#some nice Victorian art I thought you’d like to see | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

writingsofhubris · 2 years

Text

Bunny

[AO3] < | > Rating: Explicit WC: 3.8k Tags: Caning, BDSM, Subspace, Clothing Kink, Wall Sex, Height Differences, Established Relationship, Aftercare Fandom: Sorcerer's Apprentice (2010) Ship: Maxium Horvath/Reader Disc: Fur, Wool, silk, Maxim knew just what looked good on his body, and the only thing in your mind was the thought of wearing his coat, all alone, in the room you shared with him. The only part of the plan that went array was meeting his eyes in the mirror.

A/N: @the-realharleyquin asked me for a fic based on this prompt: reader gets caught wearing one of maxim's coats and is like ❛ want me to model these for you? ❜ probs cus he just got some more coats or something (i think that man is vain and likes dressing nice/up) and maxim who totally would call his partner kitten or bunny is like yes let me sit down quick, lil show for maxim starts and the reader grinds on him a bit and then wall sex because height dif and i am seeing a horrible lack of wall sex with any of Alfred's characters. And I saw a post about being canned and then used on tumblr by Horvath so please, without any further ado.

The door slid open to show off the selection of coats hanging on hangers, all properly stored with obvious care. Maxim chose exactly what he cared about, and these coats were without doubt one of the places he put his care. You’d never be one to complain; the sharp lines and smooth elegance of the fabric complimenting his personality in just the ways he wanted it to. He was a Victorian man through and through, obsessed almost to a fault with his appearance.

Fur and wool danced under your fingers, contrasting textures ringing through your bones. Memories of each time he’d worn each flashed through your mind. memories of nights and days too cold for skin, nights with your hand in the crook of his elbow.

His things weren’t, strictly speaking, off limits to you. He’d never specifically told you you were not allowed to touch his things, that was sure. You just simply understood his position every single time you’d made the joke of stealing a coat. His death glare was all you needed to see to know just what his opinion on the matter was.

So the moments of solitude you had, whilst he was out, you took with greed. How couldn’t you, when he seemed to spoil you in every other matter of life?

Your hand slipped over the one that laid fur over his shoulders, volatile every time he wore it. There was little sound around you as you heard it slip off the padded hanger, only to slip over your nude shoulders.

The fabric nearly swallowed your body as the silk rested on you, shielding you almost fully from the wool. Your eyes glanced down your body, only to see the edges of the coat resting only an inch or two from the floor.

You carefully shifted the couple steps needed to view your body in the mirror propped against the wall. The dark gray complimented your skin perfectly, hints of black in the fur flickered just so in the mirror. You saw the fur shake as your body shivered, a feeling of opulence shaking through you. With the power you felt, as large as the garment was, you suddenly understood what it was that drew Maxim to the type of garment; you felt rich and powerful.

Your eyes flicked up at another sight in the mirror, a motion behind you in the doorframe. Dark, impassioned eyes locked with yours in the mirror. You knew it wasn’t any sort of magic that froze you to the spot, only the intensity that rang through the reflective surface.

He had a perfect view of you, as well, your hand resting on the fur at the collar of the coat, your leg bent just at the right angle for modesty.

illusion and hubris often would make one shed any hesitations surrounding fantasy, to imagine one’s self as a work of art untouched by the changing of culture. That was to say, you knew that you were alluring in only the way one could be in their head.

Seeing his eyes connect with yours induced a surge of panic in you, a knowledge that you’d been caught breaking a rule you very well knew not to.

So much for the twenty minutes you thought you’d have before Maxim returned.

Each step that echoed in the room was measured, was deliberate. His eyes didn’t leave yours, from the moment the door opened, to the moment that his front was pressed against your back, the silk pressing with the slightest bit of scratch as the wool pressed through as well. His hands clasped onto your hips, guessing only slightly due to the fabric covering you. It was clear that each time he’d memorized your body had paid off. Your mind flashed with the other times his hands had found their home there, fucking into you from behind, or simply controlling your movements as you rode him as hard as he’d allow.

All too familiar with his action of turning you by your hips, you faced the man with your chin tilted high enough to look him in the eyes, ignoring the difference between you both. One hand left your hip as the other proceeded to pull you closer, wrapping around your back. A tiny thread of fear appeared in your spine, unsure of just how far of a line you’d crossed by doing this.

You felt the inches his arm pivoted over your back, thumb and fingers sealing over the back of your sensitive neck, nerves lighting on fire from the possessive action. The leather separating his skin from yours almost coaxed a moan from your throat, nearly enough to verbalize the wave of lust.

“Now,” His dangerous voice started, demanding your attention. “Imagine my surprise when I come home, ready to decompress for the night, and I happen upon a little fashion show just for me, in my bedroom.”

“I…” your words were lost on your tongue, knowing better than to try and excuse your actions to him.

“You…” His tone was nothing but a rude mock, a sticky sweetness to coat a venom that would sink deep. “Decided to play with an object that you have no claim over, that isn’t yours, didn’t you?” The tone in his voice was addictive. You’d be willing to bend to whatever he suggested at that moment, you were nearly certain.

“I just wanted to see what they felt like. You’re always so…” Your breath caught in your lungs as you searched for the right word, your words leaving your mind as soon as his hand tightened the slightest on your skin.

“So… What?”

“Hot.”

“So you took something that wasn’t yours? Something of mine? For shame.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” whispered from your lips, unsure of just what you could offer him.

“Sir? So you do remember some protocol.” It was with his hand that he guided you to the bed, his backwards steps sure. Your eyes burned from the contact, wanting nothing more than to look away from his intense gaze.

“First, you took my coat.”

“I’m sorry. I thought…” The apology fell from your lips before you could think, hurried to try and avoid what you knew was coming.

“And that was your first mistake, wasn’t it?” His words overpowered yours without much effort, excuses dying on your parted lips. Tears nearly threatened to spring, but you held yourself fast for now.

“Yes, sir.”

“I assume you know what the next one is?”

“No, sir.”

“Lying.”

“I didn’t lie.”

“You lied to me about your desires.” The last word was dipped in venom, and it was all you could do to not fight back against his words. You had been honest about wanting them. You’d just coated every single attempt in a thick layer of irony, of defensiveness that you clearly shouldn’t have. His hand finally fell from your neck as he sat on the side of the bed, thighs spread.

“Over my lap.” His voice demanded submission, demanded your actions to mimic his words.

His thighs balanced you well, soft material of his pants rubbing against your chest. You didn’t even consider not obeying him, too excited for any punishment he may offer you. A whirl of fabric, and the coat was flicked over your top half, effectively exposing your backside.

“Now, do you think you’ll actually learn anything from me doing this?” He heard the start of a word from your lips, but he interrupted you before any word could get out. “No, don’t answer that. You’ll only be lying to me in the end.” Your face pressed into your arms, trying to hide the embarrassment on your face. He was right, after all; you wouldn’t forget the night for a while, but you knew you wouldn’t learn a damn thing from his treatment of you from here on out.

His hand rubbed over your ass, sliding from the fold of his coat over you down to the curve of your thighs, mapping out the area he was intimately familiar with.

Even with the warning of his hand pulling from your skin, you let out a shocked gasp when his hand made contact with your ass, a crack of leather against skin reverberating around the silent room. Another crack joined the first one, a moan falling from your lips at the action.

“Already, bunny? That certainly was quick. Moaning over the only contact you’re given, pain.” The last word dripped with the familiarity of a lover, of a man who had inflicted enough to offer it freely, of a man who had been inflicted by too much pain in his life.

The next time his hand made contact with your skin, he held the flesh with a firm grasp, the pain quickly intensifying. Your groan was choked, and if you’d been standing, you knew your knees would have given out. The next hit was a mirror of his previous; holding onto the other ass cheek with a painful grip.

“is this what you wanted from me? A bit of attention, however negative it might be?” Your head nodded against your arms, shame blooming. Any attention would do from him, so long as you were his focal point. With how often he was yours, you could only rationalize it as a fair play.

His hand left your ass only to connect again, his grip only that much more painful. Your head pressed into your arms, trying and failing to keep the couple tears that had escaped from showing. Maxim knew how to pluck all of the restraints clear from your head, making each hesitation vanish until you were nothing more than his.

“Give me your wrists.” The command entered your head with nowhere to land, jumbling into the fog of your head. When you didn’t move, his hand took one wrist and turned it to rest on your back. You were quick to mirror the action with your other arm. His hand wrapped around both of them to pin them against your skin, under the long back of the coat. You knew the long arms of the coat were brushing against his hands, only reminding him of your gaffe, of your misstep in the rules.

You realized just why he’d made the choice when his hand connected again, effectively holding you from sliding at the contact. Your gasp rang in the room as the hit rang through too intensely.

It wouldn’t have taken a smart man to realize just why you squirmed, thighs almost pushing together, almost trying to find a source of friction.

Your efforts were rewarded with a leather finger slipping between your folds, finding a slick wetness. His finger brushed against your clit, that wave of pleasure you’d been looking for shot straight to your spine.

“What is this? I thought this was a punishment for your digressions. I thought you were supposed to learn something from this.” His tone was achingly teasing, cocky in an infuriating way. his body shifted just slightly on the bed, and when he returned to his previous position, you felt the familiar pressure of his cane against your thighs. The cool stripe wasn’t going to stay so for long, you knew that with a fact.

“Perhaps I shouldn't spare the rod.” The line, growled, landed just right in your mind, head quickly nodding in excitement. Maxim knew just how to play you, after all. Just like the slaps of his hand, the slice of pain on your thighs ricocheted through your body, gasping softly in pleasure at each of his strikes. Cries fell from your lips as you started to lose track of each additional hit.

“Your sounds are always so beautiful,” he suddenly praised, a contrast just enough to ripple through your body. The next stripe against your thighs forced another gasp, and a hum from him. “Just like that.”

“Sir…” The title was the only thing that you could possibly find in your head, pain and pleasure sliding through your body. Submission beat down your walls with each strike, his ministrations turning you into little more than a whimpering mess with a wetness between your legs.

A single bead of liquid traced its way down your nose, dripping off as you tensed in his hands. In that second, you weren’t entirely sure if it was a tear of pain or if it was a drop of aroused sweat.

“No, you were doing so very well being pliant for me.” You felt his hand tighten on your wrists again, cutting through the soft skin to tighten on bone. Your hands fell lax in the only way of submission you could manage, brushing against the sleeve’s hem on your other arm. “Do be quiet and shut up again for me.”

Your eyes snapped closed, and you quickly nodded. You could be quiet for him, as he wished you to be. You could be good for Maxim, slipping back to the wordless noises that had been falling from your lips for him. The strikes of his cane were enough to make you forget every word in your mind, anyway.

With one final strike from his cane, your cry finally let out a trail of pain, mingled deeply in the midst of the lust. You felt him shift enough to set his cane to the side, always so caring of the object. You whimpered at the sudden realization the punishment was done, even though you were certain your body couldn’t take too much more from him.

Your wrists were freed suddenly, and without any way to support yourself, you started to fall into the mattress on the other side of him. You were saved by his hand, no longer covered by leather, catching your chest, and pulling you back. The rough treatment mostly over, his hands guided your still pliant body to rest on his legs, knees on either sides of his hips, and chests pressed together. The air around you seemed to trick you into a small bubble of Maxim, his presence the only thing surrounding you. His fingers played over the edges of the marks he’d just given your thighs, trailing along the abused flesh almost with reverence.

“Did you learn your lesson, bunny?” His silken words promised a violence you’d love to feel more of tonight, but your head nodded as what you realized were tears fell from your eyes. Even if you wanted more, you couldn’t take it. “Good. You did so well for me.” One of his fingers traced a raised welt to find your core, two fingers slipping into you without any resistance. “Do you think you did well enough I should take care of you?” His question made confusion bloom in your head, a cloud passing between rational thought and desires. Instead of trying to find the words he’d so easily stole from you, your lips dared a press of a kiss, to the skin shown over his collarbone. It was just a timid peck, an effort to show submission without words, just as he’d demanded of you earlier. He started to massage your walls, curving his fingers in sensitive places with a whisper of pleasure.

One of his fingers trapped the lining of the coat against one of the welts, the sensation of smooth fabric ripping through tender flesh. It was the barest bit of affection you’d get in this, and it was a nectar you drank in.

“Open my pants.” The three words were whispered in your ear, trailing over your skin in a shiver. You were quick to reach between you both. Leather of his belt, another element of his outfits that was familiar with your body, was pulled open, then you popped the button of his pants to reach the zipper. Careful not to catch him, you felt each tooth of the zipper open, shaking through the bone. His next instructions were given in the exact same manner.

“Good. Now take me out.” Your fingers slipped into his pants, daring a quick drag of your fingers against his cock. Your lip was caught by your teeth as you pulled him from his confines, a soft sigh falling from his lips at the contact. His fingers curved into your g spot, grinding direct pleasure into you. But it was gone too quickly for you, his cock pressing into you slickly, finding an all too familiar home in you.

Your forehead pressed against his shoulder, trying to nearly smother yourself with him.

“Breathe with me, bunny.” It wasn’t until his words that you realized you were merely puffing breaths against his shoulder, gasps mixing into them. Your eyes tightened closed, and you let your lungs match the rise and fall of his chest. As effectively as he was surrounding you, it didn’t take too much work for you to do so; his hands pressing and running over your skin, his scent the only thing in your nose, and his skin the only thing in the slit of vision you allowed yourself.

You felt his hands urging your legs around his waist, carefully shifting you on his cock as he pulled you into another position. He stood carefully, allowing more of him to slip into you.

The cold of the wall he pushed you to was muted by the wool around your shoulders and his, that sensation not even enough to tamp the arousal in your body only he could control.

Maxim’s hand finally moved between you, sliding up your chest under the silk of his coat, still on you. His thumbs paused over your surgery scars, sliding over a sensitive spot he was more than familiar with. The ridge was focused on for just a few moments longer than you wanted, your hips demanding movement with a press into him as much as you could manage. A roll, anything to help the fire in you.

“Calm yourself, bunny.” The slight reproach in his tone was enough for you to still, the confidence that you always wanted to tear from him only compounding the instruction. “I haven’t even used my mouth on you.” His hand shifted over your smooth pectoral, resting on your shoulder, thumb resting just at the base of your throat. A promise, and a threat that was obvious. It was the most basic instruction he’d given thus far; don’t move.

The threat was nearly forgotten when he bent his head down to steal the spot his thumb just had been, his hips sliding out and into you at last. But it was a torturous pace, one that only whispered when you needed a scream.

“Please.” The plea fell in a whimper, need vibrating through your body. You needed the strength he’d just used on you, impatience riling you up further.

“If you’re not careful, I’ll have to punish you again for begging.” Despite the threat, you knew he’d never. He enjoyed your slips of control too much to ever endeavor to punish you for it. The need, unable to be controlled, your desire only for him. You couldn’t tell if it was his teeth biting a constellation into you, or his cock, suddenly quickening its pace, that made you cry out first.

You could tell you were dripping with each thrust he offered you, wetness audible between you. Maxim’s cock fit every spot inside you that needed to be hit, singing pleasure into your body without much needed extra effort. It only reinforced just how much of your immediate world was swallowed by the sorcerer in front of you, a man of magic and power.

One who was pulling fire into your veins and static into your head.

With the slightest slip of his hand, you felt his fingers pressing into your carotid artery. The sudden lack of air made your body soar to a new height, hips suddenly bucking against his.

“There we are.” The only thing on your mind now was the thought of him finishing in you, even despite the pleasure you needed to find. He’d infected you too thoroughly to help it; anything he could want was his to take from you.

“Find your finish, my dear bunny. I need to feel you cum on my cock.” The permission was all you needed after his work, finishing on him with a surge of wetness. The sudden rush of air from his hand moving only made the waves continue until your legs were tight around him, trying to keep him buried deep in you. His hip’s movements, stuttering into you as he finished, only barely registered in your head. You couldn’t keep him still if you’d been in your right mind, allowing him seconds to fuck into you easily.

He didn’t even wait for you to catch your breath before you were pulled into his arms, moved to the bed he’d just had you laid over for a punishment.

Maxim’s hands were gentle as he pulled his coat from your body, taking a second to hang it up with the one on his shoulders, only to find his way back to the mattress holding onto you. It wasn’t every day that Maxim would stay, his study often calling his attention from you.

It was clear that tonight, you needed him. He could tell by the jump of your body when his hand moved to your hip, curling into your own body.

Maxim’s hand pulled the covers back, sliding them under your smaller body before once again returning them to cover your body.

You tried to convince yourself that you’d be fine with your own warmth under the sheets, that if he decided his attention was needed elsewhere, you’d at least wait to cry your heart out until you heard the door latch closed.

You felt his hand slide from your waist to your stomach, pulling you to his side of the bed, and slotting your back against his chest. You felt his thighs pull up to press against the raw flesh of your thighs. You were once again in a world of just Maxim and you, your bodies pressed together as they should be.

“Did you learn your lesson, bunny?” His words were soft, lips pressing to your neck with gentle pressure.

“Yes.” Having spent too much time not talking, the word was hoarse. “No more taking your coats without your permission.”

“Good.” You felt a hand on the top of your thigh, gentle ministrations to remind you that he was still there for you, that his body was against you. “Fall asleep. I'll keep you safe.” The words stuck, the promise already settled. Maxim would keep you safe; he wouldn’t allow you to be found by any harm.

You weren’t entirely sure what you had with Maxim was love. That was something too foreign to either of you to actually ring true in your relationship. You knew you had a deeper connection, at the very least, and you were certain that his arms was the only place that you would be able to figure out just what that connection spoke of.

#reader insert #maxim horvath/reader #maxim horvath #writing #.W #bunny u

34 notes · View notes

lady-plantagenet · 4 years

Text

“The officials of Mons had promised to protect Jacqueline, but once Gloucester was gone, she was handed over to the Duke of Burgundy and imprisoned in Ghent. In the same year her uncle, John of Bavaria, died and her lands were handed over to Burgundy, as regent, by John of Brabant. Jacqueline escaped her imprisonment, dressed as a man, and escaped escorted by 2 knights, to Gouda. From Gouda, she led the Dutch resistance to the Burgundian takeover. However, when Burgundy besieged Gouda, she was forced to surrender”

-> Entry into Mons of Jacqueline, Countess of Hainault and her new husband Humphrey Duke of Gloucester, 1885.

@nuingiliath

#some nice Victorian art I thought you’d like to see #humphrey duke of gloucester #Jacqueline of Hainault #read about her she seemed a fascinating woman #also you got to appreciate the fashion accuracy #already #medieval fashion #medieval aesthetic

11 notes · View notes

bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 3 years

Note

My dearest bouncey! I have a prompt for you if you like: Witchers as a 90s/2000s boyband 😂🤷‍♀️💖💖💖

Ellie, darling, this started as 500 words and turned into like 3.2k words and also a piece of art so... thank you so much. also shout out to my amazing art pal @mawbwehownets for the little comic!!

this contains lots of 90′s/early 2000′s nostalgia so there is also that

tw: hornyish, smooching, perilous music video situations (corny)

---

“Do I have to?” Geralt groans, letting his forehead thud down against the linoleum surface of their tour bus’s shitty dining table.

“Yes,” Vesemir says. His tone leaves no room for argument or whining. “But what if I let you pick the winner personally?”

“There have to be like fifteen thousand letters to go through! How will I manage that in less than two days?”

“There were a few more than fifteen thousand applications, Geralt. There were probably closer to five hundred thousand.”

Lambert wolf whistles and Aiden claps.

Geralt grimaces and keeps his face hidden against the table, releasing a slightly muffled: “Fuck.”

“Language,” Vesemir frowns. He tugs gently at Geralt’s loose ponytail and the singer lifts his head up from the table again, looking at his manager with beseeching eyes. “Anyway, we’ve narrowed it down to about fifty. You can go through those and choose whichever person you’d like to play your love interest. But you have to give me an answer by Friday. The shoot is in three weeks and whoever wins this stupid competition will need time to make arrangements.”

“I thought we were footing the bill for their food and their hotel room,” Geralt raised an eyebrow. “What would they need to arrange?”

“Not everyone can board their pets at the flick of a wrist, dude,” Lambert scoffs from his seat on the couch. Aiden lies draped across his lap, as usual, and the two of them are halfheartedly watching The Lion King. They can only watch movies when the bus is stationary, otherwise the VHS player might move too much while running and damage the film inside the cassette. Even taking advantage of such a rare opportunity, Lambert and Aiden still seem more interested in each other than Jonathan Taylor Thomas’s voice acting.

“Lambert has a point,” Vesemir sighs. He scrubs his hand over his lightly whiskered face like a tired grandparent and sighs again, more heavily. “It’ll be good for you boys to have a normal person around for a few days. Maybe they’ll be able to put some things into perspective.”

Geralt can only roll his eyes a little bit and thank his manager regardless of his own feelings; he and the rest of TW5 owe the seasoned musical expert their entire careers. Without Vesemir’s help and mentorship they would never have made it past their first disastrous record deal. They certainly wouldn’t have reached the heights they’re at now, enjoying international fame and recognition.

The begrudging frontman accepts a heavy plastic bin of file folders from Vesemir and sets them down next to his bunk. “Are these organized in any particular way?”

“Nope.”

“Cool.”

Geralt digs his hand into the pile and pulls out a piece of pale-pink stationary, eager to get started and, by extension, get finished. He can already tell that it’s going to be a long couple of days.

---

“I want this one, please, Ves.”

“Huh?” Vesemir looks up from his palm-pilot. Geralt is standing in front of him and trying to hand him something.

“I want this guy to be in the music video with me.” Geralt holds out the letter again, fingers trapping the accompanying polaroid headshot with great care. A pair of bright blue eyes stares up from the photo, highlighting the subject’s bright smile and unruly mop of messy brown hair. Vesemir tries to hide his amusement; totally Geralt’s type, if the big oaf could admit to having one.

“Alright. I’ll get everything in order. We start shooting in two and a half weeks so get your asses to the gym, please.”

“Yes, Ves,” all five young men chorus.

“Tomorrow,” Coen mutters a moment later than everyone else, not glancing up from his composition notebook. Vesemir nods in understanding. Coen is the best lyricist of the lot and it’s easier to let him work when inspiration strikes than beg him to focus when he can’t get a solitary idea to stick.

“So why’d you pick that one, Ger-bear?” Lambert drawls. Aiden nods and leans against Lambert’s side. Geralt can’t help the mild jealousy that overtakes him every time he sees his bandmates touch each other with such casual affection. He wants that intimacy, that softness behind the veneer of famous indifference. He wants someone to hold.

“Yeah. What drew your attention to that poor unfortunate soul. Was it the floppy hair, the big blue eyes, or the dopey grin?” Aiden smirks.

“Hmm.”

“Fuck you,” Eskel sighs, looking between the two troublemakers with the tired gaze of an eldest sibling, “Fuck you for even asking in the first place and expecting a straight answer.”

“Straight is the furthest thing from his answer,” Lambert chuckles. He is promptly smacked in the head with one of the couch’s hideous throw pillows. The youngest member of the band rubs the side of his face and chuckles, “Alright, I deserved that one.”

---

“Holy shit!” Jaskier practically screams. “Holy motherfucking shit!”

“What!?” Yennefer comes flying around the corner. “What’s wrong!?”

“Nothing is wrong, Yenna! Everything is awesome! Everything absolutely fucking rocks!”

“Did you get hit on the head by a falling branch between here and the mailbox or what? You were whining about your finals work not five min-”

“Look at this!” Jaskier shoves an open envelope into her hands and cuts her off. Yennefer reads the watermarked documents once. Twice. Her eyes almost pop out of her head when the words and their meanings finally sink in.

“Are you fucking with me right now?”

“No, I am absolutely not!” her giddy roommate cheers, bouncing up and down in place. “I did it! I won!”

“Holy shit.”

“I know! I get to kiss Geralt deRiv!” he practically cackles. Then freezes. “Holy fuck I get to kiss Geralt deRiv.”

“You said that already,” Yen teases. She shoves the paperwork back into his hands and grabs a takeout menu from the junk drawer near her hip. “Since you won the makeout lottery, you get to buy lunch. Lucky bastard.”

---

“So this will be your dressing room,” someone’s underpaid PA says, ushering Jaskier into a small, bright room. “Priscilla will be here shortly to get you into hair and makeup.”

“Oh, uh- thanks!”

“Yup.”

And with that, the young man disappears back down the hallway toward the sound stage. Jaskier jogs his leg anxiously as he waits for Priscilla to arrive, nervous and otherwise totally alone in the huge grey building. As the minutes tick by and his heart rate rises, Jaskier’s intrusive thoughts make an unwanted appearance: What if they forget about me being here? What if there’s been a mistake and they accidentally hired two love interests and I just sit in here for hours all alone while-

“Hi!” a bright, peppy blonde woman flies through the door and startles him back to reality. “Nice to meet you, I’m Priscilla! You can call me Priss; I’ll be doing your hair and makeup for the video this week!”

“Oh… hi. I’m Julian, but I prefer Jaskier.”

“Lovely! Well, Jaskier, is your hair naturally this color?”

“Y-Yes?”

“Perfect! I don’t want to mess with such a lovely shade of natural brown, but do you mind if I give it a bit of a trim? I have a few ideas for styles right here in my book- How do you feel about some feathering back here? I think-” she fluffs a few of the hairs around the nape of Jaskier’s neck “-I could really bring out the curls if I adjusted the length a bit and used some product.”

“Just, uhm, go for it, then! Feel free to make me as pretty as possible!” Jaskier declares. He’s committing to this experience wholeheartedly, determined to allow himself every opportunity for positive change. He wants to really let himself enjoy it, and he needs a haircut anyway. Priscilla spends an hour washing, cutting, drying, and styling his hair into a lovely fringed sweep across his forehead. It ends just above his brows, giving his face a slightly softer shape than usual. He grins over his shoulder, “I love it! I’m going to miss you when I’m back at Oxenfurt. Good stylists are so hard to find.”

Priss blushes and nudges against his shoulder, “Oh, you little charmer.”

“I mean it,” he says, examining himself in the mirror. “I look like I could really be worthy of a heroic rescue! This is going to be such a fantastic memory, and I appreciate it. Thank you so much.”

Priss bites back a genuine tear and smiles, “Now that your natural prettiness has been mildly enhanced, let’s get you over to wardrobe, shall we?”

“Wardrobe? Do I have, like, a costume? What’s the music video even about?”

“They didn’t tell you any of this when you got here?”

“Not… not really.”

“Well, my darling, I think you’re really going to like it; they’ve got you in Versace for the first scene.”

“Versace!?”

Then Jaskier is being ushered into a bright, colorful room full to bursting with grim-faced, middle-aged women and he loses track of his only braincell for the rest of the morning.

---

“You must be Julian!” Lambert declares, bounding up to him and grinning. It’s a feral, animalistic grin and Jaskier resists the sudden urge to take a step back.

“I prefer Jaskier, if you don’t mind too much,” Jaskier corrects him quietly. Lambert rolls his eyes in a long-suffering kind of way and throws a meaty arm around the shorter man’s shoulders, completely ignoring the wardrobe technician’s wincing as he wrinkles the expensive silk jacket.

“No need to be quiet and polite around here, my dude. We’re just a bunch of rowdy idiots, aren’t we, guys?”

“Hell yeah!” Aiden calls back. Eskel sighs like the put-upon nanny in a Victorian Redanian comedy.

“Speak for yourself,” Coen barely lifts his frosted tips up from his book long enough to speak. Geralt is-

Holy motherfucking Britney Spears on toast.

Geralt is the hottest thing Jaskier has ever seen in his short, unfulfilled-until-right-now life. Forget Ralph Macchio. Forget Leonardo Dicaprio and Kate Winslet and Winona Ryder. This man is… Geralt deRiv is… he’s the picture of perfection. And he’s right there, standing in front of an elaborate party set with his thick, beautiful arms crossed over his chest and his eyes trained on the floor, as if willing it to swallow him whole. Jaskier realizes that he probably didn’t have any choice in the matter; maybe this was just as awkward and uncomfortable for Geralt as it was for Jaskier.

“Ger-bear!” Lambert whoops, yanking Jaskier closer to the brooding frontman. If only he were brave enough to struggle for escape; alas. “This is your boy-toy for the week. Goes by Jaskier, apparently.”

“Nice to meet you,” Geralt manages to grunt. “How did you like the script?”

“I haven’t uh- I haven’t actually seen it?”

“Shit. Fuck. One second,” Geralt huffs, disappearing into the crowd of technicians and machinery operators and PAs. Jaskier loves him already, for real. Sure, he was pretty in the music videos and promo material, but the way he said fuck like it was the noblest word he could think of… Geralt interrupts his train of thought by coming back with a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand. He shuffle-shoves them into Jaskier’s arms immediately. “There you go.”

“Thank you!” Jaskier smiles. It’s genuine and shy, more tenuous than his usual goofy grin. He flips through the pages, glancing between the script to his expensive suit, “So I’m guessing we’re at a party for this scene? Or something?”

“This is… where we meet. This is where… you and I uh…”

Jaskier’s eyes scan the page as Geralt’s ability to speak slowly leaves him.

Lover ENTERS LEFT, dressed to the nines. Lover adjusts their tie/boa and takes a look around the room. S/He looks sad and a little hopeful. PULL BACK to Geralt, who approaches slowly. Their eyes meet. HOLD SHOT. PULL BACK as they move towards each other. Geralt pulls Lover into his arms and they begin to dance.

“Oh, wow.”

“I hope it’s okay! If you’re not comfortable with that kind of thing we can-”

“I’ll be alright, thank you. I came here to put my acting chops to the test. Well, that and meet my favorite band, of course. Thank you again, by the way. It’s been wonderful so far and I really appreciate you allowing me to be here.”

“Allowing? Psh. Geralt ha-” Lambert is cut off by Aiden, who elbows him sharply in the side. “Ow! What the fuck, babe?”

“I knew it!” Jaskier crows, distracted. “I knew you two were an item!”

“They’re not exactly subtle.”

“They never confirm anything either,” Jaskier retorts. Geralt shrugs his acknowledgement and moves back towards the set. Jaskier follows after the taller man like a lost puppy, eyes flicking from one thing to the next, hungry for detail even in his anxiety ridden state. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience and he doesn’t want to waste a solitary second of it. “This is incredible, really just...wow. You guys do this all the time? You get to make tiny little movies for already great songs that you get to perform for millions of adoring fans? And you get paid!?”

Geralt hadn’t ever really thought about it like that. He’d been raised in the industry. He’d signed to Kaer Morhen Records as an early teen because his mother was a member of the Board of Directors and he’d been making music ever since; an outsider’s perspective to things was… new. A little strange. “Yeah, I guess that is pretty much what we do.”

“Wow.”

“It’s not that exciting, I promise.”

“Have you ever written a fifteen page paper about the history of lute-string design and manufacturing?”

“No.”

“Then kindly shut the fuck up about what I should consider exciting,” Jaskier grins. Geralt is immediately and irrevocably smitten. Fuck. It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes! “So, which door am I entering from?”

“Left,” Geralt points. Jaskier skips over and begins to introduce himself to the sound and lights crew. His smile seems to be as infectious as his cheer and soon the entire set crew is smiling at one another. There’s been a literal shift in the atmosphere; if he didn’t know any better, the TW5 frontman thinks Jaskier might be some kind of magical creature, because he can’t just be human. Geralt is well and truly fucked, and everyone in the band already knows.

---

“What do you think?” Jaskier asks, slipping anxiously from behind the changing screen. The Versace is gone and in its place are a pair of tight, high-waisted blue pleather pants and a billowing white shirt, which has been strategically ripped in several places to reveal slivers of the lightly tanned skin that lies beneath. He looks like he’s in desperate need of rescuing. He looks like every fantasy Geralt has ever had about the perfect guy. He looks like a fucking dream.

“Nice,” he says.

Lambert and Aiden wolf-whistle and cheer as they approach. Aiden claps twice, loudly, and shoots Jaskier a set of finger guns, “Hot damn, baby. You single? You lookin’ to mingle? Because I am bi and spoon like a Pringle.”

“First of all, babe, I love you but that was the most horrific combination of words yet known to man. Second of all, yeah, I’d dump Aiden for you for sure,” Lambert adds. Jaskier is at a total loss for words. His mouth hangs open and his breath comes in uneven little gasps for a moment.

“Uh… I- Thank you?”

“Oh god, Eskel! Eskel, he’s short circuiting, do something.”

“You absolute-” Eskel groans and makes his way over to the gathered group. He tugs Jaskier away and over to the other end of the set, where a comically huge rocket/bomb (Jaskier can’t tell) is standing at the center of a vaguely science-themed room. A laboratory, maybe? Or like, a really weird spacecraft? A hospital run by rocket scientists? It doesn’t matter, it’s the Evil Lair of the Villain and that’s where Jaskier is being held captive. “Here, Cameron and Elise will help you get set up for the next scene. I’m sorry about the boys they’re... gay?”

“I understand,” Jaskier nods sagely and Eskel relaxes. Then for comedy’s sake he adds an equally dramatic, “I too am... gay.”

The set dresser, an electrician, and a few specialists (likely a rope rigger among them) come over and tie Jaskier to the bomb/rocket/villainous mechanism, ending his conversation with Eskel, who is now in a much better mood than he was before.

Jaskier is told to make sure his hands are crossed behind the small of his back and the director instructs him to wiggle back and forth “as convincingly as possible without actually getting loose or moving the ropes too much”. Which is manageable, he supposes.

“Then, when the chorus comes up, we’ll get a few shots of the boys dancing in front of you,” the director continues to explain. That’s… kind weird, but okay. I’ve seen weirder. “Then we’ll do the action shots, with Geralt rescuing you. Are you okay to do the kiss, or would you rather not? We have dynamic shots with or without, so it’s totally up to you.”

“I’m fine with that,” Jaskier smiles shyly. “I consent to be smooched.”

“Adorable,” Lambert calls. Jaskier blushes and the director shoots Lambert a glare.

“He’s already pink enough, don’t make me change my gels you little shithead!”

“Sorry, Pierre!”

“Fucking sorry my ass,” Pierre grumbles beneath his breath. Then he smiles at Jaskier. “Do something nasty to him for me, will you? Not too nasty but… just a little?”

“I’ve got your back,” Jaskier winks.

“No plotting! Not fair!” Aiden whines.

“You have a team,” Pierre retorts. “Now I have a team.”

“Rules are rules,” Eskel sighs. “Now can we please shoot this damn video?”

“Right,” Pierre claps, getting everyone’s attention. “Places!”

---

Geralt races up the stairs, trying to keep the long sleeves of his black mesh shirt from catching on any of the set pieces. The solid black t-shirt he’s wearing underneath makes his arms and back look bulkier than normal; it’s a visual technique to make him look larger than Jaskier, whose billowing white shirt will hide how wide his shoulders actually are. Fuck, those are some nice shoulders. And the smattering of dark chest hair that peeks from the front of the college student’s shirt? Geralt wants to bury his face in it.

Okay, focus.

He reaches the top of the set and rushes towards Jaskier, ripping the ropes from around his torso and pulling him close. He cups the back of Jaskier’s head with his upstage hand, framing the slightly smaller man for the camera and making him seem even shorter, another trick of angles and body posturing. Geralt plays Jaskier like an instrument, bending him back by placing his downstage arm around Jaskier’s waist, pressing their mouths together and holding them still for as long as it takes the director to yell, “Cut!” with a satisfied tone of voice.

Geralt’s suspicions are confirmed when Pierre laughs and claps some more and cries, “Print it, lads! That was a one-take wonder!”

He tries to ignore the way Jaskier’s shoulders slump as if disappointed. “Good job,” he manages to say.

“You, too.” Geralt wishes he could keep a picture of Jaskier smiling in his back pocket forever. No other sight could light up the world so effortlessly. “Thanks for being gentle.”

“I’m trying to sweep you off your feet,” the singer shrugs. Jaskier wiggles his eyebrows and follows Geralt down the narrow set stairs.

“Are you, really?”

“Is it working?” Geralt asks, turning to look up at Jaskier. The student pauses to look at him and his foot catches on an uneven board. He topples forward with a short cry of surprise and seems surprised when Geralt reaches out to catch him. “Jaskier!”

“Oh my god!” Lambert races over, Aiden hot on his heels. “Are you okay, dude?”

“I’m fine,” Jaskier laughs, a little breathless. “Just a little shocked.”

“You should take him to get a snack or something,” Eskel says, nudging his shoulder against Geralt’s. “He’s been busy all day and hasn’t even been to craft services.”

“You haven’t eaten?” Geralt asks, honestly baffled. Jaskier shakes his head, face heating once again. He wishes he could stop blushing, but Geralt’s presence seems to make it impossible. He wraps one arm around the younger man’s temptingly slender waist and leads him towards the food carts. He shoves a couple of sandwiches and a bottle of punch into Jaskier’s hands, not giving him a chance to argue. “Here, I’ll have something, too.”

“Thanks,” Jaskier smiles, understanding that he is, in turn, being understood. They sit comfortable folding chairs off to the side, food spread across their laps. Jaskier laughs and chats around his mouthfuls, pulling things from Geralt like his favorite color and his least favorite nicknames. Songs he liked and dances he disliked.

“You made it fun again, today,” the singer smiles. “Thank you for that. I wish you could be here for every video shoot.”

“Looking for another member of the band?” Jaskier jokes, doing some half-hearted jazz hands. Geralt shakes his head and laughs.

“I wish we were,” he sighs. “But I guess five is the magic number.”

“Makes the dances look cooler,” Jaskier nods. “I agree with whoever made that decision. I wouldn’t dare ruin the aesthetic.”

Geralt laughs again and Vesemir turns to look, honestly shocked at the volume of the sound.

“Plus, you can’t be the frontman if there’s no front.”

“Shut up,” Geralt chuckles, still grinning broadly.

Vesemir makes a phone call.

---

2 Weeks Later, Backstage in Kaedwen

---

“He’s been sulking like this ever since Jaskier went back to Oxenfurt,” Lambert whines. “C’mon Vesemir, do something.”

“What do you want me to do, make Geralt’s boyfriend appear out of thin air?”

“Not my boyfriend,” Geralt growls, stomping past his bandmates and manager. He can’t help but feel grumpy. Jaskier had been like the sun, bringing light and wonder to everything he touched, and without that joy around it doesn’t seem worth the extra effort to smile. So he’s been moping.

“Fucking hell,” Vesemir sighs. “Thank goodness I thought ahead.”

“What do you mean?” Eskel asks, joining the little group in the hallway outside the dressing room. “What did you think of?”

“Three,” Vesemir smiles, glancing at his watch. “Two… One…”

“Boooooys,” echoes a high tenor. “Where’s my welcome wagon, Vesemir?”

“Jaskier!” Aiden practically screams, leaping out of the dressing room and flying down the hall. Lambert follows at a sprint and Vesemir hears the resounding oof oh fuck of both giddy musicians hitting their mark.

Geralt comes back down the hall at a jog, eyes searching frantically. “I thought I heard-”

“Geralt!”

Vesemir’s heart clenches in his chest at the way Geralt’s face lights up. At the end of the hallway, surrounded by spilled luggage and apologetic boyband members, is Jaskier. Geralt floats to him, it seems, like he’s dreaming the whole thing. Jaskier takes his hands and then releases them and wraps his arms low around Geralt’s hips instead.

“I missed you the most,” he whispers, just for Geralt to hear. “Couldn’t sleep without listening to your CD. I know it’s silly but I really like you.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers reverently into his shaggy brown hair. “What are you doing here?”

“I was going to do my thesis on pop culture’s relation to music history,” he says. “And then the manager of TW5 called Oxenfurt and offered me the opportunity to do some… first hand research while I worked on finishing the paper.”

“R-Really? You’re going to be here… every day?”

“Do you… do you not want me he-”

Geralt kisses him before he can even finish the question. It’s a stupid question anyway, of course Geralt wants him here. Wants him right here, kissing him silly. The singer presses his lips desperately, crushingly against Jaskier’s; he never wants to part from this man again. He never wants to be without that glorious laughter and contagious liveliness. Who knew that life could be so full of delight and happiness if he only let it?

He kisses Jaskier for all he’s worth and more, pouring his heart and soul into it. When they pull apart, both gasping for air, Geralt asks, “Stay with me, Jaskier? You don’t have to do anything I just-”

“I’d love to be the big spoon,” Jaskier winks, whispering again. “Thank you, Geralt, for the rescue.”

#geraskier #bouncey's buddies #prompt fill #geraskier fic #geraskier ficlet #geraskier fluff #getting together #boyband au #geraskier boyband au #the witcher five and their hit song 'please lambert stop farting on the bus'#ellie has the braincell #thirsty jaskier #thirsty geralt #soft geralt #protective geralt #clumsy jaskier #soft boys content #bouncey's endless au collection #bouncey's endless getting together fics

244 notes · View notes

falcqns · 3 years

Text

the art of mending a broken heart

Pairing: Henry Cavill (Enola Holmes era) x Reader

Summary: After a long day on set, you explode at Henry, with unintended consequences.

Warnings: angst, fluff, first kiss, hints of beginning of ddlg relationship, self care

the art of mending a broken heart

it had been a long 19 hours. 19 hours of sitting in your stuffy and uncomfortable Victorian era clothes, filming Enola Holmes. You had been here since 5 am, and it was nearing midnight. You hadn't eaten since 1, maybe 2? The exact time didn't matter.

Your back, legs, ankles, and feet hurt, you felt an exhaustion headache coming on, and were insanely thirsty. You were all around done.

Thankfully, you were on your last scene of the day. It was a kissing scene with Henry, and the director said it wouldn't take longer than 30 minutes to film.

But, when you arrived to set, you knew that wouldn't be the case.

Henry had been there just as long as you had, but he was extremely giggly and happy due to being so tired, instead of angry and emotional. You had begun to avoid him around 5 pm, when he couldn't stop poking you and laughing loudly while you were trying to go over lines.

The second he saw you, he ran over to you, and hugged you.

“I missed you,” He whined.

“Well, if you hadn't annoyed me to the ends of the earth I wouldn't have avoided you,” You said. He chuckled, and pulled away when the director called the two of you over.

The scene was blocked quickly, and you moved on to filming.

There was no dialogue, and all Henry had to do was pull you to him, and kiss you. That’s all.

But of course, he was absolutely delirious, so nothing went right.

Either he would pull you so hard that you almost knocked him over, or you’d be halfway through filming the kiss, and he’d burst out laughing, which caused everyone else to laugh.

You, however, weren't laughing. You managed to hold it together, until the 17th take.

He pulled his lips off of yours, giggling and you lost your mind.

“WOULD YOU FUCKING STOP!” You screamed.

He looked at you with an unreadable expression on his face.

The director, noticing how you were feeling, called action once more, and this time it went smoothly.

He pulled you to him correctly, and didn't laugh when he kissed you.

The director yelled cut, and said that you two were done for the day. You immediately stormed away from Henry, attempting to hold yourself together.

As soon as the door to your trailer closed, you were sobbing and pulling off your costume.

You had just dressed into your pyjamas, your grey sweatpants and a yellow sweatshirt, when Henry came storming into your trailer, still dressed as Sherlock.

He said nothing, but pulled you to him, and pressed a crushing kiss to your lips. You didn't have time to kiss back, because it ended as soon as it started.

Now, it was his turn to yell at you.

“DON’T BE SUCH A FUCKING BRAT!” He screamed, and he stormed out.

Immediately, you started sobbing once more. You grabbed your purse, and headed out.

You never stopped crying. You cried the whole way home, when you were getting your water bottle ready for the night, and even when you were laying in bed.

You tried calling your mom, but she just said that you were exhausted and needed sleep. You wanted to text Henry, but wanted to give him time to cool down.

He wasn’t faring much better. He had managed to get him and Kal ready for bed before he broke down. He flopped down on the bed, and motioned for Kal to jump up beside him. Kal usually slept on his own bed, which was actually a toddler race car bed, but Henry needed his comfort.

Kal snuggled himself next to Henry, his head resting on his chest.

Henry didn’t know why you acted like that, and wondered if he should check on you. He heard you start to sob the second he walked out of your trailer and regretted yelling at you like that.

He picked up his phone and called you, but you didn't pick up.

“Hey, Y/N,” He said when the voicemail beeped. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you like that. God, I feel horrible and I know you're upset and I hate that it’s because of me. I’m sorry for forcing myself on you like that, I shouldn't have. Baby, please call me back,” He said, accidentally calling you baby.

He hung up, and drifted off to sleep wishing he was holding you in his arms instead of Kal, as much as he loved him.

You woke up the next morning and listened to his voicemail. Your stomach fluttered when he called you baby, and as much as you wanted to call him back, you were still hurt from the way he yelled at you.

He had never yelled at you before. You had known each other almost 8 months at this point, and he had never even gotten annoyed at you.

You opted not to call hum back, and spent the rest of the day in bed, occasionally breaking down in tears when you saw something that reminded you of Henry.

You were thankful, now more than ever, that filming was taking a two week break. You didn't have to worry about facing Henry for two whole weeks, and you were very happy about that.

The first week of the break was rough. Whenever you became bored, you found yourself reaching for your phone to call him, but always caught yourself in time.

Henry however, didn't stop texting and calling. He wanted to make sure you were okay, and the more you didn't respond, the more worried he became.

It was Friday night, and he had had enough. Thankfully, one of his brothers were in town, and offered to watch Kal so he could sort things out with you.

He texted you to let you know he was on his way, and wasn't surprised you didn't answer.

The second his car was turned off, he was running towards your apartment block.

He pounded on the door, and became anxious when you didn't answer. He tried calling you, no answer. He tried texting you, FaceTiming you, hatred everything. You didn't answer.

He was running his hands through his hair, and wondering what to do when he remembered you had a spare key under the rug. He grabbed it, and let himself in.

Your apartment was oddly quiet. Usually you had YouTube or Netflix playing, since you hated silence.

He took his shoes off, and nervously made his way to your bedroom, scared of what he would find.

He opened your door gently, and saw you in a lump under your covers, asleep.

He approached you, and lifted the covers off of your face. His heart broke.

It was painfully obvious you hadn't stopped crying since he yelled at you. Your eyes were so swollen, he was amazed you were able to even see. Your cheeks were also red and swollen from you wiping them constantly. Your lips looked dry and cracked as well.

He ran his hand through your hair, in an attempt to wake you up so he could apologize. Your eyes opened, and immediately welled up with tears when you noticed him.

“H-Henr-” Was all you managed out before he cut you off.

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry,” He said, pulling you out of the bed and onto the floor. You landed in between his legs and his arms wrapped around you, squeezing you to his chest. His hand ran up and down your back, and into your hair in an attempt to soothe you. “I am so sorry I yelled at you like that. I didn't mean it, angel,” He whispered, unable to keep his tear at bay when he heard you grip his shirt and begin to sob again.

He unraveled himself from you, and pulled you to stand with him.

“Honey, have you left your bed at all this week?” He asked softly, not wanting to upset you further.

You shook your head. “Only to go to the bathroom and eat a little.”

He smiled and lifted you up, carrying you to the bathroom.

“Let’s get you into a nice bubble bath, and some food into you okay?” He said, as he sat you on the counter.

You nodded, watching him move around the bathroom.

He filled up the bathtub, and adding your favourite lavender bubble bath. Once it was full he turned to you.

“Okay, love. Get undressed, and call for me once you're in okay? I’ll take care of everything.” He said, giving you a smile before he pulled you into a comforting hug.

You nodded, and he left the room.

You got yourself into the warm and inviting bath, and called out for him once your body was hidden by the bubbles.

He walked back in and sat next to you.

“Sit up, sweetie, so I can wash your hair,” he whispered, reaching behind you to grab your shampoo. You sat up, and crossed your arms in front of you, and pulling your knees to your chest. You barely had any energy, and just wanted to sleep, but you knew Henry would rest until you were taken care of.

Henry gently found a bucket you had for when your little siblings where visiting, and began to wet your hair.

As he massaged your shampoo into your scalp, your eyes drifted shut.

“Baby, you need to stay awake.”

You shook your head in defiance. “Too tired.” You breathed out.

“I know, sweet girl, but I’m almost done okay?” He said. You managed to nod.

He finished up quick, and pulled the plug on the tub before telling you he’d go and get you your clothes for you. He placed a fluffy towel and your robe beside you before he left.

Once you were all dry in your robe, you ventured out to where Henry was. He had pulled out a t shirt and shorts for you.

“I thought I’d let you pick out the rest,” He said. He walked closer and pulled you into a hug.

“I’m going to go and make you something to eat, okay?” He whispered. You nodded and watched him give you one last smile before he left the room.

You quickly got dressed, and headed out to the kitchen. He smiled at you when you walked in, but it quickly faded when he saw truly how tired you were.

He walked over to you and picked you up once more. Your head immediately went to his neck, and you nuzzled into his warmth. He carried you over to the counter, and sat you atop it, allowing you to keep close to him, while he cut up strawberries for you.

He tossed the cut up strawberries on to your plate with you grapes and other assorted food.

He lifted you again, and took you to the couch. He turned on Brooklyn Nine Nine for you, and quickly returned with your food, and a glass of what you assumed to be milk.

He sat down next to you and tugged you into his lap. You protested slightly but he immediately shushed you.

“Let me take care of you, okay?” He whispered and you nodded. He placed the plate in your lap, and eyed you carefully to ensure you were eating. You finished half the plate before reaching for your milk.

Taking a skip, it was surprisingly warm. You downed it quickly before curling up into Henry.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” You whispered. “I’m sorry I yelled at you like that.”

He moved your head to you could make eye contact with him.

“No, honey, I’m sorry for yelling. I didn't realize you were so tired and emotional. I’m so sorry sweetheart,” He whispered, and pressed a loving kiss to your forehead. “I’m also sorry I kissed you like that. I don't know what came over me, other than I was mad and I needed to kiss you. I never wanted you to feel uncomfortable. I really do apologize.”

You shifted more.

“I liked the kiss. I was annoyed because I thought I was doing something wrong while we were filming and that it was funny to you. When you kissed me in the trailer, I wanted to kiss back, but you didn't give me a chance, that’s why I was crying,” You said, tears welling up in your eyes once more.

He tugged you closer, and pressed another, more gentle kiss to your lips. Your stomach fluttered, and you immediately kissed back.

You went to deepen the kiss, but he pulled away. “Not yet, baby. Let’s go to bed, okay?” He whispered in your ear, and you nodded.

He stood the two of you up, and you headed into the bedroom.

Henry never let go of you. He kept you there, in his arms, all night, and all of the following day.

You knew things weren't back to normal, but they were getting there, and as long as you had Henry, you'd be okay.

#henry cavill #henry cavill smut #henry!holmes #enola holmes #ilovehim

362 notes · View notes

monstersandmaw · 3 years

Text

Male vampire x male character - Part Two (nsfw) (Halloween ‘surprise’ Patreon story).

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

I'm really pleased that you and my Patrons enjoyed the first part, and that folks were keen for more. I’ve had more interaction with this post on Patreon than many of the others, which is surprising given how mlm stories are usually much less in demand than m/f ones. Thanks for that!

Anyway, here's more of our favourite oblivious dork Alec and his obviously-not-a-vampire crush... Part Three is on the way too (tomorrow), despite this having been planned as a quick porn-without-plot one-shot, as it were. Oh well?!

Hope you enjoy.

Part One

After his initial - admittedly strange - meetings with Sebastien, Alec didn’t see him on campus at all for the rest of the week, and he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that. Yes, the guy had been a bit of a pompous arsehole in the library, but he’d made up for it by coming to the art room and apologising, engaging him in conversation — even if that conversation had been slightly… odd? — and being so god-damn-fucking beautiful too.

He overheard his students gossiping about ‘Dr. Dulac’ earlier that afternoon while they all carved the pumpkins he’d bought for them at the local supermarket, and it seemed that the general consensus was that Sebastien was single, unfailingly polite (even in the face of Janette Hilton, the English Department’s longest-serving and least sympathetic lecturers), hotter than any celebrity you cared to name, and a specialist in the poets of the First World War like Sassoon and Brooke, among other more esoteric interests.

After an hour of clock-watching in his tiny little office in the Art Department on Friday, he abandoned all hope of concentrating on his last few bits of admin, and shut down his laptop. After clearing up yet more pumpkin seeds that he’d somehow missed on the last two sweeps he’d done of the studio, he stepped outside, never wanting to see another bloody thing again. Too bad he had a whole bloody cardboard box of them waiting to go into the boot of Kay’s car for her party that night. Still, he was almost sinfully proud of the carvings he’d done on them. One was decorated the whole way around with the foliate style engravings usually reserved for the steel on antique guns, with different depths to create the highlights and shadows, and another particularly spherical one had been cut away in squares to resemble the Death Star.

The October air outside bit into his lungs as he drew a deep breath - the spicy, fragrantly damp scents of autumn filling his nose - and his eye was drawn to the twinkling lights of the little coffee cart that still lingered in the park, selling tea, coffee, and hot chocolate to chilly students leaving the university campus for the night. With a black coffee for himself in one hand, he made his way to the Engineering Department, warily holding another frothy concoction in his other. It was apparently called a ‘London fog’ and it smelled of earl grey tea and lavender. He thought it sounded (and smelled) disgusting, but Kay perked right up when he deposited it on her desk five minutes later.

“Bless you, Alec Twayblade,” she grinned, taking the plastic lid off and inhaling it like it was the best thing she’d ever smelled. “Oh my god. How can you not like this?” she said after taking a huge gulp and moaning obscenely.

Alec didn’t bother to reply, his eye-roll speaking volumes anyway. They’d had this discussion so many times that they were both probably playing it out silently in their heads right that second. When Kay glanced up and saw that he certainly was, she snorted and grinned. “I love you, Alec,” she laughed. “You’re still coming tonight?”

“Against my better judgement,” he growled, leaning his weight on her desk and folding his arms across his battered, blue cable knit sweater. He had a huge daub of yellow paint on one elbow from that morning, and a small burn hole in the bottom from a failed attempt at pyrography a few years ago. It was the most comfortable jumper he owned, and he would probably wear it until it unravelled around him.

“You’re still not going to wear a costume, are you?” she added as she stood, pouting.

He shook his head. “I draw the line at that.”

“But you’d be so good making one!” she countered. “You helped me with that bat costume when we were at high school… Don’t you remember how fucking awesome it was?”

“I do,” he chuckled. “But I’m not going to wear one myself.”

She sighed, shoulders slumping. “Too much attention, huh?” she said softly. “Well, you know you’ll stand out more if you’re not wearing one tonight…?”

He shrugged. Honestly, he just couldn’t be bothered to dress up. Halloween had rather lost its shine for him anyway. “Not if I hide in the kitchen all night and make too-strong cocktails for everyone,” he said, flashing her his most roguish grin. “Plus, I spent much of today carving pumpkins with nattering eighteen year olds who are far too old to be carving pumpkins on academic time, but —”

“— you’re an awesome teacher who understands the need to let off some steam on the holidays,” she interjected. “Plus, it’s good practice anyway… working with a new medium…”

He allowed his lips to pinch upwards into a tiny smirk and let her have that one. “It’s nice to see them having fun,” was all he said.

An hour or so later, just as he arranged the last of the pumpkins down the garden path of Kay's Victorian semi-detached house, a voice murmured from behind him, “I can see the hand of a master at work in these carvings.”

Not having heard anyone approaching, Alec jumped, cursed, and dropped the pumpkin - thankfully with the candle still unlit. It rolled in a semicircle until a black boot gently stopped it, and a familiar face dipped into view as the owner of the boot bent to pick it up. To his surprise, it was Sebastien, and he was in costume. Probably anyway. Hopefully? Fuck. Alec’s brain stalled at the sight of him.

His eyes raked up Sebastien’s body and his jaw went quite literally slack.

The slender man was wearing thigh-high boots and leather pants so tight they had to have been spray-painted on, into which was tucked a loose, old-fashioned, white shirt with a good bit of flounce at the collar. “Holy shit,” he whispered, and Sebastien chuckled softly, a low, amused sound in the back of his throat.

“You recognise the costume?” he asked, seeming innocently amused. The long, dark coat, accented with gold brocade and bright gold buttons, opened briefly in a soft gust of wind that made the lit pumpkins flicker and lifted his loose, silver-white hair back for a breath as well.

“I…” he swallowed. “Uh, you’re Alucard,” he croaked. “From the Castlevania games…” A wry incline of Sebastien’s head told him he was correct, and then Alec blurted stupidly, “Shouldn’t you be shirtless though?”

Sebastien’s smile grew from pleased to deeply amused, his eyes glittering, and it was only then that Alec noticed the contacts burning a bright gold in his eyes and, as his lips peeled back and Sebastien began to laugh, he saw long, tapering, white canines befitting a vampire costume. “It’s a little cold for that, don’t you think?” Sebastien asked, still laughing quietly as Alec flushed crimson.

“Sorry,” he blurted. “I know. I just… forget it.”

“Where do you want it?” Sebastien asked, and Alec’s poor brain went blank.

“What?”

“The pumpkin,” Sebastien deadpanned and Alec’s poor, blank brain melted out of his ears with embarrassment.

“Uh… there’s fine,” he said, pointing at the little wrought-iron garden gate.

Sebastien placed the pumpkin down on the flagstone path so that the carved graveyard scene glimmered and flickered with appropriate spookiness, visible to anyone approaching along the quiet, suburban street. Enormous London plane trees stood sentry every few paces, heaving up the tarmac pavement with their roots, like a sleeper shifting a blanket with a restless turn, and sheltering the cars snuggled and parked beneath them. A carpet of leaves clung to the gutter in a long, golden line, melting into nothing in places in the glittering puddles. It would have been beautiful, had Alec not been faced with quite literally the most beautiful thing in the entire universe.

“Am I early then?” Sebastien asked, dusting off his palms and turning back to face Alec, who had barely managed to make his legs work long enough to stand up straight again.

He shook his head. “No. Henry’s inside already,” he said, running his fingers through his scruffy black hair. “With Rachel and Alison. I just forgot to put the pumpkins out earlier.”

“No costume?”

With a roll of his eyes, he shook his head. “Nope.”

“Too bad,” Sebastien said, eyeing the front door. The contacts were really creepy, shifting in the light that spilled down the stairs as the front door suddenly opened and Kay stepped out before he could worry that he’d been the only one to dress up. He could probably brush it off anyway, Alec supposed, and tried not to envy the man’s quiet confidence.

Silhouetted starkly against the hall light, with her high ‘Dracula’ collar on prominent display, Kay shrieked with glee and clapped her hands when she saw Sebastien. Apparently the two of them had been getting along rather well, while Alec had sequestered himself away in the Art Department like an ascetic.

“Bastien! You look amazing oh my god!” she blurted, rushing forwards a step or two before halting abruptly. “Wait, does that make me your father for the evening?” she cackled. “Wow, your teeth are really good! Mine wouldn't stay in for more than a few minutes…”

Sebastien’s gold eyes flickered sideways to Alec but it happened so briefly that he almost missed it. “Custom made a long time ago,” was all he said. “Shall we go inside? It’s freezing out here.”

“Yes, of course, come on in,” she said, waving them all inside, Sebastien first. As Alec passed her last, she slapped him hard on the backside in rebuke and hissed, “Told you you should have worn a costume! You look like a big dumbo!”

“No different from any other night,” he quipped back, and she growled something indistinct at him. Perhaps a werewolf costume would have suited her better. “You could have told me you’d invited Dulac…”

“Why?” she retorted. “So you could suddenly decide that an evening moping alone with your PS4 playing Rocket League with strangers was more appealing? No fucking chance. Get inside. Sebastien’s right; I’m freezing my tits off.”

The distant murmur of voices in the living room made him veer off instinctively into the kitchen, and while they began to watch some old Hammer horror film, he made drinks. That, at least, he was good at.

Entering a while later, he found that Sebastien was seated on the sofa beside Henry, who wore an enormously fluffy wolfman costume - mostly a repurposed Chewbacca onesie with a latex wolf mask. He’d pushed the mask up onto his head in order to eat the Halloween themed nibbles on the coffee table, and the effect rendered him entirely ridiculous. Another reason not to wear a costume: it’s impractical, and gets in the way, and washing ketchup out of matted fake fur is a nightmare. Alison and Rachel sat practically in each other’s laps, one a zombie and the other a ghost, both squeezed into one groaning old armchair.

After half an hour of Christopher Lee’s admittedly creepy Dracula, Alec slid from his seat at the periphery, and ducked out again into the kitchen. Straightening from fishing a beer from the back of the fridge, he heard the soft click of the door and turned to find Sebastien standing there.

“Get bored with late 1950’s horror too?” Alec asked. “Beer?”

Sebastien inclined his head in a way that said he wasn’t a beer drinker and held up his almost-empty wineglass as an excuse as he moved a little closer. “If you don’t like cheesy horror films, and you don’t seem to like Halloween either, I wonder why you came at all tonight?”

“For Kay,” he said, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. “She loves this shit.”

At that, Sebastien paused, a delicate smile on his face. In the soft glow of the under-cupboard lighting, his tanned skin seemed to shimmer, and Alec wondered fleetingly if he’d put some kind of glittery body powder on. Next, he wondered what on earth Sebastien was doing in here with him, looking at him like that.

“You are a good friend,” Sebastien said quietly, seeming perhaps a little sad around the edges.

“She’s done more than her fair share of looking after me,” Alec sighed knowingly. “Not that I’m doing it because I owe her,” he added, twisting the cap off the bottle and leaning back against the counter to drink deeply from it. As the malty froth washed over his tongue, he felt eyes on him and looked over at the other man.

Sebastien tilted his head slightly to the side, the false golden light in his eyes making him look like a cat in the dark. “You said she was trying to set you up with someone…”

Alec snorted, nearly shooting beer out of his nose. “Yeah. Well, she seems to think a good fuck will sort my mood out.”

“But you think otherwise?”

“You offering?” he asked bitterly, taking another swig and feeling uncharacteristically bold, though absolutely not expecting the answer he got.

“Perhaps.”

His eyebrows shot up and this time he did cough a little. “You can’t be serious.”

“You think someone who looks like me is entirely straight?” he asked with a wry smile, and Alec had to hand it to him. Not many men he knew could pull of long, luscious, white-blond hair like that, or would have the confidence to wear fucking thigh-high boots and whisper-tight leather pants…

“Still… you don’t really know me… That’s all I meant…”

“Doesn't mean one couldn’t engage in — how did you call it? — ‘a good fuck’. Not that I’m averse to getting to know you better, before or after.”

Alec swallowed another enormous gulp of frothing beer and blinked. “You’re serious?”

With a melodramatic smile that revealed his vampire teeth clearly, ‘Alucard’ purred, “Deadly.”

And Alec burst out laughing. The spell was shattered and the two men shared the remnants of their drinks and their laughter together before Alec sighed. “Your place or mine?”

At that, Sebastien seemed to falter, as if he hadn’t thought through to that point. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “I assume yours would be alright?”

Alec shrugged. “Sure, if you don’t mind smacking your head on the ceiling and being able to touch two opposite walls at the same time…”

Sebastien’s lips hitched into another wry smile. “I’ve fucked in tighter spaces, I’m sure.”

“You know what?” Alec said as he rinsed out the beer bottle at the sink and half-turned to look at the other man over his shoulder. “You’re absolutely not what I expected.”

“Nor were you,” he shot back, still smirking. “And it’s been a while since I was assaulted by someone in a library.”

“Bring back happy memories, did it?” he snorted.

“Not exactly,” Sebastien murmured, and Alec realised he hadn’t actually been joking. “But I must confess that — despite my behaviour — I was pleasantly surprised by the sight of you when you rounded that bookshelf…”

Turning, Alec approached him cautiously. If he was genuinely serious about his proposal, Alec would find out now. “Pleased enough to seek me out afterwards…” he said, raising his eyebrows. He couldn’t do that ‘one brow at a time’ thing that Sebastien could, but it seemed to get his tone across all the same.

Unusually for Alec, Sebastien had an inch or two on him in height, and as Alec paused in front of him, close enough to catch the faintest hint of a woody cologne, the man angled his face just perfectly for the light to dance along his high cheekbones. Fuck, he was exquisite. The urge to kiss him rose in Alec; to feel his lips against his own, to have those elegant hands scrunch his hair…

As if reading his mind, Sebastien slowly, carefully, raised his right hand and brought his index finger to Alec’s chin, tilting it upwards just a fraction with the lightest pressure. The intensity in his eyes was almost too much, and it left Alec breathless. Again. Panting slightly, he parted his lips and then swallowed thickly.

Sebastien’s eyes darted instantly to the motion of his throat and for a second, Alec could have sworn he saw a vibrant red light reflected in his eyes. Sensing his moment of hesitation, of tension, Sebastian frowned. “What?”

“Nothing,” Alec breathed. “I thought your eyes went red but it must have been a car on the street outside or something.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, but then blinked rapidly. “Do you still wish to continue this?”

“Yes,” he whispered. Don't stop now. His whole body was thrumming in a way it hadn’t ever before with casual encounters. He felt alive for the first time in months.

Sebastien stepped back, turning his face away a little more. “Should we make our excuses…?”

Alec shook his head. “Nah, Kay will know what’s going on anyway, and I don’t want to face her smug looks until tomorrow at the least.”

With a softly amused chuckle, Sebastien stepped back and allowed Alec to leave the room first. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as the other man followed behind, but he didn't turn around or look at him until they were outside on the main street.

“It’s a bit of a walk…” Alec said, only realising then how long the walk would be. “I’m way over on the other side of town by the station…”

The continuing intensity of Sebastien’s scrutiny was beginning to shift from a turn-on to just marginally unnerving, but he told himself that an esteemed professor at one of the country’s finest universities, with more letters after his name than anyone his age had a right to possess, was unlikely to be truly dangerous for a one-night stand… right? There was something about the way he stared at Alec — an unmistakable hunger in his eyes — that made his skin prickle and his heartbeat jump instinctively. Like a deer before the gaze of a tiger, he was entranced.

Unexpectedly, Sebastien’s easy stride slowed at the brick gateway to a small, gravel park that sat between an old church and a chemist, the latter closed at this time of night. “May I kiss you?” he breathed, still gazing at him unblinkingly, as though Alec were the pretty one in this equation, not him.

Alec couldn’t help grinning. The way Sebastien’s eyes bored into him then drove all thought of threat and fear from his mind, and he nodded.

The man’s hands were chilly from the night air, but the moment they cupped his jaw and drew Alec toward him, he forgot about that. He forgot about everything at the meeting of their lips. Sebastien began tentatively, merely brushing their lips together, but when his golden eyes fluttered closed, he deepened the gesture, tongue just begging entrance, teasing him before withdrawing, retreating and returning.

Searing want shot down Alec’s spine and he arched into Sebastien’s taller body, hips seeking contact through his jeans. He moaned, deep and guttural, and it seemed to awaken something in Sebastien, because the man grabbed hold of the back of Alec’s hair and pulled his head slightly to one side to begin to kiss along his jawline, down to wards his neck. For a heartbeat, Sebastien froze there, nose pressed to his rabbiting pulse point, his teeth just grazing skin, before he exhaled harshly and stepped back. “We shouldn’t get carried away,” was all he whispered, stepping slightly out of Alec’s dazed field of view. “My place is nearer though.”

“Ok,” Alec said, still reeling. “Sure.”

When they reached the apartment building, his steps faltered in amazement. “You live… here?”

A slight flush seemed to warm Sebastien’s cheeks as he stepped up to the main doorway, only to have it opened from the other side by a man in livery. “Good evening, Monsieur Dulac,” said the friendly doorman instantly.

“Good evening,” he replied. “This is my friend, Alec Twayblade.”

It was impossible for the doorman not to realise that his ‘friend, Alec Twayblade’ was going to be a little more than that for the night, but he never let a flicker of judgement pass across his face. From the concierge desk - Sebastien’s building had a fucking concierge desk too - another man looked up and wished them both a good evening as they headed for the lifts.

“Does the English department also sell diamonds or drugs or something? How the fuck can you afford a place like this on a lecturer’s salary?” but even as he said it and the doors closed with a soft chime, he realised the truth of it. Sebastien’s aristocratic features and bearing were not merely a persona. They were truth. He stared up at him while Sebastien turned a key in the lift panel.

“Are you secretly royalty or something?” he whispered, only half joking.

The man shot him an amused look and shook his head, silk-white hair whispering against the rougher wool of his costume coat. “No, of course not, but I do have some inherited wealth.”

Some? “So you don’t actually have to work at the university at all then?”

He made a so-so motion of his head and said, “No, not really, but I genuinely enjoy teaching.”

“Your students certainly seem to enjoy you…”

“You don’t enjoy teaching?” he asked as the numbers on the dial climbed and climbed.

Please don’t say you live in the fucking penthouse too, Alec thought, already suspecting it might be true from the whole ‘special access key’. He glanced at the number pad and saw that the button labelled ‘PH’ was illuminated. Fuck. “Most days I enjoy it,” he admitted. “But I kind of fell into it a while back and just sort of…” he shrugged, “Stuck with it.”

Sebastien asked no more, and the lift finally stopped on the top floor. The doors drew back to reveal an apartment beyond that Alec could only gawp at. It was like something from the set of an Architectural Digest photo shoot. Nothing was out of place in the hardwood floor paradise, with clean, crisp lines and white marble counter tops in the kitchen off to his left, while a comfortable, and yet still clinically modern, sitting area sat to their right. Deep, fluffy rugs dotted that part of the penthouse, and a wide balcony stretched out over the city beyond, complete with a little table and chairs for warmer evenings.

“This place is incredible,” Alec breathed, the reason for his even being here completely forgotten.

Clearly sensing that, Sebastien smiled bashfully and said, “Would you like something to drink?”

Alec cleared his throat and hoped he wasn’t going to be faced with a choice between very expensive wines that he’d never heard of. “Sure… thanks.”

“White, red, beer, or whisky?” he asked, walking towards the kitchen and dumping his ‘Alucard’ coat over the back of a white sofa as he went. Alec’s mouth went dry as he watched the point where his narrow hips met the flowing material of the white shirt. Dear god, an arse like that shouldn’t be… well, it just shouldn’t be. And yet there it was. Clad in leather and looking positively delectable. “Or a soft drink?” he added when Alec remained silent.

Aware of where his gaze had landed, Sebastien halted and looked back over his shoulder, long, loose, naturally straight hair already losing the curls that had been worked into it for the Alucard costume. Definitely not straight, if he owned hair curlers.

“Uh…” Alec said, unsure what the question had even been now.

“I’m going to pour myself a whisky, if that helps…?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Sebastien smiled, looking almost endeared by Alec’s inept stuttering. Surely he couldn’t be unused to such a reaction? “Make yourself at home then.”

With a smoky, peat-tinged whisky in a wide, heavy-bottomed tumbler set on his glass coffee table, Alec watched Sebastien turn the gas fire on, and, to his surprise, he came to a halt directly in front of him. Setting his own whisky down on the table with a deliberate, and yet delicate, clunk, Sebastien turned back to him and raked his eyes down Alec’s body in a way that made him flush hot all over. His cock twitched with interest and he tried not to preen under that gaze.

Sebastien’s eyes and teeth were back to normal now, with no hint of the golden contacts or the vampire fangs, and Alec fleetingly assumed that he must have removed them at some point between getting the whisky and appearing in front of him looking like he was about to ravish him. Oh dear god, please let him be about to ravish me, he thought with a big, dumb grin spreading across his face.

Seeing his reaction, Sebastien reached down and knelt facing him on the sofa, running his palm over the already-growing bulge in Alec’s jeans. Alec let out a deep grunt and rocked his hips up into the contact, throwing his head back against the soft, open weave of the white fabric. “Oh fuck,” he hissed.

Sebastien’s fingers found the button of his jeans and deftly undid it, but he paused. “May I?” he asked, and Alec found himself nodding before he’d even worked out what Sebastien wanted.

He found out a moment later, when his jeans were around his ankles and Sebastien was kneeling on the floor between his knees and licking a long stripe up the length of his rapidly hardening cock.

“Oh god,” he panted as the wet heat of Sebastien’s mouth engulfed half of his length and then drew back to leave his wet tip exposed to the slight chill of the apartment air. The contrast stole his breath for a heartbeat, but Sebastien returned his attentions to his cock, gently sucking and working him to full hardness in a matter of minutes.

Pleasure sparked through Alec’s whole body and he strained not to thrust back into Sebastien’s mouth, even as Sebastien took him right to the back of his throat, the tip of Alec’s cock nudging against the silky resistance of his throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” he chanted as Sebastien’s fingertips just teased and caressed the underside of his balls too, and Sebastien hollowed his cheeks and sucked a little more insistently. “Oh fuck…” Really fucking eloquent here, Alec, he thought vaguely, but one look down at the vision kneeling between his legs and sucking him off drove even that thought from his brain.

The suck and slide of Sebastien’s mouth was incredible, and while he had no idea quite how much time passed, it felt like mere seconds as the heat stoked in him until he could feel the orgasm threatening to crash through him. “I’m… I’m really close…” he gasped as Sebastien moaned against his cock, sending little vibrations thrumming through him and tipping him even closer. The sharp prick of his teeth every now and again was a perfect counterpoint to the slick heat of his mouth, and it was never enough to hurt. Normally Alec wasn’t one for including teeth in this, but with Sebastien, it felt perfect.

Sebastien pulled back just as Alec felt himself beginning to coil up, his lips swollen and glistening from the exertion of bringing him that close, and he smiled. He looked radiant, and Alec’s cock twitched enthusiastically in his hands as he let out a soft whimper. The air was cold and his tip beaded pre-come freely, which Sebastien thumbed away with a surprisingly tender gesture, only to watch as more pearled immediately at his slit. Using just the tip of his tongue, Sebastien lapped at it delicately and Alec’s whole body shuddered.

His thighs shook at the tiny, intense stimulation, with Sebastien's fingers gripping the base of his cock in a tight circle, and he gasped, chest heaving. It was too much and not enough, and as he found his perineum teased as well, he bellowed and trembled. He was half a heartbeat away from coming harder than he could ever remember coming in his life, and Sebastien wasn’t going to let him have it. He roared and ground his teeth, bucking his hips, which made Sebastien laugh softly.

“Alright,” he heard him murmur, before he swallowed him down to the back of his throat again, and Alec shattered with a yell.

When he finally blinked his eyes open, he found that Sebastien had risen and was sitting on the small sofa beside him, whisky in hand, staring openly at him. He didn’t look smug exactly, but there was a quiet satisfaction to his brown eyes that made Alec flush, at which Sebastien’s beautiful lips drew back into a smile. He noted again those slightly larger canines, but they were nothing like the vampire teeth he had worn earlier.

“What do you want?” Alec asked, voice hoarse. God, he sounded wrecked. Had he really shouted so hard he’d made his throat sore?

Sebastien’s dolorous, dark eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “What do you want?”

“To watch you come,” he said immediately.

“And how would you like me to come?” Sebastien replied, sipping nonchalantly at the golden liquor as if the were discussing what Alec would like Sebastien to wear. As it was, his leather pants were constricting his obvious hard-on in a way that had to be painful for him, and his shirt was open at the neck to reveal delicate collarbones and a glimpse of his beautiful olive skinned chest.

He was an absolute vision. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he blurted in a whisper before he could stop himself, and to his surprise, Sebastien laughed. The sound was bright, delighted, and oddly self-conscious, as if he hadn’t been expecting a compliment like that. “Sorry,” he added, looking away. “Look… if you’ve got condoms, I’m… I’m good to… you know…”

“You want me to fuck you?” Sebastien asked, his gaze sharpening again.

“Yes?”

“’Yes?’ Or ‘yes’…?” Sebastien asked, seeking clarification.

“Yes. But I don't understand your question.”

“Look at me,” Sebastien said.

“Hard not to…” Alec quipped back, still feeling utterly wrung out.

“Most people assume I’m going to be the one taking it…”

Alec’s eyebrows rose as realisation settled. “Oh. And, what, I look like a top?”

Sebastien’s lips twitched. “Conventionally more so than I do, with your rugged looks and the rough shadow around your jaw…”

“So… do you want me to… you know…? Or…” Fuck, he felt like a teenager again, struggling to articulate himself and not get his sentences in a tangle while this breathtaking creature just sat there and watched him make an idiot out of himself.

“I very much want to fuck you,” Sebastien said at last. “If you’d like that as well.”

“Yes,” he said instantly.

Sebastien set down his glass and rose in a single, elegant motion, and then held his hand out to Alec.

His skin was still cool, especially next to Alec’s searing body, and his hold was steady as Alec heaved himself to his feet and allowed himself to be alternately tugged and kissed into the bedroom.

___

Part Three

Behold, plot has appeared to go with the Halloween porn I had planned. Alec’s family will come up in the next chapter.

___

I really hope you folks enjoyed this one! Don’t forget to let me know if you did enjoy it by leaving a like and/or reblogging it!

#vampire #male vampire #male vampire x human #exophilia #vampire boyfriend #male vampire x male human #male monster #mlm #mlm exophilia

224 notes · View notes

bonktime · 3 years

Text

Weather The Storm

Chapter 2: Hand Over Fist

Ezra (Prospect) x f!reader (no y/n) 1861 Lighthouse au

Rated: E (just the whole story)

Previous // Masterlist // Next

Art by the incredible @honestly-shite I’m so blown away 🥰💘

Summary: Ezra settles into life in the north but he can’t seem to wrap his head around the keeper. As they dance around each other a clash with another local brings some truths into the light.

Warnings: Language, violence, a boat load of sexual tension, a bunch of victorian sexism, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort? (smut will come)

Note: Written in the 3rd person so i guess you could read as oc? but I never name or describe her, except being short. I had loads of fun writing this! Loads of descriptions of the weather because that’s who I am and also touching. Next chapter will probably be a little late but please forgive me!

Wordcount: 3630

~~~~~~~~~

The wind was like nothing else. Four days at sea and Ezra was fairly sure it was making him deaf. It roared and screamed through the wood of the boat like he's never heard. Rattling anything loose and merging with the groans of the beams and the waves into a great cacophony of noise.

There was a knack to sailing in winds so strong, one he was very glad he'd got the hang of previously else he would probably have been tossed overboard that first morning. Even so the violent movement of the ship beneath him had been a surprise. Any time he put anything down he had to keep a close eye or it would end up on the other side of the room. It made sleep exceedingly difficult when being tossed out of the hammock was a possibility, so he was lucky to get a couple of hours between shifts.

The work was hard and one particularly malicious seagull had made off with a biscuit he had been about to take a bite out of, combined with the lack of sleep and the rolling waves, it had made him irritable at best down right foul at worst. Still, the rest of the crew were likable and only jibed in a good humoured way at the newcomer. And, whenever the bite of the cold got too much, he had a new memory to warm him up. Even so as they came into port on that forth morning, he was picturing that warm bed and the flickering firelight.

On the walk back along the sea something caught his eye. He stopped to pick it up.

⧫⧫⧫

Ezra arrived just as the keeper was leaving the lighthouse. She saw him crossing the causeway, as the sun peeked over the horizon, turning the sky every colour from deep blue to the brightest pink. He waved at her as she waited for him to approach, unable to help but admire her. Dressed in blue, she contrasted against the sky and its reflection in the water. She positively shone. As he got close, he smiled.

"It would appear I was wilfully incorrect about something"

"About what?" She cocked her head at him

"There is colour here. But to witness it you must have patience. "

He took a step closer. holding out his hand "I discovered this on my meander back to your charming abode, I believe you would appreciate it." In her hand he gently placed a chunk of sea glass, worn soft by the sands but still bright deep blue. He stayed close as she held it up to let the sun shine through. She could smell the sea on him, salty and something else. Looking up at him she wondered why he had been so thoughtful. "It's beautiful, thank you" he smiled at her, eyes creasing warmly.

⧫⧫⧫

A week passed and they talked in the mornings but their days never seemed to line up so they could only see each other for meals. Ezra spent his evenings in the living room, reading by the fire whenever he was home, and his mornings wandering the coast to distract himself from the woman in the water.

Once on his walk he met the other keeper. The man had looked exhausted as if he was carrying a weight on his shoulders. He didn't say much, just to give his thanks to the other keeper and then he'd hurried away.

Further down the shoreline he liked to watch the market get set up. Watch the women waiting for the fishing boats to get in, preparing to gut and fillet and sell. He chatted to them sometimes, offering a hand carrying out the tables if they needed it. One girl always gave him a cup of tea after, laughing at his jokes and smiling. She was pretty and definitely would have caught his eye before. But now? He was friendly enough, and polite, but just couldn't work out why he was so uninterested. It wasn't like him. She made a nice friend though, and it was pleasant to get to know someone apart from the keeper even if he wasn't staying too long. And even if he didn't know the keeper all that well.

Ezra mentioned a woman he met at the fishery to the keeper. As much as she knew and liked her, it stung in a way the keeper couldn't quite identify. She was kind and soft and pretty and just the opposite of her. All of her hard edges and bitterness and isolation. But she didn't have any good cause or right to feel envious. Still, she thanked him for the warning, should she come across them together at least she wouldn’t be surprised.

⧫⧫⧫

There was another week of only seeing each other in the wee hours before both Ezra and the keeper had a shared day off.

He offered to come with her into town and help carry things. Mostly he just wanted her to show him around which she knew but she agreed anyway.

The sun showed itself as they walked together warming their skin. He watched the keeper raise her head to bask in it, smiling as she tried to explain what she needed from town with him interrupting after every item to ask questions.

She was glowing and it was starting to affect Ezra. Her skirt was pinned up a little above her ankles so it didn't dip in the sand and she'd forgone her usual headscarf and shawl to enjoy the sun. She had laughed at him as they'd left, at all his layers, called him a southern pansy. He'd grinned "Not everyone is so accustomed to this frigid weather. The cold bites those who it has not made an acquaintance with. Not unlike a wary dog."

"If you stayed a few winters here and swam in the North Sea you'd end up as hardy as any of us I reckon" he'd just smirked.

⧫⧫⧫

The keeper decided Ezra spoke just the way he did just to confuse people. Every time she’d asked him what a word meant he had grinned, but he did explain without condescension. He had spent nearly an hour chatting away to the grocer when she’d gone to the butcher and the baker. Upon asking, it turned out he had been trying to find a fruit he was fond of, but all the frills in his speech had led to a debate between the owners about what he had meant which he had then stayed quiet during just for enjoyment. When she had gone back to find him he was grinning ear to ear as the two men bickered. She had suppressed a laugh and sorted it out quickly before they had gotten even more irked by the outsider. Ezra had seen the laugh in her eyes though.

The final stop was the bookshop. A small place, stacked floor to ceiling and owned by the keeper’s oldest friend. She was sitting outside in the sun and jumped up wrapping the keeper in a warm hug.

"Lass you work too fucking hard. I haven't seen hide nor hair of you in Christ knows how long!"

She grinned; the first time Ezra had seen it. He should make her grin more.

"Aye I'm starting to agree, how're the bairns at this rate they'll have grown a foot before I can see them again. Oh, shit sorry.” She gestured to him “This is my lodger Ezra, Ezra this is Amelia."

He wonders vaguely if everyone the keeper knows can give looks that pierce the soul. He gives the shopkeeper a nod and her face breaks into a smile. As they headed into the shop, clouds began to gather overhead.

"Come on pet, I've got something new I just know you'll love."

The shop seemed ready to burst at the seams. Ezra paroused but couldn’t stop himself listening into their conversation.

“How have you been, really? I worry about you all alone up there.” Amelia asked her eyes full of concern. Ezra subtly rounded a bookshelf so he wouldn’t seem nosey.

“I… Well I’ve been worse like. Every day is easier and I’m not alone at the moment as you’ve seen.”

“You seem to collect sailors, you.”

The keeper laughed “I just like the company! And I like being alone the rest of the time as you well know.”

“Oh aye the company. Nothing to do with,” Amelia lowered her voice “I divn’t nah… the roguishly good looks? You always loved a bit of trouble, dafty that you are”

“Hey! He just rents the room, we’re… friends I guess.” Ezra wished he could see her to gage how she really felt.

“Sure you pet.”

⧫⧫⧫

20 minutes later they left, a copy of Great Expectations wrapped carefully in tissue paper and stowed at the bottom of her bag, surrounded so it would stay dry should it rain. As they stepped out a woman seized the keeper's arm, she was accompanied by the vicar and glaring viciously. The keeper swallowed and introduced Ezra, he saw how uncomfortable she was, how her mood had changed since just minutes before.

"The ever elusive keeper shows herself yet again" the vicar speaks, face impassive, "I thought you might have died since you don't attend church, perhaps you'd met god's reckoning after… being so loose with your commitments."

Ezra watches her jaw clench "I have told you before, when I work the night, I cannot attend in the morning."

The other women smirked "Work the night is one way of putting it." She eyed Ezra.

The vicar sighed "It is disappointing you disobey god's will. Your father should have married you off while he had the chance. Then your husband would keep you in line. If he could see you now, he'd be so ashamed"

Ezra froze but before he could react, he saw the rage pass over her face, fiery and passionate. She couldn't help it, she saw red, couldn't stop herself. She punched the vicar square on the nose.

The other woman shrieked. "What is wrong with you? You've hurt him!" Indeed, blood did start to drip out of his nose but he straightened himself up and grabbed the keepers arm pulling her close and raising his fist to strike.

"You're nothing but a worthless little whore. It's no wonder your sailor left as soon as you-" he was cut off by Ezra's fist, catching his jaw and sending him sprawling.

"I will not abide you speaking to the lady in this manner." He shook out his hand, and stepped over him, bending to seize his hair and pressing his blade to his neck "And to strike her?" He scowled down at the man who was opening and shutting his mouth like a fish. "What is that mantra you holy men spout? Turn the other cheek." The keeper's jaw dropped, she had known Ezra was rough around the edges but to strike a man of God, to threaten him, for her?

Against the incoming storm, it was as if he'd grown. Become huge and monstrous and brutal in a way she hadn't seen, a glimpse of what lay beneath all his beautiful words and pleasant disposition. It moved something in the keeper, something dangerous. Not many people would far defend her, let alone in such a way.

Lightning flashed overhead forking down to meet the sea, in the light she could see the hard glint in his eye, the one he'd worn when they'd first met, even as he smiled. This was a man who had done far worse and all she could feel was grateful. It squeezed around her heart.

"I suspected as much. You must have forgotten yourself for a moment." Ezra stood and pulled the vicar to his feet, squeezing his arm harshly still baring that viscous grin as he pulled him close and murmured "I'd truly hate for you to suffer another grievous lapse in judgement, who knows what may become of you."

The keeper looked at the other woman "Judge not lest ye be judged? You had better pray for forgiveness.” She stepped forwards shoulders back as thunder rumbled around them “There's a storm coming and your husband works the water. I'd hate for the lord to compel me to make an error." The woman gasped at her a cold glare. Ezra looked at the keeper as she straightened out her dress. He could have laughed at her nonchalance, it gave him pause, how he saw her quiet power. She would make quite the foe. She gave Ezra a nod and he took her arm as they walked away.

He can feel how tense she was through her arm, despite her calm demeanour panic and anxiety were coming off her in waves. They walked back along the beach in silence as the heavens opened, pouring rain down around them. Ezra frowned to himself, perhaps with all the flitting around he had forgotten how to behave. Had lost some of himself, every old sin chipping away at his humanity was taking its toll. He'd come here for some fucking quiet, why did he always find trouble, or make it? Perhaps those years… he wasn't good. Punching a priest though? The keeper was a menace.

Half way he stopped turning her to look at him.

"Why didn't you tell me you were married?" she looked away from him at the waves. White horses were being blown, throwing spray up into the air.

"I never was. He left before we could."

The rain beating down made it hard to look up at him, it dripped into her eyes and ran down her face like tears. The rain and thunder were near deafening as he looked at her face, saw the pain and the other emotion, the one he can't identify.

"What happened?" He nearly has to shout to be heard over the storm and the waves. Reaching for her, taking her hand and feeling the calluses on her fingers.

"What always happens! I fell in love, and I thought he did too. But after, after we. He did what sailors always do." she threw off his hand and stepped back, the sea lapping at her ankles.

"What is it sailors always do? I do not appreciate you painting us all with such broad strokes." Now he's shouting, a bit out of frustration but mostly to be heard as the wind begins to howl, merging sea spray and rain until the only thing he could see was her.

"He sailed away!" She was suddenly very grateful for the rain; he couldn't see the tears that had rolled down her face. He frowned at her a deep furrow in his brow. "And so, he's right! I am a whore and probably everything else too." She looked wild, wind whipping her skirt to and fro. She glared at him, daring him to judge her. "I was relieved! I didn't want to marry him, he wanted to leave and I didn't. I enjoyed what we did!" She pressed her palm to her forehead. No idea how he would react. "He could’ve said goodbye" she whispered it, let the crash of the waves muffle the sound.

To her surprise he tugged her hand away from her face, looking into her eyes, jaw set, rain plastering his hair to his head.

"Let's go home."

Keeping her hand gently clasped in his he led her along the beach to the island.

⧫⧫⧫

Both of them were soaked to the bone by the time they had re-entered the cottage. Ezra could feel the keepers hand trembling in his.

"Go change out of that wet garb, I'll light the blaze in the living room and set the water to boil"

She nodded and entered her room as he did his own. He quickly pulled off his wet clothes and tugged on a fresh shirt surprised to hear her call out to him.

"Ezra, can you help me?"

He entered her room slowly, still only in his long shirt, taking it in. The bed was wide enough for two and had as many blankets as his own, there was a small wardrobe and a chest and a stack of books on a bedside table. On top of which he saw the glass he'd given her, not yet added to the chime in the window.

She was in her corset and chemise, back to him, dripping onto the rag-rug on the floor.

"I can't seem to," she was reaching behind herself. "With it wet and my damn swollen knuckles I can't loosen the tie. Please, can you help?"

He swallowed thickly as she looked back at him then away. Gently he reached for her, big hands and nimble fingers beginning to loosen the knot. "I'll take a look at that hand if you would allow me, check you haven't done any tangible damage." She nodded.

As he finished, he couldn't help brushing his fingers across the bare skin of her shoulder. It was soft and warm under his cold fingers. She stiffened slightly and turned to him, looking up at his face. His frown remained but that steely glint was gone, giving way to wide sad eyes. She looked at his hands, big, strong and bruised. She took one in her own, inspecting the cut across his knuckles.

"You needn't hurt yourself in defence of me, I shouldn't have hit him." She gently rubbed her thumb over the swelling to check her hadn't dislocated anything and tried to ignore how he tensed.

"I could not abide his hurting you, not with his words and certainly not with his fist" he turned her hand mirroring her gesture to feel her knuckles, they were swollen but nothing felt out of place. He kept a hold of her hand as he looked back up at her face.

She looked into his eyes, deep and dark enough to fall into. They stared back into hers without hesitation. She held his hand for just a moment longer before letting go. As she did, he turned and left, closing the door gently behind him.

He didn't give her the chance to thank him.

⧫⧫⧫

When she had dressed and headed down stairs, Ezra was pouring tea, he looked up. She was still dishevelled and shivering a little.

"Come on, let's get warmed up"

He led her through to the living room and sat her down on the rug in front of the fire handing her a cup of tea. Sitting down across from her he spoke, his legs brushed hers as he stretched out but he didn’t move away.

"What I cannot apprehend is why you don't want to depart this glacial place. You are not treated compassionately and there are locations all over with preferable climates."

She gave a small smile. "Because I like it here, it isn't perfect but I have my friends and my work and my home and where would I go? How well do you think the world would treat a woman like me?"

He shrugged, "People may surprise you. They have me on many occasions. I even astonish myself sometimes"

"Or they'll behave exactly as they always do. People are predictable like that." She sighed and sipped her tea. The warmth of the fire finally took an effect. "It seems we are at an imbalance. You know plenty about me, although not because I wanted you to. How about you tell me where you got that accent?"

He grinned. "I suppose I can reveal a little information. If only for the sake of equality."

So, he told her. Told her about his home, his mother, about when she passed. How he had to work to survive and found that he didn't get seasick. He picked up words and dialect wherever he went, combining them with his own until he wasn't sure what he used to sound like. She had laughed at him upon learning he wasn't a strong swimmer.

"I can't believe you haven't been thrown overboard and drowned yet! You're unbelievably lucky!" He'd loved the sound.

He missed out a lot of the more unsavoury details of the work he’d done but the whitewashed version was honest enough. How going back to where he grew up still hurt, he had only visited once. Instead, he travelled, worked, and enjoyed himself.

"I don't know. You said I must be lonely here but you, you travel alone. You can't make good friends, you've no home to return to." She watched his face. "It seems you're far more alone than I am"

His brow furrowed "We can agree to disagree on that."

"And I still don't understand why you're here. Why aren't you somewhere warm?"

He shrugged and avoided the question, "If I wasn't, I would not have had the astounding pleasure of meeting you."

She frowned at how he ignored her question, but brushed it off.

The rain was finally beginning to ease as Ezra dozed off. Sitting on the floor slumped against the chair by the fire. He looked peaceful, no shadows playing behind his eyes, so she didn't wake him. Instead as the sun dipped, she laid a blanket over him and went to light the light.

The winds had made for a tense shift. Always keeping a weather eye on the sea for ships that might have got into trouble but eventually the sun rose and she stopped the clockwork and went back to the cottage.

Ezra had already left to get to The Mistress and she was surprised at the slight sting that they hadn't got to say goodbye. Next time she'll wake him.

She was even more surprised by how much she missed his company.

~~~~~~~~

Glossary

Hand over fist: Going forth rapidly in an endeavour, comes from ‘hand over hand’ when climbing the rigging.

Bairns: Kids, affectionate

Divn’t nah: Don’t know, couldn’t not include this

Dafty: fool, idiot, affectionate

~~~~~~~~

Taglist

Ezra

@fandom-blackhole

WTS

@something-tofightfor

Because I crave validation

@danniburgh

#weather the storm #ezra prospect #ezra (prospect)#ezra x reader #ezra x you #ezra prospect x reader #ezra prospect x you #ezra prospect 2018 #prospect 2018 #ezra prospect fanfiction #prospect fanfiction #ezra x oc

43 notes · View notes

palmett-hoes · 3 years

Note

YES. Oh my God you explained perfectly the logic behind Neil getting tattoos. I get that people think tattoos fix Andrew's "aesthetic" more cause he wears all black and all but tattoos nowadays are popular and not really a thing that only alternative people get. Anyway -> if Neil got tattoos, do u have an hcs for what he might?

yea the more i think about it the more i really like the idea of neil getting tattoos. and who knows, maybe if his boyfriend starts to get covered andrew will take an interest too. i mean you're right, it does fit his aes. maybe he gets some matching tattoos with the love of his life

WHAT neil would get tho? oh there’s so many factors to consider

i see him having a similar ideology about it as i do, that his tattoos are to memorialize significant people and events in his life. most importantly though, they’re just,, to make him feel good about himself, so they’re all of happy memories, even if some might be bittersweet

it’s also not about full-coverage. he’s fine if his scars are still visible under the tattoo and probably isn’t going to try to religiously cover every single one. it’s about having something good on his body that he chose to put there to combat but not necessarily blot out the bad things done to him against his will

he tends to collect smaller individual pieces rather than large scale work and he’s not committed to a specific style, so his collection is a bit random and eclectic. but in terms of the style generally drawn to very kinesthetic art with a lot of movement and fluid lines, but also angular and hard-edged. i don’t think he’s color-averse and definitely not a strict black-and-gray guy, but at the same time i can’t see him doing like super super bright color work. he goes for darker, more saturated colors, like jewel and natural tones. also of course i see him as brown skinned so you need to approach color work differently anyway

in terms of what he actually GETS, i don’t really have a lot of opinions on placement or like,, what tattoos should cover which scar, but have some random ideas i think he might get

he has a large piece (like maybe a sleeve or thigh) that’s dedicated to his time on the run, but the good parts. it’s a mix of a lot of images and very chaotic, drawing from like,, the french cafe where his most first bought him a cup of coffee and cottage safehouses in the alps in summer and where they had room to stretch their legs and run and chase each other and hustling three card monty in dubai with his mom and diners in the pacific northwest that sold the best fruit pies

he of course gets a lot of tattoos for the foxes, definitely at least one straight-up fox. tiny pawprints are his go-to filler pattern

he has everyone’s signatures somewhere on him, maybe with a tattoo of the Championship trophy being hoisted up by a group of hands. he also has small individual pieces that memorialize each of them individually

definitely got several exy sticks and various other pieces of gear scattered in various places. dark stadium chairs leading down to a brightly lit exy court

andrew is probably his biggest inspiration. he has the photograph of them together in the airport turned into a silhouette like a victorian cameo. a ring of keys; this one might go on the back of his neck. a tire track skid mark. a skeleton sitting on a roof against a sunrise. andrew’s hand sparking a lighter. the only reason he doesn’t have a full portrait is bc andrew says he’ll leave him if he does it

a rabbit skull overgrown by moss and vines and flowers.

he gets a rook and knight chess pieces tat because kevin says that’s what he and andrew would be

he gets some small cheeky ones too. things like a line of script that says “you should see the other guy” with a gun running under a nasty scar or a skeletal arm broken in half

once he starts to really establish who he is and flesh himself out as a person he gets some that don’t necessarily have a lot of meaning but that he just likes the look of because he has the luxury of having opinions on art now

i don’t necessarily know if i want him to cover his facial scars, but i think that’s mostly because i don’t like facial tattoos very much, especially ones located where neil’s scars are. that’s just a personal preference though. however, i think the idea of a minimalist, abstract take of just like,, adding color to the scars might be nice. something like well-saturated brushstroke work

(addendum: an au or something where all neil’s scars are just covered in abstract brushwork would be so fucking beautiful. like this but full-body holy shit)

(i just don’t think it really fits him in canon to have a full-body tattoo scheme. also those would require so much long-term maintenance you’d have to get them redone like every 5 to 10 years)

he also doesn’t get them all at once, this is something he builds up over years. he also doesn’t want to rush it because he wants to stay open to memorialize things that will come in the future, because he has a future to wait for now

---

also i assume you probably want some reference photos too bc this can be a little hard to understand just as words, so here's some of my reference images under the cut

they’re more of a stylistic reference than a content reference. also - as in all things - this will of course also tell you a lot about my own personal taste in tattooing even though i try not to make it based ENTIRELY on what i like and try to factor in what i think neil would like

these were the tattoos that most inspired me about the tattoo idea for neil’s happiest memories with his mother. for some reason my gut really drew me towards architectural tattoos for it. i like the way the perspective on the left image is curved and confusing and it takes you a second to make sense of what you’re looking at. it reminds me a lot of an MC Escher drawing and that’s sort of the exact seeling of chaos and confusion that i think the tattoo needs. but then i was also really drawn to the soft colors of the right image (although they’d have to be adjusted somewhat for neil’s darker skin), because they’re so comforting, and i think that’s the sort of balance i’m looking for out of a tattoo for mary. so like,, compositionally like the left image but colored more like the right

literally every person who’s ever considered aftg and tattoos together HAS to offer up a fox tattoo it’s law. anyway these are mine. or well, the types i can see neil with. also, not aside from the foxes, these tattoos are really the best examples i can find of the angular, kinesthetic art style that i feel very strongly matches neil

inspo behind the tattoo of andrew’s hand with the lighter. also just a good simple style for smaller tattoos or filler tattoos

victorian cameos. inspiration behind both the silhouette tattoos of andrew and neil in the airport and the skeleton & the sunrise. both would be more than just the bust and the poses would be more fluid and they don’t need the brooch design outline. it’s really more of a starter reference or a jumping off point

neo-traditional tattoos. phenomenal style. strong lines and highly saturated color, super important both for a long-lasting tattoo and for tattooing on darker skin. they also just tend to have a certain composition i really like

this is the style i see the championship trophy tattoo, the chess pieces tattoo, the rabbit skull tattoo, and the ring of keys tattoo all in

---

okay i’m done now

thoughts?

#txt #pic #neil josten #my posts #im talkin #ask #anon #anonymous #tattoo #tattoos #foxes w tats

54 notes · View notes

jtargaryen18 · 4 years

Photo

All Heaven in a Rage

Chapter 26

Story Rating: Explicit, 18+ only Warnings: Non-con, Kidnapping, Stalking, Explicit Sexual Content, Dubious Consent. Please read responsibly. Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader

On AO3 SnowQueen79/JTargaryen18

A request for a dear friend. This takes place after the Infinity War but before Avengers 4. Steve Rogers has lost most of those he had left to the snap and loneliness is battle he’s losing. What starts out as an honest intention to help a girl who has caught his eye in daily life becomes a dangerous obsession where the lines of what’s real and what’s fantasy are blurred.

A/N: There’s a fight sequence and some violence in this chapter.

I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site. If you are seeing this fanfiction anywhere but archiveofourown or tumblr, it has been reposted without my permission.

~~~

When you got the text that Steve was waiting outside the next day, you helped Bette off your couch. “He’s here,” you told her.

Claire looked up from her laptop. “Do I get to meet the new mystery guy?”

You laughed, nodded. You might as well get this out of the way with both of them. You actually couldn’t wait to see their reactions.

Bette was nervous but looked so pretty in her sundress and sweater. You couldn’t help but try to stay close to her and she held a hand protectively over her baby bump. You knew it was a difficult situation she was in. If Natasha was anything like you described her in your letter, well, you were hoping she’d put Bette at ease. And you weren’t worried at all about Steve. You knew he’d be welcoming.

A very nice SUV was parked alongside the curb and when he saw you, Steve climbed out to greet the three of you. Claire’s eyes rounded in shock as she took Steve in. Bette just stared.

Without thinking, you went up to hug Steve which he returned firmly, holding on a beat. The art of the quickie, greeting hug? You’d explain it later.

“Guys, this is Steve Rogers,” you told your friends. “Steve this my friend and roommate Claire and my friend Bette.”

She watched him shake hands with each of her friends and she could tell that Claire’s mind was going a hundred miles an hour. You weren’t getting out of that question session when you got home. Bette smiled but only managed to look even more nervous than she’d been since she’d arrived at your apartment.

You made small talk for a couple of moments before Claire made her exit. “It’s very nice meeting you… Steve,” she said after a moment, guessing correctly the best way to address him.

It earned her his best smile. You had to fight off a laugh at the expression on her face.

Steve, in true gentleman form, took Bette’s elbow carefully. “If you’ll allow me?”

Bette nodded and let him lead her to the SUV and help her into the back seat. You climbed into the front passenger seat while he did that and it wasn’t long until you were on your way. Steve had arranged for you and Bette to join Natasha and himself for dinner.

“Are we meeting her at a restaurant?” you asked.

“Nope,” Steve explained, heading for Brooklyn. “We’re going to Nat’s house. She thought it would be more comfortable.”

You could almost see some of the tension ease from Bette, watching her in your side mirror. You knew she’d been worried about paying for dinner because she was struggling. This took care of that worry right away.

When Steve pulled up to an older Victorian home that someone had lovingly maintained, you were impressed. The yard was huge. Even the roomy garage where he parked the SUV had a certain charm to it.

In a flash, Steve was out of the vehicle and dashing to help Bette climb out. It meant a lot to you how careful he was with her, how friendly. You joined them after you got out and you both let Steve guide you around to a stone walk that led to the front door.

Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, held open the door for you both, welcoming you into her home. You had to stop and wonder if you’d been there before.

Nat looked amazing in a simple, elegant red dress with her blonde hair framing her face in waves. Since you and Steve had elected to dress casually, it was great that Natasha had dressed up as Bette had. The beautiful spy’s smile was warm, genuine as her gaze moved over Bette.

The desire in Natasha’s expression when she looked at Bette was hard to miss.

“Bette, this is Natasha Romanoff,” you introduced them.

Bette just stared. You hadn’t warned her who she was meeting on purpose, wanting to see her reaction.

“Dinner is just about ready,” Natasha told you all, leading you into her dining room.

Her home was beautiful inside, the dining room with its rich dark wood was exceptional. In no time, you were situated at her round dining table, enjoying a truly amazing salmon dish she’d made. Natasha placed glasses of white wine before you and Steve before almost offering it to Bette and thinking better of it.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha shook her head at herself. “I wasn’t thinking. I have soda and tea if you’d like something besides water.”

Bette smiled, placing her napkin in her lap. “Water’s fine. Really.”

“Thank you for helping to get us together,” Natasha told you so sincerely and it took you a moment to realize that she was as nervous as Bette was. “I appreciate this more than you know.”

You’d found out for them beforehand if Bette had any food allergies or special needs. Content that Bette seemed comfortable, their hostess seemed determined to get down to business.

“How far along are you?” Natasha asked gently.

“Seven and a half months,” Bette told her. “Right now, my due date is October 20th.”

“I’m going to apologize now,” Natasha began, “but I’m going to ask a lot of questions. If anything makes you uncomfortable, please feel free to tell me. Okay? I don’t want you to feel intimidated.”

Bette glanced up at that, met Natasha’s gaze with something like appreciation. Right now, you were the only one who knew what that meant to Bette considering some of the answers she was going to give to some of those questions. Bette was embarrassed by her situation and you understood that. You just didn’t think she had any reason to be and you kept your fingers crossed the two Avengers you were having dinner with would prove you right.

“Are you sure you want to put your baby up for adoption?” Natasha asked carefully.

The fork in Bette’s hand shook slightly.

“Yes,” she said after a beat. “I’m very sure. I can’t even take care of me right now… Much less a child.”

“Has the father been involved at all?” Natasha went on. “Has he contributed anything to your welfare or that of the baby?”

“No,” that answer was immediate and held a note of bitterness. “Evan got so angry when I told him, like it was all my fault that it happened. We got into a terrible fight and he grabbed some of his things and he just… he left. We lived together then, he paid half of everything and he just left me.”

Your heart sank. As scared as she must have been in finding out she was pregnant, to have Evan pull that? You couldn’t imagine.

“I came back from work a couple of days later and he’d taken the rest of his stuff, and our TV, and left his key on the counter. I haven’t heard from him since. He hasn’t given me anything. Not even a kind word.”

Steve’s jaw was locked as he listened. You could just imagine the opinion he’d formed of Evan.

Natasha’s expression stayed kind, passive. “If he hasn’t been involved in your life during your pregnancy and he hasn’t provided any financial support, he can’t say anything if you decide to put your baby up for adoption.”

You liked the way Natasha explained why she’d asked the question. You could tell Bette appreciated it.

“Were you together long?” Steve asked.

She nodded. “Almost two years.”

“Would I be able to get his information from you?” Natasha asked. “If we decide to proceed from here? I’d like to find out as much as I can about him.”

Bette nodded. “Of course.”

“Would I have your permission to get information about you?” Natasha continued.

“Yes, and I’m glad to answer any questions that you h-have,” Bette replied.

“Do you know the gender?” Natasha took a drink from her wine glass, trying to be nonchalant about everything. And even though you didn’t the woman well, not in this timeline, you could tell she was as nervous as Bette was. Her knuckles were white as she clutched her glass.

“No,” Bette’s voice was shaking now. “I haven’t… I mean…”

You gave your friend a moment and when she faltered, you decided to help.

“Bette doesn’t have medical insurance,” you explained for her. “Nor does her mother and that’s really all the family she has right now. That’s why I’m trying to help her. The stress of this situation can’t be good for her health or the child’s.”

Nat nodded, thinking about your answer.

“Regardless of what you decide to do,” she said after a moment, “I’d be glad to arrange medical care for the rest of your pregnancy and for the delivery. I’m able to do that and I would feel better knowing you and your baby are looked after.”

Bette burst into tears at that point and quickly moved to her, taking her into your arms.

“See?” you told her, letting her cry on your shoulder. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

You hadn’t expected either Avenger to berate or judge Bette for not having seen the doctor in her situation. You’d guessed Natasha would be kind. But you didn’t expect that. If that was the case, that would be a lot of stress off Bette.

“I’m so sorry,” Bette apologized to both Natasha and Steve, dabbing at her face with her napkin. “The hormones I guess… and I’ve just been… just…”

Natasha’s expression was warm. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

After that, you all enjoyed dinner, Natasha putting Bette at ease about hormones during pregnancy and how they were perfectly normal. She mentioned her friends, Laura and Clint. It was into the third story of what the poor man had been through with his wife’s pregnancies, and you and Bette were in stitches when something occurred to you.

“Do you mean Clint Barton?” you had to ask. “Hawkeye?”

Natasha nodded and smiled. “One and the same.”

Then she was on to just telling embarrassing stories about just him. You weren’t looking forward to meeting him with all that in your head. How would you not burst out laughing?

“Should I even ask what stories you tell about me when I’m not here?” Steve finally broke in.

Natasha laughed. “Probably not. But I’ll find a time to tell you all of them,” she pointed at you.

When you all moved to the living room, you put Bette on the couch between yourself and Natasha. You continued with small talk. Bette was having a really nice time.

Until she gasped, clutching at her side.

“Are you okay?” Natasha asked her.

“Little thing’s kicking,” Bette explained. “Kicks me really hard sometimes.”

Reaching out and grabbing the spy’s hand, she placed it flat on her bump and the two of them sat so still for a long moment.

Natasha’s smile was dazzling. “I felt that… Wow, he or she is really happy in there.”

Bette nodded and smiled. “If you were to adopt my baby, how would things work?”

Natasha pulled her hand back and it was shaking. “I don’t know if anyone has mentioned this to you, but I’ve been unable to adopt for many years. I’m an Avenger. I’m told there’s a strong chance that I wouldn’t live to see a child grown if it was given to me. I’m single. There’s also a question of my mental state considering the nature of our work and past experiences.”

Steve nodded, his expression sympathetic. Yes, they were heroes, but what prices had they all paid for being so?

Bette seemed to consider that. “So, it would be a… kind of under the table thing?”

“I’ve talked to Tony Stark,” Natasha explained. “He said if you and I could come to an agreement that his lawyer could draft something for us to take care of any legalities. If that’s okay with you.”

“That’s okay with me. I don’t much care for having some adoption agency decide where my baby is going. I like the idea of being able to make my own choice.”

Natasha nodded her understanding. “If we can come to some agreement, I’d be more than happy to cover your rent and any other expenses you have so you can rest. You could take care of yourself and the little one until they are born. You’d just have to keep up with school. I’d be glad to cover your expenses through what? May? Is the university on the semester system? Anyway, that way you could recover from the birth. Make a plan for yourself to get back on track with what you want to do with your life. We could both get a new start.”

Bette’s hopeful expression wasn’t missed by you or Steve. He looked proud of his friend and you knew he was hoping things would work out for the two of them.

You were too.

“You really want a baby that badly, don’t you?” Bette asked quietly.

Natasha’s beautiful eyes were glossy with tears. “It’s what I’ve wanted the most for so long… Yes.”

You didn’t get the impression that the spy was a woman who so easily displayed emotions.

“I’d like to have a couple of days to think about everything,” Bette finally said.

“Of course,” Natasha told her.

Wrapping her hands around her middle, Bette sighed. “I wasn’t as young as my mother was when she got pregnant with me, and I love my Mom, but our lives haven’t been easy. I don’t want to screw up the third generation. You could give him or her a good home. You’re in a place in life where you can and want to. And besides? How cool would it be to have an Avenger for a Mom?”

“Having an Avenger for a parent is a hardship in its own right,” Natasha told her sadly. “There’s been so many times that I’ve thought about how selfish I’m being even wanting a child when I don’t know if I will live to see them grow to adulthood. But… I would love him or her so much for as long as I could.”

“I believe you,” Bette told her, and the two women embraced.

You were blinking back tears. Steve reached for your hand from his chair next to you.

***

Steve meant to help Bette back into the SUV, but Natasha had pretty much taken over. He wasn’t going to get in her way.

He was happy for his friend, truly. Bette was a sensible young woman and Steve could see why his girl was friends with her. That and the fact that Bette and Nat had hit it off so well? Steve was truly grateful. While he admired the young woman wanting to take a couple of days to make her decision, he knew he’d be genuinely surprised if she turned Nat’s offer down. It was more than generous and just what Bette needed to get back on her feet.

Steve was proud of his girl. She genuinely cared about Bette and her future. And he still didn’t know what was in that letter she’d written for herself. He had to assume she knew all about Nat, how she’d helped Steve before and knew the true nature of their first relationship. Even knowing all that, she got Bette and Nat together, trying to make their lives better.

Wrapping an arm around his girl's shoulders, he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “That went very well.”

She nodded, looking up at him with suspiciously shiny eyes. “I agree.”

“You okay?” he asked gently.

Swiping at her cheek with the back of her hand as she watched Bette and Nat, talk she smiled. “I’m happy.”

So was he. Happy normal life moments didn’t just happen to people like him and Nat. It was a rare miracle, something to enjoy. Nat hugged his girl, thanking her over and over for getting them together, before letting Steve tuck her into the front of the SUV and get ready to take them home.

Natasha was barely fighting back tears. Steve hugged her fondly.

“You okay?”

“I will be,” Natasha smiled up at him. “Thank you, Steve. I hope… I hope this…”

“I hope for you,” he admitted. “Bette seems really great. I hope this works out for you. You know Tony and I will do anything we can to help you.”

Natasha’s gaze drifted to his girl, who was talking away to Bette in his SUV.

“How do you feel about things this time with her?” she asked him honestly. “Things seem very promising.”

Steve couldn’t fight back that smile. “I got a second chance. How often do we get those? At first, I hated the idea of starting over with her but now… I have the chance to get it right. I think she might actually like me.”

“The way she looks at you? I think she might actually love you.”

That had his heart skipping beats. He hoped so…

Climbing into the driver’s seat, he waved to Nat as she made her way back into her house.

“You ladies ready?” Steve asked, starting the engine and fastening his seatbelt.

The sound of rifle fire was the first thing that pierced the happy balloon the evening had put him in.

“Get down!” Steve shouted to Bette before grabbing his girl’s head and bending her forward, covering her with his own body.

Only a handful of shots were fired. It was enough to get his attention.

Pulling his shield from behind the seat, a quick look over the girls showed they weren’t hurt. He hated the fear in his girl’s eyes as she peered up at him.

He was out of the SUV in a flash, running toward six heavily armored men climbing out of a white van blocking Nat’s driveway. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nat running toward the SUV for the girls. He trusted Nat with his girl, Bette.

He’d take care of this.

Steve worked his way through them, knocking out each one until a final, dark figure emerged from the van.

Rumlow had taken on the Crossbones persona after his recovery from the trident. They’d taken him out in Nigeria. He’d thought. But no, he was fucking back because of some change when the reverse happened, strutting confidently in Steve’s direction.

“Hey, Cap,” Rumlow growled from behind his helmet. “Did you miss me?”

“Not especially,” Steve countered, blocking a blow from the heavy metal appliance he wore around his hands. When a blade extended from one, Steve was moving to avoid being cut. “I kind of thought you were dead though.”

Rumlow was a menacing figure, a strong fighter dressed in head to toe black and metal with a white skull adorning his helmet. He’d always been able to hold his own with Steve when they’d sparred. At least for a little while.

But Steve was pissed right now. Putting his girl in danger? The sound of fighting behind him pushed Steve’s anger higher, made him impatient. He trusted Nat with his life but with her potential baby to protect along with his girl he was worried she could get distracted.

He fought Rumlow, landing punches, dodging others. Catching Steve off balance, Rumlow caught him with a backhand, the metal caging striking the side of Steve’s head so hard his ears began to ring. He tasted blood in his mouth.

“How come you didn’t introduce me to your new girlfriend, Cap?” Rumlow baited him. “I’m a little hurt.”

Steve was up quickly, hitting Rumlow with a sweep of his shield and dropping him to the pavement.

“As I understand it, you’ve met her already,” Steve growled.

Rumlow laughed from his position on the ground. “I did. She’s sweet, Cap. I think I’d like to get to know her better.”

Over my dead fucking body.

A quick glance back at the SUV showed Nat battling two of Rumlow’s men who’d gotten back up. More blows traded with Rumlow. Another fleeting glance showed his girl, looking terrified and leading Bette back into Nat’s house, likely at Nat’s direction.

His attention was divided for too long. Rumlow’s blade hit his rib the first time. The second violent jab pushed it between his ribs, and Rumlow twisted it. Gritting his teeth through the pain, Steve started pounding Rumlow on the head with the flat of his shield, over and over, taking him to his knees.

Once he was down, Steve kicked the helmet at his face. Hard.

Rumlow scrambled to get back up. Steve kicked him again in the head, harder.

He should have anticipated Rumlow going for his legs. Steve had been trying to see where Y/N was when Rumlow took him down hard. He was above him in a flash, the blade poised over Steve’s face. Dodging and rolling, Steve moved quickly and the sound of the blade striking the pavement filled his ears along with Rumlow’s curses.

That’s when he heard her scream.

Bette’s scream followed.

Fuck.

Rumlow laughed. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you Cap? Too bad she’s going to be my girl now.”

The knife sliced through his jacket, through his bicep and he hissed, hitting Rumlow as hard as he could before taking off in the direction of his girl’s scream. Terror filled his heart to realize that the attack had been carefully planned.

Rumlow had always been a decent strategist. Rumlow had been paying attention. He knew Nat would be focused on the baby, knew if he could keep Steve busy, he might just have a chance to grab his girl.

Steve shouted her name as he found Nat pulling Bette from the ground in her yard. In the distance, the sound of police sirens began. Steve just hope SHIELD was on their way.

“Go!” Nat told him. “I’ll handle it.”

Using his enhanced hearing, he listened as he ran. When he heard her scream again, fury boiled up in him. Steve was angry with himself for not being better prepared. If anything happened to her…

When a dog began furiously barking, Steve darted in that direction. He spotted three of Runlow’s men running towards the end of the street. The largest one had thrown his girl over his shoulder, holding onto her while she pounded her fists against his armored back.

Steve’s heart hammered in his chest as he sped up, closing in on them. She screamed as they ran into the darkness that shrouded the end of the street and the sound of a gun made his blood run cold.

***

You thought your heart was going to beat out of your chest as you pounded your fists on the back of the man who ran with you down the street, taking you away from safety. Taking you away from Steve.

Your jaw ached from where the man had punched you and your hands hurt from hitting them against the body armor he wore. You felt sick from the motion of his running and your vision began to fade in and out.

Until you happened to glance up.

Steve was coming up on you fast. He was coming for you.

You know a moment’s hope until you heard the gunfire.

The man to the left of you dropped to the ground. A few seconds the man on the other side took a bullet, hit the ground.

The graveled road flew up at you as you were thrown down. You screamed as the hard rock embedded into your hand and the side of your body where you landed. You tried to scramble out of the way when a strong hand grabbed your arm, and you were shoved behind a man who was nearly as big as Steve.

The man who’d been carrying you was about to attack the man who now stood above you, but Steve got him first from behind, grabbing his head and snapping his neck with deadly speed.

“Behind you,” the man shielding you called.

Steve had his shield up just in time to deflect the shots fired at him.

The van raced down the road and the two remaining men scrambled to its side and climbed in as the man in front of you fired, shooting one man in the side, making him yell in pain. The door to the van slammed and the driver, the man with the skull on his cracked helmet waved to Steve and the other man.

“I’ll be back to get my baby,” he shouted and laughed as he raced away, sending a spike of fear through you.

The men were after you?

The man above you fired shots at the van, but it moved so fast.

“Are you okay?”

Steve was on his knees at your side a beat later, searching you for injuries. His jaw locked as his fingers skimmed your jawline, moved down to your hands. The heel of your right hand was cut and bleeding. Aside from the bruises you were going to have tomorrow, those injuries were the worst of it.

“Is there anything else?” Steve’s hands moved over you. “Where are you hurt?”

You shook your head. “I’m okay. I promise.”

“Sorry I didn’t get here faster, Stevie,” the other man muttered.

Steve shook his head as he scooped you up bridal style and rose from the ground.

“Buck, no,” Steve told him. “You kept him from taking her from me. I owe you, pal.”

The other man, Bucky Barnes you realized, walked alongside Steve, his blue eyes friendly.

“Th-thank you,” you told him.

He nodded in acknowledgment, his gaze darting to another vehicle, a dark-colored Jeep, coming up the road.

“Took you long enough to get here,” Bucky muttered to the driver.

The handsome man driving scowled at him. “Rumlow got away.”

“Yeah, he waved bye to us as he went,” Bucky shot back as he pulled open the rear passenger door for Steve.

Steve gently placed you on the back seat before climbing in next to you. Bucky climbed into the front passenger seat. Once the vehicle started moving, Steve pulled you up into his lap. You let him hold you, your ear pressed against his chest. The sound of his thundering heart filled your ear and your hand rested at his side.

But it was wet. Pulling your hand back, you saw it was covered in blood.

“Steve? You’re bleeding.” Panic filled you. He’d been hurt. “It’s bad.”

His arms tightened around you. You felt the brush of his lips in your hair. “It’s okay. I heal quickly.”

Tears stung your eyes. “It’s bleeding a lot, Steve.”

“It’s okay,” he whispered next to your ear. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

You were trembling now, unnerved by the entire incident. Steve’s hand smoothed over your back.

“Shhh, you’re safe,” he told you quietly. “I’ve got you.”

“Where… where’s Bette? Is she okay? And Natasha?” you were fighting off hysteria at this point.

“She the pregnant girl?” the driver asked. “Yeah, she’s okay. Nat’s bringing her in for medical evaluation. And Nat’s fine. Don’t worry.”

The driver had kind dark eyes and they met yours in the rearview mirror, his intention to comfort you.

“That’s Sam,” Steve explained.

“The Falcon,” you said.

Now the driver grinned. “That’s me,” he said proudly.

It was only a matter of minutes before you reached the compound and you’d already guessed that’s where you were being taken.

“What happened to the detail?” Steve threw the question out there as Sam parked the Jeep.

“Rumlow took them out,” Bucky explained. “Killed both agents.”

A quick glance at Steve showed you that he was furious. His jaw was locked, his gaze filled with anger.

You were just afraid he was going to bleed to death. There was a small pool of his blood on the seat next to you.

“I’m going to be okay,” Steve said with surprising gentleness as he eased you down where he’d been sitting so he could climb out. You tried to climb out behind him, but he’d scooped you back up again quicker than you could think.

The bright lights inside the compound blinded you as entered through an entrance you’d never seen before even though you worked there. Sam and Bucky followed Steve into the elevator, Sam looked you over as Bucky selected the floor.

Pointing to his own jaw, he said, “Somebody got you in the jaw. That’s going to be sore. You’ll want to keep ice on that.”

Nodding your thanks, you were just mentally trying to keep up. You’d been having a nice dinner at Nat’s home so she could meet Bette and talk about the baby. Armed men had attacked you, and you were terrified to realize that they’d been after you. And Steve just might be bleeding out. Your breathing felt funny, came fast. Your gaze was rolling around wildly as the elevator come to a halt.

Steve carried you off the elevator and into the first medical room. Bucky kept going down the hallway.

“Steve?” Sam moved closer to you as Steve gently put you on the bed in that room. Taking your hand, Sam got on eye level with you. “You’re okay.”

Steve took your other hand. “Oh, sweetheart. No. Hey, you’re okay.”

Your gaze moved to Steve’s side, dark red blood staining the light blue shirt he wore under his jacket, staining his jeans.

“Steve’s hurt,” you managed.

“Breathe, doll,” Steve pleaded with you. “I’m okay. Just breathe.”

By the time the two of them managed to calm you down, a doctor came in. You’d insisted the doctor take care of Steve right away and you watched in chairs off to the side with Sam as the doctor got started.

Steve pulled off his jacket, unbuttoned and removed the shirt he was wearing.

The wound was temporarily forgotten as you took in Steve’s magnificent upper body. Holy shit. His fair skin was littered with scars and he had a couple of deep bruises around the wound at his side. But the muscled wall of his broad chest, his powerful arms were just… beautiful. You scowled when you saw another bleeding wound at his bicep.

Steve had been watching your reaction with a smirk.

When the doctor began applying what looked like tape strips to the wound to hold it closed, you didn’t understand.

“Isn’t a wound that deep going to need stitches?” you asked out loud.

“Those are butterfly stitches,” Sam explained.

If you’d looked up charming in the dictionary, a picture of Sam Wilson would appear next to it. He told you stories about much worse injuries he’d seen Steve shake off. He explained to you that come tomorrow the wounds from the attack tonight would look weeks old tomorrow morning.

The doctor was nothing if not efficient. Steve knew you were getting antsy about Bette and sent Sam to check on things while the doctor looked you over at Steve’s insistence. He quickly cleaned the two small cuts on your hand but the rest? You were going to be bruised up for several days. Not much could be done about that.

Sam knocked at the door, grinning at you. “Everybody’s okay. Come on. They’re waiting for you.”

Without thinking about it, you grabbed Steve’s hand and followed Sam down the hall to another room. Bette was stretched out on a lowered exam table, her baby bump on display with the rest of her draped for modesty. Steve and Sam closed the door, waiting out in the hall.

“Hi,” Bruce Banner greeted you as he started the ultrasound session, explaining how everything worked to you and Bette.

You stood next Natasha’s chair and Bette grabbed your hand as the scan began and you all got a look at Bette’s little one. While Bruce moved the device gently over Bette’s middle, you got to see the baby from so many angles. He pointed out each of its vital organs as he verified them, counted all the tiny fingers and toes.

Natasha’s eyes were shiny as she watched the screen like it was the most important thing she’d ever seen in her life.

When the device moved lower, you got to see the baby’s lower body.

Bette laughed. “It’s a girl?”

“Yep,” Bruce told her. “That’s pretty unmistakable. And from where I’m sitting, she’s perfectly healthy.”

“She’s perfect,” Natasha whispered.

Bette smiled at Natasha as Bruce turned off the equipment and began to help clean the glossy gel from Bette’s midsection.

“Thank you so much,” Bette told them both. “I kind of thought it might be a girl. In my head, she was. Of course, as wound up as I am after tonight, I’m never going to be able to sleep when I get home.”

Natasha’s expression changed in an instant. Her gaze met Bruce’s.

“If it’s okay, why don’t you stay here at the compound tonight?” Natasha’s expression was careful.

“For observation,” Bruce added. “You’ve been through a lot tonight.”

Bette’s gaze met yours. “Is she staying too?”

“I can,” you told her. You’d have to call Claire to explain everything but… “Yes. Let’s just play it safe and stay here.”

Even though they had their own houses in Brooklyn, Steve and Natasha both had apartments here in the compound. When you’d agreed to stay, you’d thought maybe you and Bette could share a spare medical room.

Natasha was determined not to let Bette out of her sight. You got her settled in the guest room of Natasha’s apartment and called Claire while Bette changed into a sleep shirt Natasha offered her.

You talked about everything that had happened, surprised when your friend wanted to talk about the possibility that Natasha would adopt the baby as much as the surprise attack you'd just been through. You turned beet red when she asked you what dating an Avenger was like.

Were you dating already?

Before too long Bette began nodding off and you let her. Heading back into the living room, you found Steve and Natasha talking quietly on the couch. The clock said it was just after midnight.

Steve had changed clothes. He now wore a t-shirt that looked out two sizes too small with fresh jeans, smiling up at you. “You ready to go get some sleep?”

Meaning you’d go with him to his place?

Part of you screamed internally not to do it, to stay right here and sleep on Natasha’s couch. Remember the letter? You can’t go with him.

But another part you wanted to go with him.

Before giving yourself the chance to think about it more, you nodded.

Steve rose from the couch. Natasha gave you a hug and bid you goodnight.

Wrapping an arm around your shoulders, Steve led you out of Natasha’s and headed for his own.

Your heart was flying. Were you doing the right thing?

@kenzieam @princessofdarkwinter @brooklyn-1918 @shippers-heart @what-is-your-plan-today @wandascarlett @la-cey @writing-in-a-cottage @thefandomzoneisdangerous @onetwo3000

#All Heaven in a Rage #Dark Steve Rogers #Steve Rogers #Steve Rogers x Reader #Steve Rogers x you #Avengers #MCU

210 notes · View notes

mitchiemoo · 4 years

Text

Close Up-Part 1 (Johnny Joestar x Reader)

Summary: You are an upcoming, young actress, starring in your first major film. For publicity, the studio suggests you begin a relationship with your co-star, British thespian Diego Brando. Reluctantly, you agree, and soon find yourself at odds with Johnny Joestar, former Hollywood star. After losing his career and the use of his legs, Johnny offers to help you achieve fame but cautions the price. Is it really the fame you want? Or something else?

Warnings: Explicit language

Word Count: 3,539

“Darling, I promise I’ll return. When I do, I will be a true gentleman, one worthy of your affection.” Diego’s eyes gazed intently into your own as he raised your hands to his lips and kissed them.

You gasped and stepped back in shock. “Oh, sir,” you said. “You needn’t earn my affection, for I have already given it to you. If I am to be the wife of a tailor, then so be it. Please stay.”

Diego rose to his feet and gripped your hands tighter. “No, I must go. I shall better myself to provide the life you deserve. My father was a cruel man, who worked my poor mother into an early grave. The day he died, I resolved to never become a monster like him.” His voice shook with emotion and you could hear the desperation in his voice. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, right on cue.

“They shall wed me to another man before you return. Search your heart, you know it to be true. What shall you do with your fortune then?”

A shout came from off stage. “Elena! Jonah is looking for you.”

Panic crossed Diego’s face as you snatched your hands from his grasp and turned away. “I’m sorry, I must leave now. Goodbye, Dorian.”

“Wait!” He called after you as you rushed off stage.

“Cut!”

You breathed a sigh of relief as the lights dimmed and the bell rang. It was hot. Oppressively so. Especially in your costume. Sweat soaked the back of your neck and the under layers of your dress stuck to your skin. No wonder Victorian women were so prone to fainting spells. The late 19th century dress you wore was exquisite and you admired yourself in the mirror while wearing it many times. But the skirts were extremely heavy and restricted your movements.

It was a relief when you plopped down on one of the prop couches scattered around the set. The ornate fan your character used in an earlier scene laid discarded on the spot next to you. You opened it and desperately fanned yourself.

“Would you like some water, miss?” One of the stagehands offered. You nodded and wiped at your teary eyes absentmindedly before you remembered you were wearing make-up. Oops. The stylist would not be happy with you.

“Good read today.” You looked up.

Your co-star, Diego Brando, stood in front of you, looking extremely disinterested. He had shed the dark blue coat he wore in the scene and rolled up the sleeves of his plain white button down. It looked like he barely broke a sweat. “Although, you should try to look more devastated. At least you didn’t forget your lines today.”

If he said that to you at the beginning of filming, you would’ve been fighting back tears. Now, you simply brushed it off. Diego Brando was a world-famous actor. He had been classically trained at the Royal Shakespeare Academy and performed in several critically acclaimed plays before his debut on the silver screen at age 19. Compared to him, you were nothing. This was your first major role and the extent of your training was reading Shakespeare aloud for your family as a child.

“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.” You said through gritted teeth, picking at the intricate golden embroidery on your dress. The stagehand you sent to find water returned and you immediately began gulping it down.

You were surprised when he sat down beside you. He sighed and ran a hand through his golden blond hair.

“Look,” he started. “There’s a fundraiser tonight at one of the local art galleries and the studio wants us to go together, as a couple.”

You choked.

“Wh-what?” you managed to sputter out.

Diego rolled his eyes. “Don’t get too excited, alright? You’re not my type and frankly, I’m not attracted to you in the slightest.” He continued. “The producers and studio executives think this is a good way to get publicity for the film and help our, err, your career.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. Normally you would be insulted by Diego’s words but if working with him had taught you anything about him, it was his strong sense of pride. Nobody was good enough for Diego Brando, not even himself. Especially unknown, amateur actresses like you.

“How does going out in public with you help me, exactly?” You asked.

“Don’t sound so ungrateful, love. Thousands of other girls would kill to be in your position.” He spat and waved his hand dismissively. “We get photographed together, the press makes a fuss about ‘Diego Brando’s mystery girl’, who she is, where she’s from. The public wants to see more of our chemistry and go see the movie. The film’s a success, you’ll be named one of Hollywood’s most promising newcomers and a few months later, we quietly ‘separate.’”

You looked down at the ice in your glass, quietly mulling over Diego’s proposition. All you had to do was pretend to fawn all over him at award shows and fancy parties, where other famous actors and directors were, and your movie would draw crowds of people? It was too good to be true. The only downside you could think of was spending more time with Diego. Your lip curled in distaste.

“How long would this arrangement last?” You asked, tentatively.

“About six months.” He replied. “Like I said, everybody benefits. You get a handsome bachelor, I get free publicity, and the studio makes a bunch of money. Do we have a deal?” He extended his hand and smirked. You hesitated. Six months for a fruitful career and a lifetime of success? What could go wrong?

You shook his hand and were surprised by how firm his grip was. “Deal.”

“Smart move, darling.”

The bell rang again, signaling the end of the break. Diego stood up and offered you his hand again. You set the fan and empty glass aside and he pulled you up from your seat. “My driver and I will pick you up at 7. Dress code is black tie and please, don’t be late.”

He turned on his heel to walk back onto set. As you followed, you couldn’t ignore the growing sense of trepidation brewing in your heart. What could go wrong?

Shortly after filming ended that day, you took a cab back to your apartment and inspected your closet. Diego specified black tie, which meant a full-length evening gown, gloves, and jewelry. You had a few nice dresses from the department store, three of them full length. Sure, they wouldn’t be as elegant or glamorous as the Dior, Chanel, and Balenciaga gowns you’d see tonight but that just gave you something else to strive for. Maybe next time you would be the one wearing Chanel and turning heads.

You drew a cool bath and scrubbed your face and hair free of make-up and styling products. Of course, you were going to have to reapply them later but for the moment, you felt very refreshed.

Before you left the set that day, you asked your stylist to recommend some good salons in the area. Your hair and make-up skills were limited so you opted to have it professionally done. Diego made it sound like there would be photographers everywhere and you wanted to look your best.

The gravity of your situation didn’t really register until you were sitting in the stylist’s chair and staring at yourself in the mirror, that visceral moment when suddenly every blemish and flaw seemed magnified. Your stylist was a talkative lady with pink hair, but you were only half listening to what she was saying. This arrangement was only temporary, you reasoned, and then you would be free of him. But deep down, you knew you would never really be free of him.

For the next six months, you would be “Diego Brando’s girlfriend” and after you separated, you’d still be known as “that girl who dated Diego Brando” or “Diego Brando’s ex.” You came to Hollywood to make a name for yourself, to be admired for your work, to be remembered as something greater than “so-and-so’s ex.” When you left your hometown to become an actress, you knew the risks, but the rewards were better than any opportunity available there. You were patient, auditioning for minor roles at first and building up your resume until you decided to audition for a few major parts. Just when it seemed like your hard work was paying off, you made a deal with the devil, disguised as a charming British thespian.

“What do you think?” The girl chirped, breaking you out of your thoughts.

She definitely did a nice job. You barely recognized yourself. The make-up was tastefully done and not nearly as caked on as your usual “stage face.” She pinned your hair up in an elegant up do, which brought special attention to your face and kept the back of your neck cool. You nodded approvingly, tipped her well and headed back to your apartment to finish getting ready.

As promised, a limousine pulled up to the front of your building at exactly seven o’clock. It seemed Diego was a punctual man and you had to admit he looked handsome in his gray, three-piece Armani suit. He greeted you curtly when you slid into the back with him and then immediately started dictating how the night would go.

“So, when we pull up to the gallery, there will be a lot of cameras flashing, alright? I get out first, then I help you out, like the gentleman I am.” Diego eyed you in your pale blue dress like a jeweler appraising a gemstone. “You look decent enough, I suppose. I’ll buy you the dress next time although they won’t really be paying attention to you.”

You frowned. “Isn’t that the whole point of this?”

“Relax, love, you have six months to catch their attention.” He crooned. “Just think of this as acting experience. If you want to be as big a star as me someday, you’ll have to get used to the flashing lights, invasive questions, and lack of personal space.”

You looked out the tinted windows at the passing streetlights. You imagined them as eyes peering into the dark leather interior, prying into your innermost thoughts. If what Diego said was true, when you were famous and in the public eye, every move you made was picked apart by paparazzi, who descended like a kettle of vultures. One wrong move and you’d be vilified. If something that was meant to stay private leaked out, there would be an outcry of scandal that could, depending on what it was, jeopardize your whole career.

Another thought suddenly crossed your mind. “Diego,” you said. “Are you going to kiss me?”

He tensed beside you. “Err, probably not. The most I’d do is hold your hand or put my arm around you like this while we’re sitting.” You felt his arm snake around the back of the seat. “Even in my real relationships, I don’t care for too many public displays of affection. I don’t think it’s very professional, really.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “I agree and I feel it’s ‘too soon’ in the relationship to do that. This is our first public event together, after all. Let’s leave them wanting.”

“What’re you thinking?”

“I’m thinking less is more. The press would go wild for a picture of us kissing, especially if we never do it.” You said. “Let’s fuel the fire and make them fan the flames.”

The glow of the passing streetlamps illuminated Diego’s face, casting it in shadow. A glint caught in his eye. “I like the way you think.”

The limousine jerked to a stop and suddenly you were very aware of your department store dress, hand-me down pearl necklace, and $70-dollar hair do. You swallowed and gripped at the small clutch purse you brought. Diego had told you what to do. Smile and look pretty, let him lead you to the door. The hardest part was getting inside. If this was the kind of fame you wanted, you couldn’t let the people and flashing lights overwhelm you.

Diego was a shrewd operator. Every movement he made was calculated and perfected, so it appeared seamless. For you, everything was a blur of faces and cameras and people shouting over each other. You were pretty sure you heard “Diego!” and “Who’s that?” over the commotion. This time, Diego’s firm grip was comforting, and you concentrated on the back of his blond head as he led you down the concrete path.

Your heels clicked on the white marble flooring of the entrance way and you breathed a sigh of relief. Diego let go of your hand and scanned the room. “That went well.” He said. You inspected your palms and saw little crescents indented in the skin. “Do you ever cut your fingernails? They’re like claws.”

“Oi, I clip my fingernails once a week like everyone else. They just grow fast is all.” Diego said defensively. “You have a death grip like a construction worker. Maybe you should’ve done that instead of acting.”

You rolled your eyes and looked around. The gallery was large and open with white marble floors lined with royal blue carpets, and cream-colored walls decorated by avant-garde paintings. A large set of double oak doors was at the end of the room. Fellow guests milled around the entryway in groups, but you didn’t see anyone you would recognize.

“What’s this fundraiser for, anyway?” You asked.

Diego shrugged. “No idea. I just got the invitation in the post and saw Steven Steel’s name on it. Figured it’d be a good excuse to dress up and eat fancy food with other rich people.” Your stomach growled when he mentioned food. The last thing you ate was a handful of blueberries and a soggy sandwich on set that afternoon. You were starving.

He offered you his arm, which you took, and led you through the double doors into the main showroom. You glanced around at the various tables along the floor and spotted several famous faces. The man with the tall silver-blond hair was French actor Jean-Pierre Polnareff and sitting next to him was the famous Egyptian magician Mohammed Avdol. At the table next to theirs was the famous British fashion model Lisa Lisa, impeccably poised and smoking a cigarette in a fancy holder. A few people turned in their seats to look at you and Diego as you passed.

“Ugh, look who’s at our table.” You heard Diego scoff.

You were shocked.

It was Johnny Joestar.

The Joestars were basically Hollywood royalty and Johnny was no exception. Dubbed “Joe Kid” by his fans, Johnny was the face of young Hollywood, an All-American country boy with cute dimples and a youthful face. He made a name for himself playing the righteous young cowboy protagonist in Western action films, the hero who saved the girl and brought justice to a lawless landscape. Everyone knew him and it seemed like his star would only grow brighter.

Until the accident happened.

It was about a year ago. The papers said Johnny was on a walk with his girlfriend one evening when a crazed fan came up from behind and shot him in the back. He lived, fortunately, but was paralyzed from the waist down and would need to use a wheelchair for the rest of his life. The studio abruptly ended his contract and he hadn’t been seen or mentioned since.

“Joestar,” Diego hissed. He pulled out your chair and pushed you into the table before taking his place beside you. The three of you were the only ones there, so far, and Johnny sat across from you in his wheelchair. It struck you how different he looked in real life. His tousled blond hair reached his shoulders now and for someone known for his dimples, it seemed like a scowl was permanently etched on his face.

Johnny sneered. “Ugh, I should’a known you’d be here tonight, Diego. Never could resist an opportunity to boot lick.”

You knew Johnny and Diego had a history. They had been rivals, once, before Johnny’s accident. They competed for roles, awards, and the hearts of beautiful women. Diego held nothing but contempt for his former rival. He claimed Johnny didn’t have a shred of talent and used the Joestar name to get his roles instead of working hard to earn his fame, like he had. “I came from nothing” he was so fond of reminding you. The feeling was mutual, at least from what you read. Johnny once called Diego “a stuck-up prick who should go back to community theater.”

“Who invited you, anyway? I thought it was clear no one wanted you around since you lost your legs.” Diego said.

You bit your lip and looked down at your lap. Should you say something? Diego could be a heartless bastard, you knew that. Honestly, you felt for Johnny. This man had lost everything. What happened was an accident, he didn’t deserve to get shot, no matter how much the media tried to demonize him.

You gently touched his arm. “Diego, dear, be nice.” You implored, batting your eyelashes for effect. “Please, for me?”

Johnny narrowed eyes and turned his pale blue gaze towards you. They were much more intense in person and once again you were aware of how insignificant you were compared to people like him. “Who’s this?”

Diego looked at you with a simpering smile and draped his arm over the back of your chair, like you’d practiced in the limousine. “This is my new girlfriend.” He replied. “Jealous?”

Johnny regarded you for a moment. “Lemme guess, you’re his co-star? What’s your name?”

You told him and reached over to shake his hand. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Joestar. I’m a big fan of your work.”

You weren’t lying. If any singular actor inspired you to finally move to Hollywood and pursue your dream, it was him. Westerns were far from your favorite genre but if Johnny Joestar was starring in it, you’d drag your family to see it anyway. It was surreal for you to be so close to him.

He nodded politely and shook your hand. You were surprised by how rough and calloused his palms were. “You must be new. I’m not familiar with any of your roles.”

“Yes, this is my first major role. I was very excited when I found out I was going to be working with Diego Brando.” You said. “I’ve learned so much from him.”

“This movie is going to be a hit.” Diego cut in. “Darling, you’re such a captivating actress, everyone will adore you.”

“How long have you two been together?” Johnny asked.

“Two weeks.” Replied Diego.

Johnny went quiet for a moment, inspecting his fingernails intently. “I see,” he said. “Sleeping with Diego is a smart career move. Come up with it yourself?”

An indignant “what” was all you could manage as color bled across your cheeks.

Johnny wasn’t fazed at all. “Listen, I don’t much like lyin’ to people, so I’ll tell you this. When I look at you, I don’t see ‘star material.’ You got a decent figure and a marginally pretty face but nothing about you stands out. They don’t care how good your acting is, it’ll never be good enough for the kinda fame you want. You can be a good actress, but you’ll never be a star.”

You were fuming. Absolutely livid. Who did he think he was? He didn’t know you! He was just bitter. Jealous of the fact that you had a promising career when his ended prematurely. At first, you felt bad for him. Now? You couldn’t even look at him without seeing red.

“You’re better off this way, promise.” Johnny continued, though you could barely hear him over the thundering of your own heart in your ears. “Nobody in this town gives a shit about you when you stop making them money. They’ll turn you out on your back the minute you can’t be their ideal person. The price of fame isn’t worth it.”

You weren’t listening anymore. Any sympathy you had for Johnny and his situation was completely evaporated by the heat of your anger. Diego and the media were right. He was an asshole. Another person to prove wrong. Your movie would be a success. Over the next six months, you’d endear yourself to the public, charm the Hollywood elite and once you secured your place, he’d see how wrong he was.

“Oi mate, you can fuck off.” Diego interjected.

“Eat shit.”

You shot up from your chair and grabbed your purse off the table. “Excuse me, I’m going to the bathroom.” You said quietly, desperately trying to keep your voice from cracking. Your throat felt tight and tears gathered at the corners of your eyes as your emotions boiled over. At least the next time you needed to cry on command, you could think back on Johnny’s words, which still echoed inside your skull. They stung. A lot. And as you hurried through the maze of tables, all you could think about was how true they might be.

This is my first time posting on tumblr and I was really excited to share this! Hope you enjoyed it. My inbox is open so if you have any comments or feedback, I’d love to hear it. Even if you just want to chat, I’d love to get to know the community.

#jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #johnny joestar x reader #diego brando x reader #johnny joestar #diego brando #jjba x reader #mitchie's writing

28 notes · View notes

bat-besties · 4 years

Text

The Great (He)Art Heist

An art forger. An art thief. One last heist, then they never have to see each other again.

At least, that was the plan.

Roceit with art thief Roman and forger Deceit. - 8k

Edited and titled by the wonderful @rosesisupposes

Summary by @5-crofters-jams

AO3

The Mona Lisa was stolen by Vincenzo Peruggia on 21 August, 1911. Famous beforehand, the drama of the theft and celebration of its return is credited as the main reason for its fame.

The Ambassadors by Hans Holbein hangs in the National Gallery in London, and is considered to be one of the most technically accomplished Renaissance paintings.

Dorian found his name ironic, and greatly enjoyed that irony. It was why he'd changed it as he entered the murky world of fakes, forgeries and stolen pieces, to just his initial- “D.”- before a surname which sounded like it had also been lifted from the pages of a Victorian novel (because it had been): Mendax. Might as well be truthful about the fact he never was. The slightly arcane flair of it fit right in with his associates - St. John (pronounced 'sinjin', something it was embarrassing to learn by correction), de somethings, von somethings, double-barrels and echoes of fame- but even among them, he found 'Peruggia' a little on the nose.

But then 'Roman Peruggia' as he certainly was not legally named, had never seemed to acquire the subtlety Dorian had cultivated to survive.

Dorian knew he was not the best forger there was- he could name someone for each artist he knew who could beat him: Logos for M.C. Escher or the De Stijl movement, Andy Angel for heavy, brooding oil pieces, the list went on. But when it came to range he was unbeatable, and across the board he could copy so well that while they might not stand up to forensic examination, few had been suspicious enough to warrant that examination. He got the feel of the piece, that was the main thing. He wasn't a robot, he didn't copy lines down to less than a millimetre as Logos was rumored to do, he studied and daydreamed and looked at the paintings, he read about artists for pleasure as well as work, and when he was ready he let the mood of the painting overtake him. Loose brushstrokes or precise ones, sketched below the paint or freehanded, name any artist well-known enough for you to know them and he knew their technique.

He applied the same logic to himself. He fit in by careful planning and learned intuition. Which was why he was sitting in the café of the V&A in a checkered scarf and round tortoiseshell glasses with plain lenses, flicking through a sketchbook he'd lifted out of someone else's bag in the National Gallery a week ago. The owner was learning, and he supposed someone else might find that endearing. He didn't like the slight carelessness of the lines. He especially did not like one page where they'd given over to doodles, swirling flowers and eyes and curling armadillos. It wasn't neat, it wasn't nice, it wasn't respectful to a slightly-out-of-proportion Whistlejacket on the other page. He sipped at an overpriced coffee and closed the sketchbook. His contact was late.

A man slid into a chair by him, clattering a plate with a brownie on it. He grinned at Dorain. "Uh...Ethan, is it? Fancy meeting you here!" He did not look like one of the art students in the café as Dorian had taken such care to. He looked like an asshole.

Dorian smiled slightly. "Love the jacket, Tarquin. So tasteful."

The man ran a hand through coiffed hair and laughed. The jacket was bright red acrylic. His jeans were black and very, very tight, as was a T-shirt he was wearing with the name of a designer brand. "Oh, you think so? I saw the sale had ended on it and I was so sad but then I thought- why not! I have the money."

"Of course you do." Which was the point. Roman Peruggia had just completed a major job in New York, with the sale of the paintings rumored to be in the millions. His reputation for thievery and production of genuine paintings was flawless- a little red calling card left where paintings had been ensured that his work was clearly marked.

Roman picked up Dorian's sketchbook and flicked through it. "Ah, the master at work?"

"It's got all my work in it," Dorian said. "No item is more precious to me."

Roman's eyebrows raised, and he turned the pages slightly more slowly. "May I have a page of it?"

Dorian examined the nice leather gloves he'd chosen to compliment his disguise. "Rip it out, why don't you?"

Roman paused. "I...are you being sarcastic?"

"Totally," Dorian said in his most sarcastic tone, because Roman had been late and not kept to dress code.

Roman carefully tore out a page- Whistlejacket, with the doodles on the obverse.

"I was messing with you," Dorian said at the sight of the doodles. "That isn't mine."

"No?" Roman laughed awkwardly, as if he hoped Dorian was joking- or maybe he still thought he was. "These are cute!"

"I don't doodle. Not like that. You can have the whole thing, if you want it."

Roman made a mock serious face before laughing again. "So you don't doodle, you just make masterpieces from scratch?"

"Broadly."

"Huh." Roman sat back and started in on his brownie, pointedly not looking at Dorian as he waited for the next move.

"I presume you know," Dorian said. "Of a trick. Where one item is stolen, then multiple replicas are sold. Three, seven, eighteen- the price of that item multiplied over and over again."

He waited for a reaction, some affirmation or a comment, but Roman just licked the icing sugar from his fingers and watched Dorian. He couldn't read his expression yet, but he'd learn to.

"Of course, it's a dangerous game. In one case, the thieves even returned the diamond to the police. It might not seem as dashing as-"

"I have a reputation, Ethan." Red calling cards. Red jacket. Red lips, now Dorian noticed it. Lipstick, probably. Roman did have a reputation, yes. He must have enjoyed the work of constructing it. "I love the danger part of all this. But I don't do fakes."

"Then why did you agree to meet with me?"

"Curiosity, mainly," Roman said. "You have a reputation."

"Oh?" Dorian said, leaning forward just slightly. "And what is it about me that interested you?"

"You copied the Mona Lisa."

"So has everybody and their friend. I'm not special."

"It could have convinced me. None of the others could."

"It's not actually that complex," Dorian said. "There's one reason why it's so famous, one reason only...but you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, 'Peruggia'?"

Roman shook his head resolutely. He ignored the jab at his pseudonym. "I don't think it was just the theft. They talk about Mona Lisa smiles, don't they? There's something special about the painting."

Dorian rested his chin on his hands. "And what's that, do you think?"

Roman only shrugged. "I don't know! Isn't that the fun bit?" He looked Dorian up and down, the way he bled into the background. "I thought you might have something to tell me about it. And...I was wondering if I might purchase a copy."

Dorian laughed through his nose. "Not going to follow in the footsteps of your treasured ancestor and steal it yourself?"

"I look forward to doing so!" Roman said. "Nonnino would be so proud."

Dark eyes, dark hair- Roman could be Italian. He didn’t have a hint of an accent, but he might have been raised here. And the original art thief had had a daughter, Dorian had checked. But the lie was too far-fetched. It was as though Roman didn't care if he saw through it.

"Then why do you need a copy? If you're just going to steal the original yourself."

"I'm impatient!" Roman said. "That's all. I think..." But he popped the last of the brownie to stop himself from talking more.

"The Mona Lisa is worth $850 million." Dorian said. "If you could find a buyer who'd give you even half the price you'd be set for several lifetimes- in money, and in potential prison sentences."

"They don't give art thieves life!"

"How many paintings have you stolen, again?"

Roman crossed his arms. "Oh, very rich, coming from you!"

Dorian wrote small and personal speech in his head about why that was not the case, breathed in, erased it, and gave Roman the final and most important line. "I'm careful."

"You've also done enough for...oh, maybe one lifetime, either way. Why not quit while you're ahead? Set up a nice little art gallery of your own work in the South of France."

Dorian adjusted his fake glasses. "I don't do originals."

"Quite the man of mystery, aren't you?" Roman said. "Ok- what's your favourite work of art of all time?"

Dorian smirked at Roman. "You are, of course."

Funny, Roman's cheeks went red now too. But he wasn't completely naïve. "Oh! Ha! A sense of humour."

"Here's the deal," Dorian continued smoothly. "I want to continue with my copies, but I'm ready to quit while I'm ahead. It sounds like you need to prepare for quite the big heist. You steal a painting I'm about to show you, I make four copies, we each sell two and keep the money. I'll even throw in a Mona Lisa copy, and another two paintings if you want them. Then our ways part."

If Dorian had told Roman what the painting was, he would have politely declined and walked away right then. But he was curious, and he didn't think Dorian would tell him here. So instead they got up, passed the statues to get to the Tube tunnel- "I always enjoyed how this feels like a secret exit!" Roman said, and Dorian let himself smile before he said, "Me too."

⁂

"You've got to be shitting me," Roman said. They stood side by side in the airy light of the gallery.

"Why?" Dorian said. He'd pocketed the glasses, they were beginning to annoy him. "Is it too hard for you, Peruggia?"

"Just call me Roman," the thief said, stepping closer to the painting to examine it. "Isn't it too hard for you?"

It was The Ambassadors, taller than they were, realistic, old, and masterfully painted. Dorian shook his head, looking up at it critically. "Nope. It'll be time-intensive, though. I need you to wait for me."

"How much is it worth?"

"I'm not sure yet. Just four copies will set us up quite comfortably, I think."

Roman looked at the painting's heavy frame, at the security devices all around, at how far they were from the exits. It would be a challenge. Some might say it was impossible. But if you could get a mechanism in- maybe by posing as workers-

Fuck. He wanted this, now. He wanted to know that he could.

Dorian suggested that they find another anonymous place to meet up in, but Roman needed somewhere secure to dramatically explain his plan. He also wanted to see how the forgeries are coming along. Dorian reluctantly invited Roman to his studio.

His studio was white-walled and had a wooden floor bespattered with paint. It was covered in forgeries- his favourites, like a Monet and an obscure little Elizabethan portrait hidden among pieces purely for work. It was...innocent, maybe, in a way which didn’t fit the murky tones of the underworld they both inhabited. But that was the way the light fell through the high windows, not anything the thief would notice.

It should be fine. So Dorian tried to put off the worry about the night until he was leaving his apartment to get there a little early. Except- he had to get dressed. Neat silk shirts, casual jeans, anonymous business suit, a sweatshirt with a bearded dragon he couldn’t quite bring himself to give away. He could have reprised his art student disguise, but he wanted to be clear it was a disguise.

Maybe he should match the thief? He googled Roman's jacket, and found it after a while. The model in the picture had the exact same outfit Roman was wearing, down to the brand of the T-shirt. Dorian was clearly not the only one wearing a costume.

That emboldened Dorian. Nothing scares a liar more than the truth - he would know.

So when Dorian came to open the door for Roman, it was in costume from an obscure Victorian opera he bought from the black market. Black and yellow, a bowler hat and capelet, it was Gothic and exquisitely made, and, importantly, still a costume. Even if it was what he wanted to wear, even if it was how he wanted himself to be, he reminded himself it was originally a costume.

Roman stopped to take him in, looking him up and down from polished boots to his bowler hat. "You look...is that original era?"

Was that a hint of a flush on his face? Oh, he could not be straight. Dorian would bet his whole studio of fakes he was not. Which was the only reason he let Roman clearly see him return the once-over he gave him. And the only reason he said: "Not so bad yourself, Peruggia. Oh, and yes. It's quite genuine."

"Oh. Well, I'll have to...up my game next time we meet," Roman said. He was still in a relatively generic designer outfit, still in his signature red.

"I look forward to it," Dorian said without thinking too deeply about whether that was true. "Come on up."

Roman looked around the studio in excitement. "These are great! Can I touch one?"

"No!" Dorian was horrified. "Do you touch the paintings you steal?"

"Of course not!" Roman put an offended hand on his chest. "What do you think I am, Mendax, an amateur? But I want to do it and I can't and it's so frustrating! Like popping bubble wrap!"

Dorian pointed at the background on the large canvas he'd started The Ambassadors on. "Once."

Roman very carefully ran the tip of his finger over the paint before stepping back, satisfied. "Thank you! Now, let me get the blueprints out!"

He took Dorian through the complex plan he'd devised. He was smart, Dorian had to give him that, and willing to explain wherever Dorian got stuck. The one snag was the exact route on the way in. "I'll have to fix that up," Roman said.

Dorian nodded and stepped towards the door. "Sure, I'll see you-"

But Roman hadn't moved, he'd just pulled a pack of white pencils out of his jacket and started drawing on the plan. Dorian coughed behind him. "Should you be going?"

"Oh, this won't take long!" Roman said. "Just get some painting done if you're bored."

Dorian stepped over Roman's legs to his speaker. "I listen to music. Classical. I have to have that to concentrate, you can't speak to me." He needed the freedom of privacy. This was his space.

"I won't! What music do you like?"

In answer, Dorian turned on his speaker and turned back to his canvas, ignoring Roman. He began to paint, uncomfortably aware of the man behind him. Would he- he turned, suddenly, to see if the thief might have some master plan to steal Dorian's pictures, but all he saw was Roman sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he sketched. He turned back to his work.

An hour or so later, during the break between pieces, Roman quietly asked Dorian to come and look over the plans again. He explained the new route.

"When shall we meet again?" Dorian asked.

Roman shrugged. "I'm not quite sure, it might need fine-tuning. Maybe give me another hour?"

"Well, I'm famished," Dorian said. "I'm going out for dinner now. I can't leave you in here."

"How about you ask me to have dinner with you?" Roman said, rolling up his blueprints. "I'll get the check, since you let me use the space today."

So they went to a little Italian place where the owners knew Dorian by name - a fake name, of course, but the sentiment was appreciated.

And, when Dorian tried to trip Roman up by getting him to order in Italian (because this was business, and Dorian needed to call the shots in business) Roman answered perfectly, and began excitedly chatting with the waiter.

"I'm glad you've brought a friend, Declyn!" She grinned at him.

Roman laughed. "Is he usually a lonely diner?"

"Oh no, we have nice chats, but I've not met a friend before!"

Dorian kept his cool. This wasn't at all embarrassing. "He's not a friend," he said politely.

Dot and Roman's eyebrows raised in one movement.

"I'll leave you two to it!" she said, before bursting into the kitchen to tell Larry one of their regulars had a date.

Roman laughed at Dorian's expression as soon as she left. "Your face!"

Dorian let out a long-suffering sigh. "A slip of the tongue. Can we move on? To...anything which isn't that."

"Why don't you paint originals?" Roman asked, all casual innocence.

Dorian took a sip of water to stall. "A lot of painters could do replicas. But the paintings I do, proper forgeries, have to be perfect. The right brush strokes, the right colour, the right emotions. I have to be a chameleon, adapt to embody other artists. I don't want to lock myself into one style."

Roman was quiet. He didn't fidget as Dorian had expected, he just sat still and looked at Dorian for a while. Then he said, "That doesn't really make much sense."

Dorian's eyes narrowed. "No?"

"No." Roman gestured at Dorian's eccentric outfit. "Just because you like dressing like this, it doesn't mean you can't blend into the background with your stolen sketchbook other times. You can be yourself, as well as hiding. The two don't have to be discreet."

Dorian hummed noncommittally.

"Well? What do you think about that?"

He paused for a long moment before he opened his mouth. "I think-"

Dot bustled over with drinks and starters, and Dorian turned to her with a grateful smile.

"So...are we going to get a story, Declyn?" She put the drinks down deliberately slowly. "One sentence, I won't keep you guys long."

"We're colleagues with a shared art appreciation. Dreadfully mundane."

Dot knew her eccentric customer had a tendency towards sarcasm and opposites. So she just smiled knowingly before she left again.

Roman turned back to Dorian as soon as the kitchen door swung behind her. "What do you think about originals?"

"We should get our story straight before she comes back," Dorian deflected.

"Get it gay, don't you mean?"

Dorian gave him an unimpressed look; the smile didn't drop from Roman's face. "Come on," Roman said. "I had to do it. Let's see, I was devastatingly handsome, I courted you and you were spiky but then you fell-"

"-as of, oh, a month ago," Dorian finished smoothly. "Our first date was the V&A, of course."

"Oh it was, was it?" Roman said mischievously.

Dorian ran through a cycle of answers. In his art student disguise he'd be flustered, in a suit dismissive, in an art-show-fashionable dress he'd flirt back. He wasn't sure how a man in a Victorian opera costume should respond. Sing, probably. But he liked the idea of the dress, back in his apartment. It was red, like Roman. "You were smitten immediately," Dorian said with a smirk. "You tore a page out of my sketchbook and wore it in the pocket over your heart."

"I'm a thief," Roman said, stealing a piece of cheese from Dorian's plate. "You should be touched I asked permission first, I could have just taken it."

"You're not a thief in this story," Dorian reminded him.

"Ah, of course not," Roman said lightly. "Accountant pals, maybe?"

"That could work," Dorian said.

"Art enthusiasts, right?" Roman said. "Have you read about the cut to funding of arts classes pla-"

"There is nothing more indicative of society that is failing than classism in art-"

"I know right! It's not like-"

And then they were off, pausing only to thank Dot for their mains and barely pausing to eat- or breathe.

They got their dessert for free. A single tiramisu with two spoons. Roman paid for the rest of the meal.

Roman agreed to run the plans by Dorian three days later. He did. Then he laid his plans on the ground, and Dorian put music on, and they worked together again, despite Dorian's grumbling.

"You owe me for this, Peruggia."

"Mmm...dinner again?"

"I'm not making a habit of this."

But Dorian had always been a liar.

⁂

Six months later, neither knew each other's real name. But Dorian knew Roman loved Broadway, and had let slip he shared that love. A few too many references made it obvious Roman loved Disney, too. He said he liked Flynn Ryder, and Dorian rewatched Tangled that night. The day after their conversation about Broadway, Roman hummed 'Façade' from Jekyll and Hyde as he read up about how best to hack security cameras.

Roman stuck his tongue out when he concentrated. When Dorian took a break to stretch he went in time to his music, often without thinking. Roman bought whole sets of clothes off mannequins. It was easier, according to him. He declined the offer to look for actual clothes for himself. Dorian had a different name at every restaurant they visited. Roman had wanted to be an actor. Dorian had only ever wanted to paint. When Roman was stressed he was loud and big and full of nervous energy which needed to be burned off with a walk and giving him space to talk about everything and nothing. When Dorian got lost in the detail of the painting- it happened most often in the most minute detail - he wouldn't break for water or stretches or food. Roman had to steal his speaker and sometimes his brush to pull him away.

As the heist drew nearer, those little details seemed to take on greater weight. A few days before it, Roman became a notable absence in Dorian’s studio as he prepared. He would enter the building at eight, Dorian remembered, and he tried to paint as the clock chipped away at seven, five past, eight past, twelve past. His music tried to smooth the harsh seconds by dripping ornaments and glissandos over it, but even that became a distraction rather than letting him get in the right headspace like usual.

He flipped from the intense detail of a little landscape to preparing a frame. It wasn’t hard, but he didn’t feel like it was quite right. It was too easy to take his attention. He paced up and down his studio a few times, shaking out his hands. Without thinking, he reached for his phone and opened a news app to see if there was anything about the heist yet. Nothing.

If Roman got caught, as long as the thief didn’t tell, there was nothing to trace back to Dorian. And he wouldn’t tell. So there was no reason to worry. Sure, it was a waste of months of work on the forgeries but that was better than prison.

Dorian went over to look at the forgery. The small details had been hardest: Hans Holbein had written legible writing on even the tiniest of items. A whole cabinet of items to represent the two men and showcase their learning- he’d explained each one to Roman, at some point. The distorted skull was the hardest to do, but satisfying. He paced around it, seeing the skull form. Memento mori. “So,” he had said, “remember your place and don’t be proud. And be careful.” Roman had just laughed. “Ah, but remember...yolo. So don’t be too boring!”. Dorian laughed through his nose and shook his head. Roman was such an idiot, and he could be reckless. But he was a professional, he would return safe.

Dorian gave up on trying to concentrate and closed up the studio for the night, heading back on the Tube and letting his mind wander through the window and wonder in which style he would paint it. But the red lights of the signal, and a young woman in a designer T-shirt, and an advert for some kind of Disney on Ice event wouldn’t let him drift into the imagined simplicity of painting.

A few hours after he’d got home, his phone buzzed. He grabbed it from his side and opened it to see a single winking emoji from Roman. And he felt his insides go soft. And he knew it didn’t mean much, so he replied “Well done.” and let himself come down from his nerves to sleep. It didn’t mean much. It didn’t mean anything.

The theft broke on the news the next morning.

⁂

"I suppose this is goodbye, then," Dorian said, when Roman returned to his apartment the next day. "Don't miss me too much. Here she is-" He handed over a Mona Lisa copy. "And you can pick any other two. I like the Monet, personally."

"I do too," Roman said. "But that one's your favourite-"

Dorian laughed unconvincingly. "Oh, no, I-"

"You look at it when you're stressed. Like you want to be a little lilypad floating somewhere I can't annoy you," Roman teased.

"Would that I were," Dorian replied with a roll of his eyes and a slight smile. He was relieved in some ways, but it kind of hurt to have Roman reject the piece of himself he tried to give him.

"No, I'll take the Picasso, I like that new one!"

"Very nice. And the third?"

Roman didn't put on a show of casualness, he knew just what he was asking. "For the third, I'd like an original piece."

"What of, exactly?" Dorian asked, distant and cool.

Roman persisted. "Whatever you like."

The forger looked at his studio of replicas, like old friends, at his paints, his brushes, his paint-splattered speaker. Then he looked at Roman. His honest eyes, his liar's mouth, his impersonal armour of an outfit.

"I'm going to paint you."

Roman's eyes widened. "What- how?"

Dorian tilted his head and assessed him. "Come dressed how you'd like to be painted. Don't waste my time with $40 T-shirts and such. Wear red."

"The colour of love," said Roman with a grin, because Dorian had wrong-footed him.

"The colour of blood," said Dorian, because he needed the last word.

And because Roman wouldn't let him, he carefully put each painting under his arm and on the way out he asked Dorian if he'd seen Titanic, and Dorian rolled his eyes, and they got caught on the question of the male gaze and how much room was on that raft for an extra twenty minutes.

Roman arrived in a prince's costume. No crown, just his natural curly hair. The jacket was white, technically, but the red sash was...perfect. The red cape was perfect. The gold and white were perfect. Of course, Dorian reflected, saying so would only give Roman a window to tease him and he was already so nervous but- "I stole this whole ensemble from the V&A costume vault! Ah, memories."

He laughed. "You look- perfect."

Roman blushed, slightly, and Dorian laughed again. "Keep that red, darling, I have a theme for you." He'd set a stool up by a white wall, but the colour didn't quite work right with the prince outfit, they didn't contrast..."Could you lay down on the floor?"

"I am not getting paint on this!"

"Fine-" Dorian circled his studio a few times before holding his hand out. "Your cloak, please."

Roman took it off. Dorian hung it from some of the many picture-hooks on the wall, creating a backdrop. "Sit down, just there."

Roman did so, and Dorian tilted his head to assess him. The red made him stand out, but the sash was like a slash across his chest, like he was so much himself he was tearing apart. That couldn't be further from the truth. He took the cloak down again, not speaking to his sitter, and stepped back again.

The white kind of fading into the background, the red strong and vivid...that could work. Roman, bold and vibrant, letting his edges blur into the background...but there needed to be something more.

Dorian handed Roman a stem sharp with red gladioli flowers and positioned his hand to hold it like a sword, then shook his head. He stuck the tongue out of the corner of his mouth then put his hand over Roman's and moved them to be positioned over his heart. Better. Not perfect. And this had to be perfect.

Roman laughed softly and mirrored Dorian's expression, poking his tongue out of his mouth. "Copying my expressions now too?"

"Oh?" Dorian closed his mouth. "I didn't realise."

"'S cute," Roman teased.

"Thank you," Dorian said, leading Roman back up from the stool and into the middle of the studio. "And you've given me an idea. I'm sorry about the costume, maybe you can commission a copy from Pat Morgan with all that money you have now. Her work is lovely, they'll make something even realer than the original."

"I don't want a copy," Roman said, lying down on dusty paint stains and propping up his head on his chin to look up at Dorian. "If this one is ruined...so be it. Make me look beautiful in it! Maybe, just, accentuate my cheek bones a little-"

"No," Dorian said gently. "Now, kick your legs up behind you, and hold your flowers just under your chin- finger underneath your chin- There you are, just perfect."

"For the final touch..." Dorian went into Roman's shoulder-bag and pulled out a collection of plans and maps, spreading them on the floor in front of him, as though he'd just looked up. He laughed when he saw a few stacks of notes tied in bundles of thousands of dollars loose in the bag with them. He put a few among the plans. "A status symbol," he said. "Like in The Ambassadors."

"I'm my own status symbol."

"Oh, of course you are," Dorian purred.

"Now, you'll need to hold that there," Dorian said, turning a canvas around. "And I'm not sure which music would fit the mood. We'll have to be quiet."

"Alas!" Roman said. "I shall be dreadfully bored, just lying here!"

"Dinner afterwards," Dorian said. "I'll pay. Just hold that for an hour or so, think about all the ways you'll spend your money. Then - does Italian sound good?"

"Only if we get tiramisu,” Roman said with a little grin.

"We can only do that if you can convince Dot to bring two rather than one big one with two spoons."

Roman hummed. "Nope!"

"What?"

"Sharing is caring, Dorian Gay!"

"Pardon?" Dorian asked sharply.

"You know, like Dorian Grey? Okay, maybe you're Basil and I'm Dorian- but the thought kinda stands- you are gay, right?"

"Completely," Dorian said and turned his back to select a brush. "One tiramisu should be fine."

So Dorian painted in silence, looking at Roman. And Roman went red at his little glances and checks, just like Dorian wanted. Dorian didn't tease him for it, just reached for a line of red paints he'd set aside before and began mixing. Roman watched him, as he painted. He wasn't too sure if he should have kept a single expression, so he experimented a little. "Do you think I should wink? That could be hot."

"I know which expression I'm doing. I don't think I need help, but I'll tell you if so."

They went for dinner. Roman changed into a red sweatshirt and jeans for it. They shared a tiramisu and a bottle of wine and a round of inside jokes. The next day Dorian painted him again. Dinner that night was Chinese. Roman wore a T-shirt reading 'Clap if you believe in fairies'. When he got excited when a kid clapped at him and Dorian changed his mind about which expression he wanted to paint for a split-second. He was wearing a slightly oversized red sweatshirt because Roman had been boasting about how good a thief he was but hadn't been watching his bag.

They had to wait a week before they met up again, since they were selling the paintings, and they celebrated in The Ivy in Central London. They went to a musical afterwards. They didn't make eye contact during the love songs.

The painting was done in a month. Roman was bursting with curiosity by then, but he resisted trying to sneak a peek at it.

Finally, the day came.

The painting was light and airy, real details blurred as if by nostalgic memory. Except for Roman. He was just subtly bolder than his surroundings, colours brighter, lines more defined. He looked down at his plans, tongue poked out in concentration as his hair fell into his face. The flowers were an elegant slant which outlined the shape of his face and centred that everyday expression of his. He looked beautiful. He looked exactly how Roman felt when he was happy being himself.

A name signed the bottom corner on one of the plans: 'Dorian Smith'.

Roman took a long inhale of breath. He stepped closer and examined every careful brushstroke, every carefully chosen colour, every sign that...Dorian had made this, had painted this for him. "It's the most beautiful painting I've ever seen," he murmured.

"You really think so?" Dorian said quietly. His voice sounded vulnerable, open, and Roman realised he must have sounded the same.

Roman laughed softly. "Now you've given me your name, you know I'm going to have to steal it. Especially since you took more than just my face to do that portrait. I was right with your name after all, wasn't I?"

"I suppose," Dorian said. "What do you mean about stealing my name? Marriage so soon, Peruggia?"

"Hyphenation suits me better," Roman said, turning to Dorian with that characteristic flush rising on his cheeks- "No, I'll show you'll how I'll steal your name. Could I hear you say it?"

A shaky breath in. His heart fluttering in his chest. "Dori-" And Roman stole his name before it even left his lips.

Roman wrapped an arm around him, muscled and strong enough to lift gilt frames and statues, and held Dorian close. A stupid flirtation Dorian had heard in galleries a thousand times popped into his head, the way silly things do when all you want to think about is this one irrepeatable moment- I can't hold your hand, babe, they say not to touch the masterpieces.

But he was. And Roman was.

And Dorian couldn't copy himself a thousand times or find a version of Roman he could risk wrecking. So he brought up his hand, able to tease gold leaf into place and just barely brush a canvas with loving detail, to rest on Roman's cheek with the utmost gentleness as he deepened the kiss.

When they came apart, they grinned at each other in a giddy moment of bliss.

"That was-" "Very smooth-" "Your hand is so soft-" "A wonderful kiss-" "A fantastic kiss-" "Shall we?" "May I?" And they kissed again.

"So..." Dorian said, usual composure kissed into slight breathlessness. "Now you have my name, what are you going to do with it?"

Roman grinned. "Give it back the same way, maybe?"

Dorian shook his head. "Hold it for just a moment."

Roman pouted. "We can't have a serious discussion on an unequal footing! I'm a thief, not an evil man! That would be wrong!"

Dorian hummed. "I do see your point. Alright, give it here."

"Roman-" He looked at Dorian expectantly, but he was waiting. "I'm sorry," Roman said. "Peruggia is realer than the name my family passed down to me."

"I like it," Dorian said quickly. "I'll take it." He tipped his face up and kissed Roman again.

The light filtered bright and glowing across their faces. Dorian asked, "What now?"

Roman replied, "How shocked do you think Dot would be if we started making out at our usual table?" Because Dot and the restaurant were routine, it was making this delicate sketch of the two of them together into something more permanent.

Dorian cackled. "I think she and Larry would come out with popcorn!"

"Then let's do it!" Roman tugged Dorian to the door. He laughed, just because he could. "Great galloping Gauguin! We can do that!"

"Can," Dorian shut the door behind them, "and shall."

"I think I'm going to kiss tiramisu off your nose," Roman said dreamily.

"If you try that I'll break up with you," Dorian threatened, before realising his threat had done the exact opposite of make him look reserved and casual.

"Break up, huh?" Roman nudged him in the ribs. "Is that so? Dear? Darling? My pretty painter?"

Dorian went as red as Roman's sash.

Dot and Larry watched Dorian tug Roman closer by the sash and Roman attempt to lace his fingers through Dorian's hair underneath his bowler hat through the window in the door from the kitchen.

"Ah, young love," Larry sighed. "Inept, but enthusiastic."

"They're both accountants!" Dot said, budging her husband out of the way so she could get a better view. "Not that young."

"Younger than us."

Dot sighed. "So are lots of people."

"You're more beautiful than the day I met you," Larry said. "You've aged like a fine wine...or a cheese."

"Oh." Dot raised a flirtatious eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Let's show those whippersnappers how it's done, Dot!" Larry said with dramatic flair, offering her his hand. "I shall take out the tiramisu with you, and it will be...unbearably romantic!"

"Oh, Larry."

⁂

A month later, 'Declyn' and Roman came to give Dot and Larry a final farewell. They were moving to Italy itself, but they both assured Larry nowhere in the country would have food as good as his.

Two months later, the news hit the headlines that the Mona Lisa had been stolen from the Louvre itself by none other than Roman Peruggia (he left his calling card).

And finally, four months later, the Mona Lisa was returned, completely undamaged, to a little Parisian police station in the dead of night. Those who thought they had purchased her were left with worthless fakes. But what were they going to do, call the police?

Six months later, a few paintings were sent to Dot and Larry. One was of their restaurant, a cheery little piece signed by ‘Declyn’. The other was of a hillside, done in a style remarkably like Van Gogh and even in a frame which had a museum code on the back of it. Larry and Dot thought of their Stitch doll, looked at the nice postcard with the painting, shrugged, and hung it up anyway. The postcard offered to paint Dot and Larry when they met Dorian and Roman again- accounting, they discovered, had never been their true passion.

Two years later, the sun picked out a hillside in Italy in red and gold. The watercolour wash of the sunrise faded into the glinting sea. Cypress trees were wind-swept into Van Gogh swirls; the susurration of their leaves stirred the cool morning air. A crisp dryness in the air promised that it would be hot later.

On the veranda of a spacious house overlooking the view, a man leaned over the railing to gaze at the valley below.

Another padded barefoot out of the house behind with a grin on his face. "Hmm, let me guess...another landscape? You're going to run out of green paint at this point, Basil too-many-Brushes."

Dorian didn't turn from the view. "Oh, I'll run out of paint and brushes a long time before this hillside stops demanding to be painted."

"No, you won't," Roman said with a cocky grin. "I'll buy you all the paint and brushes in the world."

Dorian rolled his eyes and turned to him with a grin of his own. "You know just what I mean, Roman. You haven't a sensitive bone in your body."

"No, I do!" Roman put a hand to his ear, and leaned out to the ocean. "The hill is saying...'Come inside! Roman's put out things for breakfast!'"

"You are..." Dorian said, as soft as the susurration in the trees, "an idiot."

"And which of us is bilingual?"

"Sto imparando," Dorian replied, raising an eyebrow. "And I was talking about art."

"Art, is it?" Roman teased, before holding his hands in a square shape, closing one eye so he could frame Dorian in them. "I think, if I could paint, I could do a nice composition of this. Only your hand could capture your beauty, but I'd make a valiant attempt!"

Dorian felt himself soften, and he didn't think to disguise that in his expression. The feeling was familiar, now. It was no less strong. Just rather than focussing on the choppy waves of flustering or blushing as he used to, he could feel the familiar tug of affection for Roman underneath it. The ocean had filled up his chest, now, and he breathed love as easily as he did air. "You flatter me, dearest."

"Flattery," Roman walked to the railing and wrapped his arms around Dorian's waist, "implies it is untrue." They were quiet for a moment, breathing in tandem as they looked over the view.

"And what will you do today?" Dorian asked Roman.

Roman hummed. "I'm going to try the tiramisu recipe again-"

"You're such a sweet-toothed child-"

"Shut up, I know. And then I'm going to have a look to see how Create is using our money. Maybe find somewhere else, do some in-depth research as to where it can go." Millions and millions of dollars and pounds and euros had been very appealing, but the scale of it hadn't much occurred to Roman when he began working for the thrill of the chase and a new persona for himself. Now, he'd decided to semi-retire and play the crooked philanthropist.

"I'll help you later, dear," Dorian said. "I might paint first...maybe I should paint myself out here. Would you take a photo?"

Roman popped inside for his phone, came out again and made Dorian pose, taking some pictures. He put it down, patting his other jacket pocket. "Love," he said, a little too casual, "you haven't done a self-portrait before. Why now?"

Dorian shrugged. He had an essay of reasons why, but he chose the simplest and final line because he thought Roman could guess at the rest quite well. "Whyever not?"

So he printed out the photo and set up his easel, and Roman lay on his stomach on the floor beside him, reading articles and sending emails. He wouldn't let Roman see it until it was finished, as with any of his original paintings - he was still something of a perfectionist.

A few weeks later, they were in much the same position, only the sunset was shining outside and Roman was watching Disney with earbuds in. Dorian swore lying on the floor like that couldn't be comfortable, but Roman was like a cat - he just wanted to be in the same space as his boyfriend and seemed to have a spine made out of rubber.

Dorian sighed and rinsed his brush, then rolled his shoulders out. "Alright, there we are."

Roman pulled an earbud out. "What- did you say- to-o me?"

"If that was meant to be 'I'll Make a Man Out Of You', I'm unimpressed," Dorian said, rolling his shoulders out. "I'm finished."

Roman's eyes widened. "Oh, all done already? That was fast!"

"Well, it is a tiny canvas. I just need to let it dry and sign it-"

Roman let out an audible sigh of relief, shutting his laptop. "I'm going to put this in our room! To charge it!" He bolted out of the room with his laptop under his arm.

Dorian's eyes narrowed, then a wicked grin crossed his face. He stretched his wrists out once more, then darted through to a side-table and slipped something from there into his pocket before stepping back to the side of his easel with an innocent smile.

Roman skidded back into the room before casually sauntering over to his boyfriend. "So, what are you going to sign the portrait?"

Dorian smirked and got down on one knee, pulling out a ring box and flipping it open. "I don't know, Roman. Dorian Peruggia-Smith has a ring to it, no?"

Roman's mouth dropped open. "You little-" He pulled out his own ring box as he went red. "You stole my line!"

"You stole my heart," Dorian replied smoothly.

"This isn't fair..." Roman whined, but he was fighting a smile.

Dorian plucked the ring out from its setting. It was a ruby inlaid in gold. He held his hand out for Roman's, but Roman replied by dropping to his own knee and taking out a gold band wrought like a snake.

"Dorian, you are-" he said quickly so Dorian wouldn't thwart him again- "You are- you are so perfectly yourself, now, and now felt so right because- you saw me, and I wanted to show how I see you- and I do, I see you and I love you- and I'm so happy you can see you and be proud of you too-"

He took Dorian's hand and slid the ring onto his finger.

"The ring is perfect," Dorian said softly. "Your speech was perfect. Could I show you my painting?"

Roman got to his feet, and helped Dorian up, watching the ring on his- his fiancé's hand.

Dorian was incredibly articulate. He could pull on a persona with a costume, talk about art history for hours, and flirt with Roman and tease him until he blushed. But the very big emotions? They were so hard to phrase. They felt like they turned to fakes in his mouth, so overdone they weren't worth anything anymore. So he took Roman's hand and led him to his original painting, and hoped he would understand.

The painting was of the photo Roman had taken, but it had widened to include Roman taking the phone photo too. It was looser and freer than his usual style, the side of his face was indistinct and Roman had his back turned to the viewer. The trees swirled, the sea gleamed, but the sunrise did not come from the east. Rather it came from Roman.

He glowed gold, and it emanated from him in a soft glow which faded to a gentle red. It picked out the detail around Dorian like a halo.

Dorian watched Roman's part as he looked at it, the soft, "Oh." of his lips.

"Do you understand?" Which is often the question we're too afraid to ask those we hope love us.

Roman shook his head. "You glow too. You're iridescent. It's not from me."

Just because someone loves us, it does not mean they can read our mind.

Dorian shook his head. "I know. It's that... you centre me. You help me see more clearly...I feel like- I am all myself, and I could be myself without you. But you help pick out the good parts in me, the real parts of me. I could do a twin of this, if you like? If you're so sure I glow?"

"I'd like that very much," Roman said, holding out his hand to Dorian. Dorian slipped the ring on. They held each other's hands and leaned in to kiss one another, and the evening sun slipped down into the cerulean sea and backlit them in a wash of light.

⁂

Dorian knew that he was a good forger because he could get the sense of any piece, he could disappear completely into another artist's thoughts and feelings. He was not the best at them. He could never study one artist well enough to become a master.

He was not the best at originals, either. He wasn't sure how he could be. They showed his own thoughts, his own feelings, and nobody could tell how accurate they were to him. Maybe Roman. Not always. There was no metric to measure them to, no guide to help him, nothing but his own intuition and decades of practice of different techniques.

But Roman had demanded painting. He thought that if he could paint Roman, he could paint anything in the world. When he looked back at that first painting, he saw how much of his husband he had left out. So, he practiced painting everything so he could finally capture his thief - a still life of a drooping rose for his cheeks, an explosive modern piece for his passion, a detailed cityscape to practice detail. He'd never got one perfect yet.

So he tried to paint Roman, over and over, and in his practice of landscape and abstracts and flights of fancy, Dorian ended up painting himself, realer and realer, every day.

#roceit #ts fic #roman sanders #deceit sanders #sanders sides #partners to lovers #thief roman sanders #forger deceit sanders

47 notes · View notes

kinghoranshit · 3 years

Text

Tell Me A Lie (NH) Ch 4

Word Count: 2,153

Warnings: swearing, anxiety

Six hours seemed to go by in a blink of an eye, and I felt like I was going to throw up as the plane came to a stop at the terminal and I had to get off.

I hauled my stuff with me and exited the plane, going through the terminal. I took more deep breaths, trying to control my nerves.

I shouldn’t have been shocked to see as many people swarming around as I did, and I saw my vision blur a bit as my anxiety kicked in. So, on top of the nausea, I felt great.

I was told to stay close to the gate, Niall and security would come get me. Hopefully it'll be soon. I felt like people were staring at me just standing there; probably had the look of being lost, which wasn’t necessarily far from the truth. I decided to take out my airpods and block out all the noises with music. The flow of it guided my heart rate to slow back to normal and I let out another heavy breath.

It’d be okay. Everything would be great.

There was a tap on my shoulder so I took out one of the pods, curious, and then someone whispered, “Lauren.”

My scream caught in my throat as I turned around in a jump. My reaction after turning around was to hit him in the arm. “Niall, not funny!”

He laughed, his eyes dancing. “I thought it was.”

Both of us looked at each other, smiling, and I sighed. “It’s great to finally see you in person again.”

“You too, Kelly.” He opened his arms for a hug and I accepted it. I couldn’t help myself from snuggling my face in his neck. He was just so soft and strong at the same time; humbled and still obviously so Irish.

“You’re not gonna cry are you?” Niall asked.

I scoffed with a small laugh, “No.”

He pulled back and it wasn’t hard to miss the small eye roll. “Come on.” He picked up my duffel from the floor. “I’m parked in one of the closer lots. It’s still gonna be crazy gettin’ out of er’.”

I couldn’t stop the look I gave him.

“What?” He laughed.

“Nothing,” I mumbled, laughing a little. “I didn’t expect you to drive us.”

He furrowed his brows now, and slightly scoffed, “Why not?”

I shrugged, then bit my lip. “You don’t seem like the best driver.”

“I’m loads good!”

When my eyes landed on the vehicle he started going towards, I rolled my eyes once again. Of course it was his black Range Rover. But the windows were tinted, so I assumed it was the safest option.

When I was a few steps from reaching the door, there was a flash and I couldn’t stop myself flinching and stepping back to catch my balance. Now, voices rushed.

“Lauren Kelly, right?”

“How’s it to be dating Niall Horan?”

“Where are you two at in your relationship?”

“Any wedding bells yet?”

“Have any major fights?”

The flashes continued and a tight wave flowed through my body as they closed in on me. I was confused how they managed to find us at this parking lot. It was a random spot hidden in the back. It was so under the radar.

A hand grabbed my wrist, yanking me forward, and I was pushed into the front passenger seat. I couldn’t rip my eye sight away from the security ushering the four paps and journalists away. After they’d done that, they nodded in our direction and Niall waved to them.

Once we were gone, Niall gave me an apologetic look. “I didn’t think they’d track us down here. But that’s what the security is for.”

I only nodded and folded my shaky hands together. I licked at my tingling lips.

Niall reached over to take one of my hands and kissed it. “You handled that so well, Lauren.”

To be honest, my mind was still fogged. That was more intense than I thought it would be. Oh my God.

I shook my head and cleared my throat. “I did not… I didn’t expect paps to be that intense. I’m fine.”

“I can’t promise that won’t happen again, but we’ll have security, and more than likely they’re gonna be the ones hired by Modest.”

“Perfect,” I retorted.

Today was meant to be a buffer day where he and I could hangout at his house. He had some studio work to do. I knew that my adhd and anxiety made things difficult, but that’s what the medications were for and I had my exercises.

Tomorrow would be our day out in public at Melrose, which I’d only been there once so it would be cool to go with Niall. The paps that Modest hired were supposed to snap us randomly over there.

We waited for this guard to open these massive gates that went into a development in Beverly Hills. This was not shocking to me, yet I felt out of place as Niall pulled through them. The buildings were definitely mansions and one of them was his. Holy shit.

“Will there be security at the house?” I asked, and that was for sure the dumbest question I’ve asked thus far.

“Oh, no, there's security at the gate. It’s a private community.”

I snorted. “Any of your neighbors famous?”

He laughed now. “All of them.”

“You fuckin posh prick,” I scoffed with a laugh.

The Range Rover came to a stop and I gasped. His house was absolutely stunning. A mixture of California and Victorian; white bricks, orange roofing, two pillars framed the front entrance, and a two door garage accented on the side. There was a lot more greenery than I anticipated as well; I wasn’t shocked by the palm trees he had out front.

“It’s really gorgeous, Niall,” I breathed.

He ran a hand through his tips a couple times, a laugh trailing after. “Wait until you see the inside. Less impressive.”

I rolled my eyes and didn’t say anything else as I stepped onto the concrete of the driveway. There was no way that it wasn’t just as nice inside. I pieced together that this wasn’t the home he spent the most time at when we stepped into the entrance; he probably did prefer his London home. The simple white walls and white marbled floor accented well with the greys, blues, and gold decor and furniture. I smiled at the framed golf photos and large canvas of an Ireland flag.

Niall cleared his throat as he rocked back and forth on his feet. “Uhm, as you can see the living room is here, bedrooms are upstairs… Feel free to pick whichever you’d like. The studio is in the basement which is where I’ll be for the remainder of today. Need anything else right now?”

I shot him a warm smile. “Thanks, Ni. I’m good for now.”

He leaned in to leave a kiss on my cheek. “Get comfy. I’ll see you later, Lauren.”

“Will do.” I laughed under my breath.

He disappeared down the second spiral staircase. I was back to being lost. I willed myself to go adventuring upstairs. There was an office with a sleek, glass desk that looked like it was never used; it was spotless clean though. The guest bedrooms all had their own attached bathrooms and that was where the extraness came from, otherwise it didn’t actually seem that large. Not like I’d imagined; Niall has always been a simple man.

The guest room closest to Niall’s room practically called my name so I plopped my duffel and backpack on the floor beside the bed. I sat down on the end and fell backward onto the soft cotton. My eyes found themselves having a hard time staying open, so I closed them for a bit.

Just a little bit…

***

I lightly groaned as I involuntarily stretched. My hand rubbed one eye as I sat up. Part of my hair had stuck to my cheek so I wiped it away behind my ear. It was clearly much later and I cursed under my breath. Despite the guilt of wasting time I could’ve used doing anything else, I did feel like a whole new person.

It was a nice nap I had to admit.

I grabbed the binder for Stone Cold, my pouch of pens and sticky notes, and airpods before I padded my way to the first floor. I’m sure there was a nook I could use to do some editing before we ate dinner, whenever that was. There was no way I would push Niall on a time.

Speaking of, there was a faint strumming that came from the basement. A flutter appeared in my chest hearing his sweet voice following it. This was an invasion of his privacy, even if I couldn’t make out the words. It wasn’t morally right to stand around.

The search for a spot to settle myself was back on. I finally found a small inset seating space under a window in the kitchen area; it was a beautiful navy velvet with a couple grey pillows. It was so comfortable, more than I could ever have predicted. It was my time to get invested in my own art and let the time slip by.

***

There was a muffled voice that didn’t match the music I was playing. As much as I wanted to keep going, I marked the paragraph I just finished and looked up. Niall’s tired, yet cheery, features filled my vision and I couldn’t stop the smile. I took out one of the airpods, which automatically paused the song, and cleared my throat.

“How’s the writing?”

He shrugged. “Not bad I think. Have you been here the whole time?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I actually fell asleep for a couple hours unintentionally.”

“The best kind of naps.” He laughed.

I bit my lip. “Yeah, and then I came here to edit. It’s a nice nook.”

He bit into the red apple he took from the bowl placed in the middle of the island and cheesed. “That it is… What should we do for dinner? We could go out, or get something to eat here.”

I thought about it. If we went out, I probably should change into a more put together outfit that didn’t reek of travel. That didn’t seem the slightest bit appealing to be honest. We had the rest of the trip to eat out.

“Do you mind eating in tonight?”

“Of course not. There’s this amazing Thai place not too far that delivers if you’ve got no objections.”

I smirked and shook my head as I stood. “Nope, Thai sounds wonderful.”

Within twenty minutes, the two of us were sprawled on the black suede L Couch in the living room with our own entrees and pot stickers. I used the chopsticks to bring some noodles and a piece of broccoli to my mouth. We had the first season of Stranger Things going and I tensed at the sight of Eleven using all her strength on the monster. I hadn’t realized I held my breath until that thing and she were gone.

I ate more of my Thai now, switching my focus to Niall who’d wiggled his way to lay his upper half across my lap at the beginning of the episode. I didn’t mind his weight though, it was more comforting than anything; even if the pressure on my pelvic area did emulate the sensation of needing to pee.

“That part gets me every time,” I stated. “She’s so badass.”

“I agree,” he remarked and reached over for another pot sticker from the coffee table.

“Get me one?”

He raised his brows momentarily before breaking out a smile and reached again, then handed it to me.

I cheesed. “You’re the best. This was really good. I might be addicted.”

“Don’t even get me started,” he scoffed with a laugh. “I get it every time I’m in LA.”

“Was the choice to eat out or in going to lead to this place no matter what?” I narrowed my eyes playfully.

“Maybe,” he mumbled, crossing his arms, and Niall made himself more comfortable; his eyes closed even.

I shook my head. “Such a dork.”

A small smile spread on his lips. He didn’t say anything else, and it didn’t take me long for me to catch on that he’d fallen asleep by the slow rise of his chest and soft snores. Netflix rolled into the second season of Stranger Things. I laid my head back, and found my fingers running through the tips of his hair.

Part of me realized that this should be more weird than it is, and the other part of me found calm happiness in it. It was okay for friends to do this sort of thing; platonic snuggles were normal.

Eventually, I drifted off too.

Next: Ch 5

[Masterlist]

#Niall Horan #Niall Horan fic #NH #NH fic #drama #comedy #romance #fanfiction #fic #Niall Horan fanfiction #NH fanfiction #Tell Me A Lie #Ch 4

1 note · View note

songbird-musing · 4 years

Text

Virtuoso: Chapter Three - Verses

Enjolras is Saint-Michel Academy’s brightest young composer. He runs the orchestra, the Musician’s Rights board, chairs the scholarship program, teaches free classical music to children, and is in the middle of his dissertation. He has never been anything less than a prodigy, until his teacher forces him to write a pop song.

Enter the effortlessly cool Grantaire, with his smudged eyeliner and lovely guitar-playing fingers. He really digs Enjolras’ “vibe,” whatever that means.

There's wooing, and revelry, and all sorts of things that don't quite suit Enjolras' sensibilities.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Verses

“So, are you conducting at any upcoming concerts?” Grantaire asked, lit only by a flickering outdoor lamp.

“Not anything official... I’m performing a cello solo and some ensemble stuff at the showcase next week, though,” their faces were blistered by the heat from the tea.

“Wait... What is your main instrument?” Grantaire filled his lungs with smoke, “Can you play the whole orchestra?” he joked.

“Pretty much,” Enjolras scuffed his toes against the floor, “Pushy parents...” he paused, “I’m grateful, though. I don’t know where I’d be without music.”

“Do you not think you’d have found it anyway?” Grantaire asked, eyes closed, lips parted.

“What? Music?” Enjolras tucked his hands under his jacket to warm them. “Who knows? I’d probably have ended up as a lawyer, or a banker or something.”

“What... like ninety percent of the Saint-Michel graduates?” he slumped his head to the side and traced a bird through the sky with a half-amused tilt to his mouth. “Anyway, I don’t believe that for a second. You’d have found it... it’s who you are.”

Enjolras watched him closely, mouth suddenly dry.

“Do you want...?” Grantaire asked, tilting the cigarette towards him.

“Oh no... I don’t smoke.”

“Tobacco?”

“Anything,” Enjolras answered, lungs recoiling at the scent.

“Man of strong morals,” he said, yawning slightly. “I’m afraid I have none.” He kicked the end of his cigarette into an overflowing pile. “Let’s finish this masterpiece.”

A laugh bubbled in Enjolras’ chest and burst through, clattering loudly in the patch of cobblestones.

“Grantaire,” he asked, and the boy turned around with a look in his eyes, as if he hadn’t expected Enjolras to even know his name. “Why are you even at Saint-Michel’s?” He stood, hands still warming beneath his arms. “Surely there’s a contemporary school of music you could study at?”

“Um,” said Grantaire, turning slightly red. Enjolras couldn’t tell whether he was blushing, or if it were just the sunset bouncing off his cheeks. “I’m performing at the showcase next week, so maybe, if you stick around, you’ll see why.”

They stepped back inside, the air gracefully far warmer.

“What does that mean?” Enjolras asked, itching for Grantaire’s answer. “Do you play like the oboe or something?”

“You’ll see...” Grantaire lifted a corner of his mouth and Enjolras inexplicably had to drop his gaze, a strange feeling stirring in his chest. “Can’t give away all my mystery at once,” he leaned in, “My mystery is all I have going for me.”

“Very mysterious,” said Enjolras in a small voice, laugh curling the edge of his breath. His senses snapped from the moment as a shrill ringing screeched from Grantaire’s phone.

“Oh,” the sound poured from his lips like carelessly spilled water, his eyes glazed. “I didn’t realise it was so late.” He threw his phone roughly onto the bed and stretched his limbs out.

“Plans for the evening?” Enjolras asked, hovering by the keyboard, fingers longing for the keys.

“I forgot all about it...” Grantaire cursed, grabbing a fresh shirt from his wardrobe, patterned with an unexpectedly intricate Victorian design in forest green. “I could call it off...” but the words eked from him, as if cancelling his plans was not on his mind at all.

“No, of course not... Um... I’ll just...” Enjolras cleared his throat, making for his scarf. “Nice shirt.”

“It’s my wooing shirt,” Grantaire laughed, mirth smeared in his eyes.

“Oh, you’re going on a date?” Enjolras said with a smile, shouldering his coat.

Grantaire laughed again, shaking his hair out of his eyes. “A date...” he made quick work of the buttons on the shirt he was wearing. “Sure... let’s call it that.”

With a swift movement, he slithered from the material of his top and threw it onto a lump of clothing. Enjolras caught a glimpse of his russet shoulders, marked with delicate black ink and masses of freckles before he turned to the door, cheeks heating.

“I’ll head off then,” he said, blinking a little too rapidly.

“One sec,” Grantaire said, “Catch!”

Enjolras was forced to confront the image of a half-shirted Grantaire and apologised fervently, missing the memory stick soaring towards him and hearing it clatter by his feet.

“Sorry for what? I have no shame regarding the human form...” he quirked an eyebrow.

“You sound like Jehan.”

“Jehan sounds like me...They used to do life modelling for me.”

“Huh?” Enjolras gaped.

“Yeah, I have the pictures somewhere. They’re very artful... Do you want to see?”

“I feel like I would have to ask Jehan first...”

“You’re such a sweet boy,” Grantaire said in a deeply southern accent. “Didn’t you see Jehan in that exhibition where they stood naked in a forest or something?”

“Oh...” Enjolras recalled it well, “The Adam and Eve thing. It was certainly an interesting take on religious gender non-conformity...” He tilted his head, “I think they still get death threats sometimes.”

Grantaire threw his head back in a laugh, and Enjolras wished he could throw such a glorious laugh around with Grantaire’s ease.

“Hang on, I’ll show you out.” He bumped open the door with his hip, towering a myriad of plates and empty cups in his hands.

“Thanks for doing this with me,” Enjolras said, voice shatteringly polite, “Seriously, Grantaire, I’m so grateful.”

Grantaire grazed his shoulder up into a shrug and brushed Enjolras’ comment away with finesse. “Ép,” he said, slamming the dirty dishes onto the table before her. She peered up from a clunky Mac, headphones nestled in her hair. She gazed at him briefly before her eyebrows slanted downwards.

“What’s with the wooing shirt?” she asked, dragging the headphones from her ears.

“Are you going to be here all night?” he asked, grabbing an apple and sinking his teeth into it.

“Yeah...?” she said after a pause, “Ugh, don’t make me leave,” she complained, “I’m literally in the middle of producing right now.”

“No, its fine,” Grantaire’s eyes were burning hazel under the setting sun, “I’ll be back in a few hours. Just tell Claque if I find any more of his masks, or creepy merchandise in my room again, he’s banned from ever coming here again. I’ve had enough. He’s doing it on purpose now, I swear...” Grantaire looked to Enjolras with a dark shade in his gaze, “I found an ornamental dagger in my pillowcase last night,” he said in way of explanation. “It’s getting beyond weird now.”

“He does it to show affection,” Éponine said, “Like a cat.”

“That’s even worse!” Grantaire said, “Like at least ten billion times worse! Tell him there is more to life than aesthetic.”

“Try to tell that to anyone in the band, my dear,” Éponine laughed. “Well, have fun guys!”

Enjolras blinked.

“Éponine!” Grantaire hissed, shaking his head frenetically. “The shirt’s not for him.”

The moment stretched out and Éponine let out a giggle, collapsing her head onto her forearms. “Oops!” she snorted, “I totally thought you were gonna...”

“Why would I make us go all the way back to his house?” Grantaire said, smirk playing on his face, “I’m a good host, Ép. You would be kicked out.”

“This is weird...” Enjolras interjected, feeling a little flushed.

“You’re right. This is weird, and it’s all your fault,” Grantaire said, pulling a face at Éponine. “Right, I better get ready.”

With a spin, Grantaire reached their front door and presented it to Enjolras with a bow. “It has been a pleasure to work with you, Enjolras. When’s the lesson we have to perform in?”

“Monday at nine,” Enjolras said, “With Valjean.”

Grantaire groaned. “Very devious of you to tell me that at the very end... Monday at nine! Okay, okay, fine. I’ll see you then. Maybe I’ll catch you before to practise.” Grantaire’s eyes were drifting away, “Seriously, though, we should hang sometime. Courf seems really cool.”

“Oh, yeah,” Enjolras said, “He really is.”

“You don’t sound convinced,” Grantaire joked. Enjolras eyed the pattern of his shirt.

“No, he is! Anyway, I don’t want to keep you... Enjoy your... thing.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire said, giving another laugh, but peering through narrowed eyes. “Are you alright?”

“Hm?” Enjolras started, “Oh sorry... just have Beethoven on my mind.”

“What?” Grantaire asked, “Well... Good luck with that?” he leant forwards and briefly embraced Enjolras, kissing the air beside his cheeks casually. “See you later. Safe travels!”

Enjolras travelled back on the metro with a strange, roiling sensation shifting in his stomach. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and let the haunting melodies of Shostakovich ensnare his senses for the ride.

~*~

“House meeting!” shouted Combeferre, who perhaps called house meetings far more than necessary.

“What’s wrong now?” asked Courf with a playful groan, “Did I eat your last avocado again?”

“The issue to discuss is a certain Courfeyrac’s attendance in this household,” said Combeferre, opening his journal and scratching down a title. He flicked to another page and nodded, “You’ve been absent five out of the past seven nights...”

Courfeyrac lounged back on the sofa, letting his mass of dark curls flop over his eyes, “Sorry, dad.”

“I feel like you shouldn’t be paying full rent,” Combeferre said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “But... there is a way to rectify your missteps.”

“You can tell he’s going to be the most intense teacher in five years time,” Courfeyrac said with an eye roll to Enjolras.

“No backchat,” Enjolras quipped, quietly letting his fingers drift over the strings of his harp.

The three of them laughed in tangent.

“Seriously though, you have to give an opinion on my dissertation,” Combeferre said, throwing a chunky booklet into his friend’s hands.

“No!” Courfeyrac elongated, letting the vowel ring out through the flat. “Why am I subjected to such cruel punishment for taking advantage of my youth?”

“Love you so much!” Combeferre said, giving Enjolras a roguish wink. “We’ve sorted him out,” he said in a mock whisper, ignoring Courfeyrac’s dramatic complaints. “What’s wrong, Enj?”

“Hm?” Enjolras leant his forehead against the gilded edge of his harp.

“You’re playing Tchaikovsky again.”

“What does that mean?” Enjolras sighed, stilling his fingers.

“Darling,” Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, “The last time you looked this mopey was when I said I didn’t like Bach that much.”

Enjolras instantly frowned. “You should be expelled from Saint-Michel’s, you heathen.”

“Stop deflecting,” Combeferre interjected, “Do I have to call the second house meeting of the night?”

“Do you guys think I’m not living in the student life as much as I could be?”

“Absolutely,” Courf said.

“One thousand percent,” Combeferre added, “But since when have you wanted to act like a student?”

“Has that nasty boy Grantaire been corrupting you?” Courfeyrac asked, “I’ll be having words with him.”

“I think you might have a chance with him,” Enjolras tilted his head, watching the flare of interest in Courfeyrac’s eyes.

“Nah,” he said after a moment, “It would break Jehan and I’s agreement. No sharing.”

Enjolras licked his cracked lips and his eyebrows folded. “Jehan and Grantaire...? They were a thing?”

Courfeyrac laughed lazily. “You know Jehan... Free love... There’s literally no-one in that circle that Jehan hasn’t slept with... Well, apart from Gueulemer... he’s painfully straight. We’re both trying to see who can crack him.”

“You’re awful, Courf,” Combeferre said, “Leave the poor heterosexual alone.”

“Are you going out tomorrow night, Courf?” Enjolras asked, the words tasting brassy on his tongue.

“Dunno,” he turned his wide-eyed gaze to Combeferre, “Can I go out tomorrow, dad, please?”

Combeferre grimaced. “Stop calling me dad.”

“Daddy says yes,” Courf said with an exaggerated wink.

“House meeting!” Combeferre shouted, mirth in his eyes, “The issue on the table: never do that again.” He shut his notebook and stalked away.

“Well, I’ll come with you.”

“Ooh, Enjolras!” Courfeyrac said, scandalised, “On a school night as well! You little rebel!”

~*~

After university the next day, Enjolras contemplated himself in the mirror, red shirt as stark as blood against his skin. He buttoned it to the top, but unfastened the button closest to his neck. He imagined calling it his ‘wooing shirt’ to literally anybody and almost turned as scarlet as the material. With a glimpse at his alarm, he noticed the lateness of the hour and snapped at Courfeyrac to hurry up.

“Me?” Courfeyrac gaped, “I’ve been ready for the past four hours,” he exaggerated, still shirtless and barefoot. “I’m not the one raunchily exposing a slither of neck and blushing at myself.”

“That’s not-” Enjolras blushed, “That wasn’t what I was doing!”

“Gosh! I’ve heard that Enjolras is a floozy, you know?” Courf called to no one in particular, “I once caught a glimpse of his ankles!”

“His ankles?!” Combeferre called from a distant room, sounding aghast.

“You both are the worst,” Enjolras said, still flushed. Courfeyrac grinned and ruffled a hand through Enjolras’ mass of blonde curls.

“Come on, you harlot,” he tiptoed to smack an affectionate kiss to Enjolras’ cheek, “We have some revelry to revel in.”

By Courfeyrac’s standards, revelry was measured in how blisteringly high one could become.

“That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it,” he drawled, after they had arrived at the party, passing a joint to Jehan, arm crossing over Enjolras’ chest as he did so. “I just think that if the moon was real then it wouldn’t be such a symbol of mystery... I’m just saying... who looks at the moon and isn’t a little bit creeped out?”

“You get creeped out by the moon?” Joly asked, head resting on Musichetta’s lap.

“Like...” said Courf, eyes drifting shut, “Like just a tiny bit...” a small cough rattled in his throat, “I just don’t trust it.”

“I think the moon is lovely,” Jehan said. Joly peered up and shared an eye-roll with Enjolras. Joly was the first violinist in the Saint-Michel orchestra, and had dealt with the whole bunch of orchestral stoners more than Enjolras had had the will to.

“You think everything is lovely, Jehan,” Enjolras said. Jehan looked at him with starry, brown eyes and slumped against the column of his neck.

Then, amidst the smoke haze of the room, time seemed to unfold far quicker than it usually did, and Jehan had led Enjolras to their room, to show him the life paintings Grantaire had mentioned.

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, head a little fuzzy, “Very artful... he said they were.” The pictures captured Jehan as they looked in the current moment, lazy-eyed and oozing contentedness. “They’re incredible, Jehan.”

“Tell Grantaire... he was the one who did the hard work.”

Enjolras was not sure what came over him, but he ducked his head and felt the edge of Jehan’s lip between his own. He felt a hand leap to the back of his head, and the warm curl of fingers lace themselves through his hair. Jehan’s lips feel like a revolution – Enjolras had never kissed someone so well versed in the art of kissing. The lips on his neck made him gasp for air. He contemplated how long it had been since the skin of his neck had been worshipped so... too long. A year ago with the pretentious cellist that was too attractive for words, (Enjolras had called it off when the sex had been the only part that didn’t bore him half to death.)

“Jehan,” he mouthed, feeling mind-spinningly blissful. His hand dropped to Jehan’s waist, feeling for a seam of material. His fingers searched blindly, tracing the edge of Jehan’s hips, increasingly frantic. Enjolras broke away with a tut and stared at Jehan’s attire.

“It’s a romper,” Jehan said in explanation. Then, as Enjolras moved his hands to the zip on Jehan’s back, they said, “What are you doing, Enjolras?” Enjolras pressed his lips to Jehan’s collarbone, who laughed breathily and batted his head away. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m looking for my wilder side,” Enjolras said, eyes dark.

“I’m not going to sleep with you,” Jehan said lightly, “I thought this was just a friendly make-out session.”

“You sleep with everyone,” Enjolras said, drawing back and resenting the whine that had infiltrated into his tone. In lieu of offense, Jehan merely snorted with a grin.

“Look, I’m down for casual flings aplenty, but you, my friend, are not.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

“No,” Jehan shrugged, “You wouldn’t be here if you were.”

“That makes no sense,” Enjolras frowned, “Your pseudo-deep doesn’t work on me.”

“Come on, Enj,” Jehan said, patting Enjolras good-naturedly on the chest, “If you actually wanted a hook-up, you wouldn’t have come to the one person you thought would never turn you down... I’m sorry, but I am just not dealing with the emotional nonsense you are sure to bring.”

“What?” he gaped, mouth dropping open.

“You’re a drama queen, Enjolras – you can’t even deny it...” they smiled, “Let’s not do this.” Jehan tucked the sketches back into place and stretched out their arms. “Wow,” they said with a hazy blink, “I am too high right now.”

“You always are,” muttered Enjolras.

“Don’t get grumpy with me, darling,” Jehan said, “I still love you.”

Enjolras flushed a little, still not as open with his words as Jehan could be. “Yeah, and I love you as well. Besides, I’m not grumpy with you, I’m grumpy with myself.”

“Enjolras,” Jehan tutted, “Don’t mope... I can shower you with positive affirmations, if you’d like... You’re the loveliest boy I’ve ever met, anyone would be blessed to have you, and you’re as beautiful as the sun itself... I am at once blinded by you yet cannot take my eyes from you... happy now?”

Enjolras couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his mouth. Jehan laughed and pressed a friendly kiss to his lips.

“Ugh, I’m so embarrassed,” Enjolras said, covering his face.

“About what?” Jehan said, smile lazy, “I’m so high, I’ve forgotten already.”

11 notes · View notes

hearthhhh · 4 years

Note

✧Hello! I'd love a matchup! INFJ,Panromantic Asexual,Female, Virgo. I'm incredibly awkward, because of that I tend to mess myself up a lot. I have a stutter which I myself find annoying. I tend to be shy when meeting people but when I open up I'm frankly a whole other person. I don't have much of a filter with my friends. I enjoy Artsy things, and I tend to be highly critical of mostly everything involving art and generally anything I'm interested it. I'm quite picky, not to mention obsessive.

I pair you with...

🥢 Spoilers for V3 ahead! If this is a problem feel free to leave another ask!

🥢 This ask was a bit more difficult because of the whole V3 plot and the ending and all that. I thought about it and just decided I'd write this ask as if you were a member of the trials as well.

🥢 Kaito is really uplifting and loves getting along with introverts, and originally gets closer to you due to your shy nature! He likes trying to bring up your mood, and is really supportive of your insecurities. Kaito would even try to pay attention to things you're insecure about so he could come off as encouraging as possible.

🥢 Once you start opening up to him, he’s pleasantly surprised, and really excited that you’re feeling more comfortable around him.

🥢 Both you and Kaito rarely have filters around each other. You speak your minds, and enjoy the honesty you two share. It helps that Kaito basically runs on his moral compass, which is pretty sound and easy to understand and agree with.

�� You and Maki would get along well! Instead of her becoming Kaito's love interest, you and Kaito would become one of her very good friends! You're less violent and also an introvert, so there're aspects of you two that are pretty similar and could lead to a pretty solid platonic relationship.

🥢 You two stick together pretty close. Kaito is very attuned to making plans, and tries to understand people and their emotional capabilities as well, trying to take off as much emotional loads as possible. So he'd come up with several ways to hang out with each other, seeming as innocent, but really just a way to keep an eye out for you. He's really scared something will happen to you, but he doesn't want to come off as possessive or stress-inducing.

🥢 He really likes your obsessive nature, because Kaito is the same way! When Kaito likes something he's got it set in stone, even if it's just a small whim, he pursues all his goals and wishes really passionately. So Kaito likes seeing people who are just as passionate as him, and is really supportive of your art and will listen to you rant for hours if you'd like, maybe even debate if you need to.

🥢Kaito wouldn't ask you out. He knows he's dying, he can't put you through the emotional turmoil, it'll crush you. As much as Kaito wants to distance himself, he can't, and he thinks it's selfish of him.

🥢 You have to ask him out. It's scary, but so are the killing games. You never know if one of you will die and you need him to know about your feelings.

🥢 When you tell him I'd imagine your stutter taking over. Your shyness takes over but Kaito understands exactly what you're trying to say. He's torn but on cloud nine at the exact same time.

🥢 The days before Kaito's death you spend cuddling and spending time alone, distancing yourself from the others as much as possible. But he disappears into the bathroom for extended periods of time, sometimes Kaito would even leave you alone in one of your rooms claiming to be getting food but coming back empty-handed and forgetting entirely why he'd left in the first place.

🥢 There's a high level of trust in your relationship, there has to be when you're dating in the middle of a killing trials. So you wouldn't expect him to be a killer, only worrying about his safety.

🥢 Then there’s the whole trial business, and the only person you have left is Maki.

I pair you with...

🥢 The Victorian Era was very well known for its artistry, so you'd be able to get by easily as an artist. Especially because you're so critical, I'd imagine it'd make you pickier about what you'd paint, and you'd be able to grow renown pretty easily. Artists that are introverted also create a sense of mystery, so people would become more intrigued.

🥢 Also, I researched career paths for INFJ. I actually found that there are many people with that personality type who run non-profit organizations.

🥢 I got this idea that you'd have an auction for some of your paintings, then give a portion of your earnings to people in need.

🥢 This auction would make you even more well known. So I'd imagine you're a spectacle in the artistry world.

🥢 Because you're so important, it wouldn't be surprising for you to have some pretty high up contacts. That would include Earl Ciel Phantomhive.

🥢 You'd meet Prince Soma at one of Ciel's parties. It's a small get together between others of higher positions, and it's pretty great.

🥢 Except the music's loud, the people there aren't that entertaining, and you don't really want to take to them. You only came to keep up appearances, and you kind of felt like you had to.

🥢You meet Prince Soma and Agni in one of the hallways trying to make it outside for some fresh air. He's really nice, and you two get along very well. After he shows you the doors, the two men stay with you for a bit to talk.

🥢 Prince Soma enjoys being of use to others, and is excited he's able to help you even if it's something as small as showing you the exit. But he's also easily intimidated. So he'd seek comfort in your timid nature, and would try to see past your introverted shell and try to make you more open.

🥢 Once he gets to know you more he's thrilled! Prince Soma loves people with a sense of humour and seems to like yours a lot.

🥢 You two meet more along the streets and stop to talk whenever you see each other. Until you give Soma your address, and tell him he's able to stop by anytime. He takes the invitation up eagerly, and is over almost daily.

🥢 You're surprised he didn't know you were an artist. When he sees several paintings around your larger than average house he's immediately intrigued. And when you tell him of your fundraisers, that's when Soma starts to grow feelings for you.

🥢 Soma really admires you at this point. He'd always seen himself as the mediator of your friendship, a guide. But now he respects you as someone equal.

🥢 As you two start going out more, Soma asks for Agni to accompany him less and less. Then it gets to the point where Soma and you would always spend time with each other alone, usually in the comfort of your home.

🥢 Eventually, Agni has to tell Soma to tell you about his feelings. They're pretty obvious at this point. Soma actually hadn't even realized he'd liked you until it was pointed out. He just really liked being around you.

🥢 I feel like there would be like… a whole system to get into a relationship. Prince Soma was probably the type to be expecting an arranged marriage, maybe even to meet his bride on their wedding day. So I'm not quite sure what traditions would be in place, if this makes sense.

🥢 But anyway! I feel like Soma would be the type who's really excited to get into relationships, so he'd tell you very soon after his realization, if not immediately. He's like a fucking puppy in the best way possible.

🥢 You know exactly what he's trying to say before he even opens his mouth. He asks you in your kitchen as you're making breakfast.

🥢 Being in a relationship with Prince Soma is great. He'd spoil you silly, and Agni would be like a big brother to you. While Prince Soma loves alone time with you, it's important to him that you and Agni get along well. While he wouldn't say it aloud, Soma is always really happy when he sees you two interacting.

🥢 Soma is one for cuddles! He loves to have an excess of pillows and blankets, and builds the best pillow forts.

🥢 You find a lot of your time would be taken up by Soma. He really likes being around you and gets lonely really quickly. While you paint he likes to talk to you, but sometimes gets restless sitting down for too often. He admires you for having the patience to paint for so long.

🥢 He'd be really goofy! Your senses of humour would minimize uncomfy things like getting sick or being sad, and would create the baseline for trust and vulnerability! Basically you two would just be so comfortable around each other and you wouldn't feel like there are any barriers between you two. You'd feel like extensions of yourselves.

🥢 Okay the fluff here made up for the angsty Kaito matchup woo!

I pair you with...

🥢 So aside from Zen's obvious immediate flirtatious nature, I feel like he'd become interested in things that you're insecure about! Zen's all for being uplifting and encouraging self-betterment, but feels bad when people are downright self-deprecating. He just wants people to be the best versions of themselves they can be, but things you can't change about yourself are fine just the way they are. They make you unique in Zen's eyes.

🥢 Zen loves your art! Send! Lots! Of! Pics! He's the cheerleader everyone needs honestly. Zen also loves when you talk about art, and admires how passionate you are. He'd even compare your passion for art to his passion for acting. In short, Zen really respects your talent and passion.

🥢 When you start to open up to the chat a bit more Zen is super excited and really supportive!

🥢 I feel like after you start opening up to the chat more is when Zen starts to develop real feelings for you. He'd show this by flirting a little more, but other than that there isn't any indication at first. It's just the same old flirty Zen.

🥢 Zen's always saying how he'd like to meet you in person, so eventually you do! You two send lots of pictures to the messenger, going shopping and to dinner or lunch afterwards. You two have a lot of fun, and later go on more outings together.

🥢 You and Zen go on outings as friends, though. Even Yoosung tags along sometimes, and you three are constantly trying to get Jaehee to come out and have some fun. Seven and Jumin usually decline your requests if acknowledging them at all.

🥢 Zen's feelings grow the more time you two spend together. It's almost unbearable to be so close to you, not being able to hold your hand yet be able to say such sweet things without your suspicion.

🥢 Eventually Zen invites you out for lunch over call, very different from the public planning you two would do on the group chats. But you don't think too much of it because it's Zen, and you've always been closest to him.

🥢 He really wants to make you feel special! But he doesn't want to make you uncomfortable with too much attention. So he takes you to a secluded café that gives off a really homey yet romantic vibe. He asks you out over hot chocolate and cookies, and spoils you rotten that entire day.

🥢 Zen's very clingy but certainly not as clingy as Prince Soma. He loves being around you and cherishes your outings, probably having a huge folder full of aesthetic pictures of you. He'd also definitely screenshot every picture of your art you send and keep it in a folder. He mentions it to you casually one day on a date, showing that your art style has improved pretty well from the first piece you sent to the group chat to the most recent.

🥢 Zen is all for really cheesy and mushy romantic stuff. He texts you a lot throughout the day to tell you that he misses you, is thinking about you, loves you, etc. He's just so sweet and really cares about you and needs you to know.

🥢 Zen loves how shy you are. He finds it cute and endearing, and fondly mentions it many times. You also notice he speaks very softly to you, and his tone is so much different. It's almost as if he's trying to pour every once of love that he can into every syllable.

1 note · View note