Alex Kralie: "You're lucky everyone loves you, otherwise I would've fired you in an instant because of your shitty attitude, boy."

I like to think Tim has kind of an atittude problem/beef with Alex, but Alex doesn't wanna fire him since his popularity raises the ratings of his films and gets him bank. If he does fire him, his business will go to shit💀

to put it simply, Tim gets pretty privilege and still gets to keep his job lol

i know you only uploaded it a few hours ago, but please carry on the reader accidentally summoning morpheus, im dying to know their history, and his feelings on how much time has passed <3 big fan!!

A/N: By popular demand, I'm writing a 2nd part. The quoted poem is something I was obsessed with as a kid. My mom still quotes it.

[Imagine accidentally summoning Morpheus] || [Sandman-inspired playlist]

All of it sounded like a madman's bad joke.

"Wait, hold on." You waved your hand. Hunching over the dusty box filled with remnants of your childhood, you began looking for another trinket that surely must have been there. "You mean that you are... goddamn where is it... I saw it somewhere here... Got it!" you exclaimed when you stood up with a thin, red book in your hand. "You mean that you are this funny fella?"

Your finger was tapping against the cover of a children's book. There was an illustration of a Santa Claus-like man carrying a big sack thrown over his shoulder. He was climbing a ladder to an open bedroom window. Above the picture, in fancy curvy letters, was written Grandfather Sand.

A small smile crept unto Morpheus's face. His eyes lit up vividly and you suspected that if he was any less reserved in his emotional expression, he would have laughed in your face. "Did you think he is the Sandman?"

"I didn't think the Sandman was at all," you retorted as you carelessly tossed the book on your bed. Looking once more at the pleasantly familiar illustration, the nostalgia made you recall something Morpheus had said to you a few minutes ago. "You said you know my face."

"I have visited you many times before," he stated. After a moment, he added in a quieter, defeated tone: "But you don't seem to remember."

You only shrugged your shoulders. "If I was a toddler, then no wonder. It was lifetimes ago."

Morpheus gave the room an absent once-over before staring at the box next to the two of you. Something brown and fur-like was peeking from behind dolls and plastic horses. His pale, skeletal hand reached for the mysterious object only for it to turn out to be an old, worn-out teddy bear. It still smelled of your grandmother's perfume. Sometimes you wondered what happened to him... Apparently, Terry had been safe and sound in your grandmother's basement throughout all those years.

Dream was examining the bear when he suddenly decided to make you recall something you had already forgotten you once remembered: "Maybe Spot tugged at him, tore the ear off, didn't say he's sorry?"

It was a quote - one that you had grown to know all too well. You felt as though that single line from a rhymed story allowed you to rediscover the oldest memories your brain could possibly store like you suddenly became privy to a life you had once led but not anymore. "A needle, a thread, a pair of hands, we'll mend the hurt right away," you quietly continued." You fixed Terry..." Yes, that plushy friend from your childhood did need an 'emergency surgery' once, although you could never quite recall who sew his ear back on. At some point, you even began questioning whether his little accident was even real as there was no sign of a tear whatsoever.

The memory came to you in waves like afterimages of a dream one tries to recall after waking up. It was all blurry, voices heard from miles away and sights as if seen through a dirty lens. "Yeah, I remember I used to ask to be told the same three stories over and over again and you were never frustrated with me."

"You were a great listener."

"So, how does this work? The melody plays and you just, puff, appear wherever?"

Morpheus sat Terry at the top of the dolls, plastic horses and fairytale books about fairies still residing inside the box. His bony hand lingered on the brown, matted fur of the plushie. "It was a gift." His gaze returned to you. "To a girl who just like you could not fall asleep. For decades it remained silent until that one night when I met you for the first time."

Your hand brushed against the ceramic raven inside the music box. It was quite an interesting choice of design for an item meant for children. "A magical heirloom. Sounds cool." The ghosting touch of your fingers was withheld only for you to close the enamelled lid for an unspecified amount of time. "Don't worry, I won't abuse that... privilege. I'm sure you have a lot going on anyway."

Without letting his gaze leave you, Morpheus was a little too quick to answer you. "Play it anytime you want."

His expression remained generally ambiguous but you figured it was just the way he looked. There was, however, one detail of his face that caught your attention: his eyebrows slightly raised making him appear somewhat surprised or nervous. "Is that permission or a suggestion?" you asked.

"Both."

Tagging people who were interested in a follow-up: @secretdreamlandmentality @kbrownie @lolitaisreal @thegraywitch @aralezinspace @boofy1998

Plot twist for the venti one-shot: (y/n) always put blood in the sweets because she is just as crazy as him. It was just this time that there was more than intended because of the accident. She can't see him physically but can 'give' a bit of herself every time she makes sweets. It's her way of showing Venti that she is always with him. ;)

(Sorry if this was too much, you can ignore if you like.)

Sorry this took like forever to answer! I was really busy so I hope you didn't think I ignored it

I like this idea a lot, you can imagine it to be canon to the series ✌️

(also there is a cameo of a certain person you might eventually read as in another part of the series but you didn't hear that from me.)

-----

Content warning(s): Yandere themes (unhealthy obsession), mentions of injury, mentions of cannibalism

Let me know if I missed anything.

-----

"This song is dedicated to my bestest friend who has always supported me and the rest of 6REEZE! I love you!"

Your smile couldn't grow any wider, your heart couldn't stop beating, and your face couldn't cool down, as you watched from the audience. Nobody knows who Venti is talking about, except you.

You couldn't be happier, knowing he said those words.

He…loves you? Of course, it could've just meant the general 'I love you' anyone says to anyone they show appreciation to, but…

You had to suppress the urge to shout out "I love you too!", knowing that you were in a crowd filled with so many 6REEZE fans and devotees, surely you probably would be killed on the spot. You know, getting killed right where you stand — after confessing to your beloved best friend — that seems satisfying enough. At least he would've heard you.

...

It was the intermission, and everyone went off to the concert lobby for a little breather after a long hour of cramped spaces and glowstick waving. You, on the other hand, carried a small plate of sweetly addicting macarons that you just made today, marching towards the VIP breakroom.

You got a bit too carried away while making these ones. The knife cut a bit too deep—

Into the macarons, of course! Definitely not anywhere near your arm. That is definitely not the reason why you can't bake anything until the wounds heal. All of these bandages covering both of your arms…

...Perhaps there's no reason for the truth to be covered up. When you say you put in a lot of blood, sweat and tears into the desserts you make for Venti, you really mean it literally — only the first part, of course.

It's only fair, right? You're only giving him a drop of you every time, because the confines of being an idol don't allow him to spend time with you anymore, and you've been friends since childhood! How dare there be a barrier between the two of you?! You're only this close to convincing Venti to take a permanent hiatus from being an idol.

If that doesn't work, then fine! You could chop off your whole arm and serve it up to him instead, no problem! Anything, for you to be with him. You can't stand the fact that you're only one person in that large crowd, in which many people probably also like Venti too!

Do they send him sweets every day? Do they send lightly perfumed handwritten letters congratulating his successful performance all the time? No they don't.

Even if they did — who's gifts would Venti gladly take, and who's will he coldly reject?

That's right. His heart should only be big enough for you.

"Hello there, miss! You're one of the managing staff for 6REEZE, right?" Near the VIP room, you found another person walking around, as if frantically searching for something. Hey, they almost look like you…

"Um, I'm sorry, but I'm just one of their makeup artists. I-I'm trying to find something so I have no time, maybe ask Jean instead–" the poor makeup artist was only met with a plate of macarons in their face.

"Great! After you find what you're looking for, could you give this plate to Venti? And if you can, could you serve it on the prettiest tray you have? Thanks!"

"I..." The makeup artist seemed reluctant, but by then, you were already on your merry way back to the concert lobby with a big smile on your face.

"Oh…If only that cheeky bastard didn't hide my brush, I wouldn't have had to deal with this…" the makeup artist lamented.

⟨ jodie turner-smith. cis woman. she/her. thirty-five. ⟩ we welcome scylla upcliff to winterfell , the lady of witch isle. keep an eye out for their splenetic nature, they tend to cover it up by acting hospitable. rumor has it they are neutral to the peace treaty, and their loyalties lie with house upcliff/house arryn . you’ll know it’s them when you get flashes of delphic regard glimpsed over the rim of a fogged teacup; what did it take of you to water your garden? + an architect's arboretum in calloused hands + gazing into the sea and thinking it hungry.

⇢   𝐁 𝐚 𝐬 𝐢 𝐜 𝐈 𝐧 𝐟 𝐨𝐫 𝐦 𝐚 𝐭 𝐢 𝐨𝐧  ;

full name: scylla upcliff meaning: ❛ to tear, a mythical sea monster ❜ nicknames/aliases: cyla occupation:  former ∣ current ‘perfumer’ ( still occasionally dabbles ), ‘ruling lady’ ∣ scion of the witch isle

marital affiliation: unattached. unbetrothed. religion: obscure faith affiliation and alignment: house upcliff, house arryn, herself ∣ chaotic lawful, chaotic neutral disposition ( positive ): hospitable, tba disposition ( negative ): splenetic, tba

tw: death, tw: illness, tw: blood mention

𝐁 𝐢 𝐨  ; 

✵ 𝐒𝐂𝐘𝐋𝐋𝐀 𝐔𝐏𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐅. cyla. another youth jessamine upcliff had taken upon herself to cultivate. to nurture; draping her in the heftiest jewels that looked like blood drops or as if pieces of the sea had been carved out to circle throat and wrists, gold and lines of pearls and gems the size of an egg. preeminent educators for all the children within her household once jessamine acquired more—the word of choice and freedom laid out on a silver platter by matriarch and wealth held under thumb. nonetheless overindulge did not breed an ‘above others attitude’ in the second scion of house upcliff more so a creature of inbetweens.

✵ is possibly the daughter of nobility and was born to a life of luxury yet readily given up for inheritance left nothing to be desired and house had enough spares or was born to poverty and she was left with a less than enthusiastic caretaker and nothing to her name, or as murmurs persisted from behind fascinators and fans a bastard heritage, no one was certain. yet nothing was denied nor acknowledged furthermore as nobles do attention drifted to the next morsel of spectacle eagerly stomached than the unknown origins that left one empty or dead given the weaving otherworldly history surrounding its inhabitants.

✵ the seat of witch isle lay vacant after their mother died and even before that her older brothers’ abandonment departure, sagacious scylla took the reigns of tremulous leadership among a council of vultures and the continued rearing of her sisters. crafting her own ichor saturated repute instead of one induced by marriage, coaxing dread for she takes their sinister reputation to heart and beyond, fostering connections internal and external giving rise to the idea of lecanomancy being used upon these encounters meant to boost affluence and somehow knowing which avenue to follow and avoiding ventures aimed towards failure—in her eyes being ‘ what benefit would this be to us?’ a countenance she adapts with everything in life. 

✵ in those moments of potential impermanent power scylla 𝘸𝘢𝘴 ruling lady, didn’t know how to feel about the role nonetheless even without it’s gained not earned authority, respect; scylla was still proud enough to have used it to her own purpose in advance of the return of it’s ‘true heir’ her brother syrio after the letter written by herself was sent off to vaguely mention the passing of their mother. assumed he wouldn’t show yet desired to let him know as his name was the last to have left their mothers’ lips—this information did not become gifted knowledge until the last day of the funeral during a spat and the stay before the trip to winterfell was upon, split house having answered the call. the lady going forth for her own esoteric rationale.

𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐒  ; 

✵ tba

wanted connections - 

tba.

Haha yes, perfume is too literal even for a non-english speaker like me. And idk if it’s personal taste but i just don’t find perfume to sound beautiful. When you pronounce it, it doesn’t has a nice ring to it. And the font.. it’s really easy to make serif fonts look tacky nowadays because a lot of companies and designers promotes modernity, simplicity, elegance, cleanliness with sans serif (it’s basically just more popular nowadays but with reasonss). Not that you can’t use serif but look at the huge serif of the perfume font. It’s making it too crowded and it doesn’t help that the designer puts the letter very near to eo. Is it intentional? It’s way too sharp, looks like fork to me. The M and E is the worst. M reminds me of the mummy movie. Honestly this looks similar to the font I’ve made in my typo class. Especially the serif part. I still hate my font from back then with passion. (This is just just my analysis on the font, no hate intended tho i do hate the font🥲)

But the best part is I think it’s the only thing i find to be annoying. The bottle reminds me of lego people which cracks me up every now and then but honestly it could work with better typography. For the logo I think they want to give the imagery of love. And for the other promotional stuff, I don’t analyse it (photography and filmography is still a mystery to me) but I like them so far. Especially starting from blotter papers ( my fav is doyoung’s). I don’t remember much about tge bunny moon video. I like jungwoo’s the most for the musical film poster. It looks like coming of age movie poster. And his expression fits the quote very well. Something about sharing this love story with just us? Haha too lazy to open twitter now. And of course we’re getting lots and lots of doyoung. This promotion is getting me to be interested in jaehyun and jungwoo more as an individual artist and tgeir personality as well. I’m opening my senses to you jaehyunnnnn

You are right, the chosen font is too "toothy" for a love theme. Here what a font library gave me for "perfume". Mostly flowy, "handwritten" fonts to resemble spirals of aroma in the air and hint at a "personal touch".

Another direction is "clean", "classic", "sophisticated".

People react to lines, lines have character. Fonts is a difficult science to master (I suck at them, personally), but that's precisely why you shouldn't trust your inhouse "all-rounder" designer and hire a pro.

The bottle is generic, it's passable. I thought that there was an opportunity to tie the space/Moon theme in - make the bottle circular with rounded grooves or a narrow crescent on top to resemble a shape of the spacesuit helmet. Stylised enough to not be literal, just a hint at the shape.

I don't know if SM will really go for "homesickness" as fans proposed (at this point, looks more like they won't), however, space travel indeed has a strong association with it. Lovers separated by a journey is a long-lasting trope (a sailor/warrior and his wife, a knight and his ladylove).

I don't much like the bottle on the black cover because the cover is ultra masculine and dominant, meanwhile the rest of the image we are presented with is not.

The photographs and the videos are pretty good (except those pictures with weirdly angled limbs, from the "we sell clothes" series, the bar was lowered there). SM has a roster of good specialists it can contact quickly. I've watched a video with a Japanese MV maker, where he said the usual time frame is two weeks for everything, from the concept to the shooting. Therefore, they can do what they already know well quickly.

I think the problem with the logo and the fonts is that noone in SM (or, rather, among those who worked with DJJ) is aware of the problem. The logo had to be created quickly to handle it to the companies who prepared invitation cards and the bottle sculpture, who did the 3D rotating model for IG, that's why, I suspect, it was done by an inhouse designer.

The idea of the logo is not bad, I agree that it evokes "love knot" association. It looks OK in a small size and in 3D with moving reflections. Both hide the mistakes in lines and distances. It's like a circular shape with uneven wobbly edges against a proper circle. The circle is a perfect shape, the wobbly thing is not.

For me it's Jungwoo - Doyoung - Jaehyun.

Woo's is indeed like a scene from a drama, like he is looking at someone, they are having an intimate dialogue in an empty classroom. This Woo instantly resembles the Woo in his first MV cameo. (I guess they aimed for it).

Doyoung portrays "commitment" well, he looks like he waits, in pain, for someone. Stoic, but sad. Jaehyun is his romantic self, however, we saw better pictures with this angle, and the pose doesn't reflect "passion" well.

Still, it's just posters for socmed. It's appropriate quality for the task, with a lot of attention to details (the text, the phrases), so no complaints (the main font doesn't match the words well, but it's the album title's font, so it's just a passed down mistake).

Grounding Techniques

Mental Distraction Techniques

Pick a category of objects and try to think of as many objects as possible that fit within that category (e.g., types of dogs, cities, types of trees, crayon colors, sports)

Pick a letter and think of emotionally positive or neutral words that begin with that letter

Pick a color and look for things of that color. Notice differences in their exact shades

Say or think the alphabet backwards or alternate letters and numbers (A1, B2, C3, D4, etc)

Count backwards from 100 by 3s, 6s, or 7s or count up by prime numbers or perfect squares

Play "fizz-buzz" with yourself. Begin counting to 100 (or over!), but replace any number that contains the number 5 or is a multiple of 5 with the word "fizz" and any number that contains the number 7 or is a multiple of 7 with the word "buzz." For example, 1-15 would be "1, 2, 3, 4, fizz, 6, buzz, 8, 9, fizz, 11, 12, 13, buzz, fizz." When you mess up, compliment yourself and start over

Think of the words to your favorite song or poem or think of facts related to a specific theme

Pick a word or your name and see how many other words you can make from the letters in it

Describe an every day event or process in great detail, listing all of the steps in order and as thoroughly as possible (e.g., how to cook a meal, how to get from your house to your place of work or school, how to do your favorite dance)

Read something technical or meant for children or read words backwards to focus on the process of reading and not the words

Watch a children's television show or movie or watch cute or funny videos on Youtube; it might help to have a playlist already prepared for this

Look at a current news article that is not likely to be upsetting or distressing

Distract yourself with Tetris, Solitaire, Sudoku, word searches, or other puzzle games

Reorientation Techniques

Say or think to yourself: "My name is _________. I am safe right now. I am _____ years old. I am currently at _____________. The date is _____________. If I need help, I am with ________/can call _________. Everything is going to be alright."

List reaffirming statements ("I am fine. Everything is going to be okay. I am strong. I can handle this.")

Ask yourself where you are, what day of the week it is, what day of the month it is, what month it is, what year it is, what season it is, how old you are, and other present-focused questions

Notice things in your surroundings that indicate to you that you're safe or that you're in the present (e.g., locks on your door, electronics that didn't exist when you were younger, the presence of trusted people, a phone so that you can call for help if you need it)

Describe your surroundings in detail, including sights (objects, textures, shapes, colors), sounds, smells, and temperature

Name five things that you see, four that you feel, three that you hear, and two that you smell or taste, and then name one good thing that you like about yourself

Pick four or five brightly colored objects that are easily visible and move your focus between them. Be sure to vary the order of your gaze and concentrate briefly on each one before moving to the next

Think about a fun time that you recently had with a friend or call that friend and ask them to talk about it with you

Sensory-Based Grounding Techniques

Run cool or warm (but not too cold or hot) water over your hands or take a cool or warm bath or shower

Spritz your face (with eyes closed), neck, arms, and hands with a fine water mist

Spray yourself with your favorite perfume and focus on the scent

Feel the weight of your body in your chair or on the floor and the weight of your clothing on your skin

Touch and hold objects around you. Compare the feel, weight, temperature, textures, colors, and materials

Keep a small object with you to touch or play with when you get triggered. Good examples include a smooth stone, a fidget toy, jewelry, or a tiny plushy

Bite into a lemon, orange, or lime, suck on a sour or minty candy or an ice cube, chew cinnamon-flavored gum, or put a few drops of Tabasco sauce on your tongue. Notice the flavor, scent, and texture

Eat something or drink warm tea, coffee, or hot chocolate, and describe to yourself the taste and texture in great detail

Place a cool wash cloth on your face or hold something cold like a can of soda

Listen to soothing or familiar music. If possible, dance to it

Hum, sing, recite poetry, or make up a silly poem or story as you go

Pick up a book and read the first paragraph out loud

Hug another person (if interpersonal touch isn't a trigger). Pay attention to your own pressure and the physical sensations of doing so

Hug a tree! Register the smells of being outside, the wind, and the sights around you

Movement-Based Grounding Techniques

Breathe deeply and slowly and count your breaths

Grab tightly onto your chair or press your feet against the ground as firmly as you can

Rub your palms and clap your hands or wiggle your toes within your socks. Pay attention to the physical sensation of doing so

Stretch out your arms or legs, roll your head on your neck, or clench and unclench your fists

Stomp your feet, walk around, run, jump, ride a bike, do jumping jacks, or do yoga

While walking, notice each footstep and say to yourself "right" and "left" to correspond with the foot currently moving

Squeeze a pillow, stuffed animal, or ball

If you have a soft pet (dog or cat), brush its fur and stroke it. If you don't, brush your own hair slowly and without pulling too much

Color in an adult coloring book, finger paint, or draw anything that comes to mind without worrying about quality

Write whatever comes to mind even if it's nonsense. Try not to write about whatever is upsetting you until you're more capable of doing so without increasing the upset

Write a list of things that make you happy or look for cheerful pictures to make into a collage

Pop bubble wrap or blow and pop actual bubbles

Dig in the dirt or garden, jump on a pile of leaves, or splash around in puddles or mud

Rip up paper or stomp on aluminum cans to crush them

Imagery Techniques

Picture yourself breathing in relaxation, calm, positive feelings, or strength. Picture yourself breathing out whatever is upsetting you. It may help to pair this with imagery of breathing in soothing colors (usually blue, purple, or green) and out more intense colors (usually red or black)

If you need to relax, envision a soothing white or golden light slowly moving up your body, warming and relaxing every part of you that it touches. You can also think of it as protecting you from negativity or from harm

If the problem is intense or uncomfortable emotions, physical sensations, or memories, picture them being surrounded and neutralized by a bright and healing light, temporarily placed in a mental box to be stored for later, or dialed back by an internal controller of intensity

If you have a clear mental picture of what's upsetting you, mentally change it to something silly or harmless. If you're a fan of Harry Potter, cast a mental "riddikulus" to banish the negativity

Picture yourself calm, focused, and able to tackle whatever problems you're facing. Focus on how that would feel in the moment. What would your expression and posture be like? Make whatever changes you need to in order to make your reality reflect your goal

How to Make a Grounding Box

Get a box or basket

Personalize and decorate it with construction paper, wrapping paper, ribbon, stickers, drawings, paint, photographs, glitter, sequins, or anything else that you like

Keep within it:

A list of grounding techniques that you know work for you

A list of positive affirmations and happy memories

A list of the contact information of trusted friends or family who are willing to help and support you

Small sensory objects such as: scented candles, perfumes, or lotions; hard candies or gum; soft fabrics, a stress ball, a stuffed animal, or a fidget toy; happy pictures of you with friends; a CD with relaxing music or meditation tracks. Try to cover all of the senses

A list of possible distractions such as books to read or movies to watch

Small portable distractions such as a pack of playing cards, a small game, or a joke book

A list of comforting things to do such as taking a bubble bath, snuggling up in bed, or meditating

A small journal or notebook

In the Case of a Flashback

Tell yourself that you are having a flashback and are safe now

Remind yourself that the worst is over, and you survived it. What you're feeling now is just a reminder of that trauma and does not fit the present moment

Remind yourself of when and where you are, who you're currently with, and who you can contact if you need help (use the reorientation-focused grounding techniques)

Breathe deeply and slowly. Count your breathes and make sure that you're getting enough air

Use other mental, sensory, movement, and imagery techniques in order to distract yourself, calm yourself, and reorient yourself within the present

If possible or necessary, go somewhere where you can be alone or with a close friend, where you will feel safe, or where you feel protected or shielded

If there is anyone who you can trust or who will support you, reach out to them, let them know what happened, and let them know what you need, what would be best for you, or what they could do to help

Be gentle with yourself and take the time to really recover. If what helps you to recover is to color, take a bubble bath, hug a stuffed animal, or watch a children's movie and if it would not be disruptive to do such things at that point in time, embrace those options whole-heartedly

If possible, note or write down what triggered the flashback, what techniques you tried to use to disrupt the flashback, and what techniques helped

Omg what about the dad!witchers discussing baby names 🤭🤭

A/N: I have absolutley loved this ask since it came to me like forever ago!! But I couldn't think of scenarios for anyone other than Geralt/Bram!!! So for right now, here is Geralt's fic with where Bram's name comes from. Hopefully in the future I can get the others out :)

Warnings: pregnant reader

You smiled as you flipped through the book that rested on the table in front of you. Your fingertip trailed along the detail edging on the page, admiring the detail. 

The sound of the front door closing pulled you from your thoughts. You looked over momentarily to meet your husband’s gaze, smiling softly when he found your eyes. 

“Hello, darling.”

“Dove.”

“How was today’s market?” You closed the book. 

Geralt took his cloak off and hung it on the peg by the door. 

“Rather busy.”

You brushed your hand over the title, your heart swelling with an unnecessary amount of happiness. 

“Was Jaskier by? I can smell that gods awful perfume he wears.”

“He stopped in for a moment, but he had some errands to run.” You nodded. “Said he would be by later though. I rather like his perfume.”

“It’s potent.”

“It’s sweet.”

The witcher wrinkled his nose in disagreement. You smiled and patted the space at the table next to you. 

“Come see what he left for us.”

“If it’s another invitation to a banquet, I will pull my hair out.”

“I do miss going to those events with him.” You were mostly serious, but your tone was teasing. You knew your dear witcher wasn’t a fan of the formal functions his bard enjoyed. 

Geralt grumbled, pulling the chair out next to you. 

“But fear not, darling. It’s a gift for the baby.”

“Another gift? Every time he comes over, he has something.”

“He’s rather excited.” You placed your hand on Geralt’s arm. “But this…. This one is by far my favorite.”

You pushed the book over so that it was in front of Geralt. His brows drew together as he looked down at the object. 

“The White Wolf: The Adventures of Geralt of Rivia…. The fuck is this?”

“It’s a book containing all of the journeys you and Jaskier have been on.” You couldn’t help the smile that grew on your lips as you read the title page with him. The gold letters against the white cover were marvelous and definitely one of your favorite parts of the book. Just beneath the title was a carving of the medallion for the School of the Wolf. 

“Why?”

“Why? Because it’s exciting!”

“My travels with Jaskier shouldn’t be shared with the baby.” Geralt tried to get up but you stopped him, your hand reaching out for his arm. 

“Geralt, wait just a moment. At least look at what’s been done so far, please?”

Geralt sighed through his nose. 

“So far?”

“Jaskier has more he wants to add to it, but he wanted to have us take a look at it and maybe critique it if we want.”

“You want me to critique it?”

“I want you to sit down here and look at this book with me while I can still stand to sit in this uncomfortable chair.” You raised your brows just slightly. 

He gave in, returning to his seat with a displeased grumble. 

“What are you concerned about, love?” You turned towards him as best as you could. With your very pregnant stomach, it was hard to shift around on the wooden chairs too much. 

“You know what concerns me.” Geralt kept his eyes on the book. 

“But I would like for you to voice those concerns aloud.” You rubbed his arm. 

He said nothing for a few moments. After a few breaths, he finally spoke. 

“I don’t want the baby to know about what I’ve done.”

“You know Jaskier would never put anything in this book that you wouldn’t want in there.” You murmured. “After all, he is the one who has made the entire Continent come to know you as the White Wolf.”

“But I am the Butcher too.” Golden eyes flickered over to you. 

“Not to this baby, not to our child.” You smiled, shaking your head softly. “To our child, you are the White Wolf. A hero.”

Silently, Geralt leaned over to kiss your temple. 

“I was thinking of names earlier.” Your eyes found the book once more. “We know the baby is to be a boy. The midwife said so. I was thinking that…. that perhaps naming the baby after Jaskier wouldn’t be such a bad idea.”

The corners of Geralt’s lips pulled up just a little as he watched you. When you looked up at him, taking his silence as hesitation, he looked away. 

“It is funny you say that…. When I had thought of names, that was the first thing I thought of when I thought of names for a boy.”

You smiled widely. 

“Not Jaskier, of course.” Geralt shook his head, making you laugh. 

“Julian is a lovely name.”

“It is, but it’s far to…. Aristocratic for us, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps.” You hummed, placing one hand on your stomach. “Perhaps we can call the baby something else. By the second name, maybe?”

Geralt nodded his head in agreement.

“Hello, hello!” Jaskier opened the front door without a warning. 

“Hello, Jaskier.” You smiled at him. 

“My darling, you still look amazing. Ah! Geralt! What do you think of the book?” Jaskier took the mandolin off of his shoulder and placed it on the table. 

Geralt offered a low grumble, still unsure of the book. 

“Have you got a minute, Jaskier?” You asked.

“For you, darling, I have all the time in the world.”

“Come have a seat. I’ll get you tea.”

“Oh, I can do that–,”

“No, no.” You waved your hand dismissively at him as you stood to your feet. 

While you walked over to where the kettle was hanging over the fire, you absentmindedly rubbed your back. It was rather awful sitting in that wooden chair for so long. 

Before you could even reach for the kettle, Geralt was grabbing it himself. 

“Geralt! I said I could–,”

“I know.” He placed the kettle down on the wooden countertop. “I just don’t like you being so close to the fire.”

You placed your hand on his arm for a moment before he walked away to return to the table with Jaskier. 

You made tea for both of the men and yourself, then went to stand next to Geralt, finding it more comfortable to stand beside him rather than sit in that chair for one more second. Your hips couldn’t stand it. 

“We have something we’d like to share with you, Jaskier.” You smiled brightly.

“Is it good?”

“Yes. It’s in regards to the baby.”

Jaskier’s face lit up.

“Is it twins?”

“Oh, gods.” The witcher groaned. You rubbed his shoulder. 

“No, it isn’t.” You giggled. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think Jaskier was far more excited than both you and your husband about the baby. “It’s about his name. As we know, it’s to be a boy. Geralt and I…. We’ve decided on a name.”

You paused, squeezing your husband’s shoulder just slightly. You wanted him to continue, to speak up. 

Geralt cleared his throat. 

“We’ve chosen to name him after you, Jaskier, to name him Julian.”

Jaskier looked between you both, unsure that he had heard correctly. The smile had fallen from his lips, replaced with a more solemn look. 

“Are-Are you sure? I mean, naming-naming your child– your firstborn nonetheless– is an important matter–,”

“We are positive, Jask.” Geralt cut him off. 

Jaskier stood from his seat, trying to fight back tears as he smiled, and moved to hug you both. 

“Thank you.”

Taglist: @samuraigrl89 @burningcoffeetimetravel @open--till--midnight @beautifulsweetschaos @gm_abbo @thefirelordm @here4thespice @many-fandoms-lover @one-eyed-captain-kinky @sparrowsparadise @bluscryn @blushingskywalker @buckysxgal @lady-of-glass-and-bone @super-calithehamm

If your name is in italics, it wouldn't let me tag you :(

redbull

terushima yuuji x reader

this is a companion to ‘what love tastes like.’ i suggest reading that one first.

Terushima doesn’t think of you often. He drives a one way street, and the word ‘nostalgia’ isn’t even in his vocabulary. As a rule, he never looks back. He tells himself it’s because it’s counterproductive.

But when he’s holding his new lover late at night, face buried in her neck, he finds himself taken aback by the scent of her perfume. It’s something refined, flowery. The next morning, he takes a glance at the bottle near the sink while he’s brushing his teeth. Lavender, it says. He’s not a fan.

You used to wear a citrusy sort of thing, something clean and fresh he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It reminded him of his childhood summers spent away from his ragged home life, playing capture the flag at summer camp, hiding behind orange trees under a powder blue sky.

“Have you thought about changing your perfume lately?” he asks his girlfriend later that week.

She shoots him a look. “What’s wrong with the one I use now?”

Terushima withers under her glare. What’s he supposed to say? Nothing, it’s just that I’d prefer you wear one that reminds me more of my ex.

“Nevermind,” he says. He flashes her a close lipped smile and leans over to kiss her cheek. “I like it. I was just wondering.”

Sometimes, he finds himself lingering at the threshold of the bookstore in town, too. He was never really a reader, not until he met you, anyways. He’d take you out to get into some sort of trouble, and in return you’d take him to sit in Barnes and Noble for a few hours, a stack of classics beside you while he flipped through a comic book.

You made him read Wuthering Heights, once. He hated it, of course, but he told you he loved it. One white lie in exchange for your sunny smile.

“I knew you would,” you’d said, taking his hand as you walked through the park at dusk. “You remind me of Heathcliffe sometimes.”

“How’s that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You’re both wild, hot tempered, and very, very handsome.” You’d giggled as you kissed him on the nose, and he couldn’t help but laugh along.

Once he even thinks he hears you. It’s in the early hours of the morning, that uneasy witching hour haunted by painful memories, when he hears your voice calling from somewhere down the hall.

“Yuuji! I made coffee! Wake up!”

Of course, he knows you aren’t really there. But he still slips out from underneath the covers to duck his head into the kitchen. Just to make sure.

He’d thought he left you behind all those months ago. He’d thought he’d gotten a clean break, ripping himself from your life quickly and painlessly (for him, at least). As each day passes, though, he finds himself believing more and more in the power of that cruel red string of fate that seems to so stubbornly link his heart to the memory of you.

He still slicks his hair back the way you used to like it. He still goes out for Indian every once in a while, like you and he used to do on Sunday nights. Sometimes he even dots his i’s with a little smiley face. Whenever you used to write his name, you’d do that. Yuuji with a little grin resting atop the last letter. He’d thought it was cute, though he never would’ve admitted that to you.

But there’s one thing he can’t do.

Late at night, after some party or stunt, he often finds himself at the corner store, a pack of Marlboros in one hand while he stands in front of the shelf of energy drinks. Out of instinct, he reaches for a can of Monster.

Then, he freezes. He thinks of his first kiss with you, Wednesday afternoon on a park bench, passing a Monster back and forth and letting the taste linger in your mouths when your lips met.

Terushima doesn’t think of you often. He swears he doesn’t. He swears you’re out of his life forever.

But those nights when he’s at the corner store, when he tries to to buy a Monster, he can’t.

Now he drinks Redbull instead.

only the black rose (chapter 5)

pairing: jimmy page x layla porter (oc)

warnings: talks of parental abandonment, off-scene injury, drug use (legal!), fluff, and me waxing poetic about one of my favourite books. and more fluff.

words: 3.1k

summary: in the blink of an eye, it’s 1975 and layla’s suddenly joining led zeppelin for their north american tour. throughout the chaos, the band take a liking to her, she builds friendships with the boys, and love blossoms. but all good things must come to an end.

author’s note: this one wrote itself. i expected to take longer with it cause of this. this is the start of the Chaos seen in the 1975 North American tour, so hold onto your hats and enjoy! congrats! you’ve unlocked layla’s tragic backstory! unbeta’d as always, and here’s the link to the playlist :)

masterlist

playlist

chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

----------

Soon enough, the band make their way home, basking in the golden glow of a couple of excellent shows. It’s only a matter of days until the start of the North American tour, and the excitement is palpable. The boys find themselves at the studio, running through some last-minute tour details, accompanied by a certain brunette firecracker, who sits reading comfortably in the lobby.

Layla, sitting on a luxurious couch just outside of the meeting room, is drowning in a hardcover book, consuming every word at a ravenous pace. The sound of pages flipping periodically is accompanied by the light din of voices detailing the upcoming tour. Lost in the story in front of her, she is surprised when she hears a person clearing their throat, seemingly right in front of her. Looking up, she spots the secretary of Swan Song Records, a woman with glasses and long brown hair ran through with gray, pinned up in a low bun. Light freckles dusted her cheeks. Judging by the crow’s feet at the corners of her hazel eyes, the secretary had to have been older than Layla, perhaps around 50, though her bright smile gave the impression of youth.  

“Sorry to interrupt, Miss… I just couldn’t help but notice the book you were reading. I don’t see many fans of the classics around here, especially ones so young.”

Recovering from the shock of being ripped out of the hypnotising story she was wrapped up in, Layla gestures to the seat next to her. With a bright smile, the secretary smoothes down her pencil skirt, and sits down.

“My mother was a literature buff, and it seems she’s passed that down to me! My name’s Layla. You’re Evelyn, right?”

“Y-Yes, I am! How do you…”

“Well, I had to put a name to the lovely secretary that gives me a smile whenever I see her. Makes my day, if I’m being honest.”

“You’re too sweet, darling,” Evelyn says, lips turning up warmly, eyes dancing with joy. “If I may, what are your thoughts on the book? It’s a personal favourite of mine, and it’s always nice to hear new opinions.”

“Well,” Layla starts, lighting up as she speaks. “Wilde’s language paints such a beautiful, vivid picture, and the characters are so interesting, even if they aren’t morally likeable, most of the time. They make mistakes… Many mistakes… but we sympathize with them.”

At this, Layla cups her hand around her mouth, whispering to Evelyn mischievously, as if what she was about to say was the world’s most important secret.

“It’s a favourite of mine too.”

The two women laugh, Evelyn’s hand falling across Layla’s arm, a comforting, grounding weight. Evelyn, with a warm smile gracing her face, crow’s feet as prominent as ever, sends a pang of longing into Layla’s heart. Not for love, but for her old life. Her friends worried out of their minds over her disappearance; her mother, left alone not once, but twice. Her father had left when she was a child, and it had been her and her mother ever since. Layla learned to put up walls, so that she’d never be hurt like that again. They all leave in the end. It’s better that way. Better not to get attached. Better not to get hurt.

“That’s a lovely interpretation, Layla. You know,” Evelyn says, interrupting Layla’s train of thought. “For someone so young, you have an old soul. Wise beyond your years, for sure.”

“You have no idea…”

“Well, I must get to work, darling,” Evelyn claps her hands together, and stands up, resting a hand on Layla’s arm once more. “I’d love to chat again, though. Such refreshing opinions from such a young woman. I’ll let you get back to your book.”

“I would love to! We’ll make plans soon, I promise. Have a wonderful day, Evelyn!” With that, Layla opens the novel, and is taken once again by the current of the story. Minutes pass, until Layla is interrupted once more, this time by a soft press of lips against the crown of her head.

“Everything alright, Layla?”

“Of course, Jim,” Layla says, reaching out to grasp Jimmy’s hand in return. “How did the meeting go?”

“Well, you were right outside the door, I’m surprised you didn’t eavesdrop,” He takes a seat beside her, and reaches down to tap at the book still nestled in Layla’s hand, her finger keeping the page. “You were too engrossed in this, I bet. What are you reading anyways?”

Layla lifts the book to show the cover, which is a slightly worn navy blue, with golden accents in the form of small droplets. In metallic lettering, read ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’.

“Oscar Wilde, hey? Wouldn’t have pegged you for a lover of the classics.”

“I spent my teenage years with Austen and Dickens, after all.”

“I didn’t think you were that old.”

Layla rolls her eyes, a fond look upon her features. Smiling at the man in front of her, she puts a hand to his cheek.

“Yeah, I’m a real cradle-robber.”

“Just make sure my mum doesn’t hear about this relationship: she’ll have a fit.”

“I’ll be careful, angel,” Layla laughs, putting a pensive finger to her chin. “Hey, Jimmy? Do you have a good relationship with your parents?” Jimmy smiles wide at the question and nods, dark curls bobbing at the movement. He absentmindedly takes Layla’s hand in his, rubbing his thumb in soft circles across her wrist.

“My parents… They’ve always been very supportive of me in every way, and I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to find a way to thank them,” Jimmy squeezes her hand briefly, meeting her eyes. “You know, I bet they’d love you.”

“Do you really think so?” Layla’s cheeks grow warm, and her lips tilt upwards in a smile that is uncharacteristically shy.

“Of course I do, petal,” Jimmy says, pushing a fallen lock of hair behind Layla’s ear, his touch featherlight. “How about you? What are your parents like?”

“Well… My dad… He left us when I was young, so it’s been me and my mom ever since,” This is marked with a moment of silence, and Layla’s eyes meet her shoes, pointedly not looking at Jimmy. “My mom’s probably the strongest person I’ve ever met, and I truly can’t thank her enough for everything she’s done for me. She’s my best friend.”

The silence continues, until Layla feels a calloused finger at her jaw, lifting her chin. Finally flicking her eyes up to gaze at the guitarist, she’s shocked by the concern and sadness she sees in those emerald green eyes.

“Petal, I…”

“Jim, it’s fine. It—”

“It’s not fine, Layla. It’s not. I’m so sorry, you didn’t deserve that. Either of you.” Jimmy pulls her into a tight hug, long arms wrapping around her, making her feel safe. They stay like this for what feels like hours, breaking apart slowly.

“Jimmy, I… Thank you.”

“Of course. Now, how about you read me some of that book of yours?”

Layla laughs brightly, albeit a little watery, and smiles at Jimmy, eyes shining with gratitude. Shuffling, she positions herself in his lap, legs hanging off the end of the couch as his arm comes to rest across her back, holding her steady against his chest. She opens the book, dog-earing the corner of the page she was reading, before flipping back to the start.

“Petal, as much as I like this, I thought we were gonna take it slow? I don’t think public places are the best idea to… Well…”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jimmy,” Layla says, smirk gracing her face as she speaks. “You just make a very comfortable chair.”

Jimmy’s laugh is music to her ears, and she presses a light kiss to his cheek. Focusing on the book in her hand, she begins to read:

“The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.”

----------

‘Was it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it been simply his own imagination that had made him see a look of evil where there had been a look of joy?’

The next day had arrived, and Layla sits at her kitchen table, enraptured once again by the writings of Oscar Wilde. The words on the page enchant her, and she has no desire to put the novel down anytime soon. She’d have to tell Evelyn all about it, the next time she sees her.

‘Surely a painted canvas could not alter? The thing was absurd. It would serve as a tale to tell Basil some day. It would make him smile. And, yet, how vivid was his recollection—’

A shrill ringing pulls her out of the carefully crafted narrative of Dorian Gray. Layla huffs, annoyed at the intrusion, and moves to pick up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Layla! Hi, good to hear from you, hope you’re having a great day so far! Lovely weather we’re having, hey?” The slightly nasal voice of one Robert Plant, crackles through the phone, and Layla sighs at his exuberance.

“Robert, hey. What is it?”

“Uh… Please don’t freak out. It’s really not that bad, and everyone is… mostly… fine?”

“Rob—”

This is followed by a noise in the background, a sort of crackle, as if Robert had shifted the phone to his other hand. Layla can hear the way his breath picks up, the way panic seeps into his voice. “Just a heads up that we’ll be at your place in about… 10 minutes! See you then!”

“What is going on? I was reading, I’m really not in the mood for—”

Another crackle, and a sigh from Robert’s end of the line. Layla runs a hand through her hair, biting her lip in an attempt to quell the panic rising in her throat.

“Promise me you won’t freak out, little dove.”

Layla exhales sharply through her nose, unimpressed at the plea of the man on the other line. Coiling the telephone cord around her finger to calm her nerves, she responds.

“Fine, I’m not gonna freak out. Now, tell me what happened.”

“Well… Um… Jimmy, well, he kinda… got his… finger slammed in a train door?”

“...”

“Layla? Are you still there?”

“How?!”

“I told you not to freak out…”

“Robert!” Layla exclaims, concern painted clearly on her flushed face.

“Okay, okay, he told us he was holding the door open for someone on the way to Swan Song, and well… You know the rest.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

Another sigh sounds from the other line, and Layla waits in anticipation for his response, growing anxious with each passing moment. Finally, she hears the man’s response, and deflates with relief, sinking into the chair beside her.

“He should be fine. Like I said before, we’re gonna come get you right away. He’ll be okay, Layla.”

“Okay…Robert?”

“Yes, little dove?

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” Robert chuckles lightly, bringing a smile to Layla’s face, the undercurrent of anxiety still coursing through her. She thinks it will stay that way, until she sees Jimmy, makes sure he’s okay. “We’ll be there in 10 minutes. Sit tight, Layla.”

Layla sits at the kitchen table, biting her thumbnail, mind elsewhere, until she hears the telltale sound of a car pulling up, engine cutting out. Flying out the door, She spots Jonesy in the driver’s seat, Bonzo next to him, with Robert in the back. Opening the door, she sits next to the blond, and he gazes over at her, putting a hand to her shoulder. Sympathy flashes across his face as he takes in the shocked look Layla’s sporting.

“He’ll be okay, Layla. He will.”

“Robert, I… Jonesy, please, just drive?”

“Right.”

The engine rumbles to life, and they’re off, no doubt speeding to whatever hospital Jimmy’s holed up in. Layla lets her thoughts drift to Jimmy. She wonders how he’s doing, if he’s in any pain, if they’re treating him well. She’s distracted enough that she barely feels Robert’s hand, warm and comforting, on her knee. Layla is snapped out of her thoughts by a particularly sharp turn, and she looks up at Robert, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Rob… What if he’s… not okay? It was his finger. That means that he might not be able to play, if it’s bad enough,” She stammers, eyes frantic in their search of the blond’s face. “His guitar is his life, and—”

“Layla, calm down. It’ll be okay. It won’t do us any good to think like that.” Robert leans over, throwing his arm around her shoulder as best he could in the cramped car. To his surprise, she leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder. Layla unconsciously brings a hand up to bite her thumbnail, and catching the action, Robert places his hand on hers, pushing it back down to rest in her lap. They stay that way until the car rolls to a stop in the hospital parking lot. Layla lifts her head from Robert’s shoulder with breakneck speed, scrambling out of the car.

“Layla, wait!” Jonesy calls out, running after the woman, who dashes through the door. Robert and Bonzo catch up, just as Layla reaches the front desk, panting from exertion. The nurse on shift looks at her, eyes wide, shocked at the display.

“Excuse me, love,” Bonzo says, tucking Layla under his arm as he speaks to the nurse. “We’re looking for James Page? He was brought in for a fractured finger, I believe?”

“...Yes, right. What is your relationship with the patient?”

“We’re his bandmates, we can call our manager if you need proof. Please, we just need to see if he’s okay.”

The nurse eyes the group dubiously, and grabs the chart sitting next to her, looking through it. Glancing at the group again, she points behind them, to a room packed with seats, posters and pamphlets lining the walls.

“It seems that Mr. Page is still with the doctor getting X-rayed, so I’m going to need you to take a seat in the waiting area. Give that manager of yours a call, and we’ll see what we can do for you.”

“Thank you, love.” Bonzo says, as he herds the group over to the soft, patterned armchairs, plopping down with a sigh. Jonesy excuses himself to make a phone call to Peter, the others left waiting for news that won’t come fast enough.

Jimmy has to be okay. He has to.

----------

“For James Page?” The nurse’s voice rings out across the waiting area, and the group shoot up from their seats, stiff backs groaning in protest. “Follow me.”

The nurse leads them through a labyrinth of hallways, stopping finally at a room with a large 164 pasted on the closed door. Through the window looking into the room, Layla spots Jimmy asleep under the covers, his hands atop the sheets, resting on his stomach. He looks peaceful, she thinks, like he’s devoid of pain. If she couldn’t see the injured hand at all, she’d have thought he was perfectly fine.

The group finally walk into the room, the sharp smell of antiseptic burning their nostrils. Hearing the click of the door opening, Jimmy opens his eyes, pupils blown wide. His irises are almost black, and he sends them a dopey smile, a giggle bursting out.

“Hey, guys. Fancy seeing you all here.” Jimmy slurs, laughing harder now, as though he had told the most hilarious joke in the world. The boys join in, amused by the antics of their guitarist. Layla hangs back, staring at Jimmy, concern clear on her face. She had spotted the injured finger on the way in, which was already bruised a deep purple, the fingernail completely blackened.

“They give you the good stuff, Pagey?”

“You know it, Jonesy.” Jimmy shoots the bassist a sloppy wink, and the group erupts into soft laughter once more. Taking a dazed glance around the room, the raven-haired man pouts, completely endearing in his drugged state. “Hey… where’s Layla?”

Peter, who had been standing next to the bed, moves aside, and glassy green met warm brown. The guitarist smiles softly, relaxing back into the pillows. He sticks out his uninjured hand, and she walks closer to take it. Never lessening her grip, Layla threads the fingers of her free hand through Jimmy’s messy curls, and looks down at him fondly.

“How’re you doing, champ?”

“Good, now that you’re here. I would kiss you right now… if I wasn’t seeing two of you.”

“They must have him on the really good stuff…” Layla throws over her shoulder, looking back at the injured guitarist. He’s looking up at her with unabashed affection, and she can’t help but blush at the adoration in his gaze.

“Sorry to interrupt,” comes from the open doorway, as Jimmy’s doctor steps through. “I’m Dr. Vane, I treated James when he came in. If you’d kindly step out for a moment, I’d like to go over his prognosis.”

The boys file out of the room, and Layla goes to follow, stopped in her tracks by Jimmy tugging her back towards him with a whimper. She gives in, sinking back down in the chair at his bedside.

“I’m so glad you’re okay, Jimmy. I was so scared when Robert called. I thought...”

“I’m glad you’re here, petal. Now, come into bed with me. I want to see you better.” Jimmy mutters, scooting over to make room for her to fit in the small hospital bed. Layla laughs, nodding, and crawls in beside him, careful not to hurt him. She turns on her side, her hand landing in his hair again. Jimmy looks up at her, pupils still dilated, and presses a quick peck on her lips, giggling anew.

“You’re so beautiful. Have I ever told you that you’re beautiful? ‘Cause you are.” He insists, slurred speech returning in full force, his eyes fluttering closed.

“Go to sleep, Jimmy. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He hums softy in response and a few seconds later, Jimmy’s breathing evens out. He’s dead to the world. Through the door left ajar, Layla can hear snippets of the conversation with the doctor.

“... Fractured the tip of his finger… At least a month.”

“Will he be able to play anytime soon?” That was Peter, voice soft with worry for the frail man in the hospital bed.

“He should rest… Not good to put too much strain on it… Keeping him here until the anaesthetic wears off.”

Tuning them out, Layla looks down at the man sleeping beside her. His hair is matted on one side of his head, and he snores louder than he’d ever admit, but he looks peaceful. He’s not in any pain, and that’s enough for Layla. She drifts off, as the sound of footsteps against the floor draw near. Her tired eyes open to slits, and she sees a shadow with dark, shoulder-length and a beard. It must be Bonzo, she thinks. The last thing Layla hears before succumbing to the exhaustion that plagues her, is the drummer’s soothing voice, hushed to a whisper.

“Let them sleep.”

----------

taglist: @jimmys-zeppelin @salixfragilis @timetraveller4 (let me know if you want to be added!)

Dear Barbatos (Barbatos X Gender Neutral MC)

@barbatos-muse @barbatos-pls-step-on-me (I think you might like this. This one’s for all the Barbatos fans starved for content.)

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

It had been a month since Y/N left Devildom. Life for the brothers was resuming its normal course, but their presence was deeply missed. Their absence left its mark on Diavolo as well. He was noticeably less enthusiastic about... Everything. Barbatos found himself concerned about his young master, as well as the brothers. It wasn’t like them to be like this. But then... He could understand. He found himself missing Y/N, too. In comparison to everyone else in R.A.D. , he had interacted with them the least, but he had really enjoyed their company, even if it had been for the briefest of moments. 

Yes, he did miss them, though he wouldn’t want to admit it.

One of the ways in which everyone’s sadness at Y/N’s absence manifested was them letting anyone go to Y/N’s room in the House of Lamentation. That place needed to be cleaned but entering the room had been unofficially forbidden.

It taken a lot of persuasion from Barbatos’ side to let them allow him to go. He now found himself outside Y/N’s room, unlocking the door.

If he were to be honest with himself, however, it was less his concern for cleanliness, more his desire to feel closer to them.

He entered the room, lightly shutting the door behind him. The room was much cleaner than he had expected, though there was a thin coating of dust covering most of the surfaces of the room. Barbatos wrinkled his nose. It was a good thing he had insisted on coming here to clean the place. It would’ve only gotten worse over time.

He got to work, but his mind was elsewhere. He could still smell the faint scent of their perfume. He could imagine them in this room, studying on the desk, lazily sprawled out on their bed, sitting on the couch, talking to the brothers on their D.D.D. He found himself growing a little envious of the seven brothers. They were able to spend so much time with Y/N while he-

Too late for that. He told himself. No point thinking about it now.

He opened the drawer of the desk to clean it as well, but a little envelope caught his eye. He took it out and was surprised to see what was written on it.

‘For Barbatos’.

He narrowed his brow thoughtfully. Perhaps they had intended to give this to him, but forgot? It wouldn’t be wrong for him to read it now, would it? It was addressed to him, after all.

He opened the envelope to reveal a sheet of paper.

A letter.

Dear Barbatos, it said.

I hope I’ll be able to bring myself to give this to you. I honestly doubt it, though. So I guess it’ll be okay if I bare my soul open here.

“Well, that’s rather dramatic.” He remarked, already smiling.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget the first time I saw you. Seriously. I remember looking into your eyes as you introduced yourself, and thinking, “He’s beautiful.” Time seemed to stop as I looked at you. Or were you using your abilities? Can you actually stop time? Or was it just me?

“Probably just you.” He murmured. He felt really happy to read this, somehow. His chest felt warm, and extremely tight. What was this?

I kept wanting to see you again, but how was I supposed to do that? What excuse could I find to go to the Demon Lord’s Palace?

Every time, every rare instance I was there, however, I hoped to talk to you. To even see you. I was so happy whenever I did. I wanted to see you, meet you, talk to you, get to know you, but how?

Finding no answers to that, I decided to keep this to myself. To secretly admire you from afar.

And I found so much to admire. Hardly anyone seemed to appreciate what you did. You never complained. You were always polite, composed and ever helpful. Rarely have I ever seen you raise your voice. How could I not adore you?

He wasn’t sure how to react to that. Everything that they had just mentioned... It had always been expected of him. To find someone who appreciated that instead of automatically assuming he’d behave that way was... Gratifying.

Yet somehow, I was a little hesitant to try expressing what I felt because I had the distinct feeling that you didn’t like me very much. You tolerated my presence, you were courteous, but you’d rather not have me around.

He pursed his lips at those words. It... Hurt to read those lines. “Did you really think that?” He wondered if he had acted too distant, too aloof. He wasn’t the best at being open with others. That was just his nature. But should he have tried to be a little more open?

And why did he care?

Was it just your nature? Or a cleverly constructed facade to stop yourself, and me, from getting too close? 

“Spot on.” He found himself smiling a little, again. Why was it so heartwarming to see that they understood him a little? 

Regardless... I hope I didn’t cause trouble for you.

“You didn’t, not really.”

I remember you telling me that you felt that your life was boring. I hope my presence was... Refreshing. I hope I made things a little more interesting.

��You most certainly did.” There’s that feeling again.

I’ve written so much and still haven’t come to the point. I probably should. You have more to do then read the romantic ramblings of some human.

Romantic? He felt his heart race. “You aren’t rambling, and neither are you ‘some human.’ ” He found himself saying.

Simply put:

I love you.

And suddenly everything seemed to make sense.

“That’s it.” He whispered. “That’s exactly what I’m feeling.” 

And I will continue to, for the rest of my life. Though that’s not very long, is it?

Anyway, I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re well. That’s all I’d ever want.

Yours truly,

Y/N

His hands around the paper tightened. His heart was a storm of emotions. It was like a dam holding back innumerable feelings had just been broken, and he was flooded with what he had tried to suppress. He blinked, trying to compose himself. Where those- Tears in his eyes? Was he actually crying because of this human? “No, it’s not just them.” He tried to speak in an attempt to steady himself. “It’s me, as well.” He realised. “I shouldn’t have been so dismissive of what I thought or felt. I should have said something when they were still here.” He said ruefully.

He carefully folded the paper and put it back into the envelope. He gently tucked it into his pocket and continued cleaning the room, taking his time, savouring every moment.

He went towards the door after he was done, lingering at the threshold, not wanting to leave.

They won’t come back if you stay here. He reasoned with himself.

He walked away from the room, the letter in his pocket feeling comfortingly warm in his pocket.

I remember witnessing a future where you come back here. I hope it happens in this reality. I hope you’ll come back.

I’ll wait for you... Y/N.  

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

Hiya! Could you write a little something about Paul dating a girl who is a big bookworm? She can’t go anywhere without a book in her hands. She’s just very timid and polite and Paul just instantly falls for her! Thank you so so much, my love <3

Oh it's SO cottage core time lol.

Thank you for sending this in!!! I love bookworm reader type stuff 🥺🥺 enjoy!

---

Today has been very bizarre indeed.

Paul sits on a worn leather bench in the hall of a recording building all by himself. He's brought his bass and some music sheets he's been working on, fully prepared for a little practice and recording with the lads.

He checks his watch once again. It's 12:38, over half an hour past when John told him they were going to meet up for practice. Paul huffs and thumps his head against the panel wall behind him. Damn that John...

"Well, this is a waste", Paul slaps his knees and stands. He does a quick stretch, and an old office door creaks open. You poke your head out to see what all the ruckus is about.

"Hello? Is everything alright out here?"

Paul nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of your voice, "Oh, pardon me! I uh-", he turns to face you. He's seen you around here before plenty of times when he's come to record, but never found the time to talk with you. Not that he ever thought he could, that is.

You always seem to be reading everywhere you go.

And yet, that fascinates him. Your clothes are stylish, but simple and comfortable. You don't appear to care too much for loads of makeup or elaborate hairdos. Just... the natural beauty of you alone has his interest peaked. So different from the other girls he usually runs into...

Not to mention you've never before come to ask for an autograph or just to talk with any of the four of them! You're like a puzzle he wants to solve. He's so use to being hounded by girls, the one woman he meets that doesn't seem to care much for him, has him on his head.

You wouldn't know what to say to that, except that you're quite use to him and the other Beatles being around. Thus, you're simply not too caught up as a ravenous fan girl type.

No, you rather prefer books and your soft classics to rock n roll and it's stars.

"Oh, Mr McCartney... I'm sorry sir, but we don't seem to have a studio scheduled for you today... Uhm, is there some mistake?"

Paul leans on the wall, trying to be casual, but failing miserably. He paints on what he hopes is a charming smile, "Something like that, but it's alright! Say, haven't I seen you here before...?"

You smile kindly, although you see through his act, "Yes sir, I'm an assistant here. See?" You come out of the doorway and gently click your door closed behind you. Sure enough, your name is written in bold block letters on the glass.

Paul reads you name aloud, letting it roll off his tounge. "What a lovely name! Say, I'm about to head out, but can I autograph something for you, for the trouble? I didn't mean to scare you, haha. Uh... That perhaps!"

He gestures to a ragged old tome cradled in your arms. The pages are yellowed, the spine well worn, and the color coating has begun to chip away. Just barely along the cover, one can faintly make out the title, Pride and Prejudice.

You hold the novel tighter to your chest and turn slightly away to shield it. "Oh! Um, thank you but I couldn't... This is an original copy from 1813, it's practically a treasure! Er uh, not that I wouldn't wa-"

"From 1813?", Paul interupts you, not with the intention of being rude, mind, in fact quite the opposite. His eyes are wide and it's clear you've captured his attention for sure now.

"That's right! I just love books, you know... I'm something of a collector haha", you run your delicate fingers over the top of the hardcover and for the briefest of moments, Paul wonders what those fingers would feel like through his hair.

You continue, "I'm actually only here to bring some books home from my office, I was just leaving when I heard you out here"

Paul snaps out of his daydream, realising now that he's sad to see you go, "Heh, right then! Well I suppose I shouldn't ke-"

An ear splitting crack of thunder shakes the building, followed immediately by a heavy torrent of rain that you can hear even through the brick exterior. Your face falls, "Oh no... I'm sorry Mr McCartney, but I really must be going, tsk now I need to figure out how to get my books safely to the car"

"Would you like some help? I've all day freed up you know!", Paul's heart beat quickens as he awaits your answer.

You think for a moment. Well, you could use some help moving the boxes... Besides-

Your eyes focus on Paul who, if he's even trying to hide his excitement, is doing a very poor job of it. If he had a tail, it'd surely be wagging.

-he seems harmless.

At last you accept and usher Paul into your office. "Do you think we could find something to cover the boxes from the rain?"

Paul thinks a moment then promises to return in a jiffy. True to his word, he's come back with what appear to be drum tarps. He drapes the sturdy leather over both stacks, then stands back to appreciate his work, "There now, surely Ringo won't mind since it's for such a worthy cause"

You laugh heartily, and in that very moment Paul swears he'll remember the beautiful melody of it all his life. You clear your throat, trying to compose yourself, "Ahem, well then, my car is just this way"

Paul hoists his boxes up with a touch more effort then he was anticipating, but he'll be damned if he lets that on in front of you. He grits his teeth and hopes it's not too far as he follows you through the hallways to the back lot.

"Oh! Are those encyclopedias too heavy? I'm so sorry, I should've split the load...", You turn to check on him. He looks a bit red.

"They're fine!", Paul wheezes.

You don't believe a word, but you figure he'd rather carry on then stop now. Besides, you're nearly there. Finally, as promised, you exit the building and stand beneath the small awning.

"Alright now, it's that green one over there, see? We'll run over quick, and put them in the backseat, ok?"

Paul nods and huffs, hyping himself up for one last push.

"Go!"

The two of you race to the car, just barely able to see where you're headed through the down pour. You balance your boxes on your knee with one hand and shove your keys into the lock with the other. Without a second wasted, you fling the door open and push the stack inside with Paul's right behind you.

You slam the door closed and jump into your car for cover while Paul joins you in the passengers seat. You're absolutely soaked and Paul doesn't look much better. He laughs at the state of himself, but you feel quite bad for putting him up to this in the first palce...

"Uh, Mr McCartney..."

"Oh, Paul please", he laughs

You smile and muster up some courage, "Paul... Um, would you like to come take these home with me? I'd just hate to leave you out in the rain... Besides, I can make you a nice cuppa for your help. And, there will be biuscuits", you bite your lip, and suddenly the dynamic has flipped as now you await anxiously for a yes.

Paul looks at you very seriously, "Well, only if there will be biuscuits", after a moment, he smiles, and let's you in on the joke. You laugh alongside him.

Carefully, you drive through the storm and the city until you reach the edge of town. The rain's not let up, even as you hit the countryside. Paul sings and talks to you a little to settle your nerves, particularly as streaks of lighting and cracks of thunder battle overhead.

Before long you pull into a little dirt lane that slowly turns to cobble. You turn everything off and when the car is situated, you and Paul formulate a similar plan as before to grab the boxes and make a break for your porch.

The plan goes smoothly and Paul follows you closely across the stone path up to the painted white steps of your porch. Now that his eyes have a break from the onslaught of rain water, Paul take a moment to appreciate your little home as you fish out your keys.

The porch is quite small, and surrounded by flowering shrubs. A few vines of English ivy twine around the banisters and railing, creating a lovely frame and backdrop for the two person swing bench hanging just a few feet away. Paul is admiring the little pillows when you interupt him to come inside.

Paul follows obediently through the cottage, absolutely swimming in the atmosphere. Just inside lays a cute little door mat welcoming him to the abode. To the left is a small living room with a fireplace and a bench at the window. Every piece of furniture is tastefully laden with pillows and fluffy throws.

You travel up a short flight of stairs which leads to a single room on the second floor. The walls are made entirely of bookshelves aside from a little niche carved out for a desk and a split stopping just before the large bay window and bed beneath it.

Paul is so stunned at the sight of it, he has to freeze and take in the simple, yet majestic room. He feels as though he's in another world.

"You can just put those over there, I'll go start the kett- Uh, Paul are you alright?"

"Huh? Oh, sure! Over here you said?"

"...If you'd please. Thank you", you smile and leave after just an extra moment to make sure he doesn't fall over or something.

Paul sets to work diligently and respectfully handling your collection, occasionally glancing reverently up at the towering shelves around him. He reads every title, feeling the old binding across the length of his hands. The whole room smells of aged paper and a touch of your perfume, and Paul's never experienced such a wonderful scent in his life.

He's about halfway through his stack of boxes when you come up the old creaking stairway to beckon him down for tea. Paul snaps to attention at the sound of your voice, then scuttles down after you.

"Here, I thought we could dry off by the fire", you hand him a cup and saucer with all the fixings he could want safely placed on the old wooden coffee table behind him. Paul joins you on the wool rug as you fix your drinks then settle in.

"Thank you so much for your help Mr-, er I mean Paul", you smile sweetly, and Paul has never felt so happy to hear someone speak his name.

"No trouble...", He mumbles.

You sip in silence for a while, and suddenly you shiver quite violently. Your cup rattles and spalshes just a touch.

A little embarrassed, you apologize and put down your cup, "I guess I didn't realize how cold I was", you laugh nervously and grab one of your many blankets and a few pillows to surround yourself with.

"No no, don't worry! Here, let me help", Paul hesitates just a second, but when you don't object he scoots closer until you're sitting hip to hip. You smile gratefully, a little blush painting your cheeks as you drape the rest of the blanket over Paul's shoulder.

"Thank you...", daring to take a risk, you cuddle into his side.

Paul welcomes you, holding you tightly and praying you can't feel his heart hammering away inside him. He and rests his chin on your head and places a gentle, tiny kiss to your fragrant hair, lingering just a moment to drink in the scent of it. You smell like paper and wisteria.

"No trouble"

Prompt List #9 - Historical Aus/Prompts (Requested)

@viseriyen I know your focus was more 18th century France, but I never covered that during my degree, my focus was more 19th century Britain. This has a variety of historical aus/prompts, they won’t all be relevant and I can’t guarantee their historical accuracy for France, but I hope they help, give you ideas etc. 

“I can’t...you know I have no control over my marriage. I can’t even divorce him...I have nothing to hold against him.” “Then give him something to divorce you for.” “And tarnish my good name?” 

AU in which character a is desperately in love with character b, but can’t divorce their husband because divorce laws make it nigh on impossible for ‘wives’ to divorce their husbands without a ‘legitimate reason’. 

Intense heated love letters because we have to keep our distance and can’t do anything that would jeopardise our positions or our reputations. But, I can send you lusty love letters that you hide under your pillow instead. 

Illegitimate child/unwed pregnancy and the trials of being together, loving your child together but knowing they have little standing in society and the way people treat you because of that.

Fan language AU -> https://raulersongirlstravel.com/language-of-fans/#The_Language_of_the_Fan 

My parents are trying to marry me off and you're the latest person they’ve brought to show me off to and I don’t want to like you, but I kind of do. You clearly don’t want to be here anymore than me. 

The smallest touch is the most intense. 

You went off to war and come back after a long campaign the papers have been reporting on. You have appear gruff, mean, and cold to everyone else, but are soft with me. 

The typical trope of hardened, gruff character a who melts around character b. 

(19th c) I’m the town’s school teacher and you’re the gruff wanderer/traveller/cowboy/outlaw/etc. That’s come to town. You help me fix the school house and wrangle the little demons I teach. 

Sweetheart trinkets, like embroidered handkerchiefs, engraved jewellery, hidden message rings, carved trinkets etc. Especially a ‘here I made this for you or I had this made for you’. 

Letters that were never sent. After character a’s death the letters are found and posted to or given to character b revealing the unsaid feelings. 

We compete for top spot in school in spelling, mathematics, science etc. School rivals.

Character a bathing in a river, character b awkwardly stumbling upon them all apologetic or alternatively character a bathing in a river and character b protecting them from some no good ruffians. 

Horse rides; for leisure, maybe character a was stranded and has to share a horse with character b, being stuck in a carriage together. 

Childhood rivals who finally see each other after years of being apart, maybe because of boarding school/finishing school or otherwise. The horrible realisation that your rival is now hot and also can keep up with you in conversation. 

Those gentle kisses to the top of a hand or gentle touches between gloved hands. Gentle hands!!! Gentle kisses!! All demure and totally appropriate but with hidden meaning and heat. 

Childhood friends who haven’t seen each other since they were little and are now betrothed and oh my, you’re beautiful/handsome and I am not prepared for this.

We’re betrothed but have only ever communicated through letters and this is our first ever meeting and i’m petrified you aren’t going to be the person I know through letters

Perfume scented letters, secret code, love poems, and dried flowers. Sent long distances to you with love. 

Contraception catalogues and the very specific packaging of sheaths (aka early condoms) as things like pill boxes, ladies power boxes, cigarettes, etc. to hide them. Do with this as you will. 

I am spinster, you are a bachelor and we have a rivalry because how dare you get paid more than me and while i’m compared to a rotten egg. Alternatively, I am spinster by choice and refuse to marry, but you are making this very very hard. 

Gals being pals, boys being ‘mates’, the known cases of boarding school love between same sex couples and also we’re both spinsters/bachelours and work together in our intellectual studies and we’re totally not in love...no sireee. 

Oscar Wilde had a thing working class and military kink so do with that what you will, i’m sure you could make a upperclass/working class au/couple. One’s rough, resilient, hard working, and one’s dainty, far too spoiled and brattish but they both like each other somehow. 

You’re gruff and rough/snappy, rude, but I can see how sweet you are to horses, animals, kids, and I know there’s a softer side beneath all of that. 

It’s my first ‘season’ and you save me from all these men/women sniffing around me trying to get my attention. 

Scandalous private time i.e. we’re supposed to be chaperoned but here we are in the garden on our own together or in the woods alone or in a small corner without a chaperone and what would people say. 

Character a defending character b’s honour. 

You’re my second in a duel/I’m your second in a duel, please don’t die

All the duels, duelling each other, duelling for the other, defending the other’s honour etc. 

You look beautiful but dear god why are there so many layers! 

I just spent an hour drawing you a bath bucket by bucket because I love you, but i’m a hot mess right now as a result. 

You break social convention for my comfort. I.e. something like you forgo allowing people to watch our wedding night because you want me to be comfortable or you refuse to allow some other stupid tradition that you know scares/intimidates/upsets me. 

Over the top professions of love. 

“I would die, without an answer to my feelings. I would die here. My breath would choke in my throat, my blood run cold, and my selfish heart stop. I cannot live without answer, without knowing whether my feelings are returned or not.” 

Character a being the dotting husband/wife/partner and helping character b get out of all that ridiculous clothing so they can cuddle and sleep. Who needs maids and servants when you have a life partner. 

I want a partnership, a kindred spirit, a soul mate, not a servant.  You want the same thing. I am awed by this.  (possibly + we’re rivals, childhood enemies etc.) 

Your family don’t approve of me, and mine don’t approve of you. I wish we could simply run away, but that’s a foolish dream. 

Educated woman expects man to talk about her wandering womb and how education will make her insane and barren, instead finds man actually wants to hold an intellectual conversation with her and they strike up and unexpected friendship and then love. 

Character a denying themselves of character b because they don’t feel good enough or because they feel it would be selfish maybe because they’re in a war or because they can’t provide what they feel character b deserves. Character b is not here for this bullshit. 

We get trapped in a small cabin in a snowstorm together wild west au. 

We get trapped in any small space in any time period au

I would say we should stop having children but I love each and every one of them and I love you too. Large family AU.

We’ve just lost our child in infancy, grief, hurt/comfort. 

You’re in labour and i’m terrified for you. I am not allowed in the birthing chamber and the midwife would murder me if I tried. 

Alternatively, I refuse to not be present for the birth of our child and don’t care what anyone says. I'm here to support you and will be physically in the room. 

You’re competing for my affections but you never had to compete because you always had them. 

You do not have to duel everyone for me over the smallest slight, look now you’ve gone and hurt yourself and I suppose I’ll have to give you my favourite handkerchief to deal with it.

I am pro royalist and you are pro-republic. I should hate you, you should hate me, but god if you aren’t all consuming. 

You’re one of my suitors and the gifts you bring me aren’t jewels or flowers, but books, microscopes, telescopes, knowledge. I like the way you think and seem to seem me.

I am nearly trampled by someone’s horse in the street, but you step in just in time to get me out of the way even though it puts you in danger yourself

Despite the cost of sugary treats you always turn up to my parlour with some sort of sweet and I know they’re not the cheapest. 

Anything involving a copper bathtub is a vibe. 

I always look for your seal on my letters. Yours is the first letter I read and the one I treasure most. 

I have kept every note, every little, every little thing you’ve ever written or drawn for me.

If images inspire you you might find my other blog @theillustratedmagazine helpful. It has 20th and 19th century illustrations. 

Hello Knife! óωò it's me, 💌/Luv Noat! I'd like to ask for a matchup for my OC Daphne. She's been through enough and I think she deserves a little love. As a treat. Sorry if this gets long winded!

The specific fandom in question is JJBA Part 5, considering she was designed for it. (Also: please keep it to characters who are already canonically adults or most likely adults.)

Full Name: Daphne Libertina

Female, Aries, Bisexual, Extrovert

5'8", athletic build/lean but not incredibly thin, (physique created through dance, particularly via clubbing) + a noticeable but not extreme hourglass body shape, very wavy shoulder length hair ("manga" ver. is seafoam green, "anime" ver. is a pinkish brown), upturned/button nose.

Daph is spacey and bubbly to the point where some people may find her a little dim, if not completely stupid. However, beneath the seemingly vapid exterior, she's a very earnest and sincere person who loves genuine conversation. She just has Resting Space Face, a party girl attitude and a voice stereotypical of ditzy caricatures. She's a fan of rosé wine, Audrey Hepburn (her favourite movie being Roman Holiday) and cosmetics & perfumes of any sort (she's partial to lavender and rose scents).

Fun Facts: She can't cook to save her life and keeps a very well-written diary in various colours of gel pen.

Weapon of choice? Her heels.

Stand? Non-combat, disguise-themed, based on the novel The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

If you want to know anything else about Daphne (or if you wanna find out who I actually pair her with to see if our thoughts line up!), feel free to DM me @bisexualsmackingnoises or @gunkyengines! (If you're going to check those blogs, avoid Gunky until you've done the matchup, considering I have art of her with her actual pair & I wouldn't want bias seeping into your ideas!)

Again, congrats on 400+, have a great day, and thank you so much! úωù

-💌/Luv Noat

Hey Luv Noat!! I’m not sure if I’m going to pair Daphne with her intended pair but I thought that this matchup would be really cute and interesting! I’ll definitely take a look at your blogs afterward to see if I was right hehe. I hope you enjoy!

The Knife Father matches you with...

Squalo and Tiziano!

➼ Squalo and Tiziano meet Daphne at a club while on an undercover mission for Passione and they’re just like, “Yes. You. We like you. You’re ours now.” It was hard to not notice her tearing it up the dancefloor, in those heels no less: everyone in the club was checking her out to some capacity. Squalo in particular was very impressed with her ability. They flirted with her while they were in their disguises and literally came back to the club afterward to float her their number! They love her carefree attitude and love for dance, but they are quick to realize that there is more than the spacey party girl that she seems to be. Her kind and genuine attitude doesn’t hide itself for long. They almost feel like she’s too good of a person to be dating a couple of guys like them, but here we are.

➼ They’re very quick to realize that she’s a badass, too. She reveals her Stand to them after a night of all of them hanging out together. “You know,” Squalo begins, his arm around Tiziano, “what even is your Stand? You’ve never given us a proper demonstration.” Daphne just gives him a little grin before showing them what she’s capable of. She shows them the basics of her Stand, and they are pretty blown away! They’re already thinking of the devious ways they could use her abilities on their next mission (that they technically shouldn’t invite her on, but fuck you Boss).  ➼ Tiziano cooks dinner for her and Squalo often! Squalo isn’t as bad of a cook as Daphne is, but Tiziano is arguably much better than him. The two of them always pamper the blond man and cover him in kisses after he works so hard to make a meal for them. Perhaps followed by a little kitchen hankypanky if one of them is feeling frisky. Hint: either Squalo or Tiziano are frisky most of the time lol. 

➼ Tiziano also loves cosmetics! He always hangs out with Daphne and they do their makeup together before they go out. Tiziano is a Hepburn fan as well, and they’ll get wine drunk and watch Roman Holiday when Squalo isn’t home. Sometimes he comes home in the middle of the movie and ends up sitting down and watching it with them. They normally all end up cuddling on the couch together!

➼ Daphne and Tiz bond over aesthetic stationery. Usually Tiziano doesn’t have much use for it, but he enjoys having it in the rare case that he has to fill out paperwork for Passione (he usually fills out Squalo’s paperwork for him). He’s spotted her writing in her diary a few times and sneaks up on her to catch her off guard. “What are you doing?” he asks in that signature silky voice of his, smooth, like a cat’s purr. His gloved hands slide up her sides, his fingers dancing over that hourglass shape hidden beneath her baggy crop top. She jumps and quickly closing the book, setting her gel pens to the side. “N-Nothing, Tiz!” He chuckles at her before playfully kissing her on the cheek. The kiss catches the corner of her mouth. Tiziano grins before giving her a full kiss, earning a happy sound from her. 

Keep him safe - Chapter 34

You can read the previous Chapters here: Ch 1, Ch 5, Ch 10, Ch 15, Ch 20, Ch 25, Ch 30, previous chapter, Ao3 Link, Lo’s, Pat’s and Virgil’s aesthetics, You are Magical, I’m dying to be with you, The Dreamer

Pairings: Logan/Patton, Roman/Virgil

Words: 9.007

Warnings: Roman and Virgil’s horny thoughts (not explicit), slight mention of cross dressing, scratches, political criticism, cursing – let me know if I forgot one!                 

Summary: Detective  Logan Sanders and his best friend and dorky partner Roman Prince have  made a dear friend in the lovely pattisier Patton. Logan however, feels a  lot more than friendship for the sweet man, even though he knows he  cannot possibly have him. Their routine is broken abruptly when Logan  finds bruises on Patton’s fair skin and slender wrists he could hardly  have received from his costumary clumsiness.   Meanwhile his partner  Roman has his own demon to fight, which comes in the form of a little  delinquent who seemed to have been pulled into a street gang quite  against his will. Roman is determined to help the strange young man. It  would be so much easier though if he just stopped hissing at him!

Notes: Thanks to @sebthesnipe​ for proof reading even though she is the busiest person in the world and to @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2​ for being amazing and running the KHS Discord server for two amazing years now.

Chapter 34

“Hey asshole, pick your shit up! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Virgil screeched at the unsuspecting dog walker from his spot at the front door of their apartment building, already seething with anger. He’d just gotten back from his early morning training at Talyn’s place and had been looking forward to finishing it with Logan, who was currently on his run. And now this dirtbag was getting all up in this shit – or… Virgil was getting up in the dude’s shit. Well sue him!

The man startled, looking down at the cigarette butt he’d tossed to the ground carelessly.

“What’s wrong with me? You can’t just call me an asshole over nothing! Who do you think you are? Where I throw my fags is none of your business.”

Oh, that had been a mistake.

Virgil abandoned his attempt to unlock the door and got right into the man’s face, ignoring the bulldog happily yaping around his heels. He was so ready for this.

“Over NoThInG? Listen up, you hollow walnut!”

Before he could start ranting properly, a familiar tall man wearing a band tee with a ripped collar, no shoes and wild eyes materialized next to him.

“Oohh yay, are we throwing away our stuff???” He cheered, immediately emptying his pockets and throwing everything on the ground with glee. Bloody tissues, clothespins, a folding knife, crumbling dog treats (immediately slobbered away by enthusiastic dog) and a worn, tiny bible. Papers immediately started spilling out of it – some filled with scribbled thoughts or to do lists, others with faded printouts. In his back pockets he found a bunch of candy wrappers he immediately threw up to rain around himself, unintentionally tossing a pocket Quran along with it which he hastily fumbled with so not to drop it.

Virgil ducked out of the radius of his debris, as usual weirded out and awed in equal parts by professor Duke. The dog-walker looked at him like he’d just bitten off his own foot.

“The hell? Fags aren’t the same as your garbage, you crazy freak!” The man exclaimed, thoroughly disturbed.

“No, dude. They’re much worse!” Virgil growled, ignoring Remus trying to free his fingers from a distressed looking worm on a string he’d gotten tangled in. Quite a few people had stopped to watch them, yet with the professor cheerfully making a scene next to him, Virgil managed to keep his head high despite the heat and anxiety making his heart race.

“Cigarette butts contain over 4000 toxic substances and are virtually indestructible.” The young delinquent hissed. “The filters are made of a plastic called cellulose acetate and they take 10 years to decompose completely- just one of those fucks poisons one cubic meter of water and kills all the fucking fish in it.”

“You should pick it up, friend. Before I get ideas about where to put it out.” Remus cooed sweetly, before ruining the elegant subtly of his threat by becoming way too graphic.

“In your face!” He screeched, flailing grandly and wiggling his fingers, the bulldog distracting him by nosing at his pockets, hoping for more treats. Its owner used the chance to sullenly grab his cigarette stub and get away.

“You shouldn’t have a doggy-dog if you can’t handle being a clean boy!” Remus hollered after him, way too loud and shameless. “Do you not wipe your ass after you take a shit either? You naughty, dirty boy? Is it a sex thing? That is the one sex thing you keep in your bedroom!”

Virgil was blushing thoroughly, not enjoying the attention despite the righteous fire still fueling his anger. What the fuck was wrong with people throwing their garbage on the ground? What were they thinking? Not only did somebody else have to pick it up, it also fell apart to become microplastic and the nicotine, tar and heavy metals – all 4.5 trillion of them that were thrown away each year. Fuck smokers who did that! They were what was wrong with the word! Seriously, could you be any more of a useless human if they were not even able to throw their trash away properly? Full offense, Virgil wanted to kick them in the face.

People were staring and murmuring around them and though he didn’t feel bad about his reaction, his heart was still in his throat at all the attention.

“What? Are you not entertained enough, you mindless sheep?” Remus roared brightly, spreading his arms and bouncing up and down on his toes, placing himself in front of the younger man. “Would you like me to sing you a song about the misfortunes of little Jimmy who doesn’t pick up his litter? Spoilers – he gets eaten by an octoshaaaark!”

He struck a dramatic pose and drew a deep breath. People started fleeing.

“Aw dang.” Remus pouted.

Virgil chuckled, feeling surprising affection well up in him. Remus was scary, yeah, definitely, but he was also an ally to his cause, and that meant a lot to him.

Crouching down and using the opportunity to let his hair fall over his face, he started picking up the non-bloody articles Logan’s neighbor had scattered on the ground.

“Why do you have a bible and a copy of the constitution?” He asked, trying to shake the paper from his fingers and finding it disconcertingly sticky. Was that a cough drop? Ugh, he’d have to disinfect his whole body.

“For arguments with conservatives!” Remus answered happily. “I like slapping them in the face with the dick that is my arguments every time they go all bibly-christiany on me! They don’t love the fact that Jesus was a sandal wearing liberal that much – a lot like I am, actually! Not that facts work well with them – I found that barking and bending over backwards with your tongue lolling out works best. Makes an impression!”

He’d settled down next to Virgil cross-legged, bouncing his knees, and started munching on the dry little cookie thingies the bulldog had missed. “Dog treat?” He asked generously, holding one out.

“Why?” Virgil asked, completely bewildered. They were, indeed, little bone shaped dog treats.

“I like the way they crunch!”

“…okay.”  

Virgil still tried to make sense of the interaction he was currently having and found that using facts was indeed a lost cause with many republicans – which in this case was a generous euphemism for racists and Nazis, so one could just as well try what the crazy man did. Not everyone deserved to have a stage, after all.

Quietly, he examined the other. The ripped T-shirt made the wide collar slip down one of his skinny shoulders and the jeans he wore had definitely seen better days. His dark skin didn’t do much to hide the bluish shadows under his eyes. And also his naked, dirty feet were disgusting.

Dumping the stuff he’d picked up into the professor’s lap, he stood up. “Take a shower and come up at twelve, I’m making veggie burgers.”

There would be so much complaining once Roman found out he’d invited Remus.

***

Logan ran a hand through his sweaty hair, pulling the damp, raven locks out of his face. His muscles were burning pleasantly from his run and he was looking forward to his post workout stretch with Virgil. It would be illogical not to use the knowledge of an experienced gymnast for advice, after all. Though his little delinquent was still shy about it, the detective found he appeared to enjoy exercising together, as long as they were doing it in the safety of Virgil’s room where he could comfortably hide in his oversized sweaters.

His thoughts amusedly circled back to the way Virgil had to shake his hands free from his overly long sleeves whenever he reached for his feet while he fumbled his keys free from the little pocket sewn into his close-fitting trousers. As usual, Logan fetched the mail on his way up, sighing as a stack of colorful envelopes fell into his hands. Glitter rained down from one of them. With more gentleness than he felt inclined to, he beat the stack of bulging papers against the side of the building to loosen the shimmering plastic particles. Did this action constitute a case of littering, he wondered. He resolved to bring down his vacuum cleaner to deal with the mess after his shower.

On his way up, the detective separated the pile into his and Roman’s mail, ending up with sensibly sized, white envelopes in one hand, and a bunch of offensively colored, suspiciously rattling, sticker covered, perfumed fan mail his partner was greedily waiting for. He kicked the professor’s apartment door closed as he passed it, satisfied to hear him mumbling over the running shower in the also open bathroom.  

Roman was already lurking in the opened door to Logan’s own apartment like a silk-clad dragon looking to expand his hoard, bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet. Logan rolled his eyes. Despite having received letters for a week already, he was still overly enthusiastic about them every day. And he still refused to get them himself, instead he let Logan hand them to him exasperatedly like some strange ceremony.

The young detective snatched the pile eagerly, pouting as Logan held back two of them, not liking the powdery, sandy sound they were making when he tilted them. It was likely more beads or glitter, yet they still went into the box by the door to be checked in the lab (as they all should). He had ordered the post office whose address the fan-mail was sent to, to be extra vigilant before delivering the mail to his apartment, but he would most certainly not put the safety of his family at risk. He wondered, once again, whether he ought to borrow a service dog to check the mail for – preferably the rest of their lives actually.

“Look, Patton fairest, what the wind has blown in!” Roman sang cheerfully, twirling around the baker gracefully and then taking him for a spin and dip.

Patton giggled, stumbling and holding on to the tall detective, getting his lovely curls all tangled up in the frame of his glasses.

Smiling contently, Logan slunk into Virgil’s room to engage in what he hoped to turn into a routine. The young man was already waiting for him – playing on his phone curled up on the dresser between the planet lights he had kept, hair curling slightly with dampness from his private routine in Talyn’s gym he was slowly taking up again.

Meanwhile, Roman flopped onto the couch and yanked Patton into his arms enthusiastically, wanting to share his happiness and also maybe trying to distract him a little bit from his preparations for his return to the café. He wanted to support his friend, he really did, but he couldn’t help trying to put off unpleasant tasks for as long as possible instead of facing them. It was an issue he’d always had – one that had driven Logan half-crazy before he’d started to deal with many of those tasks himself and handed over others to Roman instead. They were making it work.

Roman didn’t actually have to do anything for the café, but the plan to reopen it, no matter how much Patton needed it, still made him antsy. Trevor-the-villainous-fiend could be lurking there. Who knew what could happen? After all, they had neatly avoided any contact, despite how often he had secretly talked the little baker out of calling him in the night when he’d been frightened and guilty. Which had been a lot of times. Better not tell Logan about that.

Well, distracting himself until the problem went away or got horribly unavoidable was a strategy that had gotten him through life just fine (now that he had Logan to read his paperworky-mail which he had an almost insurmountable aversion against dealing with), so he cuddled the baker close and settled in for some pleasant distractions.

Patton probably knew what he was doing, considering the way he pushed their cheeks together and hummed sweetly. Ugh, Roman felt so loved, it was too much for words. He squeezed Patton’s little body at his side closer to himself, just needing to hold on so suddenly. He loved him so much his heart was pounding with it. Feeling giddy with it, Roman jiggled and rocked them happily, delighting in the laugh he elicited.

“Alrighty, my most precious Patton, shall we discover the adoration of my beloved fans together?” The young man cheered, bright with eagerness.

“Yes! Now that I’m enveloped in a hug letters begin!”

Pulling his legs close to curl comfortably into Roman’s hug, and lean against his warm, broad chest, Patton selected the first envelope – a loudly patterned lilac one. Roman ripped it open with childish pleasure.

“Ohhhhhhhh!” He cooed, the sound almost too high for a man this large. “Isn’t this the most delightful thing you have ever seen, my fairest friend?!”

He was unfolding a drawing of himself in full superhero regalia, cape and sash and all, clearly drawn by a little child. Picture Roman was holding hands with a little kid each – a dark skinned girl in a princess dress and a blonde child of indeterminable gender due to the quality of the drawing. They were wearing a knight’s armor with a lightsaber as much as he could tell. It was adorable and Patton was putting it on the fridge. His eyes were watering at how cute it was.

“Oh.my.god. Virgil, my starry night, come here and see this!” Roman howled, very close to Patton’s ear.

The grumbling from next door indicated the delinquent’s feeling about the nickname as well as the interruption.

Roman waved the letter around with so much enthusiasm it nearly dislodged Patton. With a squeak, the baker held on to the tall man’s neck, even though the strong arm around his waist held him safely where he was almost pulled into Roman’s lap entirely.

Virgil, dressed in a mix of his old gymnastics’ clothes and his newer, oversized hoodie that hid as much as possible and fell all the way over his hips, didn’t really feel like being seen by the attractive detective right now. He didn’t mind Logan seeing him in his pants that fit his toned, long legs like a second skin, but with Roman, he felt a little more self-conscious. Especially about the combination with the ratty, overly long hoodie.

He used to wear tight fitting shirts that he now knew could look quite enticing when they slipped up his middle as he stretched or exposed his shoulders, but he didn’t feel confident enough to pick them out himself anymore. He wanted to look pretty for Roman more with every day, but considering the way the man had seen him in the past, he didn’t know if he could pull it off. Maybe Roman would feel like he was dressing up like a whore again - wearing a costume to seduce him. He didn’t know what made him so reluctant to dress better, it was just – such a big step and he didn’t know how to go about it anymore. So he wrapped his arms around his middle and hoped not to look too annoyed and uncomfortable. Especially considering how happy Roman appeared. So bright and innocent.

He was radiant.

And he was reading fan mail.

Virgil didn’t love the fan mail. Not at all. Remy had been forced to listen about it for a long time. He just hated the thought of those dirty minded, thirsty bitches getting to tell his man about all of the horny things they came up with while they drooled over his pictures. The fuck was wrong with them, trying to steal his- his- argh Virgil hated them with a passion, okay?! Who knew what ideas they were putting into that beautiful idiot’s head?

Remy was still patient with him thought, however the fuck he managed to do it. Virgil had the feeling he was being indulgently laughed at when he raged about the letters over the phone. So what if he hadn’t actually read any of them?! Roman kept singing their praise to anyone who would listen, why would he need to look at them himself? He was sure they were every bit as awful as he imagined.

Roman looked too happy with them. Fuck that.

He really looked quite happy, actually.

Virgil slowed his steps suspiciously.

Giggling, Roman flattened the paper before his eyes to read to Virgil. He even tried to do the voice. A voice Virgil immediately recognized.

‘Tell my anxious doll to, like, not to be such a moody diva and come look at some cute fan mail with his eye-candy detective.’ Roman took a break to preen. ‘I promise you don’t have to be scared, babe. Y’all are just making tasks bigger and scarier by avoiding confrontation with unpleasant chores and then they, like, build up in your messy little minds and that is not cool cause it makes me work for my not-money. So have a letter written by my precious little baby girl angels as a treat, okay girlfriend?’

“Awwwww so sweet!” Patton sighed.

Roman looked thoughtful for a moment as he pulled out the third sheet of paper written with a rainbow pencil, probably by Emile since the girls were too little to write themselves. The words were all enthusiastic little girl, though.

“How would you feel about looking at just one or two letters with us before returning to my dearest partner?” Roman asked sweetly. “They truly are quite entertaining. Just yesterday I received one from the utterly ravishing miss Van der Beek. All her other friends promised to write as well. It turns out I am quite popular with distinguished ladies with more experience enjoying the finer things in life!”

“What he means to say, kiddo, is that old ladies just love our dashing prince. Most of those are sent by the cutest grannies from retirement homes.” Patton explained with a warm smile that was just a little mischievous. “That doesn’t mean they’re all innocent, though.” He added cheerfully. Truthfully, he was already itching to get his hands on the hilarious letters. Those ladies really weren’t shy and Patton secretly wanted to be just like them someday. Enjoying the good life and making the best puns about butts.

Roman didn’t mind the fact that most of his paper-mail was written by children and elderly women (and grandpas, sometimes). He received emails and even digital art from younger fans as well, and he adored them, so, so much, but since he couldn’t keep them in a box with the pictures and drawings and ribbons and whatnot he enjoyed the letters even more. He just loved how creative they were. They really made him feel special. He should have known they’d make his dearest raven anxious, though. He really hoped to put him at ease with this gentle introduction Remy had created for him. And it worked! Of course it did – Remy’s children were the most precious things in the world! He could barely wait for their play date next weekend!

He was a little relieved to find the other letters they opened to be just as fun and cute. They usually were. Patton had a talent for selecting the nice ones from looking at the envelope alone. Not all letters were super sweet of course, but that was why he rarely opened his fan-mail alone. Both Patton and Logan made the creepy ones disappear quite quickly. Virgil could handle those, Roman was sure, but there was one person whose letters would just upset his dear wildcat.

They’d come in fine, yellow envelopes with pressed yellow roses inside and were written in the most beautiful calligraphy he’d ever seen. Recognizing the handwriting on the outside, Roman had squirrelled them away quietly. He hadn’t been able to stop running his fingers over the gracefully curved ink and flowing, tender words for a long time. Guiltily, Roman kept them in a separate box. He didn’t know how to contact his nemesis/admirer and wanted to let them down gently, after all. Before he caught them to lock them away, of course. He just wasn’t entirely ready to give up this feeling. He’d never been courted this way before and it had softened him towards his nemesis.

Virgil returned to Logan more relieved than he had been before, especially since Miss Van der Beek’s friends had come through and had written the most outrageous fan-mail. Roman huddled up comfortably, opening one last letter with Patton before lunch. It was a square, heavy envelope made from cream colored thick, expensive paper. The card inside was heavy and decorated with ornate, delicate gold finishing on the curved corners. It opened in the middle and admitted a view of a beautifully printed card. It read

Invitation

to the Morgan’s annual charity ball 2020

at the Ritz Carlton

 All the air seemed to have left the room. The paper tilted in front of Roman’s eyes and slipped from his numb fingers.

*

“I just don’t understand – after all those years…” Roman stared at the invitation, almost vibrating with nervous energy. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw his father’s face turn to stone as he refused to change his ways after nana’s burial. Even after such a long time, it was still crystal clear in his mind.

He wanted to jump up and pace frantically, yet he couldn’t bear to lose the grounding touch of the men gathered around him. Patton had pressed himself against his side as tightly as possible while Logan stood over him, tall and solid, keeping a firm hand on the back of his neck. Only Virgil was sitting with some distance between them since he was clearly too upset to soothe anyone. The golden embossed paper seemed to cause his fury to boil over almost entirely by itself. He looked pale and angry and… he snatched Roman’s sleeve with a thin hand, holding on tightly. His eyes were dark and so hurt on Roman’s behalf.

“They chased me away. Why would they want me there now?” He asked softy, looking at his family with a lost, helpless gaze.

The young detective agonized over the invitation for most of the day, carrying it around and reading it over and over again. Even the presence of Remus during lunch didn’t manage to get a rise out of him in this distraction, which clearly made the professor sulk. Especially since he had a few words to say about those republicans! Thankfully, Virgil and Logan made him some calming herbal tea after lunch (leaf piss, in his opinion but okay), and spent some time debating the advantages of actually murdering and eating the rich while nesting on Logan’s cozy balcony. Patton took Roman’s hand to go on a walk to help him clear his head. It helped.

“A Prince doesn’t shy away from a challenge. I owe it to my pride to go. I can and will do this with my head held high!” He proclaimed proudly at the dinner table the same night. Patton squeezed his hand in support, smiling at him warmly.

*

“I can’t do this! What was I thinking???” Roman wheezed, trying to calm his racing heart the next morning. “This is the height of hubris – I have fallen victim to the folly of man! There is no way I’m going!” He howled, pulling on his hair and staring at the letter like it would explode. What had he been thinking???

*

By midday, Roman proudly projected his voice through the entire flat from his perch on the coffee table. “I will be proud and gallant and dazzle everyone with my charming compliments and dashing appearance and my family shall be devastated to see what they missed when they threw away their most glittery offspring!”

His figure was bathed in the brightest sunlight. His fears forgotten, Roman was ready to take on anything!

*

“What if it was a mistake? Is this a mistake?” Roman wailed, flailing around with the mangled invitation in hand only an hour later. His eyes were wild. He’d been carrying the expensive paper everywhere with him, swinging erratically between nervous episodes of self-doubt and fear of his father and loud and boisterous assertions of confidence. His hair had become an utter mess from running his hands through it during dramatic monologues and moments of insecurity alike. The others were trying to allow him to come to a decision himself, but the lovely detective appeared to be coping poorly with the freedom.

Half an hour later, he was once again standing on the couch, posing heroically.

“Finally they shall see what a marvelous protector their son has become! A shining knight! A handsome hero dressed in blue!” He boasted, wide eyed and clearly trying to convince himself of his own worth – even as he was asserting his superiority, he was slipping into a pit of self-hate.

Virgil wanted to kill someone.

Seeing this beautiful, confident man spiral so deeply into mental instability because of a letter was ripping him open inside with nowhere for the blood and fear to go but the boiling maelstrom that was his protective fury.

That wasn’t what Roman needed now, though. Taking a deep breath, the barista reached for his man.

Virgil grabbed a hold of Roman’s surprisingly trim waist and pulled his heavy body down next to him. His mood swings between elation and terror were wearing the young man thin. Resigned and too tired to overthink, he yanked the already slightly worn invitation from the tan hands, chucked it on the coffee table, and folded his body onto the large detective’s lap in the wild, desperate hope to pin him down finally. He seemed to love when Patton did it.

The bold move made him sweat with anxiety, yet it was a much more comfortable form of comfort than talking about the issue and ending up insulting Roman’s family as he so desperately wanted. Physical contact had helped calm Roman down most so far, but Logan wasn’t here to grab his partner in a silent, firm hug that squished him against his chest until he grew quiet and Patton was on the phone with his staff, so no tangling his soft limbs with Roman’s now either.

Virgil had tried to keep his distance from the issue after Remy had explained that Roman needed to make his own decision. He probably hadn’t meant brooding in silent fury (while telling Patton what he was angry about and awkwardly reminding him that he loved him all the time).

He couldn’t help hating that republican trash that was Roman’s parents even more than before, though. He wasn’t confused about their motivations for a second. Those filthy pieces of shit were sensing an opportunity to improve their reputation with millennials who were rallying against billionaires who exploited the world – the environment as much as their workers – without even paying fucking taxes. Seriously, fuck Trump, fuck Jeff Bezos, fuck the Morgans! They would try to use Roman’s fame and honesty to claim him as a token to show off to liberals, to make themselves look tolerant and likeable with their beautiful, gay hero son. He was acceptable when it was useful to have a diversity card they could pull in debates, now that their homophobia and racism wasn’t as accepted as it used to be. Fuck them with a broken chair.

He couldn’t say all that, though. He’d just make Roman defensive in this terrible way that left Virgil nothing to work with. The taller man was never aggressive with him. Instead he grew quiet and sad and tried to make Virgil feel safe by being submissive and gentle and letting him have his way as he swallowed all of his pain and fear for everyone else’s sake. Roman didn’t need his anger. Logan had already gently told him about all of the fears he and Virgil shared and had offered his support, he didn’t need a reality check Virgil was desperately holding back. Roman knew they were using him – intellectually at least. Yet, his heart was probably hoping they were finally willing to love him.

So Virgil pulled himself together and silently leaned his lithe body against Roman’s broad chest and tried to gather the courage to say yes to the lovely man’s unspoken question.

The invitation contained a plus one.

Virgil had seen the way Roman’s gaze had sought him out hopefully. He wanted him there, which was astonishingly sweet, since Virgil was… well. Virgil. The fact that Roman, who was beautiful and elegant and charming to a dazzling degree wanted to show Virgil on his arm when he knew how judgmental this fucking crowd was, when he knew what they would think…

Yes, it was also completely and utterly terrifying.

Seriously. A charity ball. At the fucking Ritz? Even young and not so messed up Virgil would have hated the thought with the passion of any idealistic, liberal activist. Fucking corrupt money bags trying to look like they cared while they marinated in their arrogance and wealth while kids in America couldn’t pay for their school lunch and went hungry. While they supported putting fricking kids in actual fucking cages seriously what the fuck this really was the cursed time-line.

Also was there a person alive on this planet who fit the aesthetic of the fucking Ritz less than he did? He didn’t think so. Fuck he needed Remy now. He’d promised to help, thank Tesla. Virgil was clinging to that voice in his memory that had told him to ‘breathe, doll. Daddy has fixed lots of tiny girl hair and fashion disasters in his time. We’ve got this, okay, babe?’

Sure. Dressing a feral bat like Virgil for a FUCKING BALL was a piece of cake.

Well, first he needed to see if Roman actually wanted him to come or if that had all been in his head and Virgil was about to humiliate himself so badly, he would have to move out and change his name. Maybe Roman hadn’t asked yet because he wanted to avoid pressuring him with something he knew he was anxious about. OR he had recognized how badly Virgil would look on his arm.

Virgil felt like he couldn’t breathe for a terrifying moment. He used his position in Roman’s lap he’d chosen in a moment of courage to hide his face against the tan, smooth skin of the detective’s neck.

A deep breath left the taller man as Virgil curled close. He wrapped his arms around the thin body and sunk against him gratefully. The purple mane was so soft against his cheek. All thoughts drifted away – invitations as much as sunflower-yellow letters – leaving only the sensation of warm breaths against his skin and a gracefully curved back under his palms. Everything seemed to quiet, to slow down.

Virgil’s body moved slightly with every breath. He was so warm and alive, such a grounding weight in his lap. He arched against his chest willingly to press himself closer, letting Roman feel the way his ribs expanded on every inhale. The darkness behind the young detective’s closed eyes felt soft and safe. He gently moved his palm over the prominent spine, between wing-like shoulder blades. Stress flowed from his body like water. Slowly, their embrace lost its purpose and became lazy and comfortable, a hug for no other purpose than allowing them to exist so close to each other.  

After what felt like a long time of soft tenderness, Roman felt Virgil tense again, knowing he had to get it over with. He couldn’t keep hiding in a cute cop’s arms for the rest of his life because he was embarrassed.

“Listen, man…” He murmured quietly, pulling back slightly. Despite Roman’s hands still resting loosely on his hips, now that he wasn’t curled up and hidden anymore, he felt silly and out of place, suddenly. He really had just sat down in Roman’s lap, huh? What the fuck, Virgil? Heat rose to his cheeks and that just made things a lot worse. He pushed his head down and braced his palms on that hard chest and barreled on.

“Uhm, about- about that invitation. I know you’re anxious about it, and I’m really not good with that shit – I mean – that’s obvious, considering-” He gestured to – all of himself self consciously. “I really don’t know anything about your, eh, your social class and those fancy parties and shit. We’re from pretty, pretty extremely different backgrounds after all, and-”

Roman’s large hand rose to tip Virgil’s blushing face up in order to reassure him (and because it made him feel like a chivalrous knight). His fingers found the pale delinquent’s throat instead. Feeling the racing pulse, he curled his hand around the slender neck right under the jawbone with utter gentleness and brushed it upwards, pushing his chin up slowly.

Virgil’s breath hitched upon feeling the intimate hold he was captured in. It would be easy for the grip to turn punishing, yet he only brushed his thumb over the edge of his jaw and that felt very, very good. Vulnerable in all the right ways.

“What are you trying to say, dearest?” Roman rumbled softly, catching the younger man’s attention from where it had wandered to inappropriate places.

“Uh…” Virgil needed a moment. Roman’s eyes were so vividly green, like sunlight filtered through freshly grown, thin leaves. His mascara made his lashes so long and dramatic and so pretty.

I, uh…” He stuttered again. Roman was biting his lip in amusement, so pleased to have muddled Virgil’s brilliant mind and the barista felt like a useless, horny teenager for the first time in too many years.

A chuckle escaped the detective that was deep and rumbled under Virgil’s palms. He looked at the young man in his lap like he was the sweetest thing.

Feeling his blush flare up, Virgil ducked his head, allowing Roman’s palm to slip onto his cheek. He didn’t force his chin up as he was composing himself. Instead, the manicured hand moved across pale skin and scratched lightly across his scalp. A shiver broke out and raced over the delinquent’s entire back. His mouth fell open in a pleased sigh as he leaned into the caress.

Hell yeah, he could just keep doing that forever, please and thank you. His large palm rested on the pronounced bones of his hip, gripping gently, safely. Virgil could feel the detective’s intense gaze on him like a physical touch. He felt very warm as he leaned closer to that powerful hand in his hair that gave him so much pleasure.

His flush was still hot on his cheeks, yet the heat rising under his clothes wasn’t caused by embarrassment despite the intimacy of the moment. He’d never thought he would be able to let his guard down and be looked at this intimately when Roman made him feel this way. The detective’s other hand moved slowly, brushing up and down his back in the lightest of touches.

Virgil couldn’t help the breathy moan that escaped him. It was totally justified, okay? He felt those muscular thighs shift underneath him, adjusting their positions just a bit, so he was brought more securely into the hold of those strong arms and felt a warm breath on the side of his face.

Suddenly, Roman yanked his hand back as if Virgil had electrocuted him, yelping like a frightened dog. His whole body jumped, jostling Virgil.

“The fuck- Cat, what the actual fuck?” The younger man screeched at the ball of gray fur that had wedged itself between them and was furiously hissing and biting at Roman’s hand. The detective flailed and squirmed, unbucking Virgil in the process and dumping him on the cushions as he tried to escape over the back of the couch from the vicious raccoon. He landed face first with a ‘thump’ and an unmanly whimper.

Patton peeked in from the kitchen, phone between his cheek and shoulder, kitten purring in his big cardigan pocket and mixing bowl in hand. Finding Roman trying to twist into a sitting position while his legs were still sticking over the back of the couch and Virgil being slobbered over by an overly affectionate, possessive raccoon, he shrugged and closed the door behind himself. He and Nugget were not getting involved in that particular jealousy triangle. His kiddos would just need to make do.

“Oh shit, Roman, are you okay, dude?” Virgil asked and he knew, he knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help the laugh bubbling up his chest.

Cat was squishing her fat butt all over his lap, pawing at his shirt and lovingly gnawing on his fingers, looking fucking pleased, fricking narcissistic levels of proud and awed at her prowess, like she’d owned the biggest, baddest villain of the kingdom, like she’d saved the princess and gotten the whole cake. While Roman – well…

The young detective/tragic victim heaved himself up on the backrest and was immediately hissed at fiercely. He snatched his hands to his chest to protect them from more scratches. Peeking over the couch just enough to look over it, his precious hair a mess and his lovely hands badly wounded, donning his best, hurt puppy dog eyes, he found no sympathy from his beautiful wildcat.

Virgil snorted helplessly.

“I’m sorry-” The barista gasped, really, seriously feeling sorry and knowing he shouldn’t be rewarding Cat, he was creating a monster here, but Roman looked so messed up. All of that magnificent hair that usually made him look like a prince falling over his face in messy, fluffy tufts – that betrayed, gorgeous, hilarious face-

He doubled over, snickering turning to wheezing laughter the more he tried to suppress it, and felt Cat purring up a storm from where she was throned on his lap, Queen of the couch, breaker of horny cuddle sessions, bane of Roman’s existence.

Since the purring somehow seamlessly turned to spitting, frothing hissing whenever Roman got too close, the poor, beaten hero had to settle into the armchair facing the love of his life (stolen by a villainous adversary), where he tried not to mope too much. He felt a very justifiable pout coming up.

However, tears were now streaming down Virgil’s face while he made himself lightheaded trying to scold Cat and repress his laughter. He only succeeded in making himself hiccup and devolve into a new peal of giggles.  

Roman melted into the armchair.

*

They were quietly folding blankets and putting away pillows, comfortable with each other even though Cat was still sitting in Virgil’s hoody, occasionally touching the back of his head and neck and gurgling threateningly.

It was alright.

Roman wasn’t a malicious man.

And he would get her back for this…

Glaring secretly at the bristly beast whenever Virgil wasn’t looking, the young detective finally remembered that they had started a conversation before their mutual attraction had overwhelmed them like swooning lovers in a romantic novel.

Giddy at the memory, he briefly amused himself with imagining them on a paperback cover – his own shirt open halfway over his gleaming, muscular chest, even longer hair flying in the breeze, Virgil fainting in his arms, pale and lovely in a Victorian dress – oh my lord. A flush rose hotly to his cheeks, especially as he imagined that trim waist encased in lace and possibly even a corset.

This time, he felt Cat was justified in hissing at him while she reached for him with sharp little paws, trying to take a swipe, craving destruction.

Thankfully, Virgil took his blush as a sigh of anger as he twisted around and saved the enthusiastically violent racoon from tumbling out of his hood in its quest for blood.

“Sorry, Dude. I’ll figure something out.” He promised.

Roman thought he didn’t look nearly alarmed enough. However… his little bird deserved all the valiant defenders he could get. The beast might make him feel safe while Roman wasn’t there to watch over him like the tireless defender he was. In principle, the young detective would not mind prospective rivals to be scared off. Just not himself, did this beast not have any taste?

Perhaps he’d just have to invest more effort in his quest to win over the scraggly protector of his dashing not-damsel’s honor! That he could surely do!

Filled with a new sense of determination, he maturely stuck his tongue out to the raccoon.

Virgil snorted. He was happy.

Roman liked that a lot.

“Before I forget…” He started casually, remembering how important the question had seemed to Virgil. “You wanted to ask me something before we were torn apart so viciously?”

The barista startled, his heart missing a beat with nervousness. Right. That.

“Um, yeah. Yeah, I was just- you don’t have to say yes – obviously! It’s just if you don’t want to go alone- though you probably have plenty of people to go with- I know you have friends and coworkers and… fans… and Logan could go too so you really don’t need me to be in the way but if you want, I – uh…”

“Virgil,” Roman interrupted him gently, hoping with a fluttering heart he wasn’t misinterpreting the stuttering proposition. “Are you offering to go to the ball with me?” He asked gently, quickly adding for his lovely raven’s nerves benefit, “Because while I don’t want to pressure you in any way, going with you on my arm would make me the bravest and happiest man in the world.”

His words were very, very honest. Having Virgil there, as his date, as his to hold in his arm and show off, showing that the gay failure of the family had captured the most beautiful, smartest and strongest creature in the whole word – he would feel like the king in his castle. Nothing could make him feel like he’d succeeded despite being ashamed of his sexuality for so long than to show Virgil as his beautiful prize. Having him would validate all his struggles and make all the suffering worth it.

So no pressure to say yes. Roman was cool with whatever.

Virgil flushed brightly, ducking his head in a familiar gesture to hide under his hair. His heart beat a mile a minute, filling him with awed elation.

And a little bit of terror.

Looks like he was going to the ball after all.

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AAAAnd it looks like Virgil will finally need an outfit for the ball. I wonder who will help him???

As always, comments and reblogs are appreciated! If you want to support me, here is my Ko-fi page. Love you guys! Take care and treat yourself to something nice <3

Next Chapter

La Vie Bohème

Hiya, folks! So, as previously announced, the wlw writing project continues after a break with a miniseries set back in the City of Lights - & Love - at the time of the Belle Epoque, at the turn of the century.

The story of Élodie and Léa continues: what’s next?

Next chapter out on Monday, I think!

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions to homophobia, reference to sexual activity (if you are a minor or it bothers you in any way, you have been warned)

Tagging: @scottishqueer​

Previous chapters: Paris, Paris ; One Night At The Moulin Rouge , The Handkerchief, The Cage of Fools

Hope you enjoy it: if you do, please consider spreading the word!

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The following day I wake up late, around lunchtime. My roommates are all out: Marie left me a note saying she's out for a walk with Alain. Poor Marie, what a concerned look she gave me last night when she saw me sneaking inside our room without my coat! I had to craft a wild story to justify my attire and being so late. I can only hope she believed me...at least, she didn't ask too many questions. I head to the kitchen and warm up the stew leftover my friend saved for me. The events of the night are blurred, they waltz together in a haze: the Moulin Rouge, the Cage of Fools and the jigs I danced with Élodie, her perfume, her laughter, the violet a gallant admirer sent me, then the gendarmes, the clash of their batons, our mad run. The sad look on Élodie's face, the little kiss she pressed on my knuckles parting.

I wash myself and head out for a walk too, wrapping myself in the only other coat I have, much lighter than the lost one. My neighbourhood is certainly not renewed for attractions but it's Sunday and everyone is out to enjoy their day off. Some kids almost collide with me while chasing each other while an old lady nearby invites every passerby to try her apple tart, cheap and decadent, she repeats. Last night was the wildest night I've ever had in my whole life. After the initial embarrassment, I felt incredidibly...happy. I felt like floating on air when Élodie spun me in her arms or when we had a toast at our new friendship. Why did it end so soon? Who called the gendarmes and why they wanted to arrest those people who were just having fun? I don't get it...people crossdress every day now on the stages of cabaret theatres and no one ever complains. Their acts receive thunderous applauses and some artists have adoring fans every night. Why is it so different to call for a mass arrest? The men and women at the Cage of Fools were just doing what popular crossdress artists do: singing, dancing, making sure everybody was merry and bright. Was it because of the two men kissing a few tables away from where we sat? Nobody cared there, I didn't care, honestly. But now that I think of it, that might be the cause. Crossdressing performers never kiss each other on stage. I walk up to a hill into a second hand marketplace, hoping to find a replacement for my old coat I can afford. Could it be that my friend Élodie is a...how do they call them? A sapphic? I heard the word for the first time when I worked as a maid at the uncle Yves' client house. Madame pronounced it with ill grace, speaking of one of their acquaintances while I served breakfast. When I went back to the kitchen, I asked the cook the meaning of the unknown word, that I assumed a fancy insult: my masters wanted to play the role of the rich and the rich don't share the same language with us commoners. They invent new words, more fitted to their uptown world, not tainted with the smell of the street. The lady got all red and threw me a cloth, scolding me for eavesdropping a conversation and warning me to mind my own business. Needless to say my curiosity ran wild and I finally got an answer a few days later when I asked to the maid of a visiting guest. Could it be? The following week is pretty eventful: an important commission and Marie receiving a letter from home, urging her to go back to Aergenteuil to help assisting a sick relative. They would have never asked, knowing all the trouble that would cause her, if they could have done otherwise, her parents wrote. Marie is very close to that aunt and she sobbed in my arms at the thought of losing her and the job all at once. It took time to me and our roommates to comfort her. I told her that she didn't have to worry about the job: we will talk to the girls tomorrow and we will cover for her during her absence. If most agree to help, it will only mean a few extra hours each. Luckily, Marie is well loved at work so things run relatively smoothly, despite the boss' evident contempt. She profuses in an endless series of thank you and praises when I walk her to the carriage station at dawn before heading straight to work. We hug and I give her a tiny slice of that cheap and decadent apple tart the old lady sells at the crossroad. A little treat for the journey home, the only one I can afford. "You're a true friend, Léa. I will never forget this" she says, eyes veiled with tears before taking her seat on board. As the carriage disappears from view, I realise it's the first time we are separated from each other since we first met. Predictably, I end up missing her: we've been around each other for so long that now not walking back home with her, working side by side and sharing lunch on the staircase makes me feel a bit empty, as if a part was missing. Marcel and Alain are busy with work too as festivities approach fast and I have my fair share of Marie's work to worry about. However, from time to time, when I'm not so tired I only want to touch the bed, I pay a visit to the Moulin Rouge. The first time Élodie spots me, she runs straight into my arms, hugging me tightly: she must have thought she would never see me again after our misadventure with the gendarmes. She lets me assist to the acts backstage and I get to befriend other dancers, now used to see me around. I even fix their costumes if they get damaged during the performance. I do it gladly, even if it adds up to my daily amount of work. I usually gets cheek kisses or champagne as payment but sometimes, despite my deflections, they drop some coins into my hand, arguing that the Moulin Rouge tailor is half as good as me. When it happens, instead of saving them, I go buy a dinner at a bistro nearby with Élodie. I'm always starving but she never makes jokes of me for that. I tell her about Marie and the extra hours and, in return, she pretends not to be so hungry and offers me her slices of bread or some mashed potatoes "she won't eat anyway". We talk for hours, until I can keep my eyelids open. We start seeing each other more often. I must admit it's relatively easier now that I don't have to worry about bothering Marie and my friends are busy. Only my roommates look at me differently: I'm positive they suspect I have a secret lover. Now my day off is split between a little work at home in the morning and Élodie. We stroll down the Tuileries Gardens, arm in arm to protect each other against the cold. Élodie loves this place: she doesn't care it's overly popular, to her it's a testament to the the beautiful things people can create, an urban Eden. Who am I to contradict her? The Palace in the distance, the trees, the quiet murmur of the Seine nearby...it's rather gorgeous. One day we bump into a couple of her friends of the Cage of Fools. I could barely recognise gracious Pierrette in her male clothes. She goes by Pierre during the day. "Amélie" the other woman says, offering a hand to shake and I recognise one of Élodie's friends who were playing cards. "We've already met but I don't think I properly introduced myself". I assure her that I remember her. Then, lowering my voice as if I don't know if I can speak freely about it, I ask them about the fate of the Cage. Pierre/Pierrette frowns, she's one of the owners and had a hard time being released by the gendarmes after the arrest. The bar and ballroom is still closed, the authorities denies a reopening. They're planning a night incursion to retrieve all the lost goods, if there's any left. But so far it's hard to tell what will be of the Cage. Then, noticing my sullen expression, she adds: "It will open up again, darling. It's Paris, Pigalle: places like this always rise from their own ashes. We just don't know when and how" We all share a weak smile. The silence is broken by Élodie. "I was thinking of throwing a little party at my place to cheer up the mood" "At your place? But how?" Amélie inquiries, skeptic but intrigued. "A roof party, so there will be space for anyone. We can lit some fires to keep warm. You're all invited and I will ask some girls at the Moulin. A little feast to forget about our sorrows" True to her word, the next week, when I receive a letter from Marie informing me of her upcoming return, she proudly announces me that the party is happening: it's on Saturday night after the act at the Moulin. "Will you be there?" she asks, taking my hand into hers. The sudden gesture draws a smile on my face. We now seat together in bars and bistros very different from the Cage of Fools and I've come to miss casual touches like this. We've been very careful since that raid, especially Élodie. "Of course, I will" I nod over a steamy bowl of soup. She claps her hands excitedly, flashing me a bright smile before scribbling down an address on a scrap of paper she retrieved God knows where. Then she hands it to me. "Don't be late, I'll be waiting for you" Her words colour my cheeks rosy, the warmth in her voice unmistakable. Unsurprisingly, she lives in Monmarte, the artist neighbourhood. I arrive early, afraid to be late. I ate my dinner with great haste once back from work and spent a whole hour getting ready, a detail that -I do not doubt it- cemented my roommates' theory of the secret affair. I washed myself, did my hair up just like Marie taught me, and put on my best dress, which is nothing fancy but I am quite fond of the colour and its lacy sleeves. Once I put kohl on my eyes and some rouge on my lips, I head off into the night. When I finally arrive, I spot some familiar faces in front of the building: Léa's friends. I wave at them and they greet me with affability as if we've known each other for a while. "Good evening, Léa. You're radiant tonight" Pierrette says, kissing both my cheeks. I'm glad to see her back in her female clothes, she even placed a flower in her hair for the occasion. "Élodie hasn't arrived yet, she and the girls must be on their way" Amélie informs me, rubbing her hands. I say that it's fine especially if you're in good company. We chat, hugging ourselves and I discover that they all works as secretaries, bar Pierrette who is "an unsuspecting accountant by day, the best bartender in town by night". Just then, a cheerful choir of voices resounds in the street, approaching. We turn and it's the dancers of the Moulin Rouge. They cheer and wave at us, swaying bottles of wine and champagne raided from the theatre. After a quick round of kisses and loud greetings, we all run up the stairs before catching a cold. Élodie's apartment is messy and rather small for the number of guests attending the party so we quickly take the stairs and head to the roof. The sight is gorgeous: as the others light a couple of fires and one of the dancers harmonises an accordion, I take a moment to admire it. From the top of the hill, Paris lays beneath us like an ocean of light and chimney smoke. An intoxicating combination of misery and beauty I have never seen before. Someone taps my shoulder and I turn to see Carmine, one of Élodie's colleagues, handing me a glass of wine. It's stronger than I expect but I keep sipping it as we chat, grateful to have something to kindle my bones in the cold. A lively tune starts playing and we all share a toast to our host, who performs an exaggerated reverie in full response. The atmosphere is bubbly: some dance, others chat and crack jokes with each other...everyone is in good spirits. I wonder if this is the life my new friend is used to, so careless and free. So different from the one I know. What does she see in me? My ordinary seamstress routine, my life....is a stale dry biscuit in comparison to what she does. I'm saved by the male dance, Laurent, who asks me to dance. I accept: after all, I am here to enjoy myself and he will lead, I only have to follow his moves. As we sway I catch Élodie looking in my direction while chatting with the girls and drinking wine. I have no recollection of how much time we spent there, I remember walking down the stairs arm in arm with Amélie. As some guests take their leave, we gather in the living room and the the tiny kitchen downstairs to keep warm. Laurent produces himself in an impression of Monsieur Ziegler that elicits a general round of laughters. Pierrette and one of the girls sing one last song, a popular duet for the "last ones standing" then say goodbye. When the last guest walks out of the door, Élodie turns towards me. "Stay and help me sinking that?" she asks, nodding at a half empty bottle of champagne. Before I can answer, she's already looking for two glasses. She returns with just one. "You have the glass, I take the bottle" she announces. I laugh at the tipsy note in her voice as she pours liquid ambrosia in my glass. "What?" she chuckles. "Just saying that maybe you should take a seat, mademoiselle" I tease her, guiding her to the sofa. She rolls her eyes and obliges...then at last minute, she pulls me down too. Some champagne sloshes over the rim of my glass but I find a seat beside her. We both giggle. "To the best party host in Paris" I raise my glass. She smiles and mirrors my gesture. "To the most gracious guest, the pearl of Roscoff" We cling our glasses and I blush a little, diverting my eyes. When I look back at here, her eyes rests dreamy on a painting laid nearby on the floor. One of her roommates is a painter, she explains absentmindedly, he finished it yesterday. I tell her she's a real bohemienne, living in the artist quarter with a painter.... "An actress and a music-hall trumpet player. And I'm a dancer myself!" she adds. Then she falls quiet. She smiles to herself, a rather melancholic smile, as if she's contemplating her whole life. "La vie bohème...that's the life I chose" she says after a while. "I've never thought I would achieve that though. I've never thought I would get this far" "How come?" I sit more comfortably and she takes a gulp of champagne before speaking again. She was born in Bordeaux, a place now filled with memories of a lonely grim childhood. Her mother was, is -since she's still alive as far as she knows- a prostitute, who spent more time walking the streets than cuddling her little girl. Sometimes she received clients at home and Élodie ran hiding in the filthy toilet in the garden until they were gone. She never knew who her father was but she likes to think it was a tormented poet or a travelling artist...more likely and ironically, he could have been a gendarme off duty or the spoilt heir of a local noble with a taste for the sordid cheap pleasures the streets of the suburbs offer after dark. Her mother wasn't kind to her -one day when she had a bit too much, she admitted she never wanted a child- but provided for her. She was the one teaching her the can-can. "Decades ago only prostitutes danced like this, now it's different...but I guess it's part of the profession lore, so to speak" she laughs sombrely. "I mean, some girls at the Moulin still do that, dancing and selling their graces to paying admirers. I suppose it's easy to cross the line if you always want more and more and adulation is a weird poison. I don't judge them, if no one is forcing them to do so, they can do what they want...." She turns towards me, placing her hand over mine. I give it a squeeze. "I don't do that, Léa. I don't do that...I saw what that life did to my mother, what it turned her into and when one morning I packed my things and left, I swore to myself to ever do that, even if money was running low, if I could avoid it. I was barely sixteen when I arrived here, alone, in Paris. I was lucky enough to find kind people who didn't take advantage of me...and I...and I started to dance. Dancing gave me freedom" I don't know what made her so suddenly nostalgic, maybe it's the alcohol we had tonight. But her story makes me appreciate her even more: the world has been unkind to her at first, filling her childhood with hardships, but she fought back. She danced away from her misery with ineffable grace and dignity like a brave butterfly. "And now look at you: you're Lila, star of la quadrille" I flash her a bright smile. "I'm proud of you" She laughs softly. "Are you?" "Yes, of course!" I sit a bit straighter, as if it could give my word more authority. "You've faced adversities and you went so far. Only the most talented dancers are allowed to perform in la quadrille!" "You read it somewhere?" "Everybody knows that!" I exclaim, amused and surprised by her skepticism. Then, to prove my point, I hand her my glass and stand. I find a spot clear enough and declare astonished: "Like, I could never dance like you do every night!" And I start mimic the can-can routine at my best, that I'm pretty sure turns out to be a grotesque parody of the real dance. I do it to amuse her and I smile when I finally hear her laughing. She places the bottle and the glass back on the floor and claps her hands, whistling like some spectators do at the Moulin. "What? No, don't clap, that was just silly!" I dismiss her, chuckling. "Well, whatever that was it was...something" she shrugs before bursting into another laughter, softer this time. "Whatever it was? Hear hear, a can-can dancer who doesn't even recognise it!" I make a scene to be offended and throw her a cushion from the nearest armchair. She ducks just in time to avoid it. We both giggle then she stroke her chin and regards me more carefully, pensive. "You have enthusiasm but you lack technique" "Told you I'm a bad dancer" I shrug. The memory of the two of us dancing at the Cage of Fools crosses my mind like a meteor and my heart starts racing again in my chest. "May I?" she says, standing. I nod even if I don't know what she means exactly. I get it when she saunters closer and positions herself behind me. When she gently places her hands on my hips, I inhale sharply. "First of all, you need to loosen up a bit. You're too wooden...sway your hips, like this" She hums the melody of Offenbach and guides my movements so that they match the rhythm. Again, it doesn't take long before I surrender and follow her lead. I don't know how long we sway like this, I must have closed my eyes. I only hear her voice behind me. "See, definite improvement! Now rise your skirt up a little" I freeze and turn towards her. My cheeks warm up and I try to blame the wine I had. "You don't want to trip over your skirt while dancing this, you can hurt yourself" she smiles encouragely. "That's why you do that then...I would have thought..." I shake my head but do as she says. I bend down and reach for the hem of my long skirt then I grab it as I saw the dancers do and lift it up till my the height of my knees. "Well, that's one reason" "I knew there were ulterior motives" I laugh. "The Moulin is not exactly a convent, right? You have to show your legs to the paying audience" she explains, mocking Monsieur Ziedler's voice. "They pay good money for them" "I see no paying audience though" I chuckle, turning my head slightly. "Because you have little imagination, mademoiselle Pearl" she whispers into my ear. Her breath hot on my skin sends a shiver down my spine and my heart pounding against my ribs. "Ready for the gallop? Three, two, one-" "Wait, wait-" Before I can process what's happening, under the lead of Élodie, we gallop from one side of the room to the other, moving laterally like crabs. I understand now: I saw this move over and over during the acts. Élodie gives directions and tells me to sway the skirt as we move. We soon end up laughing again when we almost trip over a tin box on the floor. When we stop, I feel dizzy and lean back against her for sustain. "Enough of that" she announces between laughters. "Now, knee up, girl!" I oblige and start jumping on my other feet. My balance becomes way more precarious. To think that dancers like Élodie make this look so easy...I let out a shriek as I fear of tripping. She encourages me to rise my knee even higher up to my chest. "But I will fall!" "I'll catch you" she reassures me, holding my hips a bit tighter. "C'mon, Léa, a bit higher...higher...yes, like this! You're a natural...and now kick!" I follow her instructions and my kick sends the books on top of a pile nearby flying across the room. It's a miracle they don't land over the painting. "Well, that's one hell of a kick, darling!" Élodie cheers as I lower my leg. Her laughter is contagious, I soon join and we don't stop until we're out of breath. Then I throw my head back and it finds her shoulder. We're still in the same position. I can feel her chest rising and falling against my back and her hands on me. I slowly turn my face towards her and find her looking back at me. We go quiet, trying to catch our breaths. Has she always been so beautiful? This whole time? I remember her cheerfulness, the way she let me spin into her arms and listened to me, resting her chin on her hand at the Cage. How she immediately grabbed my hand at first sign of danger, the tender light in her eyes when our faces were inches apart in that back alley. I decide to do what probably she failed to do that night: I follow my instinct, without thinking twice. I lean forward and brush my lips over hers. A tentative kiss, the lazy stroke of a shy lover. She mirrors my move and our hands move almost at unison: hers around my waist, resting on my stomach; mine over hers, stroking her wrists and intertwining our fingers. The kiss that follows makes me tingle in her arms as a fire erupts underneath my skin. She kisses me again on her own accord this time: it's surprisingly tender and it tastes of rouge, champagne and a refrained passion that finally finds its way. My knees go suddenly weak and I feel dizzy again, lost in our embrace, lost in her. She whispers my name like a prayer and I spin to wrap my arms around her neck and kiss her again. Her hands run up my back, holding me close as if I could run away any minute but there is nowhere else I would like to be now. I cannot refrain a moan when her lips find my jaw and brush over my neck: they burn on my skin and I wish she would never stop. Our kisses become more fervent and fierce as we backpedal down the corridor, bumping into the walls yet uncaring of anything else than the sudden fire consuming us. Élodie pulls me into what must be her room because she kicks the door shut and we soon tumble over a mattress. I fall on top of her, letting out a giggle. I go quiet when I meet her eyes. Illuminated only be the moon light she's the most enchanting vision I've ever seen. Her hair messy and sprawled beneath her, the ruby red of her lips so close I barely refrain myself from running a finger over them. She looks up at me, her eyes gleaming like stars. She reaches out and touches my cheek. She strokes it gently, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. She looks...in awe, vulnerable, adoring. For a moment I wonder if that's what lovers feel when they look at each other, when they lay in each other arms: a sweet ache of the heart, the purest amazement. "Kiss me again" I whisper, begging as a mendicant even if I don't need to. She finds my mouth again and again and runs her fingers through my hair. I place one hand on her chest and I feel her tremble imperceptibly at my touch. She suffocates a gasp against my lips while her heart hammers underneath my fingertips. I whisper her name this time and I kiss her jaw just like she did earlier, mirroring her moves. My hand runs down her side: I'm too lost in her to know what I'm doing. When I feel her knee beneath the fabric, I caress backwards up her tight, rising her skirt. That's when it happens. Élodie squirms and grabs my hand. She breaks the kiss and asks me to stop. Suddenly ashamed of my hunger, I retrieve my hand and prop myself up. My cheeks must turn crimson when I mutter my apologies. "I'm- I'm sorry, I thought you wanted it too" I let her space to move freely. Hiding her face from me, she sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, breathing hard. Then she stands. I sit and try to compose myself. "What I want....that's not the point" she sighs. "What do you mean?" I ask, confused. "Did I do something wrong?" She still gives me her shoulder. When she speaks again, she hangs her head, defeated. "This has nothing to do with you, Léa. God, no, if you only knew..." She sounds on the verge of tears but she must swallow them back because when she turns to face me her voice is less cracked even if she looks in pain. "Léa, I like you. Way more than I should and since the moment I bumped into you and you talked of fireworks. I gave you my handkerchief only as a mere expedient to see you again and you what you did? You turned it into a little work of art for me and you barely knew me back then. You have a kind word for everyone, you're helping your roommate in a moment of need without asking for anything in return. You're a good girl, one of the most honest girl I know and I..." She takes a deep breath before shaking her head forlornly. "You didn't even fully realise what happened at the Cage" I keep quiet for a moment then I speak, keeping my voice low and fiddling with the hem of a sleeve as a kid being scolded: "The gendarmes wanted to arrest everyone because there were...sapphics and men kissing other men. And people like Pierrette there" I say because I don't know if there are words for them that aren't insults. "...Yes" she confirms, meeting my gaze again. Seeing her now, one could doubt the very same girl was laughing and having a blast one hour ago or so. She looks so troubled, her eyes a mix of tenderness and sorrow. Guilt, maybe. "Léa, I...I would spend the night with you. You wouldn't even have to ask me. But-" she grimaces and my heart skips a beat, bracing for the worst. "What will happen when you hear that this is illegal, that people get sent to jail or the asylum -you remember? We joked about the asylum- for things like this? Because the authorities say it's like an...an illness, a taint-" "Why are you telling me all this?" I protest, standing too. "Because that's what happens out there! It took days to get Pierrette out of jail" she exclaims. "I should have never taken you there, I've been such a fool-" "You're a good girl too, Élodie" I interrupts her, reaching for her hand. "Don't tell me you doubt that" She looks down at our hands then meets my eyes, forlorn. "Am I though?" her sad smile pierces through my heart. "I almost got you arrested that night, little pearl. What would have your boss or your friends said if we hadn't been fast enough and those gendarmes had locked us in together with the others? You barely knew me back then, you would have hated me and I couldn't have blamed you" "But I don't hate you!" Now I am the one on the verge of crying. "We...we would have found a way out, I'm sure of that!" Élodie smiles at me, a weak pained smile. She retrieves her hand and caresses my cheek. "Maybe we would have, just like in one of those ballads chanteuses sing" she sighs. "But the truth is I care too much for you and so far I've only been a reckless fool, a selfish reckless fool. I could never forgive myself if you-" Words got stuck in her throat and she lowers her eyes for a moment. Then she presses a soft kiss on my forehead. "It's too late to walk the street alone at night. You can stay here tonight and...you can take the bed, I'll take the sofa" Having said that, she walks away. "Élodie, you don't have to...please, stay" I beg, hoping to stop her but when I turn she's already closing the door behind her. I consider the idea of running after her but I soon realise it would be absolutely pointless and I don’t want to make things worse. I stand for a moment, shaken. Then I lay down on the bed still warm of our embrace and look out into the night. The moon that made Élodie look even more beautiful and ethereal is still up there in the sky but now I'm alone. Silent tears rim my cheeks. I lay awake for hours, unable to sleep. For some reason I know that Élodie is doing the same.

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This beauty branding logo is kind of made up of a monogram illustration and a wordmark. The monogram is made up of a artistic and edgy letter mixture. The U and D are uppercase and angular, with gentle swirls, onerous traces and modern aptitude. Color is merely certainly one of three logo components - others are symbol and font.

The brand’s skincare, makeup and perfume merchandise combine science and sweetness to achieve the right blend of modern thinking and timeless style. Created by François Nars in 1994, NARS Cosmetics launched with simply 12 lipsticks. Since then, the label has grown considerably and now provides a various and in depth assortment of magnificence merchandise for women of all skin sorts. You don’t want to purchase couture clothes to find a way to put on luxurious.

This mega cosmetics firm is certainly one of the largest on the earth and has been providing girls with incredible cosmetics and fragrances since 1886. RMS Beauty prides itself on creating merchandise that are not solely non-toxic but in addition nourishing to the skin. The label’s makeup and skincare ranges function raw, food-grade and natural elements that promote anti-ageing and long-lasting magnificence.

They’ve backed up their dedication to that base of their marketing, and they’ve used social media to attach with their clients in unfiltered and organic methods. Since Lilah b isn't brand new, Foland is working via well timed issues that are important to modern beauty customers. The brand is increasing the variety of foundation shades provided, of which there are at present only 5, and addressing sustainability, an increasing area of focus for the wonder trade. The frequency of assortment has increased from monthly to weekly in just some years, and Lilah b is devoted to persevering with the scheme as a value of doing enterprise. Vegan beauty brand The Lip Bar was a prime performer on each Instagram and Twitter this year.

As prospects are exposed to a beauty model extra typically, they become extra inclined to like it. Successful brands have a constant look and feel in every little thing they put in front of their prospects. One of the major benefits of this type of consistency is that it offers easy recognition of any product amongst customers. Attractive packaging design is a motivating pressure in encouraging folks to make impulsive selections. Taking benefit of this reward-seeking conduct with a good design can have a robust influence on customers’ receptiveness to your products.

To be thought-about natural, the product must meet non-toxic standards for ingredients and processing. Up from $483B in 2020 to $511B in 2021 — and with an annual compounded development rate of four.75% worldwide — it’s predicted to exceed $716B by 2025. Long controlled by legacy conglomerates, the sweetness business has turned on-line. Spend a while really nailing down what makes your products different. You have to not be afraid to level out what makes you stand out, there’s plenty of power in that. You’re a growing group with systemic issues which may be affecting your brand.

Lilah B promote multi-use merchandise using "clean" components, encouraging clients to recycle their old cosmetics packaging. Customer engagement is handiest if it’s organic, through “deep connection” corresponding to user-generated content or influencers who've plausible relationships with products. A robust online presence might help entice stockists—so it’s worth investing in social media areas. Early on, you will want to create a website—try Squarespace for an inexpensive, secure, and slick on-line retailer you could build your self with no coding skills. I constructed my very own retailer on Squarespace within the time it took to watch an episode of Black Mirror.

Skincare model Mary Kay swiftly jumped into the fight against coronavirus by redirecting resources to fabricate hand sanitizer within the early days of the pandemic. Instagram followers jumped in to applaud the brand’s actions with more than 17,000 likes and comments. Not all brands went so far as to change up manufacturing, however many beauty manufacturers tried to make a difference by actively sharing what they have been doing to fight the pandemic with followers on social media. Many manufacturers noticed success with giveaways this yr, but this one from ColourPop is a textbook instance of a dynamite social media giveaway. The brand stored the criteria for entry easy and centered on ColourPop as an alternative of creating fans hop around to a bunch of different brands. The giveaway in celebration of a big follower milestone sneakily helped ColourPop develop followers even more by incentivizing casual followers to follow the model on Instagram.

The company serves various industries together with sports, leisure, food & beverage, retail and travel. But the joy in this brand comes in its simplicity — particularly in comparability to the encompassing packaging. The monogram is made up of the overlapping E and L of the model name in a curly, inventive and splendid font. The backward “N” adds a cool, innovative and edgy tone to the logo that elevates the brand’s mastery within the beauty industry. Due to Instagram API limitations, we’re capable of pull accurate Instagram engagement numbers only for verified and/or Instagram business accounts. Helpful business articles, our work, and special provides are introduced on these platforms.

You’ll also need an on-brand business card full with your logo, website and another components of your model identity, to construct these connections. The visual id communicates instantly what it would take a long time to place throughout in words. For example, are your values natural, natural and eco-friendly or glamorous and glossy? The customer will instantly get an impression from your packaging and marketing materials to assist them resolve if the product is for them. Of course the phrases are important too, but you have to get your clients to notice you first, and that's where visuals are so necessary.

After Fenty launched, their deep shades offered out across the nation, and customers took to social media to share their joy at discovering foundations that matched their pores and skin tone. But while Fenty is priced as a luxury model, they still aren’t as expensive as most of the other manufacturers promoting a lot of shades. Estée Lauder’s foundation range with forty two shades, for instance, is priced at $42; Fenty’s foundation is $35.

By posting YouTube movies of her make-up routines and sharing seems on her Snapchat tales, she had positioned herself as a number one voice. eMarketer reviews that 38% of shoppers interested in testing pop-up stores are those that already store on-line every week in comparability with 28% preferring brick-and-mortar shopping. By engaging with its followers in a face-to-face setting, Glossier is prepared to deepen relationships with customers past online interactions. Yet, it doesn’t come with the monetary obligations of following a chain-store mannequin. With different themes in every area and experiential advertising activations — it’s constructed hype that attracts droves of brand name lovers desperate to try out the products in real-time.

While the beauty and private care business will stay strong globally, the cosmetics and skincare verticals specifically will expertise probably the most income growth within the US at a fee of 3.5% by 2021. Crafted is a inventive branding agency that companions with startups and fortune 100 brands across the globe. They have experience in brand design, video manufacturing, web site improvement ad content material advertising. Does a Black-owned magnificence brand need to post about Black founders, Black influencers, and makeup shades for darker skin tones to be successful on social media?

Fenty is a good instance of magnificence brand advertising, from their partaking social media channels which include sharing well-liked memes on Twitter and sharing selfies of their clients sporting Fenty makeup. Fenty was initially launched in 2017 by way of an exclusively digital marketing campaign and to this present day the model is a testomony to the significance of how important the web area is for modern magnificence manufacturers. Different branded cosmetics model design elements by Almi designLogo. Your brand is the face of your beauty enterprise and, as such, it’s the most important component you’ll bring to life through the branding course of. Fenty found next-level success because it positioned itself from day one as a diverse brand for a various buyer base. They’ve built products for an enormous and underserved market—women whose pores and skin tones don’t fall into the ranges that the most important makeup brands focus on.

According to NPD, Benefit Cosmetics had a 50% share of the £20 million brow market in 2016, and that was before the model launched thirteen model new brow-related products. Fenty continues this strategy across digital channels, using YouTube tutorials and stay virtual events to generate engagement and hype around each new product launch. Many magnificence brands launched digital tools in 2020, as customers have been unable to visit stores , and L’Oreal’s ‘Signature Faces’ digital make up line was arguably one of the most innovative releases.

Your web site is a superb platform to start a dialogue about all magnificence topics and, who is aware of, maybe a while down the road you might begin producing a line of beauty products that you never considered. Funkhaus is a digital creative company working on the intersection of design, content material, programming, and strategy. One reason behind Benefit’s domination of the area is its shrewd advertising activity, which in 2017 concerned the ‘Browmobile’ campaign. Combining experiential elements with digital advertising, it involved an online competition offering customers the possibility to win a visit from the browmobile.

"Aside from social media, a advertising tactic that usually will get overlooked is the unboxing experience you could create for influencers," says Wittick. "Fabfitfun created a stir about this, yet it’s a tactic that still will get uncared for." When operating a cosmetics advertising marketing campaign on social media, begin by figuring out what makes your product visually intriguing.</p>

<p>Glossier managed to tie for first with last year’s Instagram winner Huda Beauty thanks to dynamic posts tailor-made to the instances. Many of the brand’s prime Insta posts featured COVID updates, assist of frontline staff, and popping out in support of Black Lives Matter, indicating the model was unafraid to take a stand. Going beyond the makeup was a profitable strategy for Glossier throughout all channels and was especially powerful on Instagram.

A logo that conveys your brand and character instantly is one which prospects will respond to. Those are just two examples, but you should take the time to determine the place your clients spend their time if you'd like your marketing to be effective. Once you could have taken these three steps, you have to use the information you could have gathered to market your company and merchandise. New web shoppers must create an online account to earn & redeem rewards. “We actually imagine that Then I Met You has its own distinct branding and story to inform, and we want to grow separate and distinctly from Soko Glam,” says Cho.

You will create much less waste and save vitality by using recycled supplies. This sort of engagement is gold, and firms like ColourPop comprehend it. The brand is constantly increasing its product range and making an attempt new things, and the probabilities are countless. In 2017 it put a name out for a name for a model new, yet-to-be-released concealer and inside seconds had dozens of replies. The website Bustle rapidly caught on to the thread, stating ColourPop teased a possible concealer on Twitter and followers already have the right name idea. A large seventy % of Glossier’s on-line sales come from peer referrals.

Matt Holt, Chief Strategy Officer at Digitas UK, explains why we have to deliver memorability and utility via buyer expertise. The travel trade fascinates me; not just because like everyone else I love a good holiday and a while within the solar, however it’s additionally some of the aggressive industries in relation to the SERPs. A beautifully designed web site in its personal right – it’s fairly simple to get lost browsing round. However, by pointing customers back to content material on the primary Aesop web site, it is in a position to deliver on its authentic function of promoting the core model.

Social media cosmetics branding by JayJacksonIf you need your magnificence brand to succeed, you need to model yourself on social media. While all platforms are necessary, YouTube and Instagram are each visual platforms where the majority of magnificence content material lives, making them, palms down, the most important channels for beauty manufacturers. Fenty launched with forty totally different shades of foundation, encompassing an enormous variety of pores and skin tones. As a outcome, the company was in a place to supply a greater number of choices in darker and lighter shades of make-up than most other major firms.

Logo by thisisremedy for Floral Chemistry.Customers wish to work with manufacturers they'll stand behind. So when you really wish to connect together with your customers, you should do greater than make superb lipsticks or tremendous pigmented shadows—you want a powerful corporate mission and values. Sign up for our free, 7-day e mail course and learn to construct the proper model id. When it comes to branding your corporation, there are three fundamental ideas you have to understand.

It specializes in science, and you'll see that within the design components that the logo embodies. You can’t ignore a model whose beauty brand is shiny, daring and dynamic in the way this model is — and you don’t want to. The first store opened a hundred sixty five years ago as a New York apothecary, nevertheless it has advanced right into a model that cares about all-natural merchandise and the shoppers that use them. Glossier is a modern cosmetic brand that is identified for its simplicity and minimalism — in its product providing and its product packaging.

The flowing feel of a script font is inherently feminine and conveys a simple class that might be perceived at a look. What meaning in sensible phrases is that the competitors in the magnificence industry is fierce. The huge cosmetics corporations are continuously engaged in a battle to win the business of more and more subtle customers. And even in the smallest cities, generally two or three hair or nail salons have to compete with one another for a small pool of shoppers. Over the previous twenty years we now have helped manufacturers grow from the bottom up, launch line extensions, rediscover their voice in a crowded market, and create totally new product categories. While public relations, partnerships, events like Indie Beauty Expo, and different advertising tactics may be efficient, Instagram influencers will actually increase your beauty business.

The emblem is a mirror of this magnificence brand’s products, usually described as bold, surprising and vivid. Its aesthetics is immediately derived from Kat’s tattoo artistry in its intricate typography sample even in its retail places which echo stylistic cues from gothic artwork and structure. It balances a regal history with a contemporary energy that can’t be ignored or tamed.