper, this time making less conversation to observe the details of his face. When he was alone in his room again, Bokuto laid the sketches out before him near the fireplace and made an attempt to draw Akaashi’s eyes again, only to give up on lie on the floor, trying to remember how the candlelight at dinnertime accentuated the planes of his face and the faraway look in Akaashi’s eyes that seemed to lead out to sea.

…

The next day, Bokuto sat in front of Akaashi Keiji’s mother, or Mikoto, as she preferred that he would address her, in the manor’s library upstairs. Out of all the rooms Bokuto had visited in the giant house, this one seemed to be the most visited by the madam and her son. Like the dining room, it had large windows that lit the entire room. The wooden floor was polished and books that have left their shelves to rest in stacks around the room showed signs of it being frequented, most likely by Akaashi himself. Other than that, there was something about the entire room that felt comforting and warm.

“So, you’ve met my son,” Mikoto said, sipping from her teacup. She looked a lot like her son: same brown hair, green eyes, and sharp features. His master told him that she had one lame leg, thanks to being infected by polio years ago, which prevented her from going around frequently. “How did you find him?” she asked, fixing him with her gaze.

“He’s, well, quite reserved,” Bokuto answered. “Yesterday when we had breakfast, I feel as if he was testing me,” he added with a nervous chuckle.

“Ah, Keiji tends to do that,” Mikoto smiled ruefully. “We used to live near a city when he was younger. But, because of his health, my husband decided to move us here for the sea air. That did Keiji’s health better but unfortunately, he’s had very little encounter with the outside world. When we told him about the marriage arrangement, he’s grown distant from me.”

“Is that the reason why nobody has ever successfully painted his portrait?” Bokuto asked.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Mikoto nodded. “Keiji’s strong-willed and scheming, despite everything. He knows that we need the marriage for our lands and wealth to continue remaining under our family name. He doesn’t directly transgress the marriage, but he makes it difficult for it to continue.”

“He’s probably prolonging it,” Bokuto said, suddenly feeling sad for Akaashi. Even though he was better off with a wealthy family compared to Bokuto who was taken in by his master after his parents died, Akaashi had very little freedom. And now, a marriage.

“Probably,” Mikoto set her cup down and looked at the portrait of her that hung over the fireplace. “Which is why we need you, Bokuto-san. Your master played a hand in helping seal my marriage by painting this portrait. He did well. And now, you must do the same.” Bokuto gulped. “Your master spoke very highly of you. Have you started on the portrait?”

“Yes,” Bokuto nodded. Early that morning, he had sketched a rough layout of Akaashi on one of his canvases. Without Akaashi there to pose, it took a great deal for Bokuto to visualize his position. But he wasn’t his master’s student for nothing. Bokuto was confident that he could paint Akaashi’s likeness.

“Well, I mustn’t keep you then,” Mikoto said. “Call Akaashi to come here. I’ll let you have a few hours to paint.”

“Thank you, Mikoto-san,” Bokuto bowed before leaving the library, closing the double doors behind him. He walked down the great stairs of the manor and was about to head into his room when he ran into Akaashi heading his way. “Akaashi,” Bokuto grinned, trying to make it seem as if he hadn’t just discussed Akaashi’s marriage with his mother just a while ago. “I was just about to look for you.”

“Well, you found me,” Akaashi said. He was wearing trousers, a light blue shirt, and a beige jacket.

“Your mother requests that you join her in the library,” Bokuto said. Akaashi made a face.

“I don’t feel like reading, I’d rather go outside,” he said. “Would you come join me at the beach again? It should be at low tide when we are there.”

“I-I would, but…” Bokuto stammered.

“Is there anything you’re preoccupied with?” Akaashi asked, stepping closer to Bokuto. His green eyes bored into his, searching for an answer. Bokuto relented.

“Of course not,” he shook his head and smiled. “Going to the beach sounds great.” Bokuto groaned internally, thinking about how fast he’d have to paint before sunset. And then, Akaashi smiled, excitement shining in his eyes.

“Let’s go then, Bokuto-san.” And somehow, it was all alright. The two of them made their way to the beach, walking side by side. Akaashi had the same scarf he wore yesterday tied around his chin. Bokuto walked in front of Akaashi when they made their way down the trail along the rocky side of the cliff. Every so often, Bokuto felt the urge to turn around to check how Akaashi was doing, and to memorize the look of his hands as they gripped the side of the cliff, the concentration in his furrowed brow, how his green scarf billowed behind him in the wind. As they neared the bottom of the cliff, Bokuto suddenly heard the sound of rocks falling and Akaashi crying in surprise.

“Bokuto-san!”

Quick as a flash, Bokuto turned around to catch Akaashi in his arms, holding a hand out to steady himself against the cliff with the other wrapped around Akaashi’s waist. Up close, Bokuto could smell the sea breeze already caught in Akaashi’s clothes as well as the slightest whiff of vanilla. For a moment, he wondered if he could catch that scent in the portrait he was going to paint.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” Bokuto said. Akaashi stepped back, steadying himself against the rocky cliff wall. His one hand lingered on Bokuto’s shoulder before using it to pull down the scarf tied around his chin.

“Thank you, Bokuto-san,” he spoke. Without thinking, Bokuto held out a hand to him. Akaashi accepted and the two walked hand-in-hand to the beach.

Bokuto soon found out why Akaashi was excited to go down to the beach at this time. After leaving his scarf, jacket, shoes, and socks in a neat pile again on the sand, Akaashi waded out to sea and bent down in search of hermit crabs and other creatures in the tide pools. Bokuto waded with him for a while before sitting near a large rock and taking out a piece of paper folded around a small piece of drawing charcoal. He decided to focus on drawing Akaashi’s hands, folded over each other, before finding his own hand moving by itself and drawing Akaashi’s eyes, his nose, the scarf tied around his chin that covered his mouth. ‘Stupid,’ Bokuto shook his head, realizing that he didn’t need to sketch the scarf for the portrait. He folded the sketch and stuffed it in his shirt pocket, rubbing the charcoal of his fingers on his pants as Akaashi jogged towards him with something cupped in his hands.

“Bokuto-san,” he stopped, holding out his hands to Bokuto to show a hermit crab scuttling in it. Bokuto let out a chuckle.

“I see you’ve found a friend,” he reached out a finger to gently stroke the crab’s shell. Akaashi had a small smile on his face. “Thinking of bringing it home?”

“No,” Akaashi shook his head. “I read that they easily get depressed when they’re alone. And I don’t think he would want to live in a sink. I just wanted to hold one in my hands.”

“Like when you held seawater yesterday,” Bokuto said, smiling at the memory. “But I’d advice against tasting this one.” Akaashi looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Very funny, Bokuto-san,” he said dryly. Bokuto snickered. Akaashi bent down and released the hermit crab into the sand.

“Let’s head back, I’m good for today,” Akaashi said, walking back to where his things were. “I know you still have some things to work on.”

“I—”

“You don’t have to explain,” Akaashi held out a hand. “It was… rude of me to try to invade your privacy. I apologize. It’s just…” Akaashi pursed his lips and looked down.

“I get it. Kageyama isn’t the most talkative person around,” Bokuto grinned, sidling up next to him. “And I was hired to be your companion.”

“I don’t want you to think about it like that,” Akaashi said. “I know it’s not normal. It’s kind of sad that my mother would have to hire someone to be my friend here. So, can we both pretend that your salary doesn’t come from a fake friendship?”

“Well…” Bokuto shrugged. “If we’re going to that, want to add to the pretending?”

“How do you suppose we do that?” Akaashi looked at him curiously.

“If we’re going to be pretend friends, how did our ‘friendship’ begin?” Bokuto asked. “Maybe I was a boy from the nearby village who wandered here, wanting to see the Elysium Estate for myself. All the other kids say it’s an abandoned manor, a haunted one specifically. But I, a brave soul, decided to check it out.” Akaashi smiled and sat down on the sand to put on his socks and shoes.

“On that day, my mother let me read outside, just near the house of course. While reading my book, I couldn’t help but notice a noise coming from behind the house,” he continued.

“It was me, pelting pebbles at one of the windows,” Bokuto laughed, fully engaged in their imagining.

“Lucky for you, my mother was asleep and I happened to appear before you first.”

“I probably screamed like a girl in terror thinking you were a ghost.”

“And then I had to calm you down. And then tell you that there were in fact people living here.”

“And then I sense how lonely you are and invite you to play.”

“And then we play tag all morning and chase each other on the beach,” Akaashi smiled, eyes scanning the horizon again. “That’s a nice backstory. Though, it’s just a story.”

“It’s a good story,” Bokuto held out a hand and helped Akaashi to his feet. Both of them reached the manor a good three hours before the sun set, leaving Bokuto with enough time to begin mixing his paints to begin the portrait. It was probably his favorite part of painting, creating the colors to imprint a real picture on canvas. He mixed some red and white into a warm shade of brown for Akaashi’s skin, darkening the shade for his hair. Bokuto touched his brush to his paints and filled in his sketch. Then, he mixed in white and a darker brown for the highlights and contours. Next, he worked on Akaashi’s suit: dark green jacket and crisp white shirt. Clothing was harder to work on without a model but Bokuto tried to imagine where the creases and folds would be placed and ran his brush over them.

Now that he had begun, Bokuto didn’t want to stop painting, even after dinner when he had to light five candles and place them around his workstation. Eventually, the change in lighting got to him and Bokuto knew he couldn’t continue working like this. He packed away his paints, brushes, and palette, folded up his easel, and moved them to the extra storeroom connected to his bedroom. Then, he gently lifted the canvas, careful not to touch it, and placed it gently in the closet. Lastly, Bokuto blew out all the candles, taking the last one with him to take one last look at his painting before going to sleep. When he squinted, with the candle in front of him, the portrait looked as if it was on fire.

…

The next few days were like so: Bokuto would accompany Akaashi for walks on the beach or around the fields bordering the estate and the village over. Many times, Bokuto would have to rush his time to work on Akaashi’s portrait before sunset fell. In the mornings, he’d wake up early to check on errors he might have made in the dim light. Most of them were errors in shading, a color not mixed right, but there was little to fix. Before he knew it, Bokuto was almost finished with the portrait.

At the same time, he couldn’t help but feel guilty having to paint this portrait behind Akaashi’s back, knowing all the effort he put into preventing his arranged marriage as best as he could. Even seeing the excited look on Akaashi’s face, which lifted Bokuto’s spirits momentarily, had the bitter aftertaste of knowing that this excitement would all be ruined once Bokuto had to tell him about his circumstances for being at the manor. So, he spent a bit more time with Akaashi, hoping that he didn’t have to finish the portrait so early. That was until Akaashi.

“He’ll likely be in bed all day,” Mikoto said, telling Bokuto the news over breakfast when he asked why Akaashi wasn’t there. “That should give you enough time to finish the portrait by tomorrow, right?” she looked up at him over her breakfast. Bokuto swallowed.

“Yes Ma’am,” he nodded. For once, he wasn’t excited to get back to finishing a painting.

“Good. Keiji’s father has called for me to meet him in Kyushu. I set out to leave tomorrow after breakfast. If you like, I could be the one to tell Keiji about your… background,” she said, spreading butter on a slice of bread. He could tell that she was relieved, probably, knowing that she’d be rid of her sickly son. ‘No, that’s not it,’ Bokuto mentally shook his head, reminding himself that Akaashi Mikoto was simply doing her job as a mother and as someone concerned about the wealth of her family. She wasn’t a bad woman, Bokuto just somehow bitterly considered her as one.

“It’s alright, Mikoto-san,” Bokuto shook his head. “I’ll tell him myself.”

Mikoto smiled at him. Immediately, she looked years younger, just like the woman in the portrait that hung in the library. “Thank you, Bokuto-san. I trust that it hasn’t been easy, having to paint a portrait of my son without having him pose. I have no doubt that the portrait will be lovely, but I’m not looking forward to seeing the look on Keiji’s face after realizing what I’ve done.”

“Neither am I,” Bokuto smiled ruefully. “Forgive me for this but, I believe I’ve come to see him as a friend these past few weeks.”

“I know he sees you as one too,” Mikoto nodded, looking out the window. “I forbade him from going to the beach for years, fearing that something would happen to him. I couldn’t accompany him and Kageyama’s the only household staff who manages the property. These days, you can tell how excited he is in the morning. He doesn’t say it but you can see it in his eyes.”

Bokuto smiled wistfully. In his portrait, he tried to capture the small smile that would come up on Akaashi’s face whenever he was excitedly wading in the beach or showing Bokuto something new. But as successful as he was in picturing it, it didn’t translate in the portrait. The Akaashi Keiji there had a stern expression on his face, his eyes staring blankly. It was still a good portrait, but Bokuto knew that something was lacking.

After breakfast, he spent more than an hour adding the finishing touches on the portrait and looking at it from afar. He was finished with the portrait, but he didn’t want to tell Mikoto or her son yet. Instead, Bokuto ventured off into the kitchens where Kageyama was busy preparing lunch. With going to the beach with Akaashi and being locked in his room working on the portrait, Bokuto saw very little of Kageyama. Knowing that he’ll be leaving soon after giving the portrait to Mikoto, Bokuto felt that he should have at least one conversation with the butler.

“Bokuto-san,” Kageyama looked up from the pot he was stirring on the stove. “Is there anything you need?”

“Just water,” Bokuto said. “It’s alright, I can get some myself.” Kageyama nodded and Bokuto filled his cup at the tap near the stove before sitting at the long wooden table inside the kitchen. There was a bowl of potatoes, a chopping board, and a knife on the table. “Do these need peeling?” Bokuto asked, picking one up and, without waiting for an answer, picked up the knife.

“Please don’t trouble yourself with that, Bokuto-san,” Kageyama said hurriedly. “You still have the young master’s portrait to finish.”

“It’s already finished,” Bokuto smiled up at him. “And believe it or not, squinting at a canvas with a brush full of paint gets tiring after a while. I’m a pretty good assistant in the kitchen as well,” he said, peeling the potato. “But I’m a terrible cook.” A small smile flitted across Kageyama’s face. He sat at the table in front of Bokuto and cubed the peeled potatoes.

“How long have you worked here?” Bokuto asked, hoping to initiate conversation.

“A good five years,” Kageyama answered. “The previous butler was a good friend of mine but he decided to work in a much livelier household.” Bokuto quirked his lips slightly.

“And you don’t mind having a less-lively household?”

“It’s quite ideal, actually. I only have two people to wait upon. Both of them don’t require much, except for when the young master falls ill. The pay is good and the room and board is free,” Kageyama answered. “And the beach is just outside for me to visit.”

“It makes me sad knowing that Akaashi hasn’t visited the beach at least once before I came,” Bokuto said.

“Yes,” Kageyama nodded, pausing with his work to look up at Bokuto. “He’s… a lonely man. I’ve kept wondering again and again if maybe I could have tried to befriend him but… that would be imposing of me.”

“Akaashi probably wouldn’t mind,” Bokuto said. Kageyama blinked at him in surprise before smiling.

“Seeing how lively he is now with you as company, I agree.” Again, Bokuto felt regret in the back of his throat.

“Do you… do you think he’ll hate me after I tell him that I’m painting his portrait?” Bokuto asked. Kageyama pursed his lips.

“I don’t know the answer to that. But I have a feeling he will be disappointed,” he said, scooping up the cubed potatoes and adding them into the pot on the stove. “Lunch will be ready in half an hour. Would you like me to take it to your room?”

“No need,” Bokuto shook his head and then, an idea popped into his head. “I could take Akaashi’s lunch to his room.”

“Bokuto-san, you don’t need to—”

“Trouble myself, I know,” Bokuto nodded. “But I’m finished with the portrait and there’s nothing else for me to do. Also…” he sighed. “I know it’s pretty useless but maybe I could make amends with Akaashi this way?”

“He would appreciate it,” Kageyama said.

Bokuto carefully carried the tray of Akaashi’s lunch: soup with chicken and potatoes, and a roll of bread, upstairs to his room. It just occurred to him that he had never been to Akaashi’s room before and seldom even went to the second floor. Bokuto paused in front of it before knocking once, twice, thrice.

“Akaashi?” he spoke. “I, uh, brought—”

“Come in.”

Bokuto opened the door. He didn’t know what to expect when it came to Akaashi’s room but once he was inside, the whole space undeniably felt as if it belonged to Akaashi. The number of books in his bedroom was probably a quarter of what was in the manor’s library. Bokuto felt himself smile, knowing he found the source of the gaps in the bookshelves. The curtains on the window were drawn back, letting in a good amount of light. There was a small table pushed near the window and on it was a vase full of wildflowers. Bokuto recognized them as the ones that Akaashi had picked in the fields the other day. The owner of the room himself was sitting up in bed, wearing a maroon robe, with a book on his lap.

“I brought your lunch,” Bokuto said, lifting up the tray.

“Thank you,” Akaashi said, his voice sounded hoarse and weak. Bokuto set down the tray at his nightstand and sat down on the chair near his bed.

“How are you feeling?”

“Sick,” Akaashi shrugged, there was a gleam in his eyes that betrayed the fact that he was teasing Bokuto.

“Care to elaborate?” he chuckled.

“I think it’s the usual flu,” Akaashi sighed. “Aches, fever, all that good stuff. Nothing new.”

“Well, you better eat to maintain your strength,” Bokuto said, gesturing to the tray. Akaashi smiled wryly and lifted it to his lap. While he ate, Bokuto looked over at the books on his nightstand. Most of them were books on philosophy and political science. Except for one with a deep, burgundy jacket and a well-worn spine. “Greek Myths and Legends,” Bokuto read aloud.

“It’s my favorite book from my collection,” Akaashi said, sipping some broth from his spoon. “My father had gifted it to me personally before we left our previous estate.”

“I didn’t take you for a fan of legends,” Bokuto said.

“They’re the best things to read,” Akaashi cocked his head. “They’ve been around longer than any scientific theory or philosophy. The very beginnings of how men and women attempted to make sense of a world they didn’t understand yet.”

“When you put it that way…” Bokuto reached out a hand. “May I?” Akaashi nodded his permission and Bokuto carefully extracted the book from the pile and thumbed through the pages. He could tell that the book was worth quite a lot. From the thick, cream-colored pages, the title that was written in perfect calligraphy, to the colored, watercolor illustrations. The fact that this book wasn’t behind a display case, well-worn from reading and placed on a nightstand said a lot about Akaashi. Bokuto flipped to a random page. “The Myth of Prometheus,” he read aloud. In front of him, Akaashi smiled and leaned back in his bed.

“’There lived a titan named Prometheus, the supreme trickster and the god of fire,’” he recited out loud. ‘Of course he remembers it word by word,’ Bokuto thought, smiling to himself as he continued where Akaashi left off.

“’He was tasked by Zeus to form man from earth and water, and he did so. But Prometheus, the titan, grew fond of his creation…’” And so, Bokuto continued reading, not stopping until he reached the end of the myth when Prometheus was sentenced to his punishment of being chained to a rock while an eagle feasted on smalleaccompanying illustration of Prometheus’s punishment.

“Zeus always was the most bloodthirsty of the three major gods,” Akaashi chuckled dryly. “It’s a good story. While it is meant to be a cautionary tale about what happens when you defy the orders of a god, it does bring to light the need for situations wherein such transgressions are necessary.” He paused and turned to look at Bokuto. “What do you think about it, Bokuto-san?”

“Well, I always thought it was about…love?” he said uncertainly. In all honesty, the only time he ever encountered the myth was when his master retold it to him. Greek myths were always the subject of many painting commissions so Bokuto was trained to be familiar with them. The hard part when it came to painting them was adding that slight variation, the artist’s interpretation of the myth.

“Love?” Akaashi echoed. “You seem to be quite the romantic, Bokuto-san.”

“I-I mean,” Bokuto stammered, thinking of a good reason. “Prometheus was in that whole predicament because he loved his own creation too much, right? And it’s almost impossible to love something you created.” It was true, he knew that much, especially among painters. Sometimes that love gets to the point that it was impossible for him to find imperfections in his work, or even fathom being separated from the painting. In the end, most of the paintings Bokuto loved would end up in the hands of the people who paid for it. “It would be cruel of him to deny his own creations that fire, and Prometheus knew the consequences for it. I bet even after being chained to that rock, he would still make that same decision again if he could.” When he finished, he found Akaashi looking at him with an amused expression on his face.

“You’re quire right,” he said. “It’s an interesting take on the myth. I never would have thought of it but then again, I’m not a creator.” The look on Akaashi’s face seemed to lay bare Bokuto’s secrets.

“D-do you have any other favorite myths?” Bokuto asked, hoping to change the subject. “I could read a couple more for you if you like.” Akaashi placed his tray back on the nightstand and folded his hands over his lap.

“That would be nice Bokuto-san. Could you turn to page three-hundred and twenty?”

“’The Twelve Labors of Heracles,”’ Bokuto read aloud.

“It’s a long one. Are you up for it?” a corner of Akaashi’s mouth was turned up in a smile.

“Of course I am,” Bokuto returned the smile. He’s never been much of a reader, especially after being taught by the older painters at his master’s studio and even then, he had been slow when it came reading and writing. At first, Bokuto winced as he stumbled over some of the words but Akaashi kindly helped him through it and didn’t seem to mind. He was quite good at making up voices for characters like Pan, the satyr or Medusa that cracked a smile on Akaashi’s face. Before he knew it, it was already dinnertime when Kageyama brought up their food. Mikoto came in once to take Akaashi’s temperature and before leaving the room, she made eye contact with Bokuto who hgave the most imperceptible of nods. ‘Yes, the painting is done,’ it meant, and Bokuto was back to contemplating how to break the news to Akaashi.

“Something the matter, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi asked. They were both still eating dinner at the table near his bedroom window. Akaashi looked visibly better than he looked earlier.

“I…” Bokuto swallowed and felt his hand curl into a fist on his lap. “Akaashi… I-I haven’t exactly been truthful to you.” Silence fell, Akaashi stopped what he was doing and looked at Bokuto, waiting patiently for him to finish. It only made Bokuto even more nervous. “You see, I’m actually—”

“Another painter that my mother hired,” Akaashi interrupted him. Bokuto’s eyes went wide.

“You… you knew?”

Akaashi pursed his lips and reached for Bokuto’s hand, the one that was still on the table. His hand was smaller and more delicate against Bokuto’s hands, his touch feather-light. “As much as you scrub your hands, you can’t quite erase all of the charcoal and paint stains completely, nor the smell of turpentine.”

“Ahaha, I should have been more careful then,” Bokuto laughed nervously and stopped when he saw the expression on Akaashi’s face: it was the picture of melancholy, and Bokuto felt his heart ache. Did he still choose the befriend him even after knowing his intentions? “I… I’m sorry,” he apologized softly.

“Why are you apologizing?” Akaashi looked up to meet his eyes.

“You didn’t need to be so civil around me since you knew what my intentions were,” Bokuto said. “Your mother told me that you constantly evaded the other painters’ and refused to pose for them to delay your wedding.”

“That is true,” Akaashi nodded, taking his hand back. Bokuto’s hand quickly felt the loss of warmth. “But shouldn’t I say the same for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t have to befriend me either. All you had to do was to paint my portrait in secret. You could have quickly denied my requests to go to the beach or ask my mother to keep me occupied for as long as you wanted.” The candlestick on their table was their only light source in the room and it illuminated Akaashi’s features so clearly and Bokuto felt every word he said. “Or is it, you just did those so I would trust you and for your cover not to be blown.”

“I…” Bokuto could hardly find the words. It was just like the first time they met, when they talked over breakfast before going to the beach. Except, Bokuto knew there was something at stake, only he didn’t know precisely what that was. Akaashi Keiji was just another one of his clients. Bokuto’s job would be finished tomorrow and he would go back to his studio with his money and he would wait for his next commission and in a few years, he wouldn’t even remember Akaashi Keiji among the other paintings he would make.

And so, he decided on his reply.

“Yes. You’re right.” He steeled himself for the look of hurt on Akaashi’s face, maybe a few things he would shout. ‘Those are momentary. I would forget about them later on,’ he thought. Instead, Akaashi leaned back in his seat and turned his head to the window.

“I see,” was all he said. And for some reason, that was worse.

“Akaashi—”

“You don’t need to explain yourself,” Akaashi cut him off, he was still looking out the window. “You may retire to your rooms now, Bokuto-san. You’ll have to travel home tomorrow.”

Bokuto swallowed hard and stood up, murmuring a ‘good night’ before leaving Akaashi’s room, running down the stairs, and entering his own room. He was out of breath and livid. ‘Why am I letting that get to me?’ he thought. With every breath he inhaled, an image of Akaashi came to mind. The intense look on his face when he was trying to figure out of Bokuto was lying. The pure excitement at seeing the beach. The hesitance giving way to confidence as he waded into the water. The pucker of his lips when he tasted the sea. The pure concentration as he hunted for hermit crabs. The movement of his lips when he said Bokuto’s name.

Without even realizing it, Bokuto found himself standing in front of Akaashi’s portrait. ‘Painters have an instinct,’ he remembered his master telling him when Bokuto made his first oil painting of a landscape. ‘A lot of us can tell when something is wrong with what we’ve painted. Not when it comes to the technical skills like light or shading. But it pertains to whether we’ve successfully captured a scene that’s alive, and all scenes are, on canvas.’ With his instinct, Bokuto could instantly tell that the portrait he painted of a man with a stiff expression on his face and no light behind his eyes, was not Akaashi.

Bokuto picked up his turpentine-soaked rag that he used to clean his brushed and held it over the face in the portrait. With one swift motion, he swiped it off.

…

He barely slept that night, knowing for sure that he was going to lose his job the next morning. He was going to be one of those painters who had left the estate empty-handed and frustrated, after getting so close. Yet try as he might, Bokuto knew that he didn’t regret destroying the portrait. So maybe, he could return with his head held high.

After stealing a few hours of sleep, Bokuto woke up to wash himself as best as he could and change into a clean shirt. He did all of this without looking at the portrait. Kageyama called him for breakfast and Bokuto steeled himself to face Mikoto and Akaashi. She attempted to make conversation over breakfast and yet he’d nod once in a while and pick at his breakfast, choosing not to acknowledge Bokuto who felt a deep ache in his chest.

Finally, it was time to unveil the portrait. Bokuto knew that he could simply tell Mikoto that he chose to change it in the last minute but on the other hand, he wanted Akaashi to see what he had done. So, he covered the portrait with a cloth and met them in the library to unveil the finished product.

“Bokuto Koutarou!” Mikoto exclaimed indignantly. She was clearly frustrated and Bokuto couldn’t blame her. She has gone through this same scenario a few times over. “You said you finished the portrait.”

“I did,” Bokuto nodded stiffly. “But… it wasn’t satisfactory enough.”

“You could have left that up for me to decide,” Mikoto huffed. Bokuto glanced over at Akaashi to find that the corner of his mouth had turned up in a smile. ‘Maybe this was his plan all along,’ Bokuto wondered. But it didn’t matter now. “Clearly, you are just like all the other painters who have come here. I suggest you leave as soon as possible.”

Bokuto nodded again, taking the cloth to cover up the portrait when Akaashi spoke up, saying something that neither Bokuto nor Mikoto could have expected.

“I’ll pose for him.”

Bokuto stopped and turned to face him. Akaashi was looking directly at him with a look of mild amusement on his face.

“You will?” Mikoto asked.

“I will,” Akaashi nodded. “I think… it’s time I put off this marriage long enough,” he explained. And yet, Bokuto didn’t quite believe he was telling the truth.

“Oh, Keiji,” Mikoto’s voice softened as she held her son’s face in her hands and enveloped him into a hug. “Thank you. You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that.”

“I know, Mother,” Akaashi said stiffly.

“As much as I would like to ask ‘why now?’, I really must get going,” Mikoto straightened up and looked at Bokuto this time. “I will be gone for two weeks. I expect a fully-finished portrait by the time I return.”

“I shall not disappoint,” Bokuto bowed.

“Good,” Mikoto nodded.

“Let me walk you to the ship, Mother,” Akaashi said, offering her his arm. Before leaving the room, Akaashi glanced once at Bokuto and with an imperceptible incline of his head, gestured for him to follow. An hour later, Mikoto and her luggage, which Bokuto helped Kageyama with, were loaded in the ship waiting for her at the docks. After the ship set sail, Kageyama was the first to head back to the house. Bokuto stayed with Akaashi as they watched the ship sail into the distance. He had a million questions for him but for now, all he could feel was relief. As Bokuto watched the way the wind swept through Akaashi’s hair, he knew that he wouldn’t mind looking at him for the next two weeks.

…

They started working on the portrait the next day. Kageyama offered to push the long table from the dining room to the side since it was the most well-lit room in the estate. In the middle, they added a chair and a low table for Akaashi to pose on. Bokuto set up his easel and spare canvas at the side, grateful at being able to paint in good lighting after having to work secretly in his own room. He began painting the background of the portrait with broad strokes of a maroon color to keep busy when Akaashi walked inside.

To say that he looked stunning was an understatement. Before Bokuto began his first portrait, Mikoto had shown him the suit that Akaashi was supposed to wear: a dark emerald green with golden buttons and a crisp white shirt meant to be worn with the color turned up. Seeing Akaashi actually wearing it was a different story. The suit hugged him perfectly, accentuating the slight curves in his waist with the high collar just reaching the bottom of his chin. Akaashi had combed his hair back just slightly which showed off his forehead.

“You look…” Bokuto began to say before stopping himself quickly. “Ready.”

“Thank you, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi nodded curtly, unaware of how good he looked. “If you would…” he gestured to the chair in the center of the dining room and Bokuto hurried to pose him.

“Sit slightly forward in the chair,” he instructed. “Back straight. You can rest your elbow on the table if you want but the other hand, please keep on your lap.” Akaashi followed the instructions. “Lastly,” Bokuto reached a hand out to touch Akaashi’s shoulder to tilt him slightly towards the canvas. He was aware of how close Akaashi’s face was and that he was probably staring at Bokuto. ‘In all my years of painting, have I ever worked someone as beautiful as this?’ he wondered, before shaking the thought of his head and backing away to survey the pose. “Good, perfect,” Bokuto nodded before returning to his canvas.

“What expression should I have on my face?” Akaashi asked.

“A neutral expression would be ideal,” Bokuto answered, quickly painting an outline on the canvas. “If you get uncomfortable in your position please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“Alright, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said. “Am I… allowed to speak?”

Bokuto glanced up at him and back to the painting. “Of course,” he swallowed before continuing. “I have you to thank for my job.”

“I didn’t do it for your job,” he heard Akaashi speak. Bokuto bit his lip. This wasn’t an ideal position for them to have this conversation.

“Then… why?” Bokuto asked.

“I should ask why you decided to destroy the portrait of me.”

“That… That’s because the person I painted wasn’t you,” Bokuto answered. “I didn’t want it to be the work I submitted.”

“I see…” Akaashi said. He had the same amused expression on his face as he had when he saw the portrait unveiled to him. “It’s just the opposite of what Prometheus did.” Bokuto paused his work to listen. “In your disgust at your creation, you opted to destroy it. Such is the mind of a creator.” There was a wry smile playing on Akaashi’s lips.

“It wasn’t disgust,” Bokuto contradicted him. “It was… a lack of attachment more like.”

“How come?” Akaashi cocked his head ever so slightly, his pose still undisturbed.

“Because my subject wasn’t aware of being painted,” Bokuto smiled, finally deciding to meet Akaashi’s gaze. Surprise flickered there, and then mirth.

“That better be a good portrait then.”

“It will be.”

They were able to finish a good amount of the portrait in that afternoon before Akaashi grew tired of posing. Bokuto was about to offer to go to the beach again but stopped when Akaashi headed straight for his room. ‘Maybe he doesn’t forgive me quite yet,’ Bokuto thought with a sigh, only for those thoughts to end when Akaashi asked him to have dinner in his room, especially since the dining table was out of use. It was a relief to see Akaashi engaged with him in conversation. The book of “Greek Legends and Myths” were still on the nightstand where Bokuto had left it. And somehow, with Mikoto out for two weeks, Bokuto felt as if he wanted to stay in that manor forever.

Before going straight to his room, he decided to pass by the dining room to look at the portrait again. He had worked fast, completing a few days’ work in just one day. The sensation of not wanting to leave was even stronger and Bokuto felt a hard lump in his throat. He walked briskly past the dining room when a small voice whispered in the back of his head: ‘Turn around.’

Bokuto spun around and caught sight of Akaashi standing in the far end of the room. Only, he was pale and almost transparent, and wearing an elaborate suit. Bokuto blinked once and then the vision was gone.

#across the sea #bokuaka #bokuto koutarou #akaashi keiji #portrait of a lady on fire!au #haikyuu!!#haikyuu!! fanfiction #haikyuu!! oneshot #across the sea: act I #bokuaka fanfic

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hb-writes · 4 years

Text

Little Lady Blinder - Chapter 14

Red Hands, 1919

Also available here on ff net or here on AO3.

Chapter Content Warning: canon-typical content, reference to physical punishment, reference to sexual (anatomical?) content, reference to underage drinking.

—

Clara found her mind drifting to the untamed forests that existed just outside the Birmingham city limits. The image created in her mind was a fusion of the recollected childhood trips with her brothers to the gypsy fairs and long rides with Tommy before the war. She filled in the gaps with descriptions coming from books and her imagination. In her mind's adaptation of Freddie's story, she was riding her own horse along with him and her brother. Clara had decided on racing Marmalade, the first horse Tommy had ever asked her for help in naming and the very horse he had taught her to ride, back when she had been very small.

"We were already a town over when Tommy told me we weren't only going to take the horse away but we were going to sell it for a profit."

Sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor across from her brother-in-law, Clara leaned forward, elbows placed on her knobby knees. As a small girl, Clara remembered being entranced by her brother and his best mate telling stories. It had only reinforced the idolization she already had for the young men. The two of them had passed the narrative back and forth with such a natural flow it was as if they composed one mind weaving the tale.

Freddie loved the eager look in Clara's eyes and the lighthearted smile playing on Ada's features even though she pretended to busy herself with a book. His smile came easy as he laid across the rug, head propped up with an elbow, egged on in his storytelling by the giggles spilling from Clara's lips.

Freddie could have spent the times during Clara's visits out on the factory floors, drumming up support for the cause but he found himself always pushing it off. He had come to look forward to her company. Her regular presence, filled with relentless conversation and effortless, unashamed laughter gave the illusion that Freddie and Ada weren't as isolated as they were, that their predicament wasn't so painful and somber.

Their rented basement room seemed small and dingy, with walls that crumbled a bit in a few places and a floor that wasn't much more than an overly condensed layer of dirt and cement. But Clara found that she didn't mind visiting the pair in the dreary, confining space. Ada had found a way to make the place seem homey. She arranged the curtains and blankets just so, decorated with dry flowers, and she hung the drawings Clara and Freddie made during the visits on their walls beside the selection of portraits that had been there when they moved in. And they always lit a fire whenever Clara visited, warming the room and casting a pleasant tone over the dull walls.

"Tommy wouldn—" Clara started.

"He did. Do you think that doesn't sound just like the Thomas Shelby we know? Said your father was a bastard and he didn't like the way he was treating that horse so we sold it off to someone two towns over who would treat the horse better. Saw something he thought to be wrong and made up his mind to right it. Just as stubborn as you two Shelby girls." Freddie nodded towards Clara and Ada, smirking at them.

"No worse than you," Ada answered, discarding Clara's book, which she had been haphazardly flipping through since they finished their meal.

"I'm not afraid of Tommy Shelby," she mocked as she clumsily lowered herself to the ground beside him.

"Thought you liked that about me?" he teased, kissing Ada's hand, bringing a small smile to her lips.

"But then what happened?" Clara interrupted. "Was Aunt Polly angry? Weren't you scared?"

Freddie pulled his eyes from Ada to look at Clara, the impulse to chuckle at her thirst for the narrative teeming.

As he looked away, Ada rested both her and Freddie's hands on her swollen belly. She had once found Freddie's fixation with pleasing her younger sister to be exasperating, back when she had been young and ravenous for his attention. Freddie's indulging Clara's childish whims had angered Ada. But with the new life growing inside of her, Ada found herself liking the way Freddie doted on her sister. She took it as concrete evidence of what she already felt deep inside. Freddie Thorne would be an outstanding father.

"Well, your Aunt Pol was further along than our Ada here, but your mum, we were scared a bit about her, yeah. So, Tommy and I, we took the train down to London and stayed around there for a bit until we ran out of money. And that woman...Your mother, she was standing on the platform at New Street Station when we came back. Somehow, she found out we'd be on that train and she dragged us by the ears back to Watery Lane. Sat us out on the front stoop in the cold. Tried to get us to tell who we sold the horse to but Tommy just kept saying the old girl was someplace better off. Your mother said if we wouldn't tell the truth, we could sleep out on that stoop. So, she left us there 'til breakfast and she got after your brother with whatever was closest every time he walked into the same room as her for nearly a week. He wasn't too keen to cross her again so soon. Sweet woman, your mother, but terrifying as hell if you did her wrong."

"Yeah, and what about you? You were right there with him, cowering like a little baby," Ada said.

He glanced at Ada. "You stood there and giggled while she whacked me a good one, too, so I don't know why you're even asking," he said, before looking back at Clara. "Then she made sure my own mother knew what we did, so I got it again back at home. Tom and I shoveled shit before school with Curly for nearly three months to make up for the money we spent while Ada sat in a chair and watched and reported back. But it was all worth it. Won't ever forget my first trip to London."

"But you were only kids. What were you gonna do there all by yourself?"

"We were thinking about sneaking into a pub and getting up to all sorts of things we had no business getting up to."

"But you weren't even big enough."

"Drinking age back then was only thirteen. And Tommy and I could pass—"

Ada let out a laugh. "You boys were scrawny and short, barely passed for a couple of nine-year-olds."

"You should talk! Ada here didn't grow any tits until she was nearly seventeen."

"Freddie!"

"Well..." Freddie absently tried to stifle his laughter. "You didn't, Ada."

"Well, you would know…Staring after your best mate's little sister even when you were a full-grown man."

"Not like you weren't staring right back at me all those years, batting those little eyelashes, showing off those tiny little tit—"

"Freddie! I don't want you talking like that in front of my sister, or the baby," she answered, hand falling to her belly.

Clara snickered at the two of them. She quite liked the way Freddie and Ada fought, harmlessly teasing one another with broad smiles on their faces and always ending things by Freddie pulling Ada's face close for a gentle kiss. The two of them seemed not to care that someone else was in the room, conscious of little more than one another.

"But Clara likes my stories," Freddie said when he pulled away. "Isn't that right?"

"She may like them, doesn't mean she has any need to hear them."

"Y'know, Ada once tried to run off to Lond—"

"Freddie, enough! You two play a game or something. No more talk of running off to London."

Ada began tidying the small space of the remnants of their lunch of fruit, bread, and cheese. Clara and Freddie remained sitting across from each other on the floor, occupying themselves with a game of red hands. Freddie had introduced the game to her long before going away to war, back when he had been a regular fixture at the Shelby home.

Freddie grinned as Clara squinted with one eye, easily catching her attempt at cheating. "Ah! Keep those eyes closed, Miss Clara."

Full of nervous energy, Clara waited, impatient for another onslaught from Freddie's deft hands. The newly imposed 'eyes-closed' rule had been Freddie's idea, enacted when he realized how quick the girl's reflexes had grown over the years. The new rule made the game more of a challenge and Clara was enduring a fairly steep learning curve.

"But it's much too difficult with eyes closed!" she complained. Her hands were beginning to tingle from the repeated attacks, already bright red and stinging after only a few minutes.

"You've got to feel for the—" Freddie began.

Imagining she had perceived a shift in the air between them, Clara hastily pulled her hands away, cursing herself aloud the moment she did it.

"Too soon, Clara," Freddie said, pulling her hands back into place and giving them a light slap as a penalty.

"Ow!" she shouted, shaking the sting out of her hands, an unmistakable pout on her face. "That one hurt!"

"Oh, come off it." Freddie smiled, reaching out to poke Clara in the side. "You're an unbelievably poor actress."

"Don't you hurt her, Freddie, or I'll give you a slap," Ada said, glancing at the two of them.

"I'm not hurting her. Your sister is being dramatic. Another family trait, that must be."

Ada bent down and took Clara's hands in her own as she came closer to the pair, giving him a knowing look. "Her poor hands would say otherwise."

"It's alright, Ada. We're only playing," Clara insisted, pulling her hands back from her sister's grasp.

"Just be careful. I don't want to send her home with bruises she'll have to explain away because you took a children's game too far," Ada answered before retreating towards the bed. Ada sat back, taking a deep breath as she prepared to pull the rest of her swelling body back against the wall.

"She'll be alright."

"Freddie, I'm serious, I—"

"Go call on those bloody brothers of yours then to come and slay this vile dragon for he has offended thee, the princesses of the royal family of the mighty kingdom of Small Heath." Freddie made a production of it, using sweeping arm gestures to accentuate his words.

Ada sat forward and rolled her eyes. "And now who's being dramatic?"

"The game is called red hands, Ada," Freddie offered. "It's in the name and your sister's a strong girl. She can handle it," he said, playfully tapping Clara under the chin with a finger.

"Alright, Freddie. Let's go again," Clara said, interrupting them and swatting his hand away.

Freddie smirked at his wife before turning his attention back to his young adversary.

Clara had laid her hands out once more, patiently awaiting some sign of Freddie's impending attack. The hint came from Ada, a faint fluctuation in the intake of her breath. Clara pulled her hands away at the very last moment, Freddie's fingertips missing Clara's by such a small distance he wasn't convinced they hadn't actually touched.

Both girls cheered and Clara pumped a fist in the air as she did so. Freddie might've laughed had the smug grins on both girls' faces not irritated him so much.

"Your turn, Freddie," Clara said, immediately reaching out to pull his hands into position.

Ada interrupted, standing up from her spot on the bed. "Freddie can have his turn next time. We've got to get you home."

Clara groaned, cursing Tommy for wanting her home early, and quickly weighing the consequences of not being there. "Can't I stay just a bit longer?"

"If you're not home soon, the boys will be out turning over all of Birmingham to find you and I'd not like to have a single one of them at my doorstep"

"Well, John's bringing the kids for dinner. Why don't you and Freddie just come—"

"Clara, we can't and you know why," Ada said.

"But I can talk to Tommy," Clara said, uncertain whether that was true. She hadn't said more than a few sentences to Tommy since Ada had moved out and the morning's events hadn't exactly been a step towards reconciliation.

"You'll do no such thing. You don't tell Tommy or any of them a word about you coming here or—"

"But—"

Freddie stood up, offering a hand down to Clara. "Come now, Clara. Don't give your sister a hard time. Tommy and Ada and I will be on the same side again one day and we'll all come around for Sunday dinner, me and Ada, and the baby. Your brother just needs a little extra time to adjust, that's all. We've got to wait for him to catch up to the rest of us, yeah?"

Clara reluctantly took his outstretched hand, allowing Freddie to pull her to her feet.

"We'll see you soon then, yeah?"

Clara nodded, releasing a frustrated breath as she hugged him around the middle.

"Alright then," Freddie said, kissing Clara on the head. "You be good, Miss Shelby."

Clara nodded again, following Ada's quick feet as they moved out the door and up the steps to the sidewalk. Quickly forgetting the brief disagreement about leaving, Clara and Ada occupied themselves with regular discussion as they made their way towards Small Heath. They talked of names for the baby and Clara's school assignments and made plans for the next visit.

As they neared the busy street corner where Clara and Ada typically parted ways, Ada wrapped Clara's arm tightly in her own, bringing both girls to a sudden stop.

"Wha—" Clara stopped herself when she spotted Polly ahead of them on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette as she leaned against a brick wall.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Ada whispered to herself. "What is she doing here?"

"I—"

Ada turned to Clara, lowering herself to eye level as she backed her up to a brick wall behind them. Clara's heart beat hard in her chest as Ada gripped her arms. "I told you to be careful. You said they didn't know, no one knew."

Tears formed in Clara's eyes and she worked to get her words out over the growing lump in her throat. Ada and Freddie had been explicit about the conditions of Clara's visits. They had charted the many risks each of them was taking. They had been nothing aside from clear. And Freddie had told her if she put their safety in jeopardy, if she put the baby's safety in jeopardy, or even if she put her own safety in jeopardy, then he and Ada would find a new place to stay and the visits would stop, indefinitely.

"They didn't…I was careful. I swear. I—" she muttered, unable to complete a single thought.

Polly stepped up to the girls then and Clara promptly shut her mouth, stepping closer to her sister.

Ada straightened herself and looked to Polly, holding a trembling Clara close to her side.

"I have nothing to say to you," Ada said.

"Well, that's fine because I just need you to listen." Polly glanced at the younger girl. "And I need you to get yourself home."

Polly received a shocked and then icy glare as Clara's eyes shot to her aunt's face. She had been avoiding her gaze, shoulders dropped as she tried to keep hold of her emotions, but Ada's hold brought her strength.

"No, I—"

Polly cut the girl off before she could even get properly started. She didn't want to fight with Clara now. She knew she'd have to expend enough effort to wear down Ada.

"You've been lying to us for weeks now and luckily it's only me you've led directly to your sister and Freddie, rather than your brother or some nasty coppers. Best not to make this situation any harder on yourself. Go home. Straight there, no detours. No stopping off to see Isiah. And go straight up to your room. Start thinking about how you want to explain yourself."

Polly didn't like having to do it, especially since she liked the girls being together in this, but she knew Tommy had been right. Letting it all continue wasn't safe for any of them. Still, she could see the hurt in Clara's eyes, somewhere behind the initial visage of shock and anger. Polly's words washed over Clara like heavy rain, making the girl recede further into her big sister's side. Polly stared into Ada's eyes, waiting unwittingly until something in them finally shifted, the classic Shelby stubbornness softening as Ada's eyes became slightly wet.

It was ultimately Ada's silent nudging that sent Clara on her way, warm tears spilling onto her cheeks as she stepped away from her aunt and sister, feeling hurt and alone and frightened as she walked through the streets of Birmingham.

—

Chapter 15

Little Lady Blinder Masterlist

Please take a moment to tell me what y'all think! Reviews and comments are always appreciated. 😌❤️

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #shelby!sister #ada shelby #freddie thorne #clara shelby #little lady blinder #tommy shelby

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