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purpleprey · 3 months

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Chapter 4: Mannequin in the Creek

We bobbed to the surface of the water. We were now in a decently sized puddle, right beside a creek. I lifted Elysium up and out of the puddle, which could fit about 2 people, before climbing out and releasing Cosmic who was trapped underneath me. Once he was on land again, Cosmic took off his straw hat and wrung it out like a sponge (I didn’t think a straw hat would hold water like that, but Cosmic’s apparently did). He then placed it back atop his carrot-coloured hair.

“Is this the place?” I asked skeptically, looking around the creek wondering what here could possibly help the frosty Elysium Forging who was now lying on the creek bed.

“Oh yes,” Began Cosmic, who was still covered in his signature garden dirt despite all the water travelling “This should be it.” He was pointing behind me and as I turned I saw a large tree. There was what looked to be a large, purple apple dangling from its lowest branch (which was still way out of my reach). As I was about to complain about my inability to climb, I heard a voice behind us.

“Hey, you kids,” I whipped around to see a person laying in the creek, propping themselves up on a rock to look at us. It wasn’t until i wandered closer that i realised that the creek person was completely fucking naked. I averted my eyes, so as not to seem rude. The creek person noticed, and began to chortle at my expense.

“What's your deal, man!? Who the fuck are you!?” I yelled, blushing angrily in rage.

“My name is Venus Crypt, and I don't know what you people are doing climbing out of puddles?? But I am a merman.” Venus Crypt said airily, flicking his long auburn hair back.

“YOU HAVE LEGS!!!” I screamed accusingly, pointing at his human legs, “In what way could you POSSIBLY be a merman?!?!?!”

“In the ways that matter, baby <3.” he said smoothly and casually, but with an air of slight annoyance as he looked me up and down. I was much more annoyed than he ever could be, but I decided not to press the matter any further. I turned to Cosmic with an air of slight rage and demanded he fix Elly NOW so that we could leave this incorrect merman as soon as possible. I knelt down beside the icy Elly and clenched my fist in silent determination as I vowed in my heart to thaw her.

I stood straight back up and followed Cosmic over to the tree.

“We need an apple from here, it will heal Elysium.” Cosmic explained calmly, but I was not calm. There was no way I could reach the apple (definitely no way Cosmic could) and there were no lower branches that I could climb on.

I turned to Venus, the so-called “merman”.

“So, Mr. Merman” I said mockingly, hands on my hips “Do you want to use any magical Merman powers to help us out here >:(“

“Ah, not technically,” he said and I let out a condescending laugh. Stupid fucking merman. Pathetic. But then Venus stood up, out of the water, putting his 6ft 4 tall body on FULL display with ZERO warning, but by god, he was beautiful….

I grimaced. Objectively, Venus was ethereal. I was not. Coming in at a measly 5’10, I suddenly felt like a mole rat who wasn't handsome at all besides Venus who must've been what Leonardo Da Vinci had in mind when creating the Vitruvian man. Although I found his personality insufferable. Why do good things happen to subjectively bad people >:(

You must be wondering what Venus looks like. I lost my words as I gazed upon his silky, wavy auburn hair that reached down to his snatched, delicate waist. The sunlight hit his hair, making it look like pure bronze, and I had to hold back a gasp. As I stood, dumbfounded, he looked down at me with deep, sensual brown upturned eyes that fit his face all too perfectly as his steely gaze examined my expression. I felt I must've looked like a FOOL, but I couldn't look away. I will never take the colour brown for granted ever again. He smiled at me in amusement and I felt my eyes begin to water. Behind his voluptuous red lips, he had such perfectly white teeth, I could see my own inadequacies reflected back at me. He had a strong Grecian nose with a strong bridge, and yet, it was simultaneously so delicate and it complimented every feature on his clear, olive skin. He had what I always imagined the perfect ear to look like … and he had two of them. I clenched my fists and my jaw, tensing every muscle, telling my self not to fall head over heels for this Greek statue of a man, except, even a perfectly designed marble statue could not be as supernaturally gorgeous as this stupid fucking creek (mer)man. The veins on my neck were close to bursting. I was THAT tense. He had an almost feminine chin and a jawline so sharp and strong, he could cut me into pieces if he wanted to. And to my horror, I think I would let him. I suddenly understood how Adam felt in God’s garden of Eden, because when my eyes fell on this man’s perfect neck, I wanted so badly to partake of the forbidden fruit. And then there were his shoulders … They were so broad and very muscular (but not too muscular). This was a man who lived his life in fruitless vegetation, in decadence, despite inhabiting a creek. He wasn’t a bodybuilder by any means, because of this lifestyle, however, his muscles were still toned and he appeared fit as all fuck. Not to sound like a fucking freak, but objectively, even his feet were attractive. He was too beautiful to even be real. He looked like something you’d use to model clothes in a store. I wouldn't even dare to enter that store because it would feel misleading since I'm sure he would look godlike in any clothing, IF he wore any. Even the thought fills me with so much self doubt I could die right here.

To make a long story short: he was built for pleasure, I thought as my eyes panned further down……

Before I could even bite my lip, my thoughts were interrupted as Venus strided towards the tree. He looked up at the apple and, without any issues, reached up and plucked it out of the tree. He threw it to Cosmic, who brought it over to Elly. Venus knelt in front of me to look at Elly, and I looked at the back of his head and thought about how it would feel to run my fingers through his wavy locks… I sighed.

Cosmic held the apple in one hand and used the other to pry Elly’s mouth open, before shoving the apple into her gaping maw and forcing her lower jaw shut on the purple fruit. He continued the motion to make the unconscious Elysium chew it. The purple juice of the apple leaked out a little but Cosmic just wiped it back into her mouth. Once the apple was chewed to a mush, Cosmic forced Elly to swallow it with a special technique that I could never replicate or describe to you, dear reader. We all held our breaths in nervous anticipation, well, apart from Venus Crypt who seemed to have zoned out entirely. Absolute ass-hat >:(. I snapped my fingers in front of his face but he grabbed my hand out of the air, and continued staring into the distance. I gasped lightly at the touch, but I was still bloody annoyed because I could just tell there were NO thoughts going on in that handsome head of his. I was brought back to the situation at hand when I heard Elly wake up.

“Elysium!!” Cosmic wept in relief beside her as she sat up right and my eyes met hers. Her cheeks flushed pink and she looked away from me nervously. She must've been embarrassed, I, her bff, saw her in such a weak, pathetic state. I wanted to tell her I didn't mind, but Venus stood up. Elly took notice of Venus and her mouth dropped open in shock. She was practically thrown backwards in surprise, because as Venus stood, she now had a face full of It and It was admittedly MOST impressive. What a handsome man. I spat on the ground in rage.

Cosmic stood up and helped Elly to her feet but I stayed in a crouched position in defiance. Cosmic graciously shook Venus’s hand, thanking him for his help and Venus laughed, embarrassed by the praise. The handshake continued for longer than necessary, but Cosmic was practically in tears, he was so grateful, but at that moment, Venus stopped laughing and froze up. He suddenly dropped to the ground, his hand slipping out of Cosmic’s as he began to flail on the ground like a fish out of water. Ohhhh….

"Fucking MERMAN!" I screeched, feeling a headache coming on. “I guess I’ll help him.” I said, trying my hardest to sound reluctant. I tried to brush my hair behind my ear and I couldn't refrain from biting my lip. I crab-walked over to him and tried to lift him. I didn’t think it would be that difficult, especially since I was lifting from the knees. Not only was he too heavy, he was also flopping around too much for me to actually get a hold of him.

Suddenly, Venus Crypt was being lifted into the air. Not by me, Obsidian Leviathan, but by the little garden boy known as Cosmic Tomorrow. I couldn't believe my icy grey eyes. It would've made more sense if he was being lifted by the holy light… if he was ascending into heaven to join the rest of God's angels… but no. Cosmic held Venus close to his chest to stop him from thrashing around violently. Like mother and unreasonably beguiling child. I was a mixture of angry and horrified as Cosmic carried Venus over to the creek and gently baptised him in the water. His face portrayed nothing but kindness and serenity. Elysium looked at me with a face of concern as she asked me why I was crying. I hadn't even realised. I couldn't tell if the tears were caused by my anger at Venus being so hot or at Cosmic for being stronger than me. I decided it was because of Cosmic, he was making me look weak! I knew in my heart, I was a beast, a unit, a forklift, a force to be reckoned with and I could NOT let Cosmic, Venus, the Headmaster and Elly take that from me!

Venus began to settle down in Cosmic's arms. He was no longer writhing, just sitting in the creek as I cried. Venus sat complacently in the creek as Cosmic continued to scoop the clear water over his head maternally. No matter how much water covered him, Venus's hair stayed dry, bouncy and perfect >:/. I turned to Elly, who was still looking at me with concern written all over her face. I quickly wiped the tears off my cheeks and gave her a reassuring smile to ease her worries. It seemed Elly had something she wanted to say!

"I'm sorry about what happened at the lake. I shouldn't have fallen in and I feel really bad for putting you all through that." She said glumly, "When I woke up and realised the trouble I caused, I thought of what YOU always say, Obsidian. 'bit schewpid, innit?’'' she quoted exactly what I supposedly always say in times like this. She looked like she wanted to say more but at that moment, Cosmic cleared his throat to get our attention.

"I talked to Venus Crypt and I think we should take him with us!" He chirped "We could use someone who can reach top shelves!!! Trust me."

I scoffed. “I highly doubt we’ll be needing his services. I don’t trust you, Cosmic, and I definitely don’t trust this fake ass merman.”

But at that moment, Elysium grabbed my arm caringly, almost shattering the bone. She looked me dead in the eyes and I could feel that she was staring directly into my soul.

“Obsidian,” she said softly, “You have to learn to trust again.” Her words moved me so greatly, I thought to myself, if someone like Venus Crypt had said them, I would have fallen in love INSTANTLY. Lucky it was only Elly. I turned back to Cosmic and Venus and nodded my acceptance of their terms. I thought about all of the high shelves we may encounter in our journey. Cosmic was right. I pushed my jet black hair out of my eyes, since it was still sopping wet from the water travelling and all 4 of us (actually, except Venus, I assume) were feeling pretty fucking cold, soggy, and exposed to the elements. I realised that the sunset was quickly approaching so I decided that we would camp here for the night. I took Elly by the hand and we went off in search of firewood.

We had only walked about 5 metres before Elly put her hand on my shoulder, halting me, as she pointed just ahead of us. We were standing 1 metre from a bright red wooden door that I'm lucky Elly pointed out or I would've missed it for sure!!!! We slowly approached the door, cautiously as though it might try and attack us. I grabbed the handle and went to twist it but Elly stopped me.

“Venus lives here and Cosmic has been here before. We should ask one of them about the door, we have no idea what’s behind it!” she whispered.

“Pish! Posh!” I yelled raucously. “Venus probably hasn't strayed far from the creek and Cosmic is like six, I think.” Elly stared at me blankly as I continued to shout in her face about the insolence of our two companions. In fact, I did this all the way back to camp, not closing my gaping maw once.

“I’m not six,” Cosmic whimpered as we returned to where the two fellows were seated. Venus stared at me with a sexy amount of contempt in his eyes.

“Why are you bringing this up now?” I huffed, doing my signature defiant crouch.

“You were yelling raucously, Obsidian, and you were only 6 metres south of us.” Tears were starting to pool in his eyes again.

“If you didn’t want your feelings hurt, you shouldn’t have listened in on my private convo, eavesdropper.” I barked back and then Elly slapped me across the face considerately. I went flying. I landed no less than 6 metres north. I was now 12 metres from the door (a record). I was disheartened on the walk back to the camp, even more so now that I couldn’t take out my anger on Cosmic Tomorrow. Elysium Forging might backhand me if I did it again. I decided I'd just have a tantrum and go to sleep rather than check the door again. But as I curled up on the dirt, the voice of God spoke to me again. It had been many long years since I've heard from Him, that absolute jackass.

“Obsidian Leviathan.”

“WHAT!” I shrieked, tears of rage running down my face into the dirt I lay on, though I knew I was the only one who could hear him.

“I speaketh anon to thee. Thou might not but ope the r'd doth'r yond thou did see with thine eyes.”

“Motherfucker.” I muttered under my breath.

“I can heareth thee!” his voice echoed in my cranium pleasantly. I rolled my eyes. God cleared his throat and continued.

“I wisheth to impart upon thee this wisdom: what joy th're is in living. Peepeth und'r the tent and seeth the clowns.”

“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?” I wept violently.

“Cap the jar with a tight brass cov'r. The ripe gust of cheese improves with age.” he said wisely. “Thee cannot brew tea in a bitter cold pot. The birch canoe did slide on the smooth planks. Prepareth to square! I shall heave the gorge on thy livings, naughty mushrump!”

Then he went silent and I cried myself to sleep.

#author #authorblr #book recommendations #book recs #bookblr #crime of passion #purple prey #original story #representation #queer lit #obsidian leviathan #elysium forging #cosmic tomorrow #venus crypt

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joefesttoyandcomic · 4 months

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JoeFest welcomes special guest Paddy Lennon to our convention this June 21-23, 2024, in Augusta, GA!!!

Paddy Lennon is a writer contributing to the Total Action Force books and writing background lore and character bios on Boss Fight Studio's Vitruvian H.A.C.K.S., Hero H.A.C.K.S., and Saurozoic Warriors. He is also a valuable contributor to the Skeletron project.

Got questions on Pailtoy or the history of Action Force, the European version of G.I. Joe? Learn from the best!!

This is a rare opportunity as Mr. Lennon is traveling to us from Europe, so remember to get your Total Toy Books autographed by the writer himself!!

For JoeFest news and tickets, please visit our website at Joefestusa.com

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rubykarelia · 1 year

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L'ATELIER ROUGE (short story, horror, 2021)

“With the sugar lace?”

“Please, and the candy pearls,” Vivienne replied insistently. She perused the crisp laminated pages of wedding cakes that Miss Blossom had brought as samples.

“And you said pink piping,” Miss Blossom mused as she sketched in her notebook as if she was da Vinci, the tiered buttercream her Vitruvian man. Blossom was the cake designer in Beverly Hills ever since Monsieur Sucré was disparaged after an E Coli outbreak at a Wilshire baby shower.

“No, red,” Vivienne interjected. “Please.”

“Red it is,” Blossom assured her. “And you’re sure we don’t need to call Mr. Beaumont to confirm?”

“No, he’s so busy,” Vivienne sighed, looking down at the mascarpone-frosted chantilly on page 10. “He’s been working late, taking on more cases. I’m sure he’ll appreciate any cake, as long as it’s not made of take-out Chinese.”

“Oh, I promise—nothing of the sort!” Blossom laughed a little too hard. “Perhaps the two of you are saving for a nursery?” There was something saccharine in her voice, a presumptuous upturn to her lips sugaring her words.

Vivienne quickly lifted her eyes, furrowing her brow, confused.

“Please forgive my romantic abandon,” Blossom back-pedalled. “I just

know the two of you will have the most beautiful children.”

Vivienne’s smile tempered, and the movement behind her eyes paused. “Do I look pregnant, Liza-Beth?”

“No, Ms. Beaumont, please. I wasn’t insinuating—I’m sorry. I never should have said anything. Just my imagination.” Blossom recoiled.

“I tried on my mother’s gown last night,” she began, gazing down as if she was recalling a torment from ‘Nam, “and it wouldn’t fit in the stomach. It’s funny. My mother herself would tell me I should start pilates again. Or put me on a diet. No eating before dinner, no white foods, no drinkable calories.”

Blossom’s mouth was frozen in a contrite grin. Vivienne could tell that she had nothing to say, maybe because she agreed that her stomach was swollen, and it was the first thing the woman had noticed when she had walked through the door. But Vivienne felt sure that she couldn’t be pregnant; Victor—or Mr. Beaumont as he was known around his office and oftentimes to close friends—hadn’t touched her in months.

“I’m sure you’re quite busy, too, Ms. Beaumont, just like your fiancé. I’ll let you go. I’ll see you next week for a tasting.”

Vivienne arose, smoothing the tweed fabric of her skirt with her manicured hands.

“Thank you, Miss Blossom,” she smiled, “you’re truly a lifesaver.”

* * *

Vivienne swiftly swooped into her car, a gift from Elliott’s father. She set off for home, weaving through the cobbled veins of the wedding district and towards the honeymoon of Beverly Hills. She didn’t feel very well. She hated the way her stomach felt too intimate against the steering wheel, too comfortable bridging the waist of her underwear. She suddenly felt too big for the car, her coiffed hair grazing the sunroof, legs screaming from their tight dashboard chamber. Pearls of oily sweat began to puddle on her forehead and upper lip as if her body was trying to make even more of itself. She had to stop and reach for the silk scarf in her pocket and try to pare these new extremities, wipe herself away.

A dimly lit shop caught her eye from across the street. Its brick cladding was caked with city grime, and there was an unseasonal frost speckled on the window panes. L’Atelier Rouge, the awning read in a curly, barely-legible font. A headless mannequin stood proudly in the window, trussed in a shocking 22-inch-waist girdle. Vivienne strangely felt a twinge of jealousy, gazing at that fibreglass model. She killed the motor and decided she needed to go in.

Inside L’Atelier Rouge was undoubtedly organised and thoughtfully ornamented but dusty, cramped. Each small surface—and there were many—had a film of yesterday, so concentrated in some places that it looked like ashes had been spread in the alcoves between skinny statues and lingerie racks. Curtains with parted red lips mounted bare brick walls, as if they were opening to some absurd theatre. Dress forms cliqued in beautiful armies of boasting breasts and feather boas. Even their limbs—though maimed like Greek statues that had weathered with age—were adorned in pearls and garter belts. They look beautiful, thought Vivienne, making a mental note. I’ll pick up a garter, too.

Vivienne saw no associates, feeling strangely impelled to ask a mannequin for assistance. She approached one of them, its waist wrung like a damp towel in a crimson corset. Her fingers unfurled and outstretched to the satin, tracing the strict architecture. She held the waist in both hands as if she was about to lead the form into some grand arabesque. The figure was so tiny that her fingers almost met at the small of its back.

“Welcome,” a voice said from behind her. Vivienne flinched and swivelled. She met the wired eyes of an older woman, thin and delicate. She had unnaturally vermeil hair that had been twisted into neat curls atop her wool blazer. She smiled somewhat knowingly, her thin lips painted in a severe ruby lacquer.

“Hi,” Vivienne rasped, clearing her throat.

“Mother Francine,” the woman extended her polished, ancient hand. “Welcome.”

“Vivienne,” she replied. “Thank you.”

“That’s a vintage piece,” the woman explained. She wasn’t warning Vivienne against letting her hands wander—she was bragging. “Made in Paris in 1929, completely flawless. We restored the eyelets downstairs.”

“It’s incredible,” Vivienne said earnestly, turning towards the mannequin once again. She could feel the woman’s eyes studying her.

“Are you looking for something?” she asked.

Vivienne paused. She wondered why the shop made her freeze up, unable to rehinge her jaw and exchange niceties like a normal patron.

“Yes,” she finally admitted. She shook her head inwardly, scolding herself for being so awkward. “I am looking for something. I’m getting married next month.”

“And you’re looking for a husband?”

Vivienne couldn’t move again, and confusion crept into her smile. The woman gave a guttural laugh—her throat seemed to process each sound through metal mesh.

“I’m joking, my love,” she smiled. It wasn’t funny, but Vivienne aped along. “I’m sure your fiancé is marvellous. He sure does have good taste.”

“I’m looking for a garter belt,” Vivienne confessed. “And a corset.” She almost wrapped her arms around her abdomen in a shameful embrace. The woman looked at her stomach anyway as if she noticed its prominence.

“We’ll fix you right up,” she observed.

* * *

“I think this one will suit your complexion, my dear,” Mother Francine said, carrying a cream corset in her arms like a small child. They had transitioned into the dressing room—a funhouse of mirrors and scarves and drapes. The lighting was nothing like the stringent temperature of a department store; it was honeyed and warm like her grandmother’s boudoir. She took off her blazer and blouse. “But first.” Mother Francine drew a measuring ribbon like a sheathed sword and stood behind her.

The tape wrapped around her near-naked form. She watched as Mother Francine studied her body in the mirror, her lips miming silently in some sort of calculation. Vivienne could bear the looking but cringed as the tape tightened its grasp. She had to keep herself from jumping as Francine’s fingers pinched her abdomen for a quick second.

“I’m a little bigger than I used to be,” she apologised instinctively. “I suppose I’ll need a larger size.”

“No, no,” Mother Francine insisted. She swapped the tape for the corset and began the binding process. “They’re all small. No such thing as a large corset. You have to train yourself to wear them.” She began to fasten the lace with the same vigour as a protective mother securing her child’s seat belt. “Like a wild animal needs to be tamed. Your body is trying so hard to be big, but you tell her to be small, no matter what she says.”

Finally, Mother Francine stepped back. Vivienne was surprised at how tight it was, how eerie that satin could serve as skin. Her hands found her hips, minding the exaggerated dips.

“Wow,” Vivienne laughed proudly. “I look like a question mark.” Mother Francine laughed and called her colourful.

Vivienne put a hand on her stomach and wondered where it went. For a moment, she lifted her palm to where it used to protrude—it was strange to feel air where skin was meant to be. She couldn’t suppress her smile.

Suddenly, a small man entered. Vivienne gasped and hugged her torso, now scant in both clothing and volume. She’d never felt so naked and small—she wondered if such words meant the same thing.

“Oh, child, I’m sorry,” Mother Francine sighed. “This is my son, Silas.” Though he had to be in his mid-forties, something about Silas was small, childlike, maybe even naive; he was short, and his suit draped off of his extremities like there had been a mix-up at the dry cleaners. Vivienne released herself and gathered her composure.

“Oh, wonderful,” she remarked. “How do you do?”

“He’s on vocal rest. All that singing.”

“How cool,” Vivienne smiled. Silas reciprocated with a closed-lip grin and handed his mother a garter belt.

“Marvellous,” Mother Francine sighed. “Silas, doesn’t Miss Vivienne look beautiful?” He nodded three times, his eyes staying on Vivienne’s, as if his accordance was choreographed.

“Thank you so much. I love it.” Vivienne couldn’t stop looking in the mirror.

“My pleasure. Perhaps you can return soon with your gown and try the entire ensemble,” Mother Francine rasped. “But before you go, I’d be remiss if I didn’t show you the museum.”

The three walked down a dark set of stairs leading to the basement of L’Atelier Rouge. Mother Francine flicked a switch and the room ignited with spotlights, revealing an array of dress forms. Each was adorned in an intricate, vintage piece, manned by an engraved plaque.

“Wow,” Vivienne mused, still cinched in her corset. “This is incredible.”

“It’s been a lifelong passion of mine and Father Frances, my husband,” Mother Francine contended. “He labours each day away in the workshop, right over there.” Her finger gestured towards a wooden door. White light gleamed beyond its cracks. “Lacing, sewing, boning.”

“Boning?” Vivienne asked.

“The structures that keep you nice and conformed, dear,” Mother Francine replied. “Come, come. Look at this. It’s a nineteenth-century.” Before them was a Victorian piece made of gilded brocade. Vivienne always thought that something so old would have to be in black and white, but it was in mint condition, its colours still gleaming and gems winking at her as she admired its arches. “They used whalebones, see, to maintain the shape.”

“A skeleton into a skeleton,” Vivienne mused before she could catch her words.

“Yes,” Mother Francine attested with a smile Vivienne had never seen before. “And look here, child.” She motioned Vivienne and her son—who followed in a seemingly conditioned obedience—towards another piece in her collection. The plaque read Agnes Sorel Cotte in Linen, mcdl. It was an enchanting peach hue—the same that Vivienne often tried to replicate on her cheeks. She couldn’t help but admire the impossible waist, how it made her sympathise for the mannequin’s nonexistent spine. But what struck out to her the most was the circumstance of brown lining each armpit—the vestiges of ancient blood.

“It’s a French cut from the 1400’s. A lower neckline and the smallest waist of its time,” Mother Francine explained. “Twenty inches.”

“Goodness,” Vivienne puffed. She decided not to mention the stains.

“Of course, one can really go as small as they’d like. As I said, it’s manipulation. We’ve got you at a twenty-four, but we certainly could get to a twenty if you so desired.”

“Do you get many customers with such a request?” Vivienne gasped.

“Everyone wants it, but no one wants to admit it,” Mother Francine lamented. Turning to Vivienne, she unbuttoned her blazer, and then revealed her own torso.

Her grey skin folded over the top and out from under a white corset dripping in straps and laces of all sorts. Her bosom was pruned and translucent, and below, the garment cinched her middle to a disconcerting size. Vivienne knew she had necklaces that reached a larger circumference. The valleys of her hips were defined and angular; unlike the soft arches of a question mark, Mother Francine pinched in at the waist like an ampersand.

Vivienne’s eyes opened fully, bracing for the woman to snap like a sawn redwood. But Mother Francine stood tall, her posture unflinching. It was as if the corset kept her from doubling over, serving more as a splint than a saw.

“Eighteen,” she stated plainly, then continued with a smile that showed her yellow teeth, “at eighty-one.”

The sight left Vivienne uneasy but ultimately besotted. She decided that Mother Francine was someone they should make books about, make movies about. She felt proud to have met her, better for it in some way. She supposed Francine was merely a committed saleswoman, too, trussing herself in her own garments to demonstrate their efficacy. And she did, of course, make the sale; upstairs, Vivienne paid for her garter belt and vowed to return on Friday with her mother’s gown.

“Thank you,” she said to Mother Francine, “you’re a lifesaver.”

* * *

That night, tucked in the eggshell nook of her walk-in closet, Vivienne tried on her mother’s gown once again. It still refused to zip shut in the back. She grew frustrated—she couldn’t contort her arms to reach the zipper anyhow, and Victor wasn’t home to help. For a few moments, she missed the confinement of the corset she wore earlier, the uncomfortable but cosy captivity in linen and lace.

When Friday came, Vivienne treated her appointment at L’Atelier Rouge with as much professionalism as an actress attending a dress rehearsal. She woke up earlier than required—abiding by an imagined call-time—folded her mother’s gown into a garment bag, waxed her underarms, and arranged her hair into the same updo of ringlets she planned to replicate for the wedding.

* * *

“Twenty-two,” Mother Francine celebrated as she stepped away from behind her customer. Vivienne smiled and felt her own curves with a loving hand. Once again, they were in the mirrored dressing room—there was plenty to look at, but Vivienne’s wide eyes remained fixed upon herself.

“Twenty-two,” Vivienne sighed. It hurt, of course, but numbed her ever so slightly in a way that she found almost pleasurable.

“I’ll leave you to put on your gown, dear,” Mother Francine croaked, “I’m sure I have a veil somewhere in the workshop. I’ll retrieve it, and then we can show Father Frances. He examines all of the garments—makes sure they work.”

Vivienne couldn’t look away from the mirror. There was a sentiment in her grin that only came out at charity galas and Christmas time. “Fabulous.”

She peeled the cream charmeuse out of the bag and stepped into it. Pulling it over her shoulders like a pair of suspenders, Vivienne rejoiced. She could just tell it was going to fit.

Silas appeared as if sensing that Vivienne would need a hand.

“Oh, hello, Silas,” she smiled, “Could you help me zip?” The timid fellow followed the command dutifully and delicately as if Vivienne was made of china.

“Pretty, don’t you think?” Silas nodded in agreement. “It’s my mother’s. She passed away just last February. I miss her plenty. It’s nice you get to work with your parents.” He stayed still.

“So, she says you’re quite the singer,” Vivienne remarked. She couldn’t stop letting words tumble out of her open mouth—it was as if that cinching feeling in her abdomen was slowly inching up to her throat. Silas offered a soft smile of assurance. “Could you sing something for me?”

His smile bowed and his eyebrows knit together in confusion as if his mother had never mentioned his vocal rest.

After a few moments, his lips pursed inward and he shut his eyes. Vivienne recognised this face as apologetic—the same look she assumed when her mother chastised her for cheating on her spelling test in the second grade. Silas reached for the buttons on his blazer and began to unbutton them one-by-one.

Silas was bound in the narrowest girdle Vivienne had ever seen. She didn’t know a man’s body was able to move that way, but figured such stiff, unyielding boning had been holding him in for quite some time. The condition of the piece was so poor that it quickly eliminated any allusions to sensuality; it was covered in seagreen mold and other mysterious stains, a crimson shade pooling on its edges and hardware. The lace wasn’t lace but cord—the braided polypropylene twine that Vivienne had only ever seen wrapped around Christmas trees to keep them on top of car roofs. This was not lingerie, but a cage. What was it trying to keep inside?

She froze for a long minute, a hand to her mouth. “Can you take it off?” she finally mustered.

To her surprise, Silas began to untether the cord. But when he took off the girdle, his body didn’t reset. He was forever indented. His torso was a greenish grey, wrinkled and creased as if it had pruned underwater. He had permanent bruises casting shadows on his ribs which were now recoiling into his chest. And on his sides were distinct punctures where the laces and hardware had broken skin. Some of the holes were lined in both crimson and ash—Vivienne recognised them as cigarette burns, especially the ones that left the linen and blemished his collarbones and shoulders. Some wounds weren’t as sympathetic than those that still blushed: a patch, just below where his heart should’ve been, was black as night. Vivienne couldn’t move, but if she were able to, she would’ve cringed from the scent—a coppery cocktail of mold and dried blood.

Suddenly, Silas resealed himself in his layers. He had heard his mother traipse back into the dressing room, proudly carrying a lace veil.

“How beautiful,” she said to Vivienne, still immobile, “you’re almost done.”

She placed the veil on Vivienne’s head, her eyes now obscured by its intricate weave. Silas stood plainly in the corner and resumed his habitual complacency. He was a great actor.

“Now, we must go see Father Frances.” Before Vivienne could gather her words, Mother Francine had grabbed her hand and led her towards the basement.

The procession down the stairs and into the museum had the frills of a wedding but the solemnity of a death march. Vivienne could not close her mouth nor eyes; neither were working very well. Her hand hurt, her skin woven between Mother’s skeletal fingers. And her stomach hurt, too, collapsed under steel and charmeuse.

She found herself outside of the wooden workshop door. Mother Francine primped each detail of Vivienne’s ensemble—she adjusted her veil, ringlets, and breasts as they expelled from her chest.

Behind her, the workshop door creaked open with a grumble. Still frozen, Vivienne managed to employ her neck—she met a stout man with dishevelled, greasy hair and a lit cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. He wore an apron spotted with so many stains that it appeared as if a Rorschach test was painted on his protruding gut. Sitting atop his wiry moustache, a pair of thick glasses magnified the vacancy of the man’s watching eyes.

“Father Frances,” Mother Francine called. “This is Vivienne, the bride.” Father Frances merely grunted in acknowledgement. “How does she look?”

The man situated himself before her and scanned her entirety. There was a tinge to his gaze that Vivienne couldn’t help but identify as disgust. Before she knew it, a salty tear fell onto her painted lip.

“I’m considering not wearing a corset at all, anymore,” she muttered nervously, “I’m not feeling very well.”

Mother Francine furrowed her brow. “Cold feet. That’s normal.” Father Francine, now behind her, wrapped a hand around her waist, inspecting his work.

“Tighter,” he croaked to his wife. Vivienne was aquiver and tried to still herself, though this effort only made her tremble all the more.

“It hurts,” she tried, knowing the complaint would be left unheard.

His hand still on her stomach, Father Frances paused, then lifted his eyes to Mother.

“Mother,” he rasped, “Feel this.”

The old woman pursed her puckered lips in concern and extended a hand to Vivienne’s abdomen. “Quickening.” It was then that Vivienne could feel it too—the unmistakable clamber of life as it writhed below her humming heart.

“Tighter,” Father Frances insisted once again, and he pulled the reins of the corset with such force that everything went black.

* * *

Vivienne barely awoke, folded in a dank recess of the workshop. Her lungs and lips laboured to lap at the air in arrhythmic gasps. She tried to unleash a scream, but no sound emerged. With her eyes beginning to adapt to the stringent light of the workshop, Vivienne noticed blood pooling beneath her. She moved her hands to her hips, still clothed in the corset and her mother’s gown. So much of her was gone.

In fact, the quarter was littered with discarded dresses, each sequinned with a distinct iteration of sparkle. She thought she saw the ruby of a ballroom, the bubblegum pink of a sweet sixteen, the magenta of a quinceañera.

Vivienne was weak, unmoving. Her vision began to thin into a new obsidian. Before her, Father Frances played a discordant lullaby as he worked. His instrument was an industrial file and a milky rib that he pared into punctuation.

#fiction

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jaggedlittleteacup · 3 years

Text

THE STAG NIGHT RECAP (S3EP2)

Okay. Uh. Where do we begin? There’s a lot to unpack here.

Okay. First of all, let’s begin with the fact that this is in The Sign of Three, I just had no fucking clue how to fit this entire queerbaiting bisexual-lighting nightmare into a post with a ten picture limit. We’re going to, ah…yeah.

So. TO BEGIN, SHERLOCK PASTES JOHN’S FACE ON THE VITRUVIAN MAN AFTER PULLING OUT AN ENTIRE FUCKING FILE ABOUT HIM. YEAH. WHAT THE FUCK DOES THIS IMPLY? I DUNNO!

SERIOUSLY, HOW IS PUTTING YOUR BEST FRIEND’S FACE ON A DRAWING OF THE LITERAL ‘IDEAL MAN’ NOT SUPPOSED TO BE GAY?

ANYGAY-

These fuckers go to celebrate the Stag Night (AKA John’s last Bisexual hurrah before a prison-like existence with M*ry-)

And. Of course. They get drunk. They weren’t supposed to get drunk, but John accidentally spiked Sherlock’s drink instead of his own while standing, bathed in bisexual lighting, at a bar. Don’t believe me? I don’t believe me, either.

Yet here it is.

You’re welcome.

Also…this is the song that’s playing:

River’s gonna run through

Work is gonna save you

Pray and you will pull through

Suck a dick’ll help you

-Galang by M. I. A.

What. The. Fuck.

Honourable Mentions for other songs that played:

Shakin’ All Over by Johnny Kidd and The Pirates

Fried My Little Brains by The Kills

Crystalline Green by Goldfrapp

We Found Love by Rihanna

If this isn’t gay, I dunno what is.

Anyway, Sherlock gets drunk as hell and basically gets into a fight with a couple of guys. He shouts, “I KNOW ash!” and takes some of the glitziest, gayest swings at someone I have ever seen-

Either way, they get kicked out of the bar and end up somehow making it back to Baker Street without being murdered.

There, the real gay stuff begins. (You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.)

HE’S HOLDING HIS HAND WTF-

They play Celebrity Heads. In case you live in a (Hobbit) hole, that’s a game where someone puts a name of a person on your head, and you have to try to figure out who’s on your face while the person describes you.

Let’s begin, shall we?

John has the name ‘Madonna’ on his head, and Sherlock has the name ‘Sherlock Holmes’ on his. They’re both drunk and STILL drinking.

Blah, blah, blah-

The two fuckers are SO drunk, uh…

They’re guessing, etc.

(Btw, after John asked ‘Am I pretty?’, Sherlock looked confused and John had to CLARIFY by pointing at the paper and smirking. I don’t know what to say at this point.)

John leans over, puts his hand on Sherlock’s knee…

John: “I don’t mind…”

Sherlock: “…Anytime…”

Um. What? What did you just say, Mr. I’m-Not-Gay and Mr. Married-To-My-Work?

I’m going to fuck someone up so bad-

Anyway. They, uh, they end up having a client, yada-yada, they go to investigate-

Sherlock was RUBBING CIRCLES INTO JOHN’S BACK-

And then they got arrested because Sherlock can’t fucking think when he’s drunk.

Also, he threw up on a crime scene.

(Also, if you notice Sherlock’s scarf is tied differently than usual, that’s because it is. It’s tied the way that John ties his. Which means that John tied his sc- *is shot before I can finish*)

And then they wake up together in a jail cell the next morning.

I’m gonna go get a drink…

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volturialice · 2 years

Note

really random but what do you think it would be like if the cullens had social media? like instagram and stuff? i might have this headcanon where alice has a tumblr blog.....

other people's excellent hcs about this very idea have been floating around for ages! but I'll take a stab (note that these are all in some au where preserving their anonymity no longer matters)

esme - has a facebok, a pinterest (recipes, art, architecture) and a pretty lowkey instagram, sort of like your aunt's. it's mostly pictures of her kids and garden with the occasional exquisite art piece or handicraft thrown in with some casual boomer-speak caption like "threw this together today..." [it's an incredibly detailed bronze sculpture of da vinci's vitruvian man]

emmett - it's a common fanon hc that he and the pack would be very into making Jackass-style tiktoks and I agree. no notes except that he's also a twitch streamer duh

bella - has a Book Twitter, a goodreads, and an aesthetic/literary tumblr devoted mainly to moodboards of bronte novels and light/dark academia

rosalie - has been banned from twitter since 2014. charity IG influencer whose page is 90% selfies/collabs with alice and 10% emmett. thriving finsta. has never once used an emoji

alice - twitter where she roasts celebrity fashion choices + IG full of ootd/aesthetic/travel pics and very occasionally a photo of jasper or bella attempting to hide from the camera

jasper - has a private instagram and twitter he never uses except to like alice's pictures/tweets (and, on exactly one occasion, to catfish ben shap*ro)

carlisle - "so I connected with Mr. Webber on Linkedin the other day"

edward - crypto bro

#asks #anonymous #hcs #twilight #twilight renaissance #cullens

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totallyottie99 · 3 months

Text

The main character of my new horror idea: ‘The Perfect Show’ staring Mrs. Vitruvian

#Mrs Vitruvian #The Perfect Show #original characters #muppet #muppet oc #horror #horror show

79 notes · View notes

almachroma · 2 months

Text

Mrs Vitruvian prepping for her starting role

#Perfect Puppet Show #wip #Mrs Vitruvian #horror

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blackspoon99 · 3 years

Text

The Sign of Three Pt. 3

Sherlock x Female! Reader

TW: Drinking, Language, Potential Emetophobia (If you’ve seen this episode, you know), Spoilers to Season 3

Part 1

Part 2

Part 4

Part 5

“Of course, there’s hours of material here, but I’ve cut it down to the really good bits.”

Oh god, the stag night. You almost laughed just thinking about it. It was unbelievable that Sherlock was willingly telling this story to an audience. You were fortunate enough to witness some of the events of the night firsthand.

The story began the morning of in Baker Street, 11 am:

It was a Saturday morning, and you were over having tea with Sherlock. For the two of you, “having tea” consisted of you both reading in complete silence while you happened to be drinking tea. It was a common occurrence, and for you, it was a treasured tradition. You were curled up in John’s chair opposite Sherlock. Today, you were reading Emma by Jane Austen. You peeked over at Sherlock to see what he was reading. Sherlock was reading a book titled “Atlas of Forensic Pathology”. Riveting. The book looked so heavy; it would probably go straight through the floor if he dropped it.

You returned to your book. This was probably your third time reading the Jane Austen classic. You were inexplicably drawn to the plot, the message, the love story, all of it. You finally were at your favorite part. When Mr. Knightly said to Emma, “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.” You looked at Sherlock over the pages of your book. You couldn’t help but consider the relevance of the quote in your own life.

When you first came to terms with the fact that you were in love with Sherlock, the feeling had burned through you. You couldn’t focus and constantly fought the urge to tell him. Possibly because of the several near-death experiences you'd had. After you made up with Sherlock at the engagement party, the feeling persisted but it was almost duller, easier to live with. You’d slowly regained security in Sherlock’s role in your life and you no longer constantly worried he’d leave again. You returned to your version of mundane and your unrequited feelings for Sherlock became the new normal. It had become more of a consistent ache than a burn.

Sherlock interrupted your thoughts: “Shouldn’t it be relatively easy to find a new book to read if you work in a bookstore?”

“True, but I like this one,” you said without looking up from your book.

“Why? What do you gain from reading a convoluted story of questionable morals that provides no useful information?”

You finally put your book down. “Because, I like to read for fun. Maybe you should try it sometime.”

Sherlock smiled and scoffed at you then returned to his book.

You shook your head and downed the rest of your tea. “Okay, I’ve got to go to work.” You got up and took your mug to the kitchen. On your way back to gather your things, you noticed an open file on the kitchen table that looked like a John Watson scrapbook. You pulled the first paper off the stack to see a cutout of John’s head pasted onto the Vitruvian Man. “Sherlock?” you called over your shoulder, “What’s this file for?”

“What file?” He asked.

You picked up the file and carried it back to the living room. You returned to your seat and started thumbing through it.

“Oh. That’s for the stag night,” said Sherlock.

“Stag night? I didn’t think you would want to do that sort of thing”

“Why not?” He swiftly closed his book. If you didn’t know better, you’d take the action as a sign of offense.

“Uh, no reason,” you said hastily. The file was full of peer-reviewed studies on alcohol consumption, detailed chemistry notes, and copies of John’s medical records. The last page was a detailed schedule of where they were going and how much they were going to drink every hour. “This is awfully thorough.”

“I needed to ensure the maximum amount of enjoyment for the both of us for the duration of the night.”

“How considerate of you.” You put the file down and leaned forward. “So, what do you have planned?”

“John and I will be drinking at a pub on every street we ever found a corpse.”

“That is oddly perfect for the both of you.”

“I thought so,” Sherlock said with a grin.

You looked at the time. If you didn’t leave now, you’d be late. “Well, I’m off. See you later, Sherlock.”

“Yes, yes, goodbye,” he mumbled and returned to reading. You left the file on the table, gathered your belongings, and left for your shift.

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

Later that evening:

You closed the bookshop at 8 pm and headed to the tube station. As you made your way through the crowded streets, you heard your phone ringing. You dug through your bag to find it as you walked. You saw Sherlock’s name on the caller ID and answered it. Your ears were immediately assaulted by electronic dance music.

You heard Sherlock’s voice first “Shut up John, I’m calling her.” He shouted over the music

“Who?” you then recognized John’s voice.

“Her John, I’m calling her!”

You struggled to hear the call over the booming music “Hello?? Sherlock? Why are you calling me?”

“Oh! It’s y/n! Hello!” John shouted into the phone. You winced at the volume.

“John? Where are you? Are you drunk?”

“Stag night! Sherlock tried to measure my piss. Then he got into a fight.”

“Give me that back” Sherlock’s voice “Y/n meet us back at Baker Street. It’s an ‘mergency”

“What did you say? Sherlock? It’s really hard to hear,”

“Baker Street. Now!” He shouted then hung up.

For a moment, you stood in the street, dumbfounded. It was only 8 pm and both Sherlock and John were piss drunk at some club. You couldn’t even begin to process the rest of the information. So much for Sherlock’s plan, although it did seem like they had “maximized their enjoyment”. You weren’t about to miss this.

——————————

You arrived at Baker Street by 8:30 pm. You opened the door to find Sherlock and John laying across the bottom of the stairs. “Hello boys, I’m here.” You announced.

At the sound of your voice, Sherlock and John scrambled to sit upright. Sherlock fell down a step in the process. You tried your best to suppress your laughter. “So, I’m here. What’s the emergency, Sherlock?”

“Right, you,” He said, raising his arm to point at you. “Upstairs.”

You watched Sherlock and John slowly stand up. John lifted one foot to climb the stairs, then stumbled backward.

“Do you need help, John?” You asked.

“Nah,” he said, “‘s alright, I’m fine. I can do it myself.”

You slowly helped Sherlock and John up and into the flat. Sherlock tried to take off his coat, but his arms got stuck behind him. You giggled and gently pulled his coat off him and hung it on the coat rack. You lead Sherlock over to his chair and he flopped down into it.

You went into the kitchen to get some water for him and John. You figured they’d need it. You searched the cabinets, but there wasn’t a clean glass in sight. You resorted to the clean beakers on the countertops instead. You poured two 250mL beakers most of the way with water and walked them back into the living room. When you returned, Sherlock was sitting in his chair. He was drinking from a glass of scotch.

“Sherlock,” you groaned. “Where did you get that?” You attempted to reach for the glass, but he pulled his hand away, spilling it all over himself.

“It’s okay, this is fine,” he said, staring at his scotch-soaked shirt. “Oh,” he started. “I almost forgot,” Sherlock leaned over the side of his chair to grab something off the floor “You left this,” Sherlock said and handed you your copy of Emma. You hadn’t even realized it was gone.

“That was the emergency?”

“I still don’t understand how you could read this 3 times,” Sherlock slurred. “It’s so- what’s the word? Incorrect? ‘There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart.’ What an absurd thing to say” He contorted his face into an expression of disgust and took a sip of scotch from the glass in his hand.

“You read it? Today?” The fact that Sherlock had gone out of his way to read your favorite book made you unnaturally happy. You knew not to read into the things with Sherlock, but sometimes you couldn’t help yourself.

“You left it behind and I was so bored. Besides, I had to understand why you liked it so much. I still don’t know.”

You leaned over and snatched the glass of scotch from him. “I don’t think that’s the best idea, do you?” You handed him the beaker of water.

“Thank you,” he said with a goofy grin. In all the years you’d known Sherlock, you had never seen him like this. It was odd to say the least yet decidedly hilarious.

“Where’s John?”

Sherlock didn’t answer but pointed in the general direction of the bathroom. You decided to take the seat opposite Sherlock. As you sat down, Sherlock put his water on the floor. He then leaned forward and put his head in his hands, staring at you.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?” you asked.

“You,” he said, pointing at your face “are so hard to figure out sometimes, you know that?”

“Me?”

“It’s soooooo annoying. I can tell what almost everyone is thinking all the time, but not always you.”

“You think I’m hard to read?”

“Yes, you. Y/n L/n.” He waved his hands around while he slightly slurred his words.

“Okay then, how about this: I tell you what I’m thinking right now, and you do the same. Then, for one moment, we can understand each other completely.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow “You first.”

“I’m thinking… that I’m glad you called me.” Sherlock smiled and nodded. You giggled, “Now it’s your turn, and don’t lie to me. What are you thinking in this moment?”

Sherlock paused. “I’m thinking that my shirt’s all wet,” he said with a slight frown.

“That’s your own fault,” you said, putting one hand over your mouth to contain your laughter.

John re-entered the room holding post-it notes and a sharpie. “I’ve just had the best idea,” he said with a sloppy grin.

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

The three of you all had post-its stuck to your foreheads, each with names written down. John sat in the client’s seat with the name MADONNA scribbled on the piece of paper stuck to his forehead. Sherlock, much to your enjoyment, had SHERLOCK HOLMES sloppily written on his forehead. As per the game, you had no idea what was written on yours. Sherlock was lounging back in his chair, resting his head on his hand.

“Am I a vegetable?” asked John

“You? Or the thing?” Sherlock asked smiling. The two of them snickered.

“Funny!” said John.

Sherlock looked down and smiled. “Thank you,” he choked out.

“To answer your question, John, no,” you said.

“Your go, Sherlock,” said John.

“Erm…. am I human?” he asked, turning to you.

“Sometimes,” you said with a smirk.

“No, no, it can’t be sometimes, can’t have that…”

“Fine. Yes, you’re human” you confirmed. “My turn. Am I a man?”

“Yeeep” answered John. “Sherlock, you again,” John said, forgetting it was his turn.

“Am I a man?”

John nodded. Sherlock kept going. “Am I a tall man?”

John looked at you and started laughing before he even spoke “Mm, not as tall as people think.” John’s head flopped to the side as he let out a hiccup

“Nice?”

“Ishh,” John said skeptically.

“Clever?”

“I’d say so,” you interjected.

“Do people…” he made air quotes as he spoke the word ‘people’ “... like me?”

“Not really,” you said, chuckling “You tend to rub them the wrong way.” If you had to babysit your adult drunk friends, you might as well have some fun.

“Hm,” Sherlock nodded intently. “Am I the current King of England?”

You and John immediately burst into laughter. “Good guess, Sherlock. But you do know England doesn’t have a king?”

“Don’t we?”

“No,” John said. “Y/n, you go now”

“Right, okay. Am I a friend of ours?”

“Ehh, yes?” Sherlock said.

“Yes, yes they are Sherlock,” said John “Jesus.”

“Well, that narrows it down significantly. Am I Greg?”

“Who’s Greg?” Sherlock asked.

You rolled your eyes and took the post-it off your forehead. The name “Gavin” was written on it in Sherlock’s handwriting. Of course.

“Hey!” Sherlock yelled, “Cheater, that’s cheating. John, did you see that? Y/n’s cheating.” Sherlock got up and took the post-it from your hand. He leaned forward and stuck it back on your forehead. “There. Now it’s John’s turn.”

“Am I a woman?” asked John. He slumped in his seat. Sherlock immediately started giggling. “What?” John asked.

“Yes,” confirmed Sherlock

“Am I a pretty woman?”

“Er, beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences, and role models.”

“But am I pretty?” John asked again.

“Yeah, Sherlock? Is John a pretty woman?”

“I don’t know who you are. I don’t know who you’re supposed to be.”

“What?! You picked the name,” John said.

“Ah, but I picked it at random from the papers,” Sherlock said, flailing his arm over to the stack of newspapers in the corner.

“I don’t think you understand the point of this game, Sherlock,” you added.

“So, I am human, I’m not as tall as people think I am ... I’m-I’m nice-ish ... clever, but I tend to rub them up the wrong way.”

“That’s correct,” said John.

“I’m you, aren’t I?” Sherlock asked, pointing to John.

“Ooh-ooh!” Mrs. Hudson chirped as she knocked on the door. “Client!” Behind Mrs. Hudson was a woman wearing a nurse’s outfit with a cardigan over it. You scrambled to take the post-it off your forehead as you stood up.

“Hello, I’m sorry, but this really isn’t a good time—”

Sherlock immediately stood up and interrupted you. “It’s not a bad time, no, no Y/n. We always help a person in need.”

“Do we?” you said with a forced smile and looked over at John for help. John just stared back blankly at you with a goofy drunken smile.

The woman beamed “Thank you,” she said. “Which one of you is Sherlock Holmes?”

John imitated a slide whistle, and pointed to Sherlock’s post-it on his forehead. Sherlock flashed a wide toothy grin. You put your head in your hands in defeat.

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

A few moments later, you’d made the woman, Tessa, some tea, and you John and Sherlock were sitting on the couch. Sherlock was sat in between you and John. Tessa sat in a chair opposite the three of you.

“I don’t ... a lot ... I mean, I don’t ... date all that much ... and ... he seemed ... nice, you know?”

You looked over at Sherlock and John hoping they could keep it together. John was blinking slowly and heavily while trying to stay awake. Sherlock was listening to Tessa’s story intently.

She continued. “We seemed to automatically connect. We had one night – dinner, such interesting conversation. It was ... lovely. To be honest, I’d love to have gone further ...”

Beside you, Sherlock closed his eyes and began to lean into your shoulder, dozing off. You subtly elbowed him, and he straightened up abruptly.

“But I thought, no, this is special. Let’s take it slowly, exchange numbers. He said he’d get in touch and then ... Maybe he wasn’t quite as keen as I was ...”

You looked over at John who was practically asleep with his eyes open. He had a blank stare and his mouth hung slightly open.

“But I – I just thought ... at least he’d call to say that we were finished,” Tessa concluded, tearing up slightly and looking at the floor. Immediately, Sherlock’s face contorted into an expression of sympathy as he dramatically brought his hand to his mouth. You stared in disbelief and handed Tessa a tissue. “Thank you,” she said to you. “I went round there, to his flat. No trace of him. Mr. Holmes…”

Sherlock leaned forward and rested his head on his hands.

“I honestly think I had dinner ... with a ghost.”

You and Tessa waited to hear what Sherlock had to say. You leaned forward to look at Sherlock and John’s faces only to discover they had both fallen asleep.

“With a ghost, Mr. Holmes!” Tessa repeated, louder.

You sharply elbowed Sherlock in the ribs much harder than before, and he sprung awake. “Boring, boring, boring,” he mumbled, then turned to you and put his hands on either side of your head. “No! fascinating!” He exclaimed, his face right up close to yours. Sherlock then turned to John “John – John! Wake up!” John finally stirred awake.

“I’m up,” he mumbled.

“Apologies about my ... you know ... thing,” Sherlock said, pointing at John. “Rude. Rude!” he yelled straight into your ear. You grimaced at the loud noise and put your hand on Sherlock’s forearm to settle him.

“Yes, that’s enough, Sherlock,” you whispered. “Uhm, go on, Tessa.”

“I checked with the landlord, and the man who lived there died. Heart attack. And there we are, having dinner one week on.” She turned and began to rummage through her purse. She pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper and handed it to Sherlock. You grabbed it before he could take it. It was a print-out of an online chatroom. “And I found this thing online, sort of chatroom thing for girls who think they’re dating men from the spirit world.”

You nodded. This actually seemed like a decent case. Too bad Sherlock and John probably wouldn’t remember one word of it tomorrow. Sherlock tried to stand up next to you, wobbled, and then put one hand on the top of your head to steady himself. You groaned and struggled to untangle his hand from your hair.

“Don’t worry. I’ll find him in ten minutes,” Sherlock said confidently. Tessa smiled in relief. “What’s your dog’s name?”

You facepalmed and stood up next to Sherlock. He leaned over to wake up John. “John! Wake up! We’re meant to ... The game’s ... something” he said, waving his hand around.

“On!” yelled John.

“Yes, that,” Sherlock said, walking out the door. “Come on, Y/n.”

“Wait, Sherlock. Where are you going?” You protested, following him down the stairs.

“That’s a good question. Where are we going?” he asked Tessa in the foyer.

“Oh! Well, I suppose we ought to go to his flat,” Tessa said.

“Sherlock, no,” you said, “You can’t leave...” you looked off the the side awkwardly “…like this.” He ignored you and dragged John out to the sidewalk by his sweater sleeve. He stepped out into the street and hailed down a cab.

“40a, Jasmine Grove,” interjected Tessa as the cab pulled up.

“Are you coming Y/n?” Sherlock slurred.

“No!” you yelled. “And neither are you.” Before you could reach him, Sherlock climbed into the cab after John and Tessa and slammed the cab door in your face. The car drove off.

“Come on, really?!” you yelled in frustration. Now you had to follow them. You ran to the edge of the sidewalk and decided to call a cab for yourself.

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

You finally made it to the apartment to see Tessa and a man you presumed to be the landlord standing by the door. It was a rather modern apartment with exposed brick and abstract furniture. John was standing in the corner with his hands crossed over his chest and his lips pursed. He was swaying slightly, trying to keep his balance. You pushed past the landlord to see Sherlock kneeling on a shag carpet holding his pocket magnifier. As soon as you walked in, he face-planted into the carpet and passed out.

“He’s clueing for looks” John announced, proudly.

“Oh god,” you said, scrambling over to Sherlock. You grabbed his upper arm and tried to pull him up. God, he was heavy.

“That’s it, I’m calling the police.” The landlord pulled out his cell phone.

“No, no, please, that won’t be necessary,” you protested.

“This is a famous detective. It’s Sherlock Holmes and his partner, John Hamish Watson,” Tessa clarified.

You finally managed to get Sherlock to straighten up. “When did you get here?” Sherlock asked, looking up at you. Then, he bent over and immediately threw up on the carpet.

“Ugh why?” you groaned and plugged your nose. Sherlock wiped his mouth on his sleeve and then clicked his magnifier shut.

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

The next morning…

The landlord had called the police and the night ended with you watching Sherlock and John being driven away in the back of a police car. You’d immediately called Greg hoping he’d let them go. Greg had said the best he could do was try and let them off with a warning if they spent the night in the drunk tank. When the station opened, Greg sent you a photo of Sherlock and John asleep in a cell with the caption “Come and get ‘em!”

You walked into Scotland Yard and Greg was there to meet you. “Thank you, Greg,” you said, handing him one of the 4 coffees you’d brought.

“God, what on earth happened to them?” Greg asked, taking a sip from the coffee you gave him.

“Stag night got a bit out of hand,” you said. “Afraid I lost control of the situation.”

“You can say that again,” agreed Greg as the two of you walked through the station to the drunk tank.

“Rise and Shine!” Greg bellowed as he swung open the door. John was awake and sitting on the floor. He had his hands on his head while Sherlock was still fast asleep on the bench.

“Oh my god,” John said, grimacing in pain. “Is that Greg?”

“Get up,” he said “Y/n’s come to collect you. Managed to square things with the desk sergeant.” John painfully and slowly got up. “What a couple of lightweights! Y/n said you couldn’t even make it to closing time!”

“Yeah, could you whisper?” John asked.

“NOT REALLY!” Greg shouted straight into his ear. Across the cell, Sherlock jolted awake, mouth wide open in shock. He tried to stand up, then fell backward back onto the bench. You walked over and helped him up.

“There you go, Sherlock. Nice and easy,” you said quietly and handed him one of the coffees. He took it and stumbled out of the cell, head down. He looked like hell, not to mention the way he smelled. You caught up to John and handed him one of the remaining coffees, leaving the last for yourself. You took a sip of your coffee and continued down the hall.

“Well, thanks for a ... you know ... an evening,” John said to Sherlock.

“Oh, it was awful,” Sherlock said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I was gonna pretend, but it was, truly,” said John. He then turned to you. “Y/n, I am so sorry, that was—”

“It’s okay, I had fun,” you said with a smile.

“At least someone did,” said Sherlock. “That woman, Tessa, dated a ghost. The most interesting case for months. What a wasted opportunity.”

“Really? That’s your takeaway from this?” you asked. He shrugged. “Come on, boys, let’s get you home.”

A/N: Stag night! I love this part of the episode, so I hope I did it justice. Funny story. When I was writing this, I was trying to find real book titles for Sherlock to read and I came across a real book titled “Surrounded by Idiots” I wanted to use it in the story SO BAD but it was so perfect, that it sounded cheesy and made up lmao. I’m 100% certain Sherlock would have it in his bookcase though.

Taglist: @the-chaotic-cow @amoeebaa @scorpios-echos @sad-bitch-h0ur @drifting-away-in-space @that-thing-in-the-graveyard

#bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock x you #Sherlock #Sherlock Holmes #sherlock imagine #sherlockxreader #sherlock x reader #sherlock x y/n #sherlock x you #Sherlock Holmes x Reader #sherlock holmes x you #the sign of three

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goodeveningwilder · 4 years

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👋🏽 Hello I did a thing -

The “Ten Years of Sherlock I Did Tell You But Did You Listen” Anniversary Cake:

57 because thrilling that you’ve been counting.

The chemical structure of adrenaline because there’s nothing as attractive as facing dangerous situations and people alongside a brave and wise and dangerous madman.

Purple buttons because there is tension to be found as far as the eye can see.

A pink rope lest we forget that a genius man’s Achilles heel isn’t the drugs or the intellectual thrill of the chase - it’s his damsel in distress.

Three elephants in a particular flag’s colours lest we neglect to mention the elephant in the room.

Ombré flower decorations because one must absolutely be able to differentiate between lilac and purple. Only important things are stored in the mind palace.

A glass cup of tea because a cup of tea is code.

Cigarettes because modern addictions parallel Victorian subtext and because I’ve never begged for anything in my life but I’ll beg for cigarettes from you. Twice.

A formula written in rainbow that might appear indecipherable but what if I told you that women are not my area? Is it clearer now?

A silver silhouette of a Vitruvian man’s ideal man.

A razor because he prefers his doctors clean shaven but I don’t shave for Sherlock Holmes I promise.

A white sheet because not wearing pants may make him laugh but it also leaves him feeling exposed. A napkin, maybe?

A dark pool of water and a very particular brand of underwear because tearing clothes off in a darkened swimming pool might make people talk.

Green carnations because the truth is rarely pure and never simple.

Fairy sprinkle buttons. Like a fairy. But don’t worry it’s all fine, Mrs. Turner Mrs. Hudson’s got married ones.

Tall silver candles for a cool Byronic hero and shorter golden candles for his conductor of light. For a brave soldier. For a smart man, even smarter than he looks. Who becomes even more observant when Daddy’s gone. Who wouldn’t be surprised if Daddy called him by his Christian name.

And a flashback to a random year in the Victorian era that just happens to coincide with the year of an infamous trial that that compelled the Great Detective and his Boswell to “depart to the countryside” for a few weeks. A coincidence, perhaps? Although the universe is rarely so lazy.

Hmm, there’s something happening here but I can’t quite put my finger on it - it’s on the top of my tongue it’s on the tip of my tongue it’s on the tip - oh right, it’s called “queer baiting.”

But it could have been “the greatest love story never told.”

What’s the matter? Are you having an earthquake? Feel like you’ve been distracted? Derailed?

Might I prevail upon you to use your powers of deduction: by appearance it’s just a cake - a lovely, if quirky, white wedding cake - and that’s a perfectly sound analysis..

...but if you care to go deeper, to open the file, to crack the case and discover who you really are and who you could yet become...you might just find a rainbow...

You can see an idiot video I made featuring the cake on my insta @sabreflavour ❤️🧡💛💚💙

@inevitably-johnlocked @88thparallel @shrlckholmes @sherlockmeta @loudest-subtext-in-tv @the-7-percent-solution @tjlcisthenewsexy @bakerstbitches @devoursjohnlock @gosherlocked @its-sherlock-once-things @barbsiebabe @leauki @coffeeteaitsallfine @iheardyou @mrwatsonmrholmes @colourfulwatson

(If you would like to be untagged please just let me know - I just wanted to tag some of the pages that I’ve really admired in this space🙏🏽)

#sherlock #bbc sherlock #10 years of sherlock #10yearsofjohnlock #tjlc

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firefly-in-darkness · 4 years

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Misconceptions - 3/12

Characters: Y/N, the Avengers

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Series Summary: Bucky Barnes overhears a conversation that he shouldn’t have… and now he regrets his reaction...

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: Violence, swearing, injuries

Beta: The always lovely, Stacey - @princessmisery666 // all mistakes are my own.

A/N: Just imagine that Infinity War & Endgame didn’t result in deaths, people have settled their differences and are living their best lives at the Avenger’s Compound.... here's part 3 - I'm over the moon at everyone's lovely feedback on this story, I'm still not sure how many parts this series will have but hope you stick with me and enjoy it ✌️

Catch up with the series here: Misconceptions Series List

Return to Firefly’s Library & Masterlist

Previously: The piercing sound of metal clanging brought her attention back to the door as a tall shadowy finger entered the room, unable to make out who they were. Y/N screwed an eye shut, turning her head to the side to try and make out their features, only able to make out a man in a dark suit, the light too bright to allow her to see their face.

She caught sight of the Hydra pin on the lapel then felt a blow to her head.

Everything went dark.

“FRIDAY, access the CCTV from the hotel. Starting from when Y/N entered the party, stay on her at all times.” Stark crossed his arm across his chest, a hand stroking at his chin at one end of the conference table.

Tony’s eyes darkened as he watched the screen flickering through the different cameras in and around the hotel area. The moment Sam had entered the lab earlier, he knew. He knew, something had happened to Y/N and that it would have been the Soldier’s fault. He focused on the CCTV, trying to dampen down the panic in his chest.

Steve stood next to Tony, leaning forward with his hands on the table, a neutral expression as the hologram whizzed through the footage. Sam was at the other end, pacing back and forth, head whipping back and forth as he waited to see Y/N’s face on the screen.

“When did you last see her? Do you know what time she left?” Sam ranted with each step.

Bucky sat away from the table, elbows leaning on his knees, head hung low, “She was in the suite when I got back. I don’t know when she left.”

Wanda closed the door with a click, the noise brought Bucky’s attention to her. Wanda didn’t even look in his direction, just sitting down with the rest of the team.

Natasha walked in with Clint and Bruce, all taking a seat around the table. The tension rife in the air as they all watched the CCTV and avoided the heated discussion at the other side of the room. Bucky glanced up to Nat, her face neutral. He had hoped she would have shown a flicker of emotion, but she was cold. He knew he had fucked up, but now he really knew it. Fuck, I should have been with her, that was my mission.

Bucky’s groan brought Sam’s attention back to him, as if he knew exactly what he had been thinking.

“You were there to back her up and you-” Sam shook his head, “You just wanted to get your dick wet.” His hands on his hips and glaring at Bucky.

Bucky didn’t respond.

“I wish I had gone on that mission instead; she was right.” Sam muttered to himself.

Steve walked over, putting a hand on Sam’s chest, “Calm down. We will find her. Bucky knows what he’s done. Arguing with each other isn’t going to help.”

Bucky heard Sam’s words. He knew it, they were together. He held his head in his hands, unsure of how he missed their relationship developing from that of teammates and friends to something more. Do they love each other? His thoughts filled with all the moments that he had shared with Y/N and how she had laughed at his poor jokes, blushed at the way he called her Doll or Sweetheart. How could he have been so blind to not see what he had with her, only for it to be taken from him by his friend. His friend that was now hurting because of him.

“Bingo.” Tony’s clap had them all looking in his direction.

All eyes on the hologram, holding their breath as they watched Y/N enter the elevator. Sam glanced at the timestamp - 2:40am - anger boiling at the lateness of her departure. At how long she had endured Bucky’s inconsiderate behaviour.

Bucky watched the footage, unblinking as he watched Y/N - even in the poor quality, he can see hurt in her features, the way she wrapped her arms around herself. Did she just wipe away tears? His brows furrowed as he watched her enter the lobby and leave the hotel.

The view changed again, Y/N headed to the parking lot, approaching her motorbike. She stopped nearby, searching her bag for the keys when her head snapped up to something unseen by the cameras. She walked towards it, disappearing out of sight, only to return moments later.

Wanda clamped her hand over her mouth as a large figure walked out from the shadows, hitting Y/N over the head with a baton. She crumpled to the floor, the figure dragging her along the ground by her ankles, out of shot.

The room was silent, and they all turned to Bucky as he growled out, nobody moved. All watching him stand up and punch the wall. Vibranium fist winning over the drywall and scattering plaster over his boots and the floor.

Tony checked his watch. “It’s been six hours since Y/N went missing.”

Steve’s voice commanded everyone’s attention. “Bruce, you stick with Tony and find out whatever you can about Davenport, anything that we don’t already know. Everybody else, suit up.”

The team began to make their way out of the room when FRIDAY’s voice filled it, “Avenger Compromised - I have a location for Miss Y/L/N. Her alias was searched for by a mobile device 60 kilometres away.”

“Meet you on the jet in five.” Steve ordered, the team sprinting down the corridors.

Y/N awoke, head pounding more than ever. The metal cuffs cut into her wrists and ankles, her body ached as she was stretched apart like the Vitruvian Man. The damp stone wall dug into the skin at the back of her legs, straining forward as she checked herself over; She could hardly see out of her left eye thanks to the beatings she had endured. They’d removed her clothing apart from a tank top and underwear.

Bile rose in her throat as she thought of them undressing her whilst she was unconscious. She coughed it down, tears stinging her eyes whilst she recalled how she received each bruise and cut along her body, the men that had punched her face beyond counting, the slices made across her arms and legs with a sharp point. A pocketknife or scalpel, maybe?

A sharp pain ached along her neck as she turned to look around, remembering how she had been dragged by her hair down a corridor to a different room. Thrown through the doorway, the fall winding her and keeping her on the ground. And then the kicks to her ribs taking even more breath from her lungs. The way she curled into a ball, head protected by her arms whilst blunt objects and fists rained down at her before the darkness consumed her once more.

A man walked out from the shadows, the same dark suit and the Hydra pin with a menacing glint as it hit the light. A large hand gripped Y/N’s chin, pushing her cheeks in, teeth grazing against the insides. Her captor was forcing her to look in his direction, yet she was unfazed to see Patrick Davenport in front of her.

“You will tell me everything you know.” Davenport gritted his teeth, spit landing on her cheek, “Why were you snooping around my penthouse?”

Y/N yanked her head away from him, hitting her head against the wall. A hiss left her lips, but she didn’t say a word. She kept her expression neutral; she used her training to hide behind the mask but her mind still raced with fear as she realised that nobody would know where she was.

She grimaced at herself. Should have stayed with Bucky.

“I will bring the bigger guy back in if you don’t start talking.”

If she had been paying attention, then she would have been prepared for the next blow. His hand slapped across her face, the sound reverberating around the walls. She bit the inside of her cheek, blood pouring into her mouth. Y/N spat it out to the floor and glared at Davenport.

“Okay, I know who you are.” He pulled out a purse and driver’s licence, turning it over in his hand. “Mrs Eve C Goodman from Rhode Island.”

Y/N’s eyes widened but she didn’t respond.

Davenport smirked at her, “We searched your name, and guess what? Your record is squeaky clean. Nothing in police databases, not even a library fine. So that means, either it’s an alias and you’re either FBI or CIA, or you’re just plain stupid.”

Laughter burst through Y/N’s lips, once she started, she couldn’t stop, regardless of the pain and aching of her ribs and lungs from the lack of air. She was silenced with a punch to her stomach, her face grabbed to look up at him.

“What’s so funny little girl?” Davenport shouted.

“Oh, you really fucked up.” She snarled. “The moment you searched my name, you fucked up.”

Davenport’s eyebrows twitched together, and his grip loosened around her face. Y/N lurched forward, head smashing into his nose. He stumbled backwards, bent at the waist holding onto his face.

“You fucking bitch!” He straightened up, pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it to his nose.

The blood seeped through the material, a satisfied smirk on Y/N’s face had him lunging forward until an explosion rippled through the building, stopping him from hitting her again. Gunfire and shouting echoed in the distance.

“Told you, you fucked up.”

Continue Here...

Taglist: @supraveng / @iheartsebastianstan / @jessyballet / @likeit-or-leaveit / @inspocollective-blog / @ladifrickinda / @wintersoldierissucharide / @michelehansel / @danietoww04 / @booboobella01 / @thefandomimagines / @justreadingfics / @socalgem1124 / @a--1--1--3 / @notyourtypicalrose / @winterboobear11 / @justlovelifeblog / @polireader / @hailmary-yramliah / @rainbowkisses31 / @gooddaykate / @moonybarnes

#Bucky Barnes x Reader #Bucky Barnes Fic Series #Bucky Barnes Fic #Bucky Barnes Angst #Bucky Barnes Fanfic #Bucky Barnes

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sincerelyella · 3 years

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All In My Head Epilogue

Book: The Royal Romance (AU)

Pairings: Liam x MC (Ella)

Characters belong to Pixelberry; Ella, Alexander, Nicholas, and Grace belong to me.

Song Inspiration: All In My Head by Tori Kelly

A/N: An anon ask - they wanted to see the All In My Head Liam and Ella with their kiddos. Here is the epilogue that is a flash forward to 13 years after the twins were born.

Thank you @jessiembruno for looking over this to make sure I sound like I know what I’m doing when I write this stuff LOL I love youuuu!

Warnings: Fluff

Words: 1137

Thirteen year olds Alexander and Nicholas walked into the royal quarters already bickering.

“I told you to quit ditching lessons, dad is gonna kill you!” Nicholas rolled his eyes at his twin brother.

Alex shrugged. “I didn’t ditch, I was there but I left a little early.”

“As soon as Mr. Chambers turned around, you snuck out! You aren’t subtle at all!” Nicholas, or Nick as his family affectionately called him, stormed to his room and slammed the door.

Alex stood in the living room for a moment, looked down the hallway where Nick was, and let out a big sigh. He walked toward his brother’s room and knocked. He heard music blasting behind the door and knocked louder. Okay, so he doesn’t want to talk to me. Too bad, Nick. Alex smirked to himself, turned the knob and pushed open the door.

“Nick. I was literally out there knocking,” Alex stared at his brother, who was face up on his bed, arms and legs spread and he looked like the Vitruvian Man. “What’re you doing in here?” Still no answer or movement from Nick, who had his eyes shut. “NICK!” Alex bent to pick up a pen from the floor and chucked it at his brother. Not even a flinch.

Alex sighed, walked to the edge of the bed and sat. “I’m sorry I left you in there. You know how much those lessons bore me to death.”

At his words, Nick’s eyes flew open and he sat up abruptly to gape at his brother. “And you think I like being there?! I’m not even the Crown Prince, Alex! I’m just there to be a backup, the spare … it’s you that’s supposed to know all of this crap!”

“I know! I know that,” Alex frowned. “It’s just …” he bit his lip and fixated on a spot on the floor.

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking. What if I didn’t want to be king someday? What if I just wanted to be … a commoner?” His eyes flicked to his brother, both pairs of sky blue eyes met for a few moments.

Nick broke the silence. “’What if you were poor’ is what you’re asking.”

“No! No … erm, are all commoners poor?”

“Are we competing in a stupid contest? Because you’re the winner.”

Alex stood and threw his hands up in defeat. He began to pace the room. “Okay fine! I don’t want to be a commoner but … mom was one before she married dad. She said she was free to do what she wanted and make her own decisions.”

Nick knew exactly what his brother was thinking at that moment. “You want to be free,” he murmured. “Do you think you want to abdicate like Uncle Leo?”

The brothers jumped when Liam and Ella shut the front door to the quarters.

“Boys? Where are you?”

They heard their father’s voice boom through the hallway and they slowly stood and walked out to the living room. There stood Liam, still at his 6’4” height, their mother next to him at a tiny 5’2”. She looked like Thumbelina next to their father and it was a family inside joke that always provoked Ella to roll her eyes. Their little sister Grace, who was eight years old, stood next to their mother as she gave them a small smile.

“I heard that someone left lessons earlier today. Anyone wanna fess up?” Liam arched his brow at his sons. He eyed one and then the other as he tried to decipher who would cave first. He knew it was Alex, but Nick would always try to cover for him.

“Well, I think that it shouldn’t matter who left, dad …” Alex began.

“Try again, Alexander.” Liam said sternly.

Ella shook her head and decided to sneak away with Grace down the other hallway. “Aw mom, I wanted to hear!”

“No, baby, you don’t want to get involved in that. Just know that when you start going to lessons you better not skip any of them.”

Liam and Ella had cleaned up the kitchen and waited on the kids to head to bed. Ella attached her phone to the bluetooth speaker in the living room and smiled when she saw the song she wanted.

“What’re you doing over here?” Liam slid his arms around her and pulled her towards his chest.

“Just looking for a song. Do you remember this one?”

The slow melody began to play as Ella turned in his arms to face him and wrapped her arms around his neck.

I see you with her, and it crushes me inside

I guess I should stop thinkin’ about you all the time

Maybe this is what I needed, Maybe this is a sign

“Wow, you’re going old school with that,” Liam chuckled. The two began to dance to the familiar song of their past.

“It was really painful to sing this, you know,” Ella whispered. “Even more painful since you walked in right before I started. I really thought we were over.”

“I know you did, love, but I wasn’t going to give up on us.”

Was it real or was it all in my head?

She’s so pretty, you two look so great

Time for me to move on now

It was probably just a silly crush anyway

“I’m glad you didn’t. We went through hell and back to be together, and now we have three kids.”

Liam leaned down to capture her lips in a passionate kiss. He pulled away and rested his forehead on hers. “Ella, I love you. There’s no one else in the world I would ask to marry me three times.”

Ella let out a loud laugh and the sound made his heart flutter with joy. “You asked me four times!” She laughed harder at the memory. “It was … on our honeymoon … and we got … so drunk … you proposed again!”

“I just wanted to be sure!” He tried to act hurt, but he couldn’t help but laugh with her.

“We were already married!”

Every little glance my way, Every time you wanted to hang

You seemed so interested. Could you tell me

Was it real or was it all in my head?

“You think we could handle another baby?” Ella asked suddenly.

Liam studied her as they continued to dance. “I think we could. Why? Do you want another baby?”

Ella looked up at her husband and bit her lip through a cheeky smile. He knew that exact look; it was the look that got them to have three kids. He hoisted his wife up in one big swoop as she hung over his shoulder.

“This was not the romantic gesture I pictured, Rys!”

“I’ll show you romantic gesture,” he mumbled as he threw open their bedroom door.

#All In My Head #choices trr #choices the royal romance #choices liam x mc #choices trr au #choices liam #Liam x MC #Liam x Ella #King Liam #the royal romance #the royal romance fanfic #the royal romance au #the royal romance fandom #the royal romance fanfiction #trr #trr au #trr fandom #trr fanfiction #trr fanfic

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