I found the original carebears at this antique store :,) there’s so many of them—I was able to take one home with me !!

A/N: Request from @nebulousfishgills and myself. *giggles* Thomas Sharpe is back in time for Halloween season! Also, this is probably one of the cheesiest Imagines I’ve ever written. Be warned and enjoy!

Words: 2329 Warnings: so much fluff

Thomas Sharpe had stepped into your life rather unexpectedly. He had been looking for work in your brother’s mining company and, thanks to his experience, landed a well-paid job soon after. Your brother liked him. He was the true personification of Britishness—polite, considerate, a Gentleman… and he did love his tea.

Every year when the leaves began to grow too heavy on the trees, discolour and fall off, your brother held a feast to thank his employees for their hard work before the mines closed over the winter. You usually helped to prepare and cook and refill empty glasses; and last year you happened to have refilled Thomas’ glass. He had been smitten by you as much as you had been smitten by him and after countless rendezvous where he confided in you about his horrifying past, you now considered yourselves a couple.

It had been almost a year. Autumn was drawing near again and as you drove through a grove in a carriage, able to peacefully take in the beauty of the season, you leaned against Thomas’ strong body. He sighed, his shoulders heaving. In fact, he had been rather quiet for days now.

“Thomas, are you alright?” Looking up at him with a concerned expression on your face, you allowed him to cup your cheek in response.

“Oh, yes. The cold seasons always remind me of home, that is all.“ He confessed, giving you a small smile. A sad smile.

“This is your home now,” you reassured him. “You are beyond welcome here. A new beginning, remember?”

He hummed in response. “A new beginning…”

-

By the time you arrived at the modest house your brother and you were sharing and you finished cooking dinner for you two, Thomas was still silent. Eerily silent, almost. And it made you worry for him.

Moment after moment passed with only the cutting, chewing and swallowing of food being audible in the cosy kitchen.

“I want to go back to England.” He suddenly stated. You almost dropped your fork.

“You… what? Really?”

“Yes. It is just like you said,” He went on, growing more enthusiastic with a start, “A new beginning. I could start over, restore the house… it does not have to wither away.”

“But… Thomas, I thought you were glad you left this place… that you have so many terrible memories attached to Allerdale Hall. Are you sure you want to be there again?”

Your appetite was all but lost now. Discouraged, you put your fork down and looked him straight in the eye—his beautiful, innocent blue eyes.

“I am. It took me weeks to figure out just why I do not feel complete in this place. I am missing something. I am missing my roots.”

He reached across the table to hold your hand when your eyes filled with tears. “So… you will leave me?”

Thomas shook his head. “No! No, I do not want to leave you. In fact… I meant to ask if you would like to come with me. I do not ask you to leave your home forever. But if I spend my summers here with you, working for your brother and return to England for the winters…”

“Thomas…”

“Please, my love. I want you to be with me. The house is all I have left in my possession and I cannot live at your and your brother’s expenses forever. If I could I would long have purchased us a house here so we can get married and raise our children in our very own home but my savings will not allow it. Instead… if I used them to restore Allerdale Hall…”

Your lips parted. He wanted to marry you. He meant to buy a house where you could raise your children. And he truly seemed to miss his home. Biting your lower lip, you considered his proposal for a moment.

All the work that would come with restoring an entire mansion did not put you off as much as the fact that Allerdale Hall was miles away from your own birthplace. Only if you were with Thomas… did it truly matter where you were? If it meant so much to him… as for you, as long as you could stay with him, it did not matter much to you where you were. It was the change that was scary.

“If this is what you really want…” You finally responded. “…then I will come with you.”

“You will?” His face lit up like a Christmas tree and you nodded.

“I will.” There was no denying your promise, in this very moment, was as significant as a wedding vow.

-

“Thomas… this house is huge. It’s just the two of us. How will we use all of this space?” Tilting your head back, you took in the gigantic construction towering into the sky.

“We’ll have to have lots of children.” He replied, gently kissing your cheek and hugging you from behind.

There was a gaping hole in the ceiling, letting the cold autumn air come inside, trapping it. It was freezing. Thomas had not exaggerated. The house was in dire need of renovation but together, so you were certain, you would transform this place into an exciting and a cosy living place. A place in which your children could grow up in and, once in adulthood, remember fondly what it had been like.

You worked hard. Your brother knew some good and honest roofers who offered a fair price for the repair of the ceiling, after that Thomas was able to afford two floorers with whom he began figuring out a way to keep the house from sinking into the red clay he had told you about underneath.

Everything had remained just like he had left it, even his clay machine. Only the bodies… the bodies must have been removed by wild animals or a decent human being who found and buried them. Thomas himself could not bring himself to bury both his most recent wife and sister himself—and after everything that happened, the remaining villagers were rather out of sorts with the last survivor of the Sharpe family.

The next couple of weeks you spent cleaning and tidying (and sneezing) and building and sweeping and slowly but surely, Allerdale Hall was turning into a wonderful home. Not once since your arrival had you felt the presence of a tormented ghost—not once had either of you been haunted. It was like, ever since Lucille’s death, the many murdered women in this house had finally been able to move on.

His favourite part of the house was still the attic which had remained untouched for the most part. You had merely replaced the sofa and the desks, added some lovely curtains and a beautiful lustre for his late-night crafting.

You were almost done now. Nearly everything was clean and tidy, new furniture adding an elegant touch to the old house. The only thing still missing was the outer front and the lowest level. Thomas had told you he no longer wanted anything to do with red clay mining, for it reminded him too much of his past with Lucille and the horrible deeds he had been forced to be a part of. Instead, he wanted to keep helping your brother develop new machines for his mines.

“I have an idea.” You said, loosening your tight ponytail after another cleaning orgy in the house. It was only time for lunch and you could not wait to retreat to your new bedroom already. It was Thomas’ old room, re-furnished and cosier than you could have ever imagined. Thomas had spent a fortune on the new king-size bed with the softest mattress you had ever had the pleasure to sleep on.

“You have had many wonderful ideas over the last few weeks, my love.” Thomas said with a smile. “What have you thought of now?”

“We should host a party tomorrow night.”

His lips parted in surprise. “A party? For whom?”

“No one in particular. Us. Our new home. Besides, Halloween is right around the corner. We should ask everyone to dress up and have some fun after all the hard work.” Now there was a chance that the villagers would downright refuse to set foot into this building ever again but you were rather sure that most of them were curious as to what had become of Allerdale Hall as well. Thomas would be able to prove to them he was a good and decent man—and that he had finally found happiness.

“I agree. I do believe we deserve some time off.”

-

You were busy the next morning, sending out invitations and then buying all the supplies you would need for your Halloween party. Thomas had outdone himself with his outfit—he prepared an all-black suit and black polished shoes along with a cylinder and a dark red bowtie, the latter which fit the dress he had insisted on buying you for tonight perfectly.

Now that the first guests began to arrive in their carriages, all wearing fashionable masks as it was Halloween, admiring what had become of the house so far, Thomas’ nervousness infected you. You had decorated where you could, collecting sycamore leafs and carving pumpkins which were now grinning eerily with candles inside of them. You soon realised, however, that your worries were unnecessary. Thomas conversed like the true Gentleman he was, passionately recalling how much fun it had been to restore the house and that he would have never been able to do any of that without your help. That was when all the attention drifted to you.

Thomas had just disappeared upstairs with an old friend who had been happy enough about his return to show him his renovated workshop when an older man, perhaps in his late fifties, approached you with dismay coating his lips. The rest of his face was unreadable given that he too was wearing a mask.

“So I understand it that you will at some point be marrying the baronet then, my lady?”

“Yes, Sir.” You responded with a polite and content smile. The man shook his head.

“Well, good luck. His last few wives all passed away under rather strange circumstances.”

Tensing up a little, you lifted your chin.

“So I’ve heard and that is very unfortunate. Sir Thomas has my deepest sympathy. And I thank you for your concern but I don’t easily perish.” In fact, the very first thing Thomas and you had done was tossing out the poisoned tea Lucille had been using on his former wives. It was still unsettling sometimes to know he had been involved in murders—but you also knew that Thomas was a good man. He had already lost Edith. He would not lose you.

“You sure don’t, my lady. However, the last remaining woman in Sir Sharpe’s life was his sister Lucille and even her body was never found. I am only trying to help. I run a hotel a few miles west of this atrocious place. I can provide shelter for you, my lady, and hide you from him.”

Shit. You clutched your dress tightly so your hands would not shake as much. “Thank you but that will not be necessary. I love my soon-husband-to-be dearly and if you keep insulting him or his intentions, I will have to ask you to leave.”

“Is there a problem?” Relieved, you let out a breath when you felt Thomas’ arm around your waist and turned around to notice his stern gaze. It was not often you experienced him this cold. The older man blinked, fists clenching a few times.

“No. No problem at all, Sir Sharpe.”

“Good.” With that, he reached for your arm, gently pulling you into the living room. A pianist—another good friend of your brother’s—was filling the hall with warm musical sounds as a couple of guests were dancing. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. He was just being… invasive… about your past.”

“I suspected this might happen tonight.”

“Yes…”

You joined the dancers with a sly smile, letting Thomas take the lead and following his elegant movements as you melted into the harmonious music, both your feet gliding across the floor. And when the piece ended and you came to rest in graceful position in his arms… he suddenly went down on one knee and cupped one of your hands with his as you looked up at you like the most blessed man on the planet. Your heart skipped a beat when he spoke your name. All of a sudden, the room went so still one could have heard a needle drop.

“Will you do me the honour and become my wife? Let me be yours as you will be mine and let us fill this house with nothing but love and harmony.” You never realised there were tears swimming in your eyes—not until they rolled down your cheeks and wetted the fabric of the thin crimson mask you were wearing.

“Yes!” You cried out. “Yes!” Thomas smiled. As the party guests started to clap around you with Ah’s and Oh’s, he scooped you up into his arms, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss.

“And tomorrow morning…” He whispered into your ear, “I shall buy you the most beautiful engagement ring that England has to offer.”

“You don’t have to buy me an expensive ring, Thomas. Actually…” Your face lit up. “Now that your workshop is done, would you craft one for me?”

His laugh tore through your heart like a tornado. You were right, of course—a hand-crafted engagement ring would be more personal and precious than anything a jeweller could make.

“Did I tell you that I love you?”

“Many, many times. And I love you too. More than anything.”

Your audience cheered even louder when you kissed once more, hugging so tightly not even a thin piece of parchment would have had any space between you.

-

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate it so much if you considered supporting me on Kofi! It’s either caffeine or red wine, I’ll take both. ko-fi.com/sserpente ♥

To Marry a Vigilante: Part 2

MASTERLIST || First || Previous || Next

Disclaimer: Masterlist

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The day before Christmas… was a nightmare. Marinette had to admit that Damian was right. Her parents volunteered to help Alfred in the kitchen. The butler tried to argue, but his fighting with Sabine was an unstoppable force meeting an unmovable object. In the end, they got a compromise that the baker couple would help that day, but would be banned from the kitchen for the rest of Christmas. 

The boys meanwhile were ordered to decorate the house and prepare the formal dining room. And it was a mess. First, Dick and Jason spent almost an hour arguing over the decorations, only to then see that Mari and Damian already decorated the room with the merchandise Damian somehow got imported from Paris without their knowledge. Jason tried to dismantle the decorations that were put up without a warning, but it ended with Damian chasing him with a sword… again. It didn’t help that Todd kept riling the youngest Wayne up. Technically second-youngest since he was older than Marinette by a few months, but that’s beyond the point.

Then, when Jason ended up with a slight limp after he crashed into a cupboard when trying to cut the corner and Damian’s bloodthirst got satisfied, it was time for decorating the Christmas tree. When Mari saw the tree, she almost toppled over. It was put in the hall before the stairway to the second floor. It was tall enough to almost reach the ceiling. 

“That’s your tree?”

“In my defense, I tried to order a smaller one. It’s not my fault they gave size in the metric system.” Tim argued. 

“If you cut on coffee and instead got some sleep once in a while, maybe you would’ve noticed.” Jason snickered. 

Dick took the opportunity to climb upstairs and start decoration, only to be caught by Steph, who proceeded to decorate on the other side. Seeing the two already started, the three other boys also raced to start putting decorations. It was a mess, but somehow Marinette found it endearing. It felt… homey. Then she grabbed some decorations and joined Damian. Then she teamed up with Steph to make a large bat symbol on one side out of gold tinsel garland. Then she made a red ‘R’ inside it.

And this time nobody got hurt. 

After that, Dick and Jason left for their respective homes. Tim and Steph left shortly after, leaving Damian and Mari alone with the adults. Technically, Cass also stayed at the manor, but unless she wanted to be seen, only Alfred (and now Sabine) could find her. 

The teens decided to stay in the Manor. Marinette was dead set on making everyone their gifts by hand. She brought several unfinished designs that could be adjusted. Damian was kind enough to collect the measurements for each family member from Alfred. 

And so Mari then spent all evening in her room, where she worked on adjusting and finishing everything. She was beyond grateful that her room was already equipped with a sewing machine and anything else she would need to make the gifts. The whole time Damian sat nearby to offer some advice. Mostly, he just enjoyed watching her work on the designs. 

“Do you think putting a Red Robin logo on this tie would be too much?” She asked, showing a red tie with black accents. It had a meticulous black stitch going through the narrow part. It spelled MDC over and over.

“Maybe put it inside, so that it only shows when he put it upside-down,” Damian answered. 

“But then nobody will see it.”

“There is a bigger chance someone sees it than if it’s on the front.” The boy deadpanned. 

“Don’t be mean.” She scolded him, but her pearly laughter kinda ruined it. She put the tie away and reached for the sunglasses she was working on. They used to be black, but she tinted the glass deep-red and then added details at the side. Now, there was a small silver bullet-shaped decoration where they would fold. She had a case ready where she stitched the shape of a red handgun at the top of black leather. 

“And this?”

“Habibti. They will definitely love your gifts.” He gave her a soft smile. “If not, I will introduce them to my sword” He muttered, hoping she would not hear it.

“Damian!” She shouted. His hopes went in flames. “No murdering people!”

“Can I at least maim?” He asked with a hopeful voice.

“Hm… only if you ask me before.” She giggled at his expression. 

“I think it is high time I retreat to my bedroom. It’s almost midnight, Angel. Go to sleep.” He stood up and walked outside, only to be met with Sabine’s judging eyes. She watched him carefully before smiling slightly. 

“Good. You can go. I will tuck her in.” 

After she passed him, Damian let out a breath he didn’t know he held. That woman was scary.

--------

The next morning was still hectic, but no longer so chaotic. Mari spent half of it locked in her room giving the designs final touches. She did not let Damian or her parents in since she focused on their gifts and didn’t want to spoil the surprise. Alfred was the only one who got a peek inside and he didn’t even fear Sabine, so the chances he would tell anything to anyone were less than Joker genuinely apologizing to everyone he ever hurt. 

Finally, around midday, Marinette finally revealed herself. The room was a mess of cut fabric, loose papers, and Kwami knows what else. There was also a bowl of water in the corner. 

“That was a race.” She commented before grabbing Damian’s hand and dragging him into the living room to share a tea and cookies. All adults cooed. 

“So, Habibti. Care to reveal what you made for me?” The boy asked hopefully once they were both sitting side-by-side on the two-people couch. She held a cup of steaming tea while Damian put his in a small cup holder while he was eating a cookie. 

“Nope.” She grinned. “But I can tell you that you will like it.” 

“From you? I will like any gift.” He answered smoothly.

“Stop it!” She squealed, blushing heavily. “You can’t say things like that out of the blue.”

“Why?” He asked, giving her a barely noticeable smile.

“I can’t go around blushing all the time!” 

“But you look so cute with red cheeks.” 

“You don’t look so bad either, Mi Amor,” she retorted. She wanted to get some reaction from him, but he only smiled slightly more. 

They rested, cuddled together for a bit, enjoying the silence that surrounded them. It was interrupted when suddenly Cass dropped out of the blue. Or from the ceiling, but they would’ve sworn she was not there before. 

“You… Cousin?” The girl asked. 

“Oh! You must be Cassandra!” Mari recognized her. Cass was maybe her height. She was dressed in workout clothes. “Nice to meet you. I’m Marinette.”

“Marinette,” Cass repeated. “Call me Cass. Everyone does.” 

“Um… Sure. You can call me Mari if you like?” Both Damian and Cass grinned at that, much to the french girl’s confusion. “Did I miss some joke?”

“No, Angel. It’s just that Grayson’s daughter is named Mar’i” Damian looked at his beloved’s expression. 

“Oh. Oh…” The realization dawned on her. “Well, then what about… Nettie?”

“Nettie… Like it.” Cass responded.

“Cass doesn’t speak much.” The boy took it upon himself to explain. “She first learned to communicate through body gestures.” 

“Maman told me. I can’t believe aunt Sandra left you with that monster. Maman told her some things though, so maybe next time you two meet she will apologize.” 

“Mother… Apologize… Me?” The girl asked in disbelief.

“Maman is a very persuasive person.”

Cass didn’t speak about that, but a memory of the hug two of them shared yesterday surfaced at the top of her thoughts. 

“Anyway, you wanted to get to know me? Well… um… I’m fifteen, soon to be sixteen. I love fashion and design and I make almost all of my clothes. I also practice some martial arts in my free time. I love sketching outdoors. There is this small park next to my parent’s bakery that I love to visit. In the past, I adored the works of Gabriel brand, but after the owner turned out to be a major bastard I kinda decided to just stick to my own stuff. What else… I prefer tea to coffee unless I need to pull an all-nighter, my favorite sweets are macarons and my uncle named his soup after me when he won the cooking competition.”

“Soup… good?” Cass decided to ask. 

“Oh! It’s the best. Actually, maybe we could ask uncle Wang to cook for our wedding, Dami! Can we? He would be invited anyway but then people would get to…” 

“Of course, Habibti.” Damian interrupted her.

“Wedding?” Cass had more questions.

“Oh… Um… You didn’t know?” Marinette doubled back. “Of course you didn’t know. Damian tried to keep it down and I ruined it. Please don’t tell anyone. I’m so sorry Dami! I forgot! I was just so…” 

Damian, following the usual routine when Mari started to panic, pulled her to his chest, and hugged her. He whispered something low enough for Cassandra not to hear. She did notice the couple’s body language. Devotion and love.

When Marinette finally calmed, Damian let her out of his embrace. “Thanks. I still keep some of my… less desirable habits.” 

“It’s no problem. At least I have an excuse to cuddle with you without my brothers’ merciless teasing.” 

“Wedding.” Cass urged them. Her curiosity was peaking. 

“Ah! Right. So basically Talia kidnapped me and decided I would marry her son and then we both woke up tied before the altar and she threatened to kill us and our families if we didn’t go through with it. And I was so scared back then. And T… And I had no way to do anything else.” 

Cass saw her tense and stopped herself. There was more to it, but she didn’t drill. She would learn later. Or just get it out of Tim. He knew everything. 

“Well, now we’re stuck and there is this weird spell on us that makes it impossible to cheat on one another. At least I assume it works both ways since Damian didn’t test it.” There was no doubt in her voice and her body showed complete trust. Cass was actually impressed. 

“The bitch that my mother is,” Marinette wanted to scold Damian on the language he used, but then again, he spoke about Talia so he wasn’t lying, “used some old curse on us, probably from the time my grandfather was still young. We are tied together. But we made it work.” 

“Magic… bad.” Cass scoffed. 

“No!” Mari quickly protested. “I mean not all magic is bad. It all depends on who uses it! Besides, everything turned out better than I could’ve ever hoped.” 

“Good. I… Like you.” Her cousin smiled. “Hug?” She asked.

“Sure.” Marinette nodded and before she knew it Cass tackled her into the couch, almost breaking her bones. 

“Oooh!” a new voice cooed. Damian immediately whirled around with a small dagger that he pulled from wherever he kept it. Selina Kyle was standing there, watching everything.

“Tt. I don’t like being spied upon.” Damian scowled. 

“Relax, lover-boy. I just came and I was curious where everyone went and who were the new people.” 

“Oh. That’s probably my parents. Alfred kicked them out of the kitchen today. They will probably be relaxing in the garden since they rarely have a chance to just relax. They run a bakery in Paris.” Mari smiled at the newcomer. 

“Really now? And you’re the unlucky girl that got stuck with the short, dark, and brooding?”

“Tt. I’m not short.”

“I don’t hear you arguing about the dark and brooding part.” Selina teased. 

“Angel, meet my father’s fiancée, Selina Kyle. She is also Catwoman.”

“Oh. She is in on the family business then?”

“Tt. Yes. I don’t keep things hidden from my wife.” Damian kept scowling.

“Aren’t you a dutiful husband?”

“I’m not afraid to defend my wife’s honor with a sword, thief.” The boy threatened. Selina measured him for a moment.

“Good.” She turned to Marinette. “He will do. If he is causing you trouble, you can crash at my place.” She gave her a small square paper with an address before leaving. 

“Um… What was that?”

“Tt. That was Selina for you.” Damian was still in a bad mood until Marinette snuggled closer to him. 

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

Around five, the guests started arriving. It was unanimously decided that the youngest couple would be the ones to greet their guests. And looking at the size of the table, there would be more guests than Mari assumed. Damian was now dressed in a flawless black suit with a matching bowtie and a white shirt. Mari chose to wear the red dress that she knew left Damian speechless every time he saw her. Her hair was let go and formed waves cascading down her back. 

Jason was first. He came on his bike alone. While everyone dressed in something elegant, he opted for an oil-stained t-shirt and brown leather jacket, complete with black cargo pants and heavy boots. Marinette had to admit he gave a bad-boy vibe that told her to stay away. But she’s seen this with Ivan and she was pretty sure Jason was, in fact, a big softie once one got to know him. 

Next to arrive were Tim and Stephanie. She wore a black and purple knee-length dress. It had no sleeves and hugged her form tightly. The design was several large squares of material sewn together so no two colors were the same. It was an interesting design. Tim wore a blue suit with black accents and a white shirt. They looked like a nice couple. And the boy looked almost awake, which was a success. Also, they were dragging a giant bag of gifts. 

Shortly after, a small van pulled close and five people exited. There was an older couple, a joyful boy around their age jumping around them, and two people Marinette recognized instantly. You couldn’t hang around Alya and not recognize Clark Kent and Lois Lane-Kent.

“Tt. Jon.” Damian greeted the boy.

“Sup Dames? Hello fair lady.” He greeted them, happiness almost oozing from him. Jon went as far as kissing her hand. 

“Could you stop with the flowers and rainbows?” Wayne growled.

“But it’s Christmas!”

“Tt. I know.” Damian was angry. Seeing it, his beloved grabbed his hand and squeezed it lightly.

“Hello Mr. Kent, Mrs. Lane-Kent.” Marinette greeted the adults, hoping to diffuse the situation  before Damian gets too riled up. 

“You must be Marinette. I remember Jon mentioning you when we talked about his trip to Paris.” Clark smiled. He then nodded toward the older couple. “These are my parents, Johnathan and Martha Kent.”

“It’s nice to meet ya, girl.” The man nodded toward her. 

“Hi. I’m Marinette.” She gave them a smile. Just as the Kents went inside, another car pulled in. 

This time, it was Dick with his wife, Kor’i, and daughter Mar’i. They all got out of the car.

“I still don’t understand why you insist on driving this thing. I could’ve flown us here twice as fast.” The woman had distinctively orange skin and her eyes were entirely green. Marinette instantly recognized her as Starfire. She wore a white shirt with bell-like sleeves that reached to her elbows and blue jeans that ended just above her ankles. Dick had a dark-gray shirt and jeans. She would classify their outfits as smart casual. 

“Yeah, daddy! I can fly too!” To prove her point, the little girl rose a bit into the air. She was dressed in an oversized purple jumper that reached to the ground. She also wore white trainers. Her skin was less orange than her mother’s but the color was easily visible. And her eyes were also entirely green without any white. And she was flying. Her hair was black though, as opposed to her mother’s fiery red. 

“Sweety. Come here.” Kor’i reached up and grabbed the floating daughter. The girl immediately nuzzled into her and smiled victoriously. She got exactly what she wanted. Marinette couldn’t help but giggle.

“Tt. I still find her annoying.” Damian scowled. 

“I don’t know, she looks cute to me. And you already admitted that you love cute things.” To make things worse for her love, Marinette gave him puppy eyes and a bright smile. He tried to scowl, but couldn’t muster enough strength to oppose his wife.

Dick almost tripped over the car when he started laughing. 

Since they were the last to arrive, Marinette and Damian returned inside to join everyone for festivities. 

----------

Somewhere else, in a much darker place, a lone figure stood in an empty room. His clothes were dirty and torn. The light entered only through a small window. 

“So you see? It was all a set-up!” He shouted. 

From the shadows, another figure joined. 

“But of course, sweetie. Of course.” They said in a patronizing tone. “I will of course help you.”

“You understand me. And what about… Marinette?” 

“I don’t understand your obsession with her, but I can share.” 

“Whatever. She will be mine!”

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Masterlist // Next

Dead or Destitute

- a geraskier fic (warnings for blood, mild gore, swear words)

"What the fuck?" Geralt snarled at Jaskier who had just opened the door, wearing an amiable smile and the most ridiculous robe of silver-broquaded burgundy that flared out at the sleeves and the bottom with frilly cuffs. It was buttoned closed save for the top three which fell open to reveal a glorious patch of chest hair. Jaskier's lips looked wine-stained, his hair was tousled, but when he saw Geralt the haze of light intoxication lifted into a brilliant grin. A grin that went straight into Geralt's heart. Fuck. "Geralt. Didn't expect you to come calling, how'd you know I was around?"

"I didn't." "What? Then why are you here?" "Uh..." Geralt cocked his head. Sniffed. Yes, definitely red wine, but only half a glass. Jaskier wore a new perfume too, rose scented. He was partial to almost all flower scents whereas Geralt couldn't stand them. He preferred Jaskier's natural odour. "I'm looking for the Viscount de Lettenhove? Some Duchess from Novigrad sent me because apparently he owes her a large sum of money. You know this man?" Obviously, Jaskier knew this man. If the state of his appearance was anything to go by, he had probably been thoroughly engaged with this man before Geralt had knocked. Which caused an uneasy twinge Geralt pointedly ignored. So, Jaskier was courting trouble once more, nothing new here. "Sorry, what? Sent you? Geralt, are you playing debt collector?" Jaskier asked, stepping closer. The smile was persistent, stuck to his lips as he brushed a spot of Roach hair from Geralt's chestplate. The undertone of that statement, however, was accusatory which made Geralt defensive. "It's not like I enjoy it, but I've been going through a drought and it's like the monsters are hiding or something. Needed to feed myself." "Shit, that bad?" Jaskier crossed his arms, eyes raking up and down Geralt's body to look for signs of destitution. To the outside world, Geralt knew he looked like a regular old Witcher, but Jaskier might just be able to tell the smaller signs of his dry streak. "I will manage." He always did. "So, where is this man? Viscount. Whatever." "He's standing before you." "What... you?" "Surprise? Honestly, I had always assumed that you knew." Knew that Jaskier was secretly nobility? Geralt wrecked his brain for conversational fragments he might have overlooked, information he had simply forgotten, and came up short. "I didn't." "Well, now you do. Oh, but this is fun. Say, Sir Witcher," Jaskier licked his lips and peered up at Geralt from under thick lashes, the blue of his eyes stark in the waning light of day. Geralt furrowed his brow. "Are you entirely sure that I have to pay you back in coin?" Jaskier winked and something boiled over in Geralt's chest, bubbled up from out of nowhere. Gods, this man was infuriating. "Is this what you do when you owe people? Suck their cocks to get them off your back?" Geralt didn't give two fucks how that sounded. Jaskier might not be gifted with enhanced perception, but even he could comprehend jealousy when it was so blatantly put before him. As it was, Geralt's voice was drenched in it. Jaskier let out a humorless laugh, harshly contrasting his earlier mirth, and put his hands to his hips. "That's the road you wanna take with this? Truly? I had meant it as a jest, Geralt. In case you hadn't surmised from the fact that am a travelling bard, usually I'm not here when tax lawyers and debt collectors come calling and it's not like I constantly owe anyway. Besides, I can suck on whatever cock I like to." Technically, sure. It was just that Geralt wanted it to be his and only his. He couldn't very well say that, so he went for the second-best emotion he felt in regards to Jaskier pulling out sexual favours. "I just don't want you to whore yourself out, someone could hurt you," he said and was rather proud of how earnest that came out. "I'm not, I wasn't. I was just being flirtatious," Jaskier sighed, anger deflating. "Why would you be flirtatious with me?" "Why ever? Now that is a question I will only answer when I've had at least a bottle of Lambert's home-brewed vodka." "What?" "Never you mind. Come in, I may be dead broke, but I can still offer you a cup of tea." Jaskier stepped aside to let Geralt into a square foyer/living area which had a skylight and several settees and couches scattered around it. Three doors lead away from it as well as a winding staircase that disappeared behind a velvet curtain. The middle of the room was dominated by a table with half a dozen chairs, its light surface covered in parchments and dirty dishware. Jaskier's lute case sat next to the door, his traveling wardrobe was lain out over a dark purple couch. As if he had just arrived. Or wanted to be ready to leave at a moment's notice. "Sit, please," Jaskier said and gestured towards a back corner, the only couch without stuff on it. "Make yourself a home, I shall be right back. Chamomile, is it?" Geralt nodded absentmindedly and sat. This wasn't at all what he had expected. Neither from Jaskier nor from some Viscount. It was  a nice house, definitely excessive compared to a commoner's lodging, but it wasn't grand. It was....cosy. Jaskier returned with two mugs, plain, one chipped, and sat next to Geralt, close enough that their shoulders bumped together. "Did you wash off the perfume?" "Uh, yes. I know you don't much care for it, messes with your senses and all." Jaskier shrugged and sipped on his tea, then cursed and put it down, rubbing his lower lip. Geralt wanted to kiss it better, astounded by Jaskier's perceptiveness. Fuck. In terms of doing his job, this was going sideways. "How'd you accumulate so much debt anyway? You break an ancient relic or something?" "Ha-ha. Actually, no. This state is entirely due to my great compassion and sense of selflessness. See, I have this friend who was a gambling problem. Asked me to help out and I couldn't say no," Jaskier explained. "Are you the friend?" "No, Geralt, I'm not, but thanks for believing in me..." Jaskier mock-pouted and Geralt laughed, but quickly sobered up when he remembered how insistent his contractor had been. Either the money or the Viscount's head. Geralt would not behead Jaskier, or anyone for that matter. He had planned on a simple Axii strategy. Now... well. "You could have come to me," Geralt said softly. He emptied his tea in two drags to hide how silly he felt. Why would Jaskier have come to him? And even had he wanted to, how would he have found him? His mouth ran away with it. "We could have sorted it out, we still can." "That is very sweet of you, dear, but you literally just told me you only took this job because your short on coin yourself. Anything else, sure, yes, you will always be my first address when I'm in too deep. This is something I have to get myself out of. I could-" "No," Geralt interrupted, slamming his mug down onto the table. Tea sloshed over the rim of Jaskier's. "No. We find some contracts. Wasn't there a plague in Vizima? Sure to be loads of Ghouls and Graviers around. Besides, cities are jack-full with crowds for you to play. We could save up, there's still time." "There really isn't." "Jask," Geralt pleaded, and for what? Truth be told, there was only one simple way out of this. "The Duchess, what did she tell you to do if I couldn't pay up?" Jaskier asked, worrying his lower lip which was entirely too distracting. "Bring her your head." Jaskier gulped audibly. "Well, guess I will have to fake my own death then..." "No," Geralt said. On an impulse, he took Jaskier's hand between his own and pressed his forehead to Jaskier's knuckles. "Give me three days. If I'm not back by then, you run." "Geralt, what are you planning?" "Do you trust me?" "With all my heart," Jaskier replied without missing a beat. A dusting of pink clung to his cheeks when Geralt let go of his hand and stood. "Three days," he repeated. He promised himself to make it in half that time. Two days later saw Geralt back in Jaskier's house, exhausted from sleep deprivation and the hunt that lay behind him. He held his trophy aloft for Jaskier to see. The bard stood a few feet away from Geralt, back in his standard arrangement of doublet and shirt, all a faded, dusty violet. "Geralt, is that a head," Jaskier whispered, wide-eyed. Something clammy and cold wafted over from him, but was promptly replaced with little bursts of adrenaline that melted on Geralt's tongue when he inhaled them subtly. He grunted and dropped the head onto the table where it splattered the parchment collection and dirty silverware with blood. "Fuck me..."  Jaskier said, staring at it. The long blond curls were matted with grime, the once regal cheeks sunken in. Here was one Duchess past her zenith. "Are you not pleased?" Geralt asked and cocked his head. "This solves your problem." "It does, in a rather drastic fashion." Jaskier seemed to struggle with himself, mouthing words Geralt couldn't make out. Then, his shoulders dropped and he crossed the distance between them, put his palms flat against Geralt's chest. Tucked his face against Geralt's neck and Geralt grew very still. Careful to not give Jaskier cause to pull away. "But I thought you only killed monsters." The words came out shaky and when Geralt noticed that, he also picked up on the slightest tremor that hushed through Jaskier's body. What was going on? Had it been the wrong move after all? Geralt huffed in frustration, unable to read Jaskier after all the time they had spent together, and brought his hands up to cup the bard's shoulderblades. Jaskier shuffled closer. "Shouldn't have hired a Witcher," Geralt said. It' was a weak retort, didn't make all that much sense. The crystalline truth was that he had no ethical explanation for this, no code of conduct to refer back to. He had had more than ulterior motives for this one and, fuck, but it had been worth it. Even if Jaskier despised him for it, even if that made him the monster. He had done it to save a loved one from certain persecution, possible death. A loved one. Oh shit. "Suppose so..." Jaskier trailed off, nuzzled Geralt's neck and that was a weird feeling, created a tingle that made it hard for Geralt to swallow. The corners of his mouth twitched upward. He dared to splay his hands over Jaskier's back. "Jask?" "Yeah?" "Are you okay?" he murmured, hiding his smile in Jaskier's hair. "I'm conflicted," Jaskier admitted. "How?" "Uh... just thinking that this shouldn't turn me on as much as it does." "Oh." Jaskier peeled back a little to catch Geralt's gaze and they both burst into silly giggles. Those faded quickly, however, when Jaskier bumped his nose against Geralt's and his breath caught in his throat. Geralt tilted his head forward and dared to claim a kiss. Then two. Then a million, all at once. They broke apart for another stupid burst of laughter. Reaching behind himself, Jaskier brushed  the accumulated junk off the table, head incluced, and hopped on it, drawing Geralt between his legs. "My knight in shining armour," he sighed and kissed the corner of Geralt's mouth. "My beautiful princess," Geralt shot back. He had meant for it to come across as sarcastic, but it sounded more like a sweet declaration of surrender. "Thank you, love." "You're welcome." Geralt leaned down to kiss Jaskier properly, framing his face with both hands. They tangled up, got lost in each other, resurfaced only when Jaskier grew breathless. "Geralt?" "Hmm?" "We're still broke." Ah, fuck. Well. That was a concern for another day.

Let me give you my life

Pairing: Loki x Tesseract

Warnings: Major Character Death, Mourning, delusions, mental illness, alcohol, Original Character Death, Odin, fantastic racism

Summary: After Frigga's funeral, Loki starts hearing a voice. It changes their life completely.

Chapter 4: Bridge and Chorus

Chapter summary: the aftermath

Chapter warnings: Odin, Major Character Death, suicide

Chapter note: this chapter is dedicated to @lucywrites02 because she pretended to be a bad bitch yesterday.

Previous chapter AO3

No masters or kings when the ritual begins

The shackles sing as Loki walks towards the throne, fighting back a grin. Odin, on the other hand, sits on his high quality chair, believing to be intimidating.

"You have committed a grave crime against the-" Odin tries to speak, but Loki chuckles.

"I know what I have done, Odin. No need to repeat yourself," they interrupt, using a voice they've been hiding in their throat since they learned how to speak.

And it has so much to say…

"Has your mother taught you no respect for your king?" They yell, their favourite way of speaking to Loki. In all these years, Loki cowarded away at this voice, scared of a physical expression of the anger. This time, he laughs at it.

"Not my mother, and I have no king but myself," they smile, watching a new wave of anger flashing in the old charlatan's face.

"Silence! You never knew how to shut this mouth of yours!" Odin raises his voice, hoping to see the now natural cowering of Loki. The only answer is another laugh.

"Do you really want me to start speaking, Odin? To see who is truly guilty, with all these good dicks and whores listening?" Loki asks, a glow in his eyes as he gestures around as wide as the shackles allow. The harshness of their tongue makes the nobles who watch the "trial" gasp.

"Who taught you this language?" The old man spits, narrowing one eye.

"Apart from your anger? And that old warrior you ordered to teach Thor and me how to survive in a forest? And there are the guards, I can name a few but stitching is a worse crime than murder…" he mutters, acting if like he's chatting with a cup of tea other than being on a trial for murder.

There's no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

"Enough with your games! Why did you murder Lord Gæirasson in cold blood?" Odin asks the "big question", as if the right answer will lift the charges from Loki's name.

"Because… one, because he was a racist and offended me, to which the punishment is death. Two, because he started a war-"

"You started a war, Loki," Thor interrupts, taking Odin's side, like every time.

"A war had been started. Let's not blame people, Thor. Now where were I? Oh, yeah, at how Gæirasson started a war. Also, he refused to pay his taxes and you know how seriously I took my responsibility of being in charge of the palace's finances. Did war crimes against my people, father would be proud the son of a bitch is dead. And lastly, but definitely not least, a dreadful sense of fashion. Have you seen what his grooms wear? I think I threw up in my mouth when I saw it…" they finish with the rumbling, not even thinking of answering seriously. Odin will execute him anyways, would some fun be so bad?

"I said, enough with the games!" Odin basically screeches, their face going red.

In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene

"For the murder of a lord, cause of a war and disrespect towards the throne, I Odin Allfather sentence you to a life in the dungeons," he decides.

"Dungeons? Not axe? Did Frigga's ghost or this moron talk you out of killing me?" Loki questions, taking their turn to narrow their eyes.

"If you keep talking, I might change my mind," Odin sighs, rubbing his temple.

"And get rid of this perfect pawn to hold King Laufey from the balls? A shame, really," Loki poutes and shrugs, pretending awfully that he cares.

"I will not stand your disrespect any longer! I had granted you your life, Loki, more than once! You will learn to respect me for it! Take them to the dungeons!" Odin speaks the final order. Four guards grab the chains that lead to Loki's shackles and push him away, forcing him to walk with them

Only then I am human / only then I am free

On the way to the dungeons, Thor stops the guards and demands to speak to Loki.

"Just tell me why, brother. Please. What didn't we give you to make you care so little?" they ask, grabbing Loki's shoulder, just like they always used to do.

"A family. That's what you didn't give me. And that's what I've earned," Loki answers, staring right into his no-brother's eyes, the blue in them and the pale lines that resemble his lightning. They know they won't see Thor from this close ever again, and they deserve a proper last memory.

"Then, I'm sorry. It's late, I know, but remember this, please… I shall visit, whenever I can, Loki. I swear. You shouldn't be in prison all alone," Thor promises. Loki gives only a nod, enough to make Thor dismiss the guards and let them keep walking Loki to his future and last chamber.

The only sign of emotions they allow themselves to show is a sigh, only out of sympathy.

For he knows that his freedom just begins.

Take me to church / I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies

The moment the guards put Loki back into the white vacant cell and take their eyes off them, they cast an illusion of them settling on the floor and staring at nothing. The real Loki is walking up and down the room, waiting for the Tesseract to speak.

"Now?" he asks, feeling it close.

"Now, you need to learn who your family is. Not Odin, not Laufey, your true family, Entropy," they answer.

"What with this name? After all this, can't you call me by my name?" Loki groans.

"I am. You have many names. Entropy, the Chaos Stone, the Death Stone, the Knot… the last one, actually, is the name you're most familiar with, translated to Old Jötunn tongue," they speak, all matter-of-factly.

"You're lying, the Chaos stone is a myth," Loki brushes off the answer.

"It does exist. A black gem, created by billions of ropes, strings and threads tangled together. The hardest one to wield and command and impossible to find. The Jötnar had found it and worshipped it. And when Laufey found out that his son is nothing but a dead baby, he sacrificed the infant for the infant. And Odin found the baby crying in the altar, the gem gone,"

"So I own my life to an imaginary stone, apart from an old piece of shit. What a surprise…" Loki throws their hands in the air.

"No. You are the imaginary stone. In order to give life, the Chaos gem entered your body and never left. You are the flesh of a corpse and the mind of an infinity stone. And it's time to leave the corpse and join us,"

The aimless walking stops, and Loki's heart skips a beat

I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife

"You made me kill a man, for this?" he asks, glaring at nothing. They don't answer.

"You made me kill a man! Just so I could die!" boiling hot tears streaming down their eyes and slither into their shirt as burning red eyes stare at the empty room for something. "I trusted you! You promised me a family!" he yells between his sobs.

Their feet cannot support them, and they kneel down, turned into a crying sobbing and yelling mess. A hand, created by mist, grabs his shoulder, trying to provide comfort.

"I hate you," they spit, flaring their nose drills as they stare into the blue eyes of the illusion they use to pretend they're close to them.

"I'm sorry, hurting you was… if I could prevent it…" the stone says and gives him a small squeeze. And they mean it. If there was a way to do it without any pain, they would. But it's too late, Loki is already hurt…

Offer me that deathless death

Loki throws themselves into the tightest embrace they ever had, weeping like a baby. "I don't want to die. Please, I don't wanna die. Anything but this, anything, please!" he whispers, diving his head into their shoulder without a thought of holding back the tears.

"Shhhh, you won't die. Not truly. Your mind is the stone, as long as it exists you exist. And the body will stay intact until you need it again. You will be fine, I promise," they whisper, hoping of making them feel better.

"I'm scared, Tessie. I'm so scared, I can't," for a prince, Loki sounds so small, almost like the small child they used to be. Tessie starts playing with his hair, hoping to calm him down, even for a bit.

"It's alright. Everything will be fine, no matter if you do it or not," they shush them.

"If I do it or not?" Loki repeats, sniffing quietly and breaking the hug only to look at the misty blue eyes of Tessie.

"I… you're in so much pain… if you decide that you had enough, you'll be left alone," they explain. Loki nods, still quivering from the crying, but determined.

"No. We got so far. I-I-I'm not giving up," he lets his voice get louder, and then stands up. "What do I do?" they ask, collected once again.

"Get comfortable in a position. And once you're ready, make the ropes appear and let them wash over you," Tessie explains, holding this sympathetic voice. Loki nods and sits back down against the white wall, moving to get comfortable.

Then, with just a thought, the ropes appear and fill him with this calming sensation. Tessie walks closer and cups their cheeks. "See you on the other side, Loki," they smile and kiss their forehead before vanishing.

Loki takes a deep breath, and looks around the cage. He remembers a field day he had when little, a good day. Odin was sleeping on a bench and Frigga was yelling at them and Thor to not get into trouble as Thor dragged Loki, who was just above six, on an expiration of the forest around a castle in Vanaheim. Of course, they returned after the sun was down, with scraped up knees and dirty clothes and Loki had traces of tears in his cheeks because a bug scared him. But it had been, and still is, the best time they ever had with Thor.

He holds tight into the memory as he lets the ropes cover him and closes his eyes.

Good God, let me give you my life

The guards don't know how this happened. One moment, Loki was gazing at nothing and the next…

How does one say this to the Allfather?

The healers walk out of the cage when Thor storms in the dungeons, on the verge of panicking. "Is he alive?" It's all they ask.

The healers won't answer, it's enough to know.

Thor walks in and sits beside what used to be Loki, holding their cold and deformed hand and letting tears run down his face.

Loki doesn't respond, how could he?

He's a statue, as if made from black stone, and his hands covered in stone black ropes, with a faint glow where his heart should be being the only sign that there was once life there.

Loki's face doesn't have the signature smirk, and there's no gleam in their closed eyes. But he does wear a peaceful smile. A smile Thor regrets he had to see this body in order to know that his brother knows finally peace.

I’m going to blame this on the Discord - but some of it, some of it’s just Author Three’s own doing.  Mind the knives.

The OTHER way that Liu Sang has a brother:

Liu Sang was not an only child.  He'd known that since he was four years old, and his stepmother had returned from the doctor beaming.  Later they'd been even happier to report a boy, and Liu Sang had adjusted to the idea of being an older brother.  He would have a didi.  He had been nearly as excited as the parents when his brother was born.

It took a few years for him to understand what was really going on.  Things that had been his were repurposed.  Space that had been his was taken.  Time and attention came grudgingly, as if stolen straight from the mouth of his younger brother.  His didi was just as confused as he was, and Liu Sang hoped he never had the same horrible realization: he'd not gained a little brother; he'd been systematically replaced.

Liu Sang wasn't an only child, and he wasn't a wanted one, either.  He'd known that well before the back of the truck and the tears that wouldn't stop until he'd run dry.  When he tracked down his father years later, he wasn't expecting a warm welcome home.  He'd been disposed of, rendered obsolete, sold on as secondhand goods, and garbage never went back to where it had been thrown out from. 

He didn't give a warning.  He just waited for an opportunity to catch his father alone.  When his stepmother and her siblings left for some social event, he let himself in.  The lock wasn't exactly a challenge any more.  He walked through the downstairs, deliberately making noise as he went. 

The layout of the house had changed; over there was where the living room used to be.  There, the side window that he escaped out of into the narrow alley between the houses.  It had been updated: windows bigger, brighter, the decoration now modern and bland.  It reeked of middle class keeping-up-with-the-neighbors.  He didn't know if it was better or worse that nothing lined up with his memories.  Not a single sign of smoke damage remained.

It didn't take long for the man to come out from his office, heartbeat raising.  Liu Sang kept his distance while he waited, lingering by the single cabinet of art on display. He appraised the art out of habit: only one piece looked like a good quality reproduction, and several others were just offensively tacky.  Worthless.

Liu Fu took in the presence of an intruder, long hair and hoodie, and barked, "Who are you? What are you doing in here?"

Liu Sang put the vase down and turned. He'd seen the pictures, he knew what Liu Fu looked like now.  It shouldn't have been a shock.  What hit him harder was that the voice was the same.  He could still hear the father he remembered underneath the years.  Liu Sang's breath caught, and he forced himself to stay calm, tracing the edge of the dusty shelf with slightly shaky fingers.

"Do you remember? I used to live here."  Liu Sang flicked his hand to indicate the modern open layout,  "Before you remodelled."

Liu Fu was taken aback, already fast heart rate rising. "A-Sang?"

Liu Sang tipped his head in as much of a bow as he was willing to make. "Hello, father."

Liu Fu's heart skipped again, then he gestured hard towards the back of the house.  Away from the windows, and where his wife or son may come home.  Liu Sang could have told him if anyone was coming, but the kitchen suited him fine anyways.  He didn't have as many memories tied to there.  (Tied. Ha.)

Liu Fu took down a cup and poured himself tea, movements sharp and purposeful.  He made no move to offer anything to Liu Sang.  He sat down at the head of the table, one hand curled knuckle-white around the porcelain, even though the steam meant it must be close to burning hot.  Liu Sang waited for him to collect himself, to speak, morbidly curious.  What did he have to say for himself, after all this time?

What he started with should have been predictable.  Liu Fu stared at him grimly, "If you think that you can show up here to blackmail me. . ."

Liu Sang cut him off, sharp, "I don't want your money." 

That made Liu Fu's heart skip in a way that was familiar to him now.  Fear.  Liu Sang held the eyes of the man who could have been his father and went on, "I want to know about my mother."

Automatically, Liu Fu waved dismissively, "I don't know anything."

"You know more than I do." Liu Sang prompted, "Her name?"

"Wang Ming."

Liu Sang pulled out his notebook and pen, shoved it across the table. "Write it.  Where from?"

Liu Fu complied, flipping the notebook shut and pushing it back with his fingertips like it was distasteful.  "I don't know, somewhere west.  She travelled a lot--part of the job.  She was a sales representative.  She liked Xuancheng.  Said that her hometown was tiny and too old-fashioned for her, and Beijing was too noisy and big."

Comparing Beijing to the rest of China, that didn't really narrow it down much.  Liu Fu could see his frustration, and barked a laugh, "I told you. It was almost twenty years ago.  I don't remember a lot of details." 

Liu Sang wanted to reply, it was seventeen, but if his father couldn't remember how old he was, then that wasn't going to make much of an impression anyways.  "What about physical records?  Paperwork, photos, anything?"

Liu Fu rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward. "Nothing.  She didn't leave anything behind."

"Liar."

Liu Fu scoffed, "There's nothing left now."

Not lying. Damn.  If there had been any clues they were likely thrown away years ago.  Like he had been. (Or burned, a corner of his mind whispered, also like him.)  That made too much sense.  Liu Sang tried to prompt again, "What else?  Nothing about her stood out?"

"I don't remember anything else."

Almost relieved, Liu Sang pounced, "Lying."

Liu Fu snorted derisively, "And how would you know, anyways?"

Liu Sang unclenched his jaw enough to respond, tilting his head in his father's direction. "Your heart rate increased."   He narrowed his eyes, listening to that beat jump and skitter.  "There's a flutter on the right atrial valve that becomes more pronounced under stress.  You should take care to not overdo it."

Liu Fu's heart jumped again, then steadied as he seemed to reach some sort of decision.  "You do have her eyes.  She was a bitch when she was pissed."

Liu Sang didn't trust the look on his face as he relaxed, the way he went still and easy like the worst bullies did before delivering a blow they knew would hurt.  When they wanted to watch it hit, watch you bleed. Liu Sang was already out of arm's reach, but he kept the table between them, hands clenching at his side preemptively.

Liu Fu spoke slowly, carefully.  "I had good reason to think she cheated, though I didn't really put it together until after she was gone.  She never let me go to the doctors appointments with her.  Told me she wanted the child to be a surprise, however it was intended."

The way Liu Fu stared at him then, he made it clear that had he known what was coming, he wouldn't have chosen it.  Dimly, Liu Sang remembered how attentive his father had been during his stepmother's pregnancy.  How he had taken her to appointments.  Ultrasounds.  Been there for the birth.  That was why.

Liu Fu's heart rate was still fast but damnably steady as he went on, "I thought then she was just being sensitive about how big she was getting.  Now I think she damn well knew what she was doing."

Liu Sang could feel his own pulse in his palms with how hard he was clenching his fists.  It made it difficult to track the steady rhythm of his father's, unwavering.  "What do you mean?"

"I think you were the runt."  Liu Fu rose to his feet, not breaking his gaze.  "Wang Ming travelled light. She never wanted anything unnecessary, and never wanted second best."

Liu Sang couldn't speak. 

Liu Fu took one, then another step closer, confident that he was delivering the finishing blow.  "She took what she wanted, and she left me you."  He sneered down at Liu Sang, hot breath against his face.  "When you weren't even mine."

When Liu Fu shoved his shoulders, Liu Sang rocked unsteadily backwards.  Too off balance to react more than to raise his hands in self-defense.  Instead of hitting him, Liu Fu opened the back door behind him, and held it wide, his voice gone cold and heavy with the weight of finality.  "Get out, and don't you dare come back."

This time, Liu Sang was expecting the rough shove that followed, and ducked out the door so that Liu Fu's hands only brushed air.  Liu Sang pulled himself away, not daring to turn his back, and bit out without thinking, "Don't worry, you're dead to me." 

He dropped his voice low, something vicious rising in him as a parting shot. "What should I burn for your grave?"

Liu Sang caught the way Liu Fu's eyes flicked desperately to the house around him.  His own gorge rose at the sense-memory of heat-gasoline filling his nose-the way the crackling pervaded everything around him. Before it even hit skin.  Something perverse made him ask, "Do you think it would take better this time?" 

Liu Sang watched the man stumble back, that stressed heart fluttering hard.  The slam of the door rang in his ears, and he almost couldn't hear his own bitter laughter as he left.

He didn't look back.

(When he found out the house burned not even weeks later, he laughed almost hysterically.  It probably sounded unhinged, but if ever there was kharma waiting to be served, that was it.  Who knew if someone helped it along.  He didn't care.)

(Wang Can was told to clean up some loose ends that might start to fray.  Wang Can was good.  Thorough.  Didn't leave anything to chance.  And though the mission parameters were unusual, well, wasn't like it was hard.  He wore the clothes he was given.  He was deliberately sloppy and let the neighbors see when he came back for the evidence.  He looked straight back at them as he blew the ash off the audio recorder.  One might have fainted.  He didn't know why, maybe it was the terrible taste in fashion.  Whatever.  Orders were orders.

The Wang clan knew what they were doing: directing the future.)

The History behind the Fiction (aka doing tons of research for my don’t starve fancomic)

Howdy to all my friends and readers!!!! I’m real glad y'all are enjoying my Western AU! Ive got a lot of stories planned for this world and I hope yall will stick around for em all! 

I don’t know if you can tell....but I love the old west. It’s one of my special interests since i was a little kid!!! Naturally, since I love the old west- I like to go out of my way to learn as much as I can about it! 

Lord there’s a lot to learn though- Sorry if this post doesn't cover all my research- but if y'all have any questions please feel free to ask!! (Its gonna be a long infodump post- so be warned!)

First off Id like to talk about the characters and the setting!

I decided to set the story in the early to mid 1870s in Texas, in the fictional town of Constant. Also known as the Gilded age, post Civil War America was a period of rapid economic growth, expansion and innovation. It was also a time when many of the Old west’s most famous legends were active, and making a name for themselves! Think Red Cloud, Wild Bill Hickok, Wyatt Earp, Calamity Jane, etc. 

Anyways, theres a lot of good material to draw inspiration from in this era, so thats what I did!!

Wilson is a newly graduated doctor- which i found fitting for him due to his love of science and scientific advancements. 

(here is my first sketch of him!!! and his outfit!!!) 

Ready made clothing was common in this era, and since wilson is relatively short- he wears elastic sleeve garters to keep his sleeves the appropriate length!

I havent shown many of his tools in the comic yet- but I frequently reference this catalogue of medical equipment to inform the procedures!

I have a book of the history of costume that let me get a good sense of the different styles of dress between working class men and upper class men in the era, but I also frequently referenced this 1873 publication of the west-end gazette

Here are the images that I partially designed Wilson and Maxwells Costumes from

Maxwell is a wealthy Rancher with lots of land , living just outside of the town of Constant. Beef was in VERY high demand, and Maxwell makes his fortune by managing Longhorns. 

Max went through a couple of iterations where I tried to incorporate his victorian skin hairstyle, but I found that it didn’t fit the era very well, based on hairstyles seen in photographs during the era. Plus, I feel that the heat of the southern united states would probably not fare well with poor old max. 

His brother Jack lives in San Fransisco- and has made his fortunes through his shipping company- which primarily exports goods from California to New York City. He lives in a comfortable home with his wife and children- but ever since Abigail died, Wendy has been acting strangely. 

Wendy is one of my favorite characters to draw and write for, as well as one of the most fun characters to research for!!! She is in mourning, for her dear departed sister Abigail. her bonnet is based on those found in the M’me Demorest of winter 1860.  (no reason to have a new bonnet when your old one will suffice)

I dress her plainly in the comic, and a bit behind the fashions of the times due to her associations with her family’s wealth and image, and the demise of Abigail. Her dress is shaped after those from the late 1860s-1870s. 

(I have lots of resources for women’s fashions during this era and way more- but I have found the delineator , M’me. Demorest’s Mirror of Fashions, and Godey’s Lady’s book to be some of the best resources for fashion and cultural references of the times!!!)

Usually mourning for a sibling is worn for 6 months, but Wendy definitely feels that her grief is enough to wear mourning forever.

Before she was in mourning though- she and Abigail would sport the latest in young ladies fashions!  Here they are sporting an Alice style hair ribbon, and a lovely dress found in the met’s fashion plate collection  as well as a lovely American casket

Aside from fashion, I try my best to keep the set dressing accurate! and it’s not just about props, but about the actual architecture that the characters inhabit. 

The Carter ranch house is based on the floor plans that can be found in Hobbs’s Architecture  - (jump to page 196 to see the house i modeled the residence after specifically)

The carriage too- can be found here in Brewster & Baldwin’s illustrated Catalogue !

The interior of Mr. Carter’s Home is decorated in Gothic Revival style- as can be seen in the details on the banister, as well as the ornament found in the furniture in his study. Some elements, such as his easy chair, are based on regency furniture. I find it would be too unrealistic for a crotchety old man in the American west to be entirely on top of the latest interior decorations, and besides- why throw out a perfectly good chair? 

I designed his carpet myself based on english needlepoint rugs made during the gothic revival era, and as with Maxwell’s tea cups and the wallpaper in the hallway, decorated it with patterns based on the evil flowers of don’t starve. 

The sconces,  doorknobs  curtains are also based on productions from the era, though I confess that I have lost a few of my sources. (I’ll try my best to find them though!!)

If anyone is interested in looking through my sources, here is my archive.org collection! I hope yall find this stuff as compelling as I do!!

Thank yall again for reading!!! I love u!!!

It’s your kaylor historian here who still can’t remember my log in details to my KH account 🤦‍♀️ (so please make sure this anon just in case it isn’t... I fear them 👀)

Karlie’s tea post before masters heist:

Ok so I can’t remember who posted first and don’t feel like looking, but taylor posted a selfie and captioned it “Friday calmness” and we (kaylor fandom) had been speculating taylor was going to come out as bi on the last day of June / 🌈pride month🌈 since she’d been doing so much stuff that could be seen (and was) as queer coded. We celebrated the “Friday calmness” thinking it was like a ‘calm before the storm’ with the storm being her coming out.

I think Karlie posted after taylor, but am not 100% sure. Karlie posted a selfie with a cup with a caption like “what’s the tea” and the fandom, thinking they were still together, collectively lost our shit. It looked to us like Karlie was playing off Taylor’s post. (I’ll admit, I didn’t think kaylor were still together, but that weekend I was thinking ‘I can’t believe I doubted them!’ Lol)

*there were also rumours that the YNTCD video and single were delayed a couple of times and meant to be released sooner and serve as a soft coming out, but that taylor kept changing her mind about it and is also why she kept the tracklist length under wraps, because she wasn’t sure if she’d go through with it. She was way more vague than ever before. There were also rumours she had a rolling stone cover planned that she was going to come out in but it was scrapped —— I can’t even remember where these “she’s actually coming out” rumours originated anymore and I can’t remember if people had legit sources and gossip or if it was fan fiction planning, but it was mentioned outside the kaylordom too, so take that as you wish.

Then came the masters heist.

Now, to understand the thought process of Kaylors at the time, you have to remember that we thought Karlie & Taylor had a secret romance, Joe was a beard, Josh was a beard - but since he comes from a crime family who have done a lot of bad things (to put it lightly) and are stupidly rich, Josh had Karlie trapped in such a tight contract and has so much blackmail material that Karlie was forced to fake marry him against her will - remember, it was only meant to be a photo shoot for a Vogue wedding spread showing what wedding fashion was available, it wasn’t meant to be a wedding! But josh had his team leak the photos and instead of saying it was all for a photo shoot, Karlie had to say she was now married. <- that was the narrative and thought process within the fandom.

So the fandom thought 🛴 and Josh conspired to announce the purchase of big machine/ taylor’s masters which would derail her coming out plans. The fandom thought Karlie had no idea it was happening. Scooter and Josh were worried Taylor was going to come out, which would ultimately out Karlie since there were so many rumours about Kaylor already, and it would then out Josh and ruin Josh’s image, making it look obvious to everyone that Josh and Karlie were just beards, but kaylor was real. To avoid tarnishing Josh’s hetero card, scooter waited until the end of June to announce he bought taylor’s music for maximum impact.

(Never mind that someone spent $300M to keep a client in the closet) that was how we interpreted the situation (kept writing the fan fiction) and that it was a blow to taylor and a huge betrayal from scooter to Karlie because now they had extra leverage / ways to hurt Karlie.

So yeah. It was a very sad time. This also is why some kaylors think hoax lyrics point to their everlasting love “my best laid plans” = tay ready to come out end of June “your sleight of hand” = scooter tricking Karlie when he bought the masters and any information about taylor that Karlie mentioned innocently was used against them, “my barren land” = taken on a new meaning since Karlie announced her pregnancy, but initially it was seen as the land that was meant to be blooming with love was left barren and empty because of the masters incident delaying her coming out.

It sounds absolutely ludicrous, but the only way to understand how it was easy to rationalise is to understand how adamant the fandom was/ is that Josh and joe are just beards, Karlie is locked in a contract, and taylor is trying to free the both of them. If there were any truth to this at all, it is nothing short of ghastly situation for Karlie and paints taylor as a Nobel warrior trying to save her princess from the tower 🦸🏼‍♀️👸🏼 ....

Karlie had what I think was a scheduled post cause it was ad content , but otherwise was unusually silent on social media for a week + after the announcement. We thought they were grieving together.

——-

Now for Emily Poe. Ok so I really didn’t do my research - I thought Emily was only one or two years older than Taylor, so it never even occurred to me that the idea of that relationship would’ve been extremely predatory and badbadbadbad. I regret not doing my due dillihence when I was part of a fandom that consumed this theory. So Emily theories have been around since Taylor first had gay speculation. Part of this was because of some funny photos like that one where taylor is standing next to a truck that says “...gay Texan” and emily and a guy in the band I can’t think of his name were pointing to taylor and smirking. It’s a funny photo. I can see my dumb teenage self making similar jokes long before I knew my sexuality because LOOOOL GAY was a thing back then. There’s the video taylor made for Emily where she held up the “we love you emily” sign and she went to everyone she toured with including brad paisley to hold up the sign and make heart hands and just be extremely cute - platonic or romantic - both seem plausible - and cute as hell! The video was set to the dashboard confessional song ‘stolen’ which is basically just the lyric “you have stolen my heart” over and over again. This video got renewed interest when people went back and looked back at the you belong with me video. The idea of taylor and her make love interest holding these a4 sheets of paper with “I love you” written on them seemed familiar. The story of how YBWM came about was that Taylor heard her guitarist on the phone with his girlfriend and his gf was yelling at him for something seemingly insignificant/ the gf was painted out as high drama and her guitarist seemed miserable every time he spoke to her for a while. So Taylor had the idea of a song about a girl thinking her friends girlfriend is horrible, but turn it into a love story where the two friends get together - classic romantic comedy trope - she took the idea to Liz Rose and it was one of the last songs written for Fearless and specifically made to be upbeat and preppy because taylor thought the album was lacking that vibe. If you take the story Taylor said inspired the song and swap it from her male guitarist (who she also said she had no feelings for), and change it to her female fiddle player, the story behind the song can be the same, just tweaked to be hetwashed. Emily was a cheerleader and had a boyfriend when she toured with taylor, so it’s easy enough to take those things at surface value and think there was some truth to Emily. Also the two biggest gaylor rumours pre swiftgron came from comments on a gossip site/ forum. One was that ‘Emily was fired after she was caught relieving taylor of stress’ and how ‘emily was interested in law, but this incident cemented she had to leave the band but the swift team gave her money so emily wouldn’t sue for being fired on a sexual harassment issue’ (of course, knowing the age difference, we know this would NOT be the case at all) and it is speculated it inspired taylor to write breathe because she was so sorry for how things ended. They were inseparable and then after her birthday, never seen together or mentioned each other on MySpace again.

The other comment was that taylor ‘was a pillow princess in high school’ and that she was happy to receive but not give because she wanted to maintain her virgin status and thought if she reciprocated it would make her gay — the comment was something like that.

Of course it would’ve been incredibly easy for idk, some random on the internet who has never even met taylor to say those things.... but it was taken as gospel by the gaylor truthers.

People who looked further found a girl they believed was Taylor’s high school gf, her name started with L... but I never really believed it so I don’t have the greatest knowledge of that one. It seemed ridiculous to me she had a 3 year gf as a teenager and not a single person from her high school - or anyone who knew her alleged gf - ever spoke about it publicly??? That would be a lot of NDAs and payouts to keep silent, but a lot of other people believed NDAs and hush money was spent, so yeah... 🤷‍♀️

She also had some fruity MySpace posts which seemed to help the case for gaylor, but imo, it also falls under the ‘teenagers on the internet are dumb especially when social media was brand new and thank god myspace doesn’t exist cause I don’t want to see my old one ever again’ category.

Sorry for the essay, I felt I had been summoned and wanted to give background on the fandom. When I log back in I think I need to change my bio, I’m not really here to talk kaylor , but the fandom. Cause it’s really sad what that narrative within the fandom has become and heartbreaking what that narrative has done to fans, especially queer kids trying to figure themselves out. I couldn’t see how toxic it was for a long time, I’m happy I’m out of there now. but I think it helps to understand how the fandom thought and saw things as to how easy it was for things to spiral to the state it’s in now.

As old T used to sign off, - lovelovelove 💜

Brilliant post thanks KH!

A Bit of Clarity 🍂 (8/?) The visions had started last autumn, a year ago now. It had caused a bit of chaos for some, a bit of clarity for others. Two days ago, Clarke Griffin had been perfectly fine managing both her Café and her stress. But now she was curious - so deeply curious about the vision of herself entwined with the aloof Lexa Woods that it was leading her to complete distraction. (ao3)

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [part 6] [part 7] 

Lexa walked in ten minutes after opening time the next day. Clarke had just rung up a coffee to go when she saw her, her raincoat unzipped and revealing her sweater and the collar of her shirt beneath it. Beige this time. Clarke liked beige. Then again, she couldn’t think of a shirt Lexa had worn that she hadn’t liked. One couldn't help but wonder how large Lexa’s wardrobe was. It had to be quite the collection.

Waiting for her turn, Lexa kept her eyes on the display case. When she finally stepped up to the counter, Clarke arched a playful brow.

"Good morning," Lexa said.

"Pretty good so far."

Lexa visibly tried to contain a smile. “You changed the display."

Clarke glanced at the display, remembering all too vividly how she’d been pressed up against it. Judging by the way Lexa looked at her, she remembered it too.

“It's honey cake and croissants today - still warm,” Clarke replied, noticing just then that Lexa was fiddling with the strap of her satchel.

It was something Clarke had recently noticed about Lexa. She appeared confident, sometimes even stony-faced, but there were subtle signs showing the contrary. She was a master at hiding her nerves, but Clarke was starting to pick up on how she did it.

"Oh I meant to tell you - Wells loved Gus' honey. He was pretty die hard about his old brand but he's interested in switching."

"He did?" Lexa seemed very proud. "I'll have to let Gus know. And maybe try a slice of the cake then."

“For here?” Clarke asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“Yes. Please.”

“No drink?”

Lexa took out her wallet. “Coffee is fine.”

Clarke leaned closer. “Lexa, you don’t need to force yourself. You don’t like it. It’s fine - I don’t take offense.”

“I know. I just feel like a fraud staying here if I don't. Like wearing sneakers on an ice rink."

Clarke chuckled. “Well, speaking of ice, let me make you a chilled one. I'll go easy on the actual coffee part."

“You don’t have to go to the trouble-"

"It’s on the menu. You know that, right?”

Lexa looked up, as if noticing the menu above the coffee machines for the first time. It wasn't a long selection but, sure enough, there was an ice coffee and tea option.

“I hadn’t..." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Fuck.”

Clarke fully laughed then, her voice still a bit raspy from the early morning. "God, just go grab a seat. I’ll be right up with your order.”

Lexa left a crisp bill in the tip jar as she always did. She sat at her usual seat and took out her laptop and notepad. After she'd skimmed through some of her recent notes, Clarke came over with her slice of cake and iced coffee.

"Thank you."

To Lexa's evident surprise, Clarke took the seat opposite hers and propped her chin on her hand.

"I need to be sure you like it. No more grimacing in my café."

Lexa sighed bashfully. She picked up the cup and took her first sip of the chilled drink. After licking her lips and pausing for effect, she hummed.

"Hats off to the barista. This is really good, Clarke."

"Well of course it's good!" Clarke beamed, pleased with herself. "Now your funny faces can stop giving us a bad rep."

"Hardly doubt the press picked up on my expressions."

"You never know who's paying attention."

Lexa looked at her and smiled. "You?"

Clarke's cheeks felt warm. She glanced down. "That's one person."

Whatever that meant for them, Clarke didn't know. It was a strange place to be in. To know the woman sitting in front of her was responsible for the best kiss she'd had in recent memory, if not her entire life. She was aching to talk about it, but her worry Lexa would bolt was stronger.

Lexa cleared her throat and looked around. There was only a couple and an older man seated for now, but then again the sun wasn't even out.

"Not too busy yet?" She asked.

Clarke shook her head. "I give it thirty minutes. College classes and rush hour starting."

"Have you had more customers recently?"

"Definitely. I'm still not sure if it's all due to Finn's fall from grace, but I'm not complaining."

"You know what made me wonder?" Lexa asked. "He knew Echo and I were from the Gazette. He knew she and I went to his shops to write about him, but somehow he couldn't fathom it would be for anything other than praise. He wronged everyone on his staff and lied his way into smaller businesses believing it was justified. Now he's looking into suing for defamation. Can you imagine the ego?"

"Sounds like Finn Collins."

Lexa noticed a change in Clarke's expression. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, not at all. Just bad history. Finn had me believing a lot of things too. It might be the one thing he's actually good at."

"I see."

Clarke bit her lip, unsure where to go from there. It seemed like Lexa was thinking the same.

"Are we still…" Lexa lowered her voice. "Is this weekend still happening?"

Clarke's heart leapt. "If you want it to."

"I do."

Clarke forgot all about Finn Collins, her bitterness replaced by sudden excitement. "Give me your phone."

Lexa took it out and watched as Clarke typed her number in. She then grabbed her own phone and sent Lexa a message:

Coffeemaker ☕ Nice flannel today, I'd guessed blue

"I don't have a lot of blue," Lexa chuckled, then frowned. "Bit of a reductive name. I'd definitely give you something better."

Clarke shrugged. "That's between you and your phone. Anyway, I'll send you the details. I checked the weather and there's just a small chance of rain, so we should be good. We can do the River to Nowhere hike."

"Never heard of it."

"I figured. It's kind of a local secret. The view on Costial and the mountains is amazing though."

At Lexa's silence, Clarke felt a pang of worry. "This is still good, right?"

Lexa looked up. "Yes. Of course. I'm looking forward to it."

Clarke nodded, still not entirely convinced. But at least Lexa had come back. She was here, sitting where she belonged. Clarke stood up at the ding of the bell, knowing she didn't have much time before the morning rush.

"I hope you enjoy the cake."

"Thank you, Clarke."

* * *

Lexa came into the café every day. She apologized that she couldn’t stay too long before going to work, but she still came every day. Mostly in the morning, but once in the afternoon. Clarke saw the slight, quick pout on her face when she noticed her seat was occupied that day, and practically heard her sigh when she eventually found a tight spot on the other side of the counter.

"I thought we said no funny faces," Clarke told her in passing, too busy to stop but still yearning for interaction.

Lexa looked up, realizing then how close to Clarke this new seat was, though also much noisier and not conducive to writing. "My apologies," she said, just loud enough for Clarke to hear.

Clarke smiled to herself. That was mostly how they communicated that week, pleasantries here and there, asking how work was going, how Lexa's articles were progressing, if Clarke and Wells were going to start interviews soon. It was as casual as could be, but beneath the simple nature of their brief conversations was something neither of them could deny.

Desire. The kind that had Clarke panting into her pillow at night while she touched herself. The kind that turned every look and every touch into the most excruciatingly good form of foreplay Clarke had experienced.

It was in the way their fingers brushed together when Clarke gave Lexa her drink and pastry. The way Clarke caught Lexa looking her way, or perhaps Lexa caught Clarke. In those moments, Clarke felt the same thrill she'd felt when Lexa had entered the café after closing time.

But they had yet to actually talk about it, which made Clarke both impatient and anxious for the weekend.

Lexa could run or she could stay. It was something Clarke was keenly aware of, which was why she'd promised herself to be as honest as could be. The way they'd approached things before hadn't worked. Things had been left unsaid on various occasions, piling up until they became a tangled mess. That couldn't happen again. Clarke knew it and she had no reason to doubt Lexa knew it too.

Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her apron. Clarke finished making an order for a pick-up before reading it:

Lexa I'm off to work (yes I do have a real office despite appearances), but thank you for saving a croissant for me

Clarke glanced toward the fig tree, where she saw the empty table.

Clarke Ha, I was starting to think you'd quit. You're welcome

Lexa I'll see you tomorrow?

Clarke Yep, pick you up at 11am. Wear good walking shoes

Lexa Stilettos it is. Have a good rest of the day :)

Clarke chuckled, liking this lighter side of Lexa. Hopefully - and Clarke's hope had blossomed these days - it was a facet of Lexa she'd get to see more of.

* * *

Lexa didn't wear the stilettos, though Clarke wouldn't have been too upset if she did. She had a hunch Lexa had quite the fashion sense beyond her professional attire. Not that the shirts, blazers and tight pants didn't work for Clarke. Today it was her dark green knitted hat that had Clarke melting a little.

She drove through sleepy Costial with Lexa in the passenger seat, something she would have never imagined happening just a week ago. Clarke talked about some of the resumes she'd read with Wells over the week. One in particular made Lexa laugh out loud.

"Eating is a commendable skill, Clarke."

"It was the only word in the skills section. Just eating. What do I even do with that?"

"Well, hopefully they figure out they're better off being your customer than your employee."

"I just feel bad for Wells, he takes on so much already."

"No one stood out?"

"One woman did, but she'd be out of our budget. Honestly Wells doesn't even care about fancy certificates, just passion and impeccable hygiene."

"Hm."

"What?"

"Nothing. Just thinking."

Clarke spotted the sign on the road that pointed them to the small parking area. It was a ten minute walk from the actual mountain trail, which itself was hard to find for anyone unfamiliar with it. Clarke hadn't been here in months, but it was perfect timing. The weather was kind and there wasn't a grey cloud in sight.

She parked the car and popped the trunk open.

"Are you ready?"

Lexa nodded. "Let's go."

They stored their water and food in one backpack that Lexa insisted on carrying, as the other one felt lighter than air. The trail was hidden behind a particularly spruce, but once they were on it, there was a clear grassy path snaking through the sprawling forest. In a few weeks, everything would be covered in snow. For now, it was a lovely clash of browns and greens, with shrubs and moss at the foot of pine and hardwood trees. 

"You know, I tried looking up this trail in the Gazette's search engine," Lexa said. "Not even one link. When you said it's a local secret, I didn't think you meant top secret."

Clarke smiled cheekily. "One thing you have to know about Costialites: we love tourists in our theaters and shops, not our nature."

"Any other hidden spots I might discover?"

Clarke stepped over a fallen tree, dead and yet full of life, with lichen and mushrooms covering the sides while insects skittered inside.

"Nu-uh. The inquisitive journalist's cap comes off. You can pick it up on the way back."

She heard Lexa's small laugh behind her. "If you say so."

They walked without speaking for a while, slowly going up as they appreciated the fresh air, bird chirps, and the novelty of doing something together for the first time. Clarke had been on this path with friends before; had even shown her mother - but she'd never come here with a potentially romantic partner. It was fun with friends, but there was a more intimate quality to it with Lexa. After days of only seeing each other surrounded by other people, it was a welcome change.

But Clarke remembered her earlier promise to herself.

"Lexa… I need to get something off my chest."

Lexa glanced at her, understanding this wouldn't be shoptalk.

"The push and pull between us…" Clarke started, fighting her nerves. "It really confused me."

"I know."

"It's just that, from my point of view, you sat in the café every week for six months but you were still a mystery. Then suddenly we were talking and… the mixed signals threw me off." Clarke paused, unsure how to word the next part delicately. "You run when things get too close, but then you come back and I think - this is it, she's taking a step forward. But it's not." Clarke stopped to look at her. "What I'm trying to say is I can't do that again. I don't need a label for whatever this is, but I do need to know we're on the same page. I'm sorry if this is brusque-"

"No, that's fair," Lexa interrupted. "Thank you for telling me. I want to be on the same page too."

Clarke waited for more, but Lexa turned her head toward the source of a trickling sound. "Is that the river?"

Clarke swallowed back her disappointment. "Yeah. Come on, we can follow it upstream."

* * *

If what Clarke had said had affected Lexa, she certainly didn't show it. Instead, Lexa started asking questions like she had at the café, interested in knowing about Clarke's life without divulging too much about hers in response. Clarke had to call her out on it:

"I thought you'd agreed to leave the journalist cap behind."

Lexa seemed surprised. "I can't ask about your job?"

"Can I ask about yours?"

Lexa kept her eyes on the rocky stream bed at their right, where the water flowed slowly down the slope.

"Sure."

"Did you always want to be a journalist?"

"No."

Clarke waited, then sighed. "A little more?"

Lexa slid her hand beneath the straps of the backpack. She was quiet for a while, then cleared her throat. "My grandmother raised me, but after she passed away when I was seventeen I had to grow up very quickly. I started working in a motel to save for college. Met a lot of people left behind by laws, so I had a fantasy of going into politics. Be a part of change."

Clarke startled a bit at the amount of information Lexa had unloaded in the space of a few seconds.

"I didn't know you were… I hadn't realized-" she stuttered. 

"Don't worry, I'm not a traumatized orphan, Clarke," Lexa said with a self-deprecating smile. "Anyway, it all worked out. Even got a scholarship."

"Still. That must've been hard."

Lexa nodded in acknowledgment. "When I got into college, it was like an all you can eat buffet. Politics didn't feel exciting anymore. But my counselor told me change could come from anywhere."

"So you took up writing?"

Lexa's expression suddenly changed, like she was in pain. "No, not right away."

Clarke left it at that, not wanting to push. A few minutes later, she stopped on the path and took Lexa's arm.

"Come on."

She guided her behind a pine and past a couple shrubs, where finally they reached the flat rock that overlooked Costial and its surrounding mountains. Lexa took off her backpack, stopping just a few feet from the edge.

"Jesus, Clarke."

"I know."

They took in the view for a few minutes, until Clarke laid out the quilt she'd put in her own bag. She sat down and looked up at Lexa, noticing just then there were tears in her eyes.

"Are you okay?" She worriedly asked.

"Just give me… I need a minute."

Clarke waited patiently, knowing they had both reached a point of change. She would stay here the entire night if Lexa needed it.

Lexa sat down next to her. "I never wanted to confuse you," she finally said, her voice full of regret. "It's just that I didn't expect you."

Clarke caught her eyes, hoping Lexa wouldn't look away. She didn't.

"But you took the first step."

"I was… hoping I was ready." Lexa swallowed hard. "I keep to myself and I don't get close, because… because the only three people I chose to love passed away."

Clarke froze, hardly even blinking as she absorbed Lexa's words.

"First there was Luna, my best friend since I learned how to walk. We did everything together for years. Had our best and our worst ideas together. She drowned during a family vacation." Lexa's fingers dug into a patch of grass by the quilt. "Then there was Ontari, in junior year. She was my first… everything. Most of the time she was angry because her mom was a drunk, but she was kind with me." Lexa's jaw clenched. "She was stabbed by some lunatic for seventeen dollars and her bracelet."

If Lexa had managed to keep her voice from breaking before, her efforts were in vain this time.

"And then Anya," she said tearfully.

Clarke sat closer.

"Hey, you don't have to-"

"No," Lexa abruptly said. "I want to. I need to." She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "Anya was my sister - how I imagined a sister would be anyway. She took me under her wing in undergrad. Pushed me toward journalism when I hesitated and kept me from making bad decisions out of anger. Without her, where I am today would only be a dream." Lexa's voice steadied then as she contemplated the three blades of grass in her hand. "Four years ago Anya lost her fight against breast cancer. Her last words to me were, I fought like hell, didn't I?"

Lexa let go of the grass. "You were right that night at the bar. In a way I do use people for their stories. I eat up their words and I spit them back out because my own stories - they're no good. The good ones are all tainted. I don't talk about my past because my memories only have ghosts in them. And nothing hurts more than realizing the only people who knew you are gone."

Clarke felt stricken, overwhelmed with sadness for the woman baring her soul in front of her. She couldn't imagine losing a best friend, let alone three. She couldn't imagine having so many of her memories tarnished by sudden, senseless death. Losing Wells would be like losing a piece of her heart. He knew her fears just as well as her dreams. He knew how to make her laugh and how to get her to stop crying. If he disappeared from her life, Clarke could see how that would feel like losing a part of herself. Memories shared would be wrecked by grief.

"When the visions happened," Lexa continued, "suddenly it was like hope was on everyone's lips. Lincoln was the first to tell me his. I was on the opposite coast, living life like a robot, when my estranged cousin calls to tell me he's seen us dance together at his wedding." Lexa smiled at the memory. "I thought he was losing his mind - couldn't even remember him honestly. But then more reports came in. And he kept calling, kept talking to me about Costial, this beautiful city he'd always wished my grandma and I visited. Apparently she used to send him postcards every year. For her sake, I agreed. I reconnected with Lincoln and… I fell in love with Costial."

Clarke knew how easy that was. It hadn't taken her long to know she'd build on her dreams here. After college, leaving had never even been in question.

"I wanted to do something to honor it," Lexa said as she stared at the skyline. "I know there are already thousands of pieces on visions out there, and I know there'll be thousands more after mine, but they won't be on this place. They won't be about Indra Keene reconnecting with her brother thanks to her vision of them having dinner. They won't be about Jonathan Murphy working hard to get his GED after seeing himself graduate college. I know I haven’t been here long, but this place is the first that's felt like home. I thought it deserved to be written about."

Lexa looked at Clarke. "And you… I guess I wanted to know what hope looked like for you. You're at the café every day, always smiling at people, even the rude ones. You seem so happy, so eager to put in the work to make your dream a reality. I couldn't help but wonder what else you might dream about. But really I just transcribe what I hear. I'm no more than a typist here."

"You sell yourself short."

Lexa shook her head. "I don't mind being the one listening. I like how I fit in Costial. When I got here - when I was driving with the trunk of my car crammed with my stuff, I passed the welcome sign and I… I just felt so relieved. Like I could finally breathe. Move forward."

"And you did."

Lexa nodded. "When I found out the Gazette was hiring it all clicked into place. But the pain crept back eventually. Change isn't… Well, old habits die hard and all that."

"But you've already brought so much good here. Look at your article on the Mountain Men."

Lexa shrugged. "Hermit solidarity."

Clarke chuckled softly. "You're not a hermit, Lexa. You clearly have a talent with people… It's not just all because you listen. But you also need to be kind to yourself. Does Lincoln know?"

"Lincoln understands more than he lets on I think. He's been the best support I could ask for, but it's different with family. You… you made me want to hope again."

"You can."

"Anya said the same."

Clarke waited a beat. "Lexa… do you think you're cursed or something?"

Lexa lied back on the quilt with her hands on her stomach. "It's not like that. Clearly there are powerful unknowns out there, but I don't believe a witch placed a curse on me, no. What I do believe is that some people attract bad energy. That no matter how hard you try, your place in the world is destructive."

"No," Clarke breathed out, horrified. "I don't believe that one second."

"But wouldn't you wonder - in my position? Wouldn't you try to put your theory to the test?"

"So you're just going to be alone for the rest of your life? That's your big experiment?"

Lexa shrugged. "I have everything I need - a good job, good apartment. It's not like I don't know anyone. Lincoln's practically introduced me to half the town. I know how to be sociable. I know how to work a room. I don't need anything more."

"People talk a whole lot about what they need in this town," Clarke sighed. "But what do you want?"

Lexa swallowed thickly as she looked up at her. "Does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

Lexa reached for her hand, hesitant at first, just fingers brushing. "Your vision... if that's what you wanted from me, I could give you that. I could be that person."

Clarke knew what Lexa was offering - wish fulfillment. Sex without the next morning breakfast. Sex without intimacy. Clarke had gone down that road before. She was good at it.

"No." She said the word before she even thought it. No, she couldn't do it. She couldn't spend a night with this woman and watch her slip out into the night. She couldn't pretend it hadn't happened the next morning; that they could go back to normal. There was no normal with Lexa - there never had been. "I want all of you, Lexa. If you're not ready for that, and I understand it, then we can be friends. But you need to stop looking at me like you do because otherwise I'll..." Clarke shook her head. "I won't even be able to be that. I did the whole casual thing and frankly I'm over it."

Lexa nodded silently, then retracted her hand. Her brow furrowed in thought, but she didn't add anything.

Clarke lied down next to her and sighed. "I think you're stronger than you know and I think your vision proved it. Your future doesn't have to be some kind of condemnation to solitude."

"And what if I hurt you?"

"My father used to say pain is a part of relationships, even the best ones. It doesn't mean we stop fighting for them."

"I don't mean hurt you by forgetting to clean the oven, Clarke."

"That would definitely be a blow." Clarke turned on her side, taking in Lexa's jawline and the fading tear tracks on her cheek. "But I don't believe in curses or bad energy. I believe in people and people acting on their choices. You're not alone. Not anymore."

Lexa turned to face her as well. She brushed a finger down Clarke's temple, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"You're very stubborn, Clarke Griffin."

Clarke smiled. "You have no idea."

* * *

They packed up quietly after snacking on some pieces of honey cake, the emotional toll weighing heavily on both of them. Clarke knew Lexa needed the space, but she'd said her piece and it had felt right. The ball was in Lexa's court.

They went down the same path they'd taken, zigzagging with the river. Clarke thought to bring up Lexa's article, but felt a strong drop crash on the top of her head and froze.

"Oh no."

Lexa frowned. "Did you forget something?"

"This is your first autumn here, right?"

"Yes?" Lexa replied hesitantly.

"Hm. Well, there's this thing called the Costial shower. Usually in the winter, but sometimes after a long week of rain it creeps up on you. Doesn't last longer than a few minutes, but yeah."

Lexa looked up. "I don't feel anything."

As soon as she said it, a downpour started. Lexa flinched at the sudden wet cold, the weight of the rain making the tip of her green hat sag.

"Lovely," she deadpanned.

"Run."

"What?"

Clarke bolted like a bat out of hell.

"Clarke!"

Before she even knew it, she started laughing as Lexa called her name behind her. Luckily the trail was more grass than mud, not yet too slippery. Lexa caught up to her.

"I'm pretty sure you can't outrun rain," she yelled before laughing herself.

Clarke hadn't felt like this in a long time; adrenaline pumping through her as she laughed like a kid on the playground. She spotted what she'd been running toward just a few feet away.

"No, but you can reach the canopy in time!"

She slowed to a stop and then pointed up. Lexa realized the rain didn't reach them anymore, though they could still hear its angry fall. They were sheltered by the dense crowns of the trees, high and thick above them.

Clarke bent down with her hands on her knees, her laugh fading. "Ah, fuck. Haven't run like that since college."

Lexa pressed her back against a tree, catching her breath as she arched her brow at Clarke. A few drops still dripped down her face, but their clothes weren’t too wet.

"What?" Clarke asked. "It was finals week and I wanted tacos before closing time."

"I know I left my journalist cap out there, but you could've mentioned this."

"I really didn't think this would happen."

A slow smile spread on Lexa's face. Clarke felt her heart race, this time not from running.

"Lexa."

"Yes?"

"I told you not to look at me like that."

"Only if I wasn't sure."

Clarke held her breath, not knowing what to say for once. Lexa crossed the path and stopped in front of her.

"I've… been running my whole life. Moving from place to place thinking it would be easier each time. Running's never made me happy." Lexa exhaled deeply, nervous but not hesitant. She let out a small laugh. "Until now."

Clarke pulled on the straps of Lexa's backpack and kissed her. She felt Lexa cup the back of her neck and moaned, this kiss nothing like the one at the café and yet just as talented at making her legs weak. This was slow, purposeful, the full meaning of it hitting Clarke like a force. Lexa nipped on her bottom lip.

"I want all of you too," she said in a low voice, as if they weren't already alone in a forest. "I can't promise I won't mess up, but I want to try."

"Okay," Clarke stuttered in response, dangerously affected by Lexa rubbing circles on the back of her neck.

"Is slow okay?" Lexa asked.

"Slow is good. Slow is perfect."

"Thank you, Clarke. For being stubborn."

"My pleasure."

* * *

On the drive back, Clarke found it hard to stop smiling. Their shoes occasionally squeaked, but the discomfort was worth the memory that preceded it. Lexa took off her hat and started braiding her damp hair, humming along with the music Clarke had turned on. Lexa insisted Clarke drive home and didn't need to drop her off, as the view on Costial had made her want to walk in its streets for a bit. Clarke desperately needed a hot shower, so didn't protest too long. 

She understood the reasoning better when Lexa followed her to her apartment door. 

"I see how it is," Clarke grinned.

"A proper first date always ends on the stoop. That's what my grandmother used to say."

Clarke leaned back against the door. "First date, huh?"

Lexa stepped closer. "Slow," she murmured.

"Absolutely."

Lexa pressed a kiss against her neck. When Clarke thought she'd pull away, Lexa instead pressed closer and started sucking slowly. Clarke's mouth parted open and she closed her eyes, dropping her keys when she felt Lexa's hands on her waist. Her arm went around Lexa's neck, breathing harder when Lexa's tongue licked over her pulse, soft and tender and yet more sensual than Clarke had felt in a long time.

Lexa pulled back with a satisfied smile. "I want to take you on another date."

"You better," Clarke rasped.

"Hmm. I'll text you."

"Are you sure you don't want a towel or something?"

"If I stay one minute longer I don't think I'll leave, Clarke."

Clarke's eyes darkened. "Fuck. Okay. Get out of here."

Lexa had the gall to smirk before she turned around, walking down the hall like she was worth a million bucks. Well, Clarke thought, she could do slow too. She could wind up Lexa Woods very, very slowly.

-

[part nine]

Daisuzu one shot 💴💗

Suzue is angry for the first time and Daisuke needs to keep up with her bad mood the entire morning. How is he handling it?

~o0o~

This was supposed to be a positive morning for Suzue because Daisuke told her yesterday that he's going to take a day off just to catch up on his time with her and she was so enthusiastic about it that one simple thing as perid cramps decided on ruining her instantly. It was early in the day, 7:15h so to speak, and she was already in shock and fed up with the entire situation. And as if this wasn't troublesome enough; she wasn't able to find any medications in her drawer. She checked in the nightstand, closet, shelves, counter. Nothing, she couldn't find anything and the pain in her stomach was becoming more and more unbearable.

She couldn't leave the palace this instant because she needed to take care of Daisuke first. She entered his room writhing a little because of how much it hurted her. She already hated everything about this day and everything around her, she became more stressed and more emotional. She tried to wake him up gently at first but when he didn't react on her attempts right away, she took the glass from his nightstand and showed it back somewhat forcefully, making a loud thud. Daisuke jumped a little from how startled it made him and Suzue greeted him with annoyed look on her face.

"Butler already informed me about the breakfast. You're free to come down and join." She handed him certain clothes without asking for approval "You can also put these on. I'll be waiting for you once you're ready."

Suzue turned around and left without putting much of a conversation between them. Daisuke noticed how stiff she looked but concluded that she probably "woke up on the wrong side of the bed" and therefore didn't want to ask further about it. Still, it wasn't like Suzue to be this irritated in the morning since he always got used to her friendly greetings and a big smile on her face. He got himself dressed and went downstairs where an elegant spacious dining room was located.

A classic British breakfast was served, 7:30h, the pair was sitting at the dark wooden table with magnificent displays of gold plate from George IV's enormous collection and enjoyed their meal. If you were just a mere visitor to their household you probably wouldn't notice such things, but Daisuke was perfectly aware of Suzue's unnerved behavior. She cut her meal quite frustrated and she even criticized the lack of flavor in it. And although she wasn't showing it as much, her dissatisfaction was present and she became angry, much to Daisuke's surprise. Daisuke grew worried because, for him, the meal tasted just fine and as much as he wanted to hold himself back from further antagonizing her when she already felt bad enough, he couldn't ignore it and he needed to interfere. He didn't have the heart to ignore her like this.

"Suzue. Did you sleep well last night?"

"Of course I did. What kind of question is that supposed to be?"

Ouch that hurt. Daisuke would usually feel offended by such an act but this was Suzue he was talking to so he decided to be stubborn.

"I don't know. If someone upset you in any way you're free to tell me and I'll take care of them personally."

"Daisuke-sama, with all due respect I'm not feeling especially obligated as of today's date to worry much about when I'm supposed to be free to do something or not. I am a person, I have feelings, and I'll decide on doing things when I'm feeling like doing them. I'm not asking for anyone's permission to express my free will."

Suzue took her plate, handed it to butler and left the room.

For the first time in a long time Daisuke felt broken. It's funny because he usually never paid attention to other people or their unnecessary outbursts of emotions which he always found uncomfortable and incredibly impractical, but then again, this was Suzue he was talking to and he became seriously worried about her.

Whenever he wanted to check on her she made an annoyed expression and whenever he tried to start a conversation with her she ended it quickly.

"That video you wanted to show me the other day-"

"I changed my mind. It wouldn't be as entertaining for you because you never find anything funny anyways. I wonder what satisfies you anymore."

Another low blow and Daisuke felt like crumbling. Although he decided that he'll wait for her until she calms down. Or not? He wasn't used to her lack of attention and he enjoyed it so much while it lasted. Suzue was usually the clingy one in their relationship but today the roles were switched and he wanted to bring the old smiling Suzue back.

"What do you say about watching your favorite series together?"

"I watched it yesterday, today is the rerun."

"I brought you some fashion magazines I thought you might like."

"Thank you, I'll check them later."

"Would you like to check these new gadget parts I found with HEUSC? He couldn't estimate the quality of the product so I'm asking for your opinion."

"I'm not interested as of now, I'll search them when I have the time."

"Would you like some tea in your favorite kitty cup?"

Suzue put down whatever she was reading at the moment and looked at him with serious expression on her face.

"I'm perfectly capable of making tea for myself. I'm sorry Daisuke-sama, but why are you being like that?"

"Like what?"

"The way you're being, you're unusually clingy today and I didn't even ask for any of it. Why are you giving me such a hard time? I need a break."

Suzue was about to climb the stairs which led to her bedroom.

"I'm sorry." Daisuke said quietly and Suzue instantly stopped on her tracks. She never heard him talk like this before and it broke her heart. She could feel his hurt and regret and she wondered how it came to all of this.

Daisuke continued "I took a day off with the intent of spending more time with you and although I'm really bad at showing what I feel when expressing myself most of the time, the idea of being with you after so long made me feel genuinely happy. I'm sorry if it sounds self-centered or selfish, I'm always talking about me and my feelings when I never considered asking other people about their own. I always pre-determined what others should be doing without giving it that much thought about their opinions before coming up with my own decisions. And no matter how much I try I'm always screwing it up, I'm a terrible person."

When he looked up at Suzue he wasn't expecting her to cry and he became alarmed.

"Y-you're not a terrible person. Please never say that again. It's me, I'm the one who screwed everything. M-my stomachache won't subdue and I didn't take my painkillers."

...

"Oh."

Daisuke came up to her on the stairs and picked her up bridal style. Suzue squeaked a little.

"W-what are you doing?"

"I'm taking you to my room because I know where the stuff I'm looking for is placed. But I can always take you to yours if you tell me where you're keeping things."

"I-I don't mind your room.."

Daisuke smirked at her.

"DON'T GIVE ME THAT FACE MR.!!"

"Okay okay, jesus." he kissed her forehead and pushed the door with his leg.

Once he placed her on the bed, he tucked her in a bunch of pillows and blankets and gave her the phone.

"I'm sorry to say this but please wait for me 20min or so, I'll try to come back as soon as possible."

With this said, Daisuke disappeared into the hallways and left Suzue alone with her thoughts. She knew that Daisuke gave her the phone to entertain herself but right now she couldn't think of anything else but the thing that just happened between them and the way she mistreated him this entire time. The guilt squeezed her heart and worsened her stomach pain.

Daisuke, on the other hand, mentally panicked because he didn't know what to do right now. He never had a sister and his mother died and he absolutely didn't have the slightest idea on what to do. He did his research with HEUSC, he talked to butlers and once he grasped the concept of it, he drew his Bentley Continental GT *maniac style like he always did* to the nearest store and bought

✨💴 EVERYTHING 💴✨ *fu-gou ke-i-ji song playing in the background*. Even the cashier lady couldn't believe that a man could look this badass while buying half of the aisle lmao.

Daisuke returned on time with butlers helping him carry everything and Suzue looked surprised upon seeing so many bags being brought into her room.

Daisuke approached her with a bag of his own and squatted next to her.

"Here we have pain killers, snacks, napkins, hygiene products, essential oils, I even bought heating pads and massage pillows. I didn't know whether you'd prefer Twinings or Yorkshire so I bought them both-"

"You bought the companies?!"

"I bought the tea."

Suzue sighed in relief.

"And I bought cocoa, chocolate and double-layered socks to keep you warm."

"What's the package at the bottom of the bag?"

"Oh.. it's nothing."

"Daisuke-sama you're terrible at lying."

"Alright. It's something that I bought just in case."

He took the package out and Suzue blushed.

...

"I'm.. not implying anything it's just to make you feel better. If you want you can use me as well.."

".. Thank you."

The blush couldn't leave both of their faces so Daisuke put everything aside and headed towards the doors.

"I'm going to make Earl grey because it goes well with chocolate. I'll be right back."

With this said, he left the room and Suzue squeaked in her hands.

Did he.. seriously just thought about the things she assumed he did? He really considered it for her own sake..

When he returned he placed the painkillers, cup of tea and chocolate box on the nightstand before joining her on the other side of the bed. He searched Claire Luvcat and they watched Cream Heroes together. Suzue smiled so much upon looking at the screen showing her beautiful kittens. Daisuke made her smile again and it made him proud.

"Which one is your favorite?"

"Oh" Suzue was taken by surprise "I like Lulu because he's funny and cute."

"Should I buy him?"

Suzue just laughed sweetly "No it's her cat, I'm pretty sure she wouldn't put her cat on sale for any money in this world. Besides, the cat would be really sad when separated from her owner. It's where he belongs, they're practically inseparable."

"Like you and me?"

Suzue squeaked again and Daisuke smiled.

"Mr. Coco reminds me of Furry Elise a lot. I like him, they'd have a nice litter."

"Thinking of becoming a breeder?" Suzue teased him.

"Not really, although it brings good money. Somewhere around ¥158.386,50 for a kitten."

"Seriously?!"

"Yes if the parents are two purebred cats. Coco is a British longhair and Furry Elise is Maine Coon. Besides, you'll get too attached and wouldn't allow me to separate them from you so it's a losing game."

Suzue laughed fondly "It's true, sometimes money can't buy everything."

Daisuke hugged her closer to himself and kissed her head.

"Daisuke-sama.."

"Hm?"

"I wanted to apologize for everything I told you early in the morning. I didn't mean it, the things I said were not true and it was reckless of me to even address you with such disrespect. You were trying to make me feel better this entire time and everything I did in return was rejecting your every attempt. I'm so sorry for offending you like this."

Daisuke turned her face gently towards his own and made her look him in the eyes.

"You'd never offend me, Suzue. There's no way in millions years that you'd be able to do things like this, because you're kindhearted and overall a beautiful person. Remember that."

Suzue looked at him with so much adoration in her eyes.

"Besides, you're right. I'm not the one to decide what people should do with themselves and by not doing anything for you when you needed me the most, I'd feel like I'm letting you down and you definitely didn't deserve that. In fact, you deserve so much better and I'd like to live up to your expectations, if you let me."

"I do. I just hope that I didn't ruin your plans for today."

"This is exactly how I wanted it to spend, together with you."

Maybe he didn't deserve her but Daisuke promised himself to make sure that Suzue feels appreciated every single day.

@daisuzuship @innovativestruggles @narcopharmacist @unholysoggytea @riaymei @ieatcrumbs @cow-goes-oof @matchabucks @bluegleeful @levi-is-heicho @kakooshi @kokorokai @darknessrxse @fluffyyagiza @geniusmeemee @sungmnnnn @koalarin @alstroemerie @petiamaximoff38 @hellohellokookie @marialenikiforov @milcyuw

Smtng short but sweet. Hope you like it! 💞

The Rumor Around Hogwarts (prologue)

Hi everyone!! This is the prologue and it is pretty much exactly what the author wrote and I don't take credit for it. I made a couple of changes to the chapter but it is towards the end so if you want to skip through you can until about the last paragraph to find the part about Y/N L/N. Enjoy!!

Male reader insert for now, future addition of they pronouns as it will lean more towards a non-binary insert with the only change being less reference to Y/N as a young boy and more gender neutral terms. Still masc/male aligned.

Previous // Next

Prologue:

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had two small sons, too, but they had never even seen them. These boys were two good reasons for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with children like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.

"Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar -- a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realise what he had seen -- then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive -- no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes -- the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt -- these people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying. "The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard--" "-- yes, their son, Harry--" Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey Or Harold There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her -- if he'd had a sister like that... but all the same, those people in cloaks...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drill that afternoon and when he left the building a five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside of the door.

"Sorry" he grunted as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realised that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary his ace split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passerbys stare,

"Don't be sorry my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating this happy, happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw -- and it didn't improve his mood -- was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly.

The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?" "Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early -- it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er -- Petunia, dear -- you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls... shooting stars... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do with... you know... her crowd."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "Their son -- he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"

"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did... if it got out that they were related to a pair of -- well, he didn't think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind... He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on -- he yawned and turned over -- it couldn't affect them...

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again -- the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, I've been celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no -- even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent -- I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone--"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense -- for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."

"I know you haven't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too -- well -- noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what they're saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are -- are -- that they're -- dead."

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it... Oh, Albus..." Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder.

"I know... I know... " he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke -- and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's -- it's true ?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore.

"We may never know." Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."

"You don't mean - you can't mean the people who live here ?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore -- you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son -- I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!?"

"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous -- a legend -- I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter day in the future -- there will be books written about Harry -- every child in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly." said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes -- yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing him."

"You think it -- wise -- to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore. "I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to -- what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky -- and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild -- long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir -- house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where -- ?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?" "Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map o

f the London Underground. Well -- give him here, Hagrid -- we'd better get this over with." Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house. "Could I -- could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "You'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it -- Lily an' James dead -- an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles--"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall -- Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply. Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter -- the boy who lived!"

The boy who lived, however, was not the only threat to Voldemort's plans. There was another baby boy who would grow up to be extraordinary. His fame would not reach the height of Harry Potter, but he need not be the boy who lived for he will be the boy who decided to speak.

        "I heard a rumor"

Mystics, Chapter 24

When Arch becomes hired on at Mystics by the strange shopkeeper Lyrem Nomadus, everything seems to be going well- in fact, their life nearly becomes perfection. Soon enough, however, Arch realizes that perhaps not everything is as perfect as it seems….

Read Chapters 1-23 and more HERE

Taglist: @myst-in-the-mirror, @livingforthewhump

CW: Suicide attempt, swearing, drunken stupor. Lyrem needs his own content warnings, seriously.

This includes the FlashBackFever #1 from the Masterlist, but also contains valuable information regarding the plotline. This picks up directly after Chapter 22.

Dedicating this chapter to @myst-in-the-mirror for their wonderful name suggestion for the TimeWorm, Opus! Xx. 

-Alpaca.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: WHEN LYREM MET PAIMON

          “Your essence, your memories, everything you are,” Hades spoke; his voice echoed through the deep, dark gloom, “belongs to me.”

        “My essence was spared as a favor to Kronos, if you recall.” Lyrem sniffed and snarled. “Is this really the type of greeting I get for pet-sitting little Opus all those years ago?”

        “Ha! Did you think I would allow you the privilege of eternal life because you took care of Kronos’ Time-Worm for a few measly hours? Please.” Hades tutted amusedly. “Regardless, you’ve become quite a different man since then. I am not sure I would ever want the essence someone who murdered and then ate the heart of his own father… But at least your memories retain a certain value to me at this time.”

        The mark that Lyrem bore on his chest- the brand that Maria would always say looked like a wine glass carrying a single grape- well… it began to burn. Lyrem grimaced and seethed through his teeth as he felt the brand sear through him like a thousand small razors cutting beneath his chest. It was the same feeling as when he first received it.

        Slowly, the searing pain faded away, and Lyrem was able to straighten himself once again, and he touched his chest. The mark was gone.

        The warm scent of chai drifted over him. Hades was holding a large mug in his hands and he lifted it to his white bearded face. Lyrem studied the hulking God, unsure of his purpose here.

        “Perhaps I should apologize for acting so rashly. When I heard that you were coming to collect, I understandably panicked- you know Maria and I had only just bought the house together and I wasn’t ready to go yet.”-

        Hades smiled lightly as his head shook slowly. He sighed impatiently as Lyrem continued in his nervous frenzy-

        “I mean, now that I think back about it, I’m not sure I should have listened to Paimon when he told me what you wanted. He’s a demon. Does he even consort with your kind? I didn’t mean to be a nuisance for you – truly. I wasn’t fully aware of what I was agreeing to at the time you brought me back from the dead, anyways. That was all Kronos’ insistence. You remember. I was young and naïve, of course”-

        “It’s alright.” Hades hushed him unexpectedly. “Being stuck in one corner of a Labyrinth for thirty years is not really worth avenging in my book. To you humans, it’s akin to being stuck in a line-up for five extra minutes. Would you like a coffee? A tea perhaps? Persephone makes a wonderful chai from scratch, though the plants take a little while to grow first. This place… isn’t exactly kind to her.”

        Lyrem searched around. A small couch appeared behind him, a deep blue colour. Hades motioned for him to sit, and so he did. It would be foolish of him to refuse.

        “A… a coffee would be very much appreciated,” he finally answered. “Where is Persephone?”

        Hades sat across from him in his own chair and he cleared his throat.

        “She can only be seen by living souls. I, on the other hand, can only be witnessed by the dead. But we can still hear each other and create for each other, without any problems.”

        “Oh,” Lyrem nodded. “That must be…”

        Nice? Sad? Actually, Lyrem wouldn’t finish that sentence. He didn’t know how.

        “It’s annoying,” Persephone finished. “We can only ever see each other in our own realm. Our real realm- the one we created ourselves- and who knows what that creature is doing to it!”

        Hades tsked. “Persephone, that is not how you address family- whether they are with us or not.”

        He sipped his tea and allowed Lyrem to watch as his coffee materialized for him in a small ceramic cup. Rigidly, Lyrem sat there, unsure of whether to be comforted by the hospitality or suspicious of it.

        “Sorry it took so long,” Persephone apologized. “I haven’t grown a coffea in ages! I chose arabica for you, I hope that is fine.”

        “It’s perfect. Thank you.” Lyrem said. “I-I’m sorry, God Hades, may I please understand why I am here? You wanted Arthur to bring me here for a reason. Do you want me to release you from this place? Send you back to your proper realm?”

        “Ooh he’s a quick one,” She exclaimed, the sarcasm was not lost with the absence of her face. If she was visible, Lyrem would have seen her sit beside him on the couch. Instead, he only felt the pull of the upholstery dipping next to him.

        “Well, unfortunately, you cannot release us from this place. It’s not under your control.” Hades answered, causing Lyrem to be taken aback.

        “Yes, it is. You may have been able to co-opt it to your liking, but I can certainly…” Lyrem paused with a hand suspended. He pushed his hand around, almost playfully through the air. “Uh… Open… open a door…”

        Nothing happened. He brought his hand back down. It worked the last time he was here, dropping these two away in the hole. Of course, Paimon needed to help him at the time. Regardless, he was told he had control. Of course, why would he ever test it when a God who wanted his essence was trapped here? Paimon knew he wouldn’t try to release Hades. It would be a death sentence.

        “Perhaps, I am less powerful as a dead man,” Lyrem surmised.

        “Oh love, no,” Persephone coddled him in the effort to raise his spirits a little higher. “If anything, you should be more powerful than ever as a dead man. But those hearts you’ve been taking like vitamins? They do you less good than you think… You know, what, Uncle? I think he knew it too. I don’t think he wanted him to be strong.”

        Lyrem turned to her space for clarification. “I’m sorry, who knew what?”

        “My nephew, Pan,” Hades answered.

        “He’s always been a trouble maker,” Hades remarked. “This place is a little caged corner of his Labyrinth. I was not prepared for his increased strength as he transitioned to adulthood. It’s quite a solid construction. I have yet to devise a way out.

        It’s also why I needed you to die. Your soul is linked to me, not to the Underworld. And you are innately knowledgeable of Pan’s motivations. We needed to talk.”

        Lyrem sipped at his coffee, growing more and more confused by the moment.

        “I would honestly be quite impressed by Pan’s work if he wasn’t so notoriously cunning, and quite frankly, annoying about it. But that was always his way, you know.” Hades continued in a nostalgic fashion. “He would do all sorts of silly things- start music contests; him with his little flute, he loved that thing though I can’t remember the last time I saw him play it. He loved those little competitions- especially with family”-

        “Ohh. I remember when he came around Mount Olympus showing off the wood nymphs he caged”- Persephone shuddered. It could be felt more than seen. “He plucked off their wings and forced them to race, that creepy bastard”-

        “Persephone!”

        “I’m sorry. He was just so horrible sometimes.”

        “Who are we speaking about, again?”

        “Pan.” “Pan!”

        “Pan?” Lyrem shook his head, remembering his knowledge on classic Greek mythology. “…Isn’t the Great God Pan, dead?”

        The God and Goddess let out a mighty good chuckle, leaving Lyrem annoyed and confused, and off to the side.

        “Okay,” Persephone caught her breath. “That was a good prank; Convincing the world he was dead… Oh it never gets old. I can’t believe it stuck around this long. I guess it fits that he’s disguised as a spirit from a false religion now.”

        Lyrem stole looks from Hades to the empty space, and then back again in growing disbelief. Hades continued.

        “Pan is one of my nephews. A childlike God. And like all children, he grew bored with the course that his life was taking. In order to amuse himself, he began toying with the lives of innocent humans and facilitated humanity’s suffering on a massive scale. Played people against one another and started wars between great nations. He would place bets on who would win and he would become angry and spiteful when no one would bet against him. He stole children away from their families just to watch their reactions when they found the bodies- he would corrupt the most innocent to hurt at his command – what is more is he tortured people into taking their own lives- and the more he did these things, the easier it all became… I won’t blame his parents,” Hades nodded sympathetically to the ‘empty’ seat, “But he needed intervention a long time ago, desperately.”

        The tone had suddenly shifted to one of melancholy as Hades explained his nephew’s troubling past.

        “Trying to reason with him became more difficult and each time I tried to help him, he would push me away. Finally, being as resourceful and unbelievably stupid as he was, he swept my realm clean, leaving myself and Persephone locked in the equivalent of a closet in the void of the Underworld- that would be what he likes to call the ‘Labyrinth’.” With a shudder, Hades looked away, shamefully. “One powerful human who bears my mark and a few sacrificial hearts were all he needed to help him with that little task.”

        “Me…” Lyrem placed the pieces together slowly, his life flashing before him in a new light, a new context. “Are you saying, what I think you’re saying? Paimon… Paimon is Pan?!”

        Hades nodded.

        “He gave me a reason to fear you, and then he showed me how to trap you...” Lyrem reasoned. “I’ve known him for thirty-two years. How could I have not known this?”

        “Well, first of all, you certainly have a reason to fear me, I am the God of Death and I will still claim your essence one day.” Hades finished his drink, and the mug disappeared. “But I am slow to anger. Zeus would certainly have struck you down by now, and Poseidon has already put you on a list for that ridiculous prank with Perseus you pulled.”

        Hades chuckled softly. “It was quite funny though.”

        With widening eyes, Lyrem sat back, and tried to find what little was left of his honour and dignity with these Gods who spoke of his life like it was a mere sitcom for them to be entertained by.

        “This is ridiculous. Whether or not Paimon is Pan, I am a man who stands by those who are loyal to me,” Lyrem scoffed, “If you wish for me to betray him in any way at all, I shall simply refuse.”

        He sat up and crossed his arms like a petulant child, just begging for a scolding.

        Hades went silent, as well as Persephone.

        “He’s really not terribly bright, is he, Uncle?” Persephone whispered harshly. “It’s beside the point. We need to find Apollo! Let’s open up his mind again.”

        “What? No! Please, don’t”-

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

Beijing, China. 1989.

        “You will never know true love.”

        The Eastern Oracle looked up from the bowl of still water, perched atop the short table from where the three sat on the pillows and watched her client with interest. His dark brows were neatly knit together in a scowl and clearly disappointed. The client did not understand what she had spoken. She could tell.

        She glanced to the translator next and then looked back to the man who began to speak.

        “Oh…” he quietly accepted. “I see.”

        He swallowed. The incense smoke drifted up through the air, condensing their little area in a thin fog. The Oracle said something else in her native Cantonese; her tone rather insistent this time. Urgent, even. Lyrem could tell.

        The translator paused, then spoke: “she says that your fate was never to be loved, only to be respected. It is the only thing that matters to you.”

        Lyrem blinked. Respect was a value of his, yes- but the only thing that mattered to him?

        “But… love, true love…” he started feeling silly even before he uttered the words. “It exists?”

        The translator repeated his words and then the Oracle watched him carefully.

        “For you.” the Oracle spoke in Cantonese. Unfortunately, Lyrem was not well versed in the language at all. “Only for you does true love exist.”

        Lyrem glanced to the translator.

        “She says, ‘Only for very few, does true love exist.”

        He sighed. At least he wasn’t the only one, he thought. He stood up, paid the two in full, and bowed before making his exit.

        Thankfully, there was a local merchant of alcohol nearby. Lyrem stopped there first to buy himself a case of sake before returning to his hotel room. Eight floors up, he was.

        It would be quick and easy to find his way to the ground.

        He cracked open his first and played himself in a game of solitaire on the table by the window. Reflecting there on his last several weeks of hunting for a sacred stone in the Himalayas. It had already been delivered unto Cáishén, a Chinese god of wealth and prosperity several days before now. He wouldn’t get anything in return for his sweat, tears, and blood- only his clients would. At least they paid him well enough. But it had been several days since he returned from the peaks and Lyrem hadn’t bothered to book himself a flight back home to receive his cheque.

        At his second bottle, he ordered dinner up. It didn’t matter what was on the menu, but he was craving something richly flavoured and warm. Pork buns, he thought. They were often his favourite and would do well as a last meal. He had finished his second bottle before it was delivered.

        Yes, they smelled heavenly.

        And then he lost his appetite.

        He opened a third and flicked the bottle cap across the room- damn- he missed the trash bin.

        At some point, he had sat on the bed to read a paper he had picked up from a stall that day. It was mostly in English- except for the ads.

        President Bush signs $166-Billion-dollar corporate bailout, the article read.

        “Didn’t trek across the mountains for nothing then. You’re fucking welcome, everybody,” he muttered rudely to himself.

        He opened his fourth drank it, and then got up to take a long piss. He washed his face and ran a wet hand through his head of soft brown hair. His face still burned with the cold from an altitude he was not accustomed too- it left his cheeks pink and dry.

        The wind had pick up. The mustard yellow curtains flipped around wildly bringing in the stale scent of dust and inner-city smog along with it. Lyrem didn’t remember opening the door to the balcony- at least he hadn’t bothered to, yet.

        But now was a good a time as any… Wasn’t it?

        What was the point of living if not for love?

        He heard the rush of traffic below and the honking of horns, and then he tried to remember what the point of making any sound was, if no one cared for what you had to say. He flipped on the radio that was bolted into the side table. Tuned to a station catering to American music, it crackled through the middle of Hotel California with great effort.

        He stepped over the threshold and looked out across Beijing and their neon lights with his hands tightly gripped to each other behind his back. He sniffed and considered his next move.

        Hands forward, he gripped the railing tight.

                 He bit his lower lip as the lights blurred ahead of him.

                          He became angry with the Oracle, but only for a second.

                                   He lifted a leg and found his own perch.

        The sake had really done a good job of calming his nerves. Lyrem was actually quite surprised that he wasn’t more unstable. Perhaps that was the unique charm of the drink. Or perhaps a bit more adrenaline was pumping through his veins than he cared to realize.

        Lyrem held his breath at the edge of the railing, and then closed his eyes.

                                                     He tipped forward, welcoming the rush.

        He was caught. His eyes opened, and he was suspended in mid-air staring down at the busy street below. Life, he saw, flashing by… but not his own.

        He was lifted back by a pair of strong arms and then the savior let him fall to the floor with a sudden thump!

        “You sad, sorry bastard,” the voice of the saviour said. “You need help.”

        Perhaps a neighbour saw him attempt suicide, came to the rescue. But Lyrem could have sworn he locked his door- and he didn’t hear a soul break in. The guest sat on the edge of the bed, leaning against a cane to support himself on the way down.

        Lyrem grunted against the floor.

        “Go away,” he groaned out.

The guest rolled his eyes.

        “What is wrong with you?” he asked. Part of him may have been genuinely asking, but he didn’t wait for a response. “You have everything you could ever possibly desire in this world! How old are you? Forty? Maybe? You still have a long life ahead of you to do absolutely anything you want!

        Women! They ought to be climbing all over you- unless of course, the men are more your thing- I don’t mean to judge of course, love is love.”

        The guest continued on as Lyrem struggled to his knees.

        “Riches! You’ve got that! Wine, cocaine, parties, travelling the world? My man, you have yourself a slice of heaven on Earth! You’re like a bloody rock star!”

        Lyrem glared up at the black-bearded wonder sitting on his bed, in his room, who opened the fifth bottle of sake that was sitting next to him.

        The guest grimaced at the taste, but kept it balanced on his knee.

        “I guess, what I am really wondering,” he continued. “Is what the hell drives a man like you to the edge like this?”

        Lyrem struggled to stand, and leaned against the chair, slowly and shakily, he climbed into it, and then studied the stranger best he could. His eyes drifted away from him each time he tried to focus. He swallowed carefully. Feeling sick, he might not ever answer the man.

        “L-love. True love,” he managed.

        The stranger balked.

        “True love?!”

        “Fuck off.”

        Teetering on the edge of the bed, the stranger leaned forward.

        “It’s just so funny though, isn’t it? Love… you’d think a man like you could find it anywhere”-

        “I don’t want to find it just anywhere,” Lyrem reasoned, cradling his head into his hands. “I want it to be real. I want it to be true. I want it to be perfect.”

        “No love is real, or true, or perfect. It’s just… Love.”

        “Is that supposed to be encouraging?”

        “It’s supposed to snap you out of this depressive episode. It’s degrading. Just by looking at you, I want to throw myself off this balcony.”

        Lyrem scoffed, managed a smirk and looked up.

        “You’re an asshole.”

        “The name’s Paimon,” the stranger grinned. “And you’re right, I am an asshole- but I’m also exactly what you need.”

        Lyrem shifted his head back. He wasn’t a man with a variety of tastes. He preferred wom-

        “A demon,” he finished.

        “Pffffft.” Lyrem opened his mouth. “You think I need you? A demon?”

        “You’re human, aren’t you?”

        “Obviously.”

        “Then we were always meant to be.” Paimon surmised. “Listen, I know you’re a man of many talents, gained the favours of many gods, and many powerful human souls- I’ve been tracking you for quite some time.”

        Lyrem rolled his eyes up at the ceiling where watermarks dotted around in various sizes.

        “Here’s my proposal- and if you don’t like it, then you are free to fling yourself off the balcony again and this time, I won’t stop you”-

        “I don’t consort with demons. I have a rule about that,” Lyrem said, beginning to sober up at the mention of something more work related.

        “’course, you do,” Paimon winked at him. “But what if I told you that I could find you your true love? What if I could promise you that? What if I told you that all you would need to do is sit beside her on this flight”- He pulled a plane ticket from the inside of his jacket pocket. “-from Beijing to Lisbon, tomorrow afternoon?”

        Lyrem stared suspiciously from the ticket and then back to Paimon’s unearthly aura. He didn’t notice it until now.

        “This is a trick,” Lyrem stated. He then turned it to a question. “What do I do for you in return?”

        Paimon’s eyes went wide, and he shook his head.

        “Nothing at all,” Paimon could see that Lyrem knew he was bullshitting. “Alright. Here’s what I require in return: your… friendship.”

        Lyrem reached out, pulled the ticket from the demon’s hand and stood. Studying it in the light, it was real. It was the very same company he had traveled with to get to China about a month back.

        “If I don’t give you the true love that you desire,” Paimon proposed. “Then I will leave you in peace and never return.”

        “Still sounds like a trick.”

        “Some deals are just too good to pass up,” Paimon chortled. “Trust me, I know.”

        Lyrem took a deep breath. Paimon wanted his friendship in return for giving him true love? He scratched his chin, stubbled and dry. If he refused, the demon might only return one day when he was even more desperate- and Lyrem couldn’t exactly guarantee he would say no then and Paimon would almost certainly raise his expectations for him.

        “You have a deal,” Lyrem settled with nothing to lose. “Friendship it is. Name’s Lyrem.”

        Paimon smiled, knowing that the money he had spent to bribe the translator was well worth it, and clasped the man’s hand tight.

        “Lyrem… You won’t regret this,” he grinned through shining eyes.

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

Labyrinth Cage, present day.

        Lyrem lifted his head off the back of the couch that had supported him this time through a most unpleasant journey down memory lane.

        “… He lied.”

        Many years had passed since he had first travelled to China- and since then he had been hired to return enough times that he had to learn some basic Cantonese for himself.

        The Oracle had told him how to find Maria- not that he would’ve had to try very hard. There was a job, just off the coast of Portugal that he had been asked to do, not long after he had arrived in Lisbon. He thought it to be a simple coincidence at the time and nothing more.  The people who hired him to get it done probably had his plane ticket waiting at the front desk. He was just too self-absorbed to check in with them about it, but it was more likely that Paimon had gotten to it first.

        But… he understood now. The demon who he called a friend, wasn’t a demon at all.

        It was Pan. And Pan was playing him. He had been playing him from the very start.

        If he had heard the Oracle correctly the first time, he would have known that his true love would be found. He wouldn’t have drunk himself half to death and he wouldn’t have dangled himself off the balcony of his room. And if all of that was true- then he wouldn’t have been desperate enough to consort with something like him, demon or not. Paimon-Pan- wanted him desperate. Wanted Lyrem to need him. He needed Lyrem to see him as his one and only salvation.

        There, for when Maria couldn’t be.

        “I need to speak to him.”

        A firm hand pushed him back down in his seat. It was invisible, but strong.

        “He’ll annihilate you like an ant, Lyrem. Believe me, I’ve seen it many times. You’re not the first human he’s trained this way.” Persephone cooed, softly.

        “Trained?!” Lyrem repeated emphatically, insulted. “No, no… I just need to talk to him. He’s…”

        “-your friend?”

        Lyrem paled, and then swallowed.

        “Yes! Yes, he is! And when I speak with him, then… I’m sure everything will be explained”-

        He cut himself off. There was no reason for him to make excuses for Paimon. He lied to him, and he knew exactly what he was doing all along.

        “Arch is with him now. You don’t think he would hurt, Arch, do you?”

        Hades’ face became painted in concern for Lyrem and his friend’s well-being. He didn’t want to answer the poor man. Persephone interjected.

        “He also has one of my brothers- Apollo is trapped in our realm. We have to save him from Pan. I have no idea what he’ll do to him,” Persephone turned to Hades in urgency, though, neither Hades nor Lyrem would have known it. “Uncle, this whole time we’ve assumed that it was Maria who had a connection with Pan and therefore Apollo. But how likely is it that Apollo used Arch to send his call?”

        Hades lifted his eyebrows in consideration.

        “If this Arch is important to Lyrem and has a connection to Pan, then it is quite likely Apollo would find a way to use them.”

        “What’s his call for? Why are you searching for it in me? In my head?” Lyrem asked. “If you can explain to me what to look for then I might already know what it is. I could show it to you!”

        “And that could be enough to help you find him and release him,” the sound of Persephone’s smile resounded through her words. “Once Apollo is released from his prison, he could open a door into the Labyrinth instantly and release us.

        His call, it would have been something musical. Something special to you. Arch would have been present for it.”

        “A song playing then? Or maybe an earworm?” Lyrem suggested.

        Hades shuddered. “Oh, I don’t want to know what that looks like- if it’s anything like Opus and its iridescent coloured slime”-

        “I don’t think I recall any earworms… Wait…” Lyrem had a sudden stroke of genius; something bizarre that he had remembered ever since he had met Arch several months ago. “’Everyone knows City and Colour’.” He repeated Arch’s words slowly back to himself.

        “Cities and colours?,” Persephone questioned, "What do they have to do with this?”

        “It doesn’t have anything to do with this. However,” Lyrem refuted. A small smirk curled itself alongside his face. “I do believe Segovia might…”

Paris Haute Couture Week S/S 2020 Plus a Little Jacquemus: Okay, Dior DID Suck (Part 2/2)

Hi to anyone reading,

First of all, thank you! I have never had a post do as well as the part 1 of my haute couture week review did and I am so overwhelmed with the positive feedback. This is probably funny to read for those of you getting thousands of reblogs on your posts, me acting like I won an academy award because I got a couple of hundred, but honestly I don’t expect any traction when I write on here (it’s basically just me word vomiting everything I’m thinking as if people want to hear it aka. mouthing off into what I thought was the void) so if you did read it, thank you! I do spend a long-ass time on these so it means a lot:-)

I’ll leave the self-indulgent ramble there though as it’s probably not what you came for and jump straight into part 2 of my thoughts, starting with Jacquemus. Yeah, I knew what I was doing when I tagged that in my last post. Simon Porte Jacquemus is the man of the *fashion* people right now; I’ve even found myself coming round to the Le Chiquito bag despite my original thought being “well, that’s fucking useless”. I know, I know, technically it’s not haute couture; it was part of Men’s Fashion Week, but it happened around the same time and everyone was talking about it on Twitter, so I feel like I have to include it.

In a way, it kind of reminds me of Bottega Veneta’s last RTW show, in that, especially with the women’s outfits, we seem to be sticking with simple, fitted garments and chunky, more statement jewellery. I’ve got to say I like the styling here a lot more though, and in general I’m a fan of this collection. The collared tops with cut outs underneath blazers are cool and I can’t wait until it gets warm enough for me to not feel dumb wearing my headscarfs like this; there’s a LOT of summer outfit inspiration. It’s not a mind-blowing collection or anything but it is effortlessly sexy and that’s something I wish I could say about myself. Most of us can only hope to look half as good as these models do whilst making the effort but at least Jacquemus is aspirational, lol. 

I also fucking adore this colour palette. I’m sick of neutrals literally just meaning brown and white; the navy, sand and muted khaki is a fresh edition to what is usually interpreted as the colours you’d seen worn by Disney’s Riverboat Cruise staff and only Disney’s Riverboat Cruise staff. And I mean, come on-what is more neutral than typical English school carpet blue.

Next for the whole reason I had to make this haute couture week review 2 separate posts: Jean Paul Gaultier’s final show.

In the best way possible, it’s a lot. I don’t even really know where to start, except to say that I guess this is a fitting last show; a celebration of everything campy, messy, weird, performative, and punk is the perfect send off for a brand whose best known perfume of the last few years is called Scandal. More than anything, the final show represented the range of characters and cultures that have influenced JPG throughout his half-a-decade-long career, the lines that supposedly separate what is “masculine” and “feminine”, “old” and “young” and ultimately art and fashion blurred in the most exaggerated way possible. Sure, there are some looks which are individually a bit messy here but the way they were grouped into almost chapter-like segments meant that when you see them all together, they work. Nods to the patterns and structures that recurred from season to season were sprinkled throughout, from sailor stripes to corsets to the expected whirlwinds of colour. I’ll even allow the wellies in that one outfit; if I can get over bucket hats in Peter fucking Pilotto’s last RTW show, I can get over some questionable shoes here. Middle aged fishermen and boys who liked to pose with monster carp in their Tinder pictures as some weird display of masculinity everywhere rejoice.

Now onto a show that I personally found slightly disappointing: Margiela.

I think this one is a bit TOO weird for me. Like if you’re gonna go avant-garde, go all out. Chiffon gimp masks (I don’t know if that’s the intention here but that’s what I’m getting, sorry Maison) are something I’m not particularly fond of and I’ve never been a fan of the Tabi boots in the first place, let alone when they’ve seemingly been blown up to Michelin man style proportions. I didn’t find the show to be a total lost cause-I enjoyed the colour palette and I’ve always liked that contrast stitching detail, plus the bowler hats are interesting-but on the whole considering how much I liked the last RTW show, this is a bit of a let down. 

The looks I included are salvageable but (I feel mean saying this) there were genuinely a lot of pieces that did just resemble bits of fabric draped over each over with no discernible rhyme or reason, so much so that they reminded me of some of the monstrosities I saw at a Drag Race pub quiz this one time where we had 5 mins to make some garms out of loo roll and then have a team member model them for points down a makeshift runway. 

Ralph and Russo was alright. There were a few pieces that I really liked but again, I can’t help but compare this collection to the last, where it felt like the fussy details of bows and sequins and feathers and the Barbie Dreamhouse palette were utilised with a direction in mind. Here, I don’t get that. As ever, the gowns are gorgeous and I’d pay good money just to try one on for five minutes but as an overall collection I’d say there was a lack of higher vision, which is probably the snobbiest sentence I’ve ever written so forgive me.

As for Ronald Van Der Kemp, I could’ve done without including it to be honest, if it weren’t for the few pieces I’m in love with: the velvet cape, fur trimmed jacket and blue satin dress are probably my favourite pieces here.

So onto a collection I liked a lot more: Schiaparelli. 

The influence of nature from flowers in bloom to insects to the organic structure of the human skeleton is as present as ever, though this collection includes a lot more delicate symbolism than usual. Honestly, the details make it for me; the brooches, earrings and facial jewellery are other-worldly touches to outfits that could otherwise be simple fashion magazine editor on-the-go. That’s not in itself a bad thing! The suits are gorgeous. I mean, I’m talking fashion editor in New York in a power suit yelling orders down the phone while she rushes along with a coffee. A Miranda Priestley in the making type woman. THAT’S a modern take on the divine feminine that Maria Grazia should’ve been going for; our goddesses aren’t women who sit around looking pretty (though that helps too) and place curses on mere mortals anymore, they’re women who get shit done. 

With regards to Valentino, which was also a delight, let me start by saying this colour palette is EVERYTHING. It’s ugly sisters in Cinderella fantastic, and we know those 2 were the real fashion icons really. Other than that, I adore the Old Hollywood silhouettes from the gloves to the Liz Taylor-in-Cleopatra-level-dramatic earrings. Everything is opulent and expensive-looking and pretty much what we’ve all come to expect from Valentino. A strong 8/10.

For me personally, Viktor and Rolf was a standout and one of my favourite collections of haute couture week. It’s not going to be everyone’s cup of tea and I know it’s at the complete opposite end of the spectrum to what was probably my other favourite collection, Elie Saab, but this is just my style down to a T, the perfect balance of grungy and cutesy that I want to achieve. 

There’s probably going to be a lot of objections to the temporary face tattoos and I get that, but I think they’re fucking sick. I obviously wouldn’t get a permanent one lest my mother murder me in cold blood however if I did, you bet I would be pairing them with frilly-ass babydoll dresses that you could pick up in Camden Market like this. 

And last but not least (that would be Dior), there’s Zuhair Murad.

Sigh.

IDK, man. Seeing Zuhair Murad dresses on Tumblr and WeHeartIt (remember that site? It still exists!) as a 14 year old was one of the things that got me into fashion, so it sucks that almost every time a new collection comes around, I feel underwhelmed. Disappointingly, the brand hasn’t really progressed all that much since 2013. It goes without saying that the stoning and the embroidery and sequins are stunning and would make anyone feel like a princess but from a critical point of view, I’m just not seeing anything new here. Whereas I feel like Elie Saab, for example, reflected the growing fascination with East Asian fashion and recognition of the supremacy of the region’s street style in his haute couture last collection, Zuhair Murad seems to be stuck designing the same dresses he was 6 years ago. 

To pick one example, the rounded stoned necklines are so outdated that they’ve been making their way onto department store prom dresses for years. I get that it’s supposed to be a reference to Ancient Egyptian style and I respect that, I was one of those 8 year old that was obsessed with mummies and the “Curse of Tutankhamun”, but couldn’t it be done in a more interesting way? It’s Maria Grazia’s spin on Ancient Greece all over again. Now I get how how the I imagine very niche subsection of people who are into fashion and Julius Caesar (okay, so I don’t even know if they still believed in mythology and all that malarky at that point in history but just roll with my comparison here) might’ve felt going through Vogue Runway. Anyway, I hate to end on a critical note and so be clear, these are still absolutely magnificent dresses. If we ignore those ugly round necklines, that is.

So that’s it for this post! If you read part 1 and 2, I hope you enjoyed it! As always, let me know your opinions and feel free to disagree. I’m literally just about to start trawling through all the A/W 2020 RTW collections though I imagine that’s gonna take me way longer to do than this, so I wouldn’t expect that for a month or two. In the meantime, I’m trying to fit shooting a Euphoria-inspired lookbook into my days off work which is looking atm like it’s going to be the end of March, so look out for that, and also a review of the red carpet fashion from this season’s award shows. 

As ever, thank you so much for reading and again, thank you for the reception on part 1 if you were one of the people that read it. It makes staying up til 3am with the jitters seem worthwhile, lol! 

Lauren x

A/N: Here’s to the first Halloween Imagine this year! I can’t believe September is almost over already. Request from @amaru163​, @primestefericirea and anon. Enjoy, everyone! ♥

Words: 2262 Warnings: brief mentions of attempted rape

Moaning, you shut off the TV and then threw the remote on the empty spot on the sofa next to you. Hocus Pocus was a classic Halloween movie and perfect for cuddling up with pumpkin spice tea and Halloween candy… but at the end of the day, the boy got the girl and they kissed and lived happily ever after.

It wasn’t even Christmas yet—you forbad yourself to sulk away and cry over being so lonely; and going out on Halloween, dressed in an uncomfortable costume, wasn’t really your thing either, even if your friends had insisted you came along to meet someone. Since the incident with your spiked drink and the two American men who had tried to rape you in the backyard before your friend found you and stepped in, you hardly felt like partying out in public anymore.

You’d rather spend the day giving out candy to costumed children and then curl up in bed with a good book, wishing you would not have to spend the spooky day alone. With a sigh you closed your eyes, the clock striking midnight. 31st of October… well… Happy Halloween to me.

It was time to go to bed anyway.

-

The next morning started unspectacular, even though it was a perfect October day. Fog crept through the streets, the cold autumn air uniting with a grey sky. The wind was chilly—you were glad to be too old to go trick or treating. You would have been freezing today, especially in the witch costume you used to wear.

Humming to yourself, you poured yourself a cup of coffee and then prepared a bowl of treats which you placed next to the door. You had a few more hours until the first children would excitedly ring your doorbell and until then, decorating a bit surely wouldn’t do any harm. You always left your Halloween decorations up until mid-November anyway.

It was then somebody knocked on your door, making you frown. It was way too early for trick or treaters. You suspected it to be the postman but even he usually did not stop by before twelve—one of the disadvantages living in a small and secluded house in the suburbs. But that also meant that visitors were a rarity. Only the children knew that they’d collect a lot of candy here.

You heard the knocking again, this time more urgently, ferociously even. Almost as if somebody was sliding down your door after being beaten up…

Quickly, you threw on your bathrobe and hurried to the door, eyes darting around to find a suitable weapon—just in case. The metal shoehorn would have to suffice; but what you saw when you opened the door made you gasp.

There was a man, panting and barely conscious. A tall man with long black hair and the most beautiful face you had ever seen, cowering on the ground like a parched traveller in the desert. Your eyes met—his of a stunning blue—then, they flattered close.

Your first instinct was it to call an ambulance, the police, anybody. But something held you back. This just didn’t make any sense. Where did he come from? The passed out man before you had, apart from a few minor cuts on his face, no visible injuries and he did not look drugged either. Just very tired and exhausted, like he had just returned from a war and now the weight of what he had seen and done was taking its toll both on his body and mind. It could be a trick, too. A burglar using his acting skills and then overwhelming you once you dragged him inside, practically inviting him to rob you.

Still… you couldn’t just leave him out here to die. It was cold… and it was Halloween. Perhaps your wish had been heard and you wouldn’t have to be alone after all. If the stranger woke up, that was.

 -

He was heavier than he looked. You had barely heaved him on your sofa when he opened his eyes again, seemingly appreciating the soft surface you were attempting to steer him onto. As soon as his body hit the fabric, he fell asleep again.

For a moment, you simply stared down at him, blinking. None of your friends would believe you if you told them what was happening here right now. What if he was severely sick? Should you call an ambulance after all?

Biting your lower lip, you decided against it and instead hurried to the bathroom to empty your medicine cabinet, returning with some gauze and antiseptic.

You longed to find out his name, who he was. But for now, you would tend to the wounds on his face. There was a cut on his forehead that, by the looks of it, didn’t need stitching, another one on his left cheek. He had a split lip, too.

He looked so peaceful and innocent. Like a boy who had been forced to grow up too soon and at the same time… like a dominant man who took what he wanted no matter the cost. Like a man who would hide his true feelings and protect his heart because it had been broken one time too often. You couldn’t deny he looked familiar too. And those clothes… so old-fashioned and… otherworldly. He was wearing green and black leather armour combined with golden accents and plates. Probably just a Halloween costume.

The stranger took another hour to come about again. Time which you made use of by finally getting changed into proper clothes. You had just sat back down on the sofa with him, watching him intently and checking if his wounds had started to bleed again when his eyes fluttered open and your gazes met.

His widened, as if something occurred to him. Sitting up so fast his vision must have gone black for a moment, he grunted when a stinging pain cursed through his head. He hated to admit that his unexpected fall from the Bifrost had drained him completely and now, being far away from a realm sizzling with magic, his energy would take a lot longer to replenish. He was tired, hungry and worn out. Well… he shouldn’t be surprised. Coming to Midgard had never been a joyful experience before.

Your house had been the only one in sight and he needed a safe place to recover. He would positively kill Thor once he found a way back to Asgard. It wasn’t the first time he had been banished to Midgard, after all.

The mortal was staring at him like he was alien. He was, technically. But Loki was certainly not in the mood for explanations. He had to admit you were rather beautiful though—for a human that was.

“Who are you?” You heard yourself whisper.

The stranger sighed. “I am Loki, of Asgard. You may have heard of me.”

Then it dawned on you. Loki. Asgard. Of course you had heard of him—and of the incident in New York. You had taken in a known criminal and treated his wounds. Your heart started beating rapidly at the realisation.

When you said nothing, he spoke up. “And who might you be?”

“I… (Y/N). My name is (Y/N).”

“(Y/N),” he nodded. A pleasant shiver went through you when he spoke your name with his smooth and velvety voice. “It looks just like I will be keeping you company for a while.”

Standing, he took in his surroundings. “It will suffice.”

“Excuse me? You can’t just make yourself comfortable here. I didn’t invite you!”

“Technically, you did when you helped me inside your home and took care of my wounds. I heal faster than mortals.” He said it like it had been an unnecessary and pointless action.

“I was just trying to help.” You glared at him, unable to believe what you were hearing.

“Thank you very much for your hospitality,” he replied dramatically, slightly rolling his eyes in the process. “Where are your kitchens?”

“Kitchens? I only have one.” He waved it off. “Straight ahead, you can’t miss it.” You followed him when he turned on his heel and began to search your kitchen like a cat hoping to steal a piece of meat or a slice of ham and soon, unceremoniously, practically ripped open your fridge. There were leftovers from yesterday’s dinner as well as some yogurt and carrots. You had planned on going shopping today. Loki grunted at the pitiful selection and took it all without asking. Then, he slammed the fridge shut again, grabbing the bag of bread rolls on the counter too.

“Of course, help yourself.” You murmured contritely. When he only rolled his eyes in response and barely managed to find some cutlery to dig in still standing, you threw your arms up, desperate for someone, anyone to explain this bizarre situation to you.

“What on Earth happened? Why were you knocking on my door like somebody tried to murder you? How did you even get here?”

Loki swallowed a big bite. He glanced at you in such a menacing manner, you took a step back. Perhaps you should have called the police, after all.

“Do you have hot chocolate? And coffee?” He suddenly asked. You blinked.

“I… yes. I mean, no.” Loki raised an eyebrow at you. “I mean, yes I do but not for you. Answer my questions, Loki.”

Loki dropped the cutlery onto the counter with such force the ear-piercing sound made you flinch.

“I was banished, if you must know. Thor had me leave Asgard because he no longer trusts me… and the people urged him on too…” He trailed off. “I refused. Believe me, my unfortunate fall and inelegant landing on Midgard was not planned.”

“Thor? Out of all places, why would he send you to Earth? You tried to subjugate us!”

Loki’s blue eyes locked with yours yet again, thousands of unspoken words reflecting in them. There was a story behind it—a story which he was not quite willing to tell you.

“Sorry… I just meant…”

“Midgard was not the final destination.” He interrupted you sharply—but not before smirking weakly but mischievously. “This place is void of magic. I will need some time to recover in peace. I assume you have chambers for me to rest in?”

“I don’t have chambers, I have bedrooms. And there is a guest room upstairs.” There was no point in kicking him out. Surely, Loki would simply take what he wanted if you denied him. At least this way, he was asking nicely… more or less; and besides, you had hoped for a miracle to happen so you wouldn’t be alone on Halloween.

He wasn’t so bad… apart from being outrageously handsome, he was by far as charming as arrogant when he smirked at you like that. And for some reason… you doubted he would seriously threaten or harm you.

You almost giggled at trying to explain trick or treating to him.

“Now, what about that hot chocolate?”

“Oh, fine then.”

-

After slurping down the cocoa you made him and eating up almost all of the food you had had left in your house, Loki retreated to your guest room and did not return until noon. You were quite surprised he only needed a few hours of sleep for some fresh energy, which is why he completely caught you off guard when he suddenly appeared behind you in the living room, watching you with his head tilted how you balanced on a chair to hang up some spooky pumpkin lights.

“I am dreading to ask but what are you doing?”

You screeched, almost falling off the chair as you turned around to face him. “Couldn’t you clear your throat or something? And now don’t tell me you don’t know what Halloween is…”

Loki frowned in response, waiting for you to speak on.

“It’s today. People dress up in costumes and celebrate and children go from house to house to ask for candy to scare away ghosts and evil spirits. I’m decorating. Jack-o-Lanterns are the most common item you’ll find around houses on this day. Don’t you celebrate Halloween on Asgard?”

He shook his head. “What we celebrate towards the end of autumn is Álfablót, to worship our ancestors and honour the life force of a family. It does not involve carved pumpkins though.”

“Must be weird for you…” You muttered sarcastically, attempting to stick a piece of tape around your curtain rail.

“It is by far not the strangest thing I have seen mortals do during all the times I visited Midgard.”

“The first children will be here soon, I need to have decorated until then. You could help me instead of standing around. Consider it paying your rent.”

Loki smirked, making your heart jump; almost as if he meant to say challenge accepted. With but a wave of his hand, the pumpkin lights stuck to the curtain rail on its own.

“Huh.”

But it didn’t end there. You let out a scream when you suddenly felt the orange and black tinsel from your Halloween decorations box slowly creeping up and curling around your leg like a snake.

“Loki!”

This time, the God of Mischief actually chuckled. He dropped the spell when you threatened to lose your balance and fall off the chair yet again. When you turned back around, he was leaning against the threshold with his arms crossed in an amused manner.

He certainly was going to have his fun while he was here. You were quite adorable, after all.

-

A/N: Check out my blog to find more Imagines and take a glimpse at my first novel! Also, if you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate so much if you supported me on Kofi! ko-fi.com/sserpente ♥

The Offer: PART ONE

Title: The Offer: PART ONE Word Count: 4k+ Rating: M - mature themes Genre: ♠︎ drama/angst Warnings: violence; mentions of attempted assault; harsh language; mentions of addiction (alcoholism) Pairings: Jungkook x reader; CEO!Jungkook Summary: “Jungkook stands suddenly, crossing the space between you. As he approaches you notice the tailor-made fit of his all black suit. Jungkook stood, towering over you, with only a breadth of space between you. “But let me make one thing very clear,” the bite in his voice returning, "I don't care who you were to him. Understand this, you are nothing to me. For the sake of my father, albeit, I owe the man nothing, I will stomach his wishes until your contract is up but stay out of my way Ms. y/l/n," Jungkook’s eyes immediately grow detached and cold, glaring back into yours, "I won't tell you twice,” Written by: Chubs☽ Author’s Note: ahhhhh! I can’t believe we’re actually uploading part 1! Messages and comments from those who read the prologue have been so amazing and so sweet! 😭💜 I don’t think I actually expected anyone would want us to keep going but I’m so excited to post this all the same. Please enjoy it and hopefully look forward to more parts in the future. Again, sorry in advance for any spelling and/or grammatical mistakes. It has been a while since I’ve written anything this long 😅 ***Reminder: as stated before in the prologue, the content of this fic will contain many mature themes from here on out and is therefore rated M for mature and not suitable for children or teens under the age of 16 but to be honest, I’d say, under the age of 18. Please be advised. Thank you! ~~~~~

Flashback. "You're finished? I-I'm sorry but I don't think I understand what you mean," your counselor was a perpetually nervous and fidgety woman. Her office cluttered and stuffy. It seemed that it hadn't been dusted in all the time she'd occupied it. You hated having to come here and sit in misery, choking on the chalky air only long enough for her to finish your monthly meetings. But despite being clumsy and one of the most angular women you'd ever seen, she was surely also one of the kindest. She pushed her thick framed glasses up the bridge of her nose before taking a sip of her steaming hot tea. "Yow! Too hot. Too hot," sticking her tongue out, she set her tea cup down on the desk before her, covered in papers. You stifled a laugh at her antics. You would miss them. Her long and slender fingers reached out to adjust a stack of forms before folding her hands into her lap. She looked up meeting your eyes and spoke, firmer this time. "y/n, I know that this year has been rough with what's going on at home…" she cleared her throat, "…with your father. However, as your counselor I must advise against you withdrawing," she stood from her seat, coming and taking up the spot next to you. You could tell how uncomfortable she was with the now close proximity. The awkwardness practically oozed from her body but nonetheless she attempted to console you, hovering an unsure hand first over your shoulder and then over your back before lying it there gently and patting. "You're an extraordinary student y/n. Young! Just 23! Bright and determined," her sigh was heavy, "You're top of your class. One of the best we have. I would hate to see certain circumstances keep you from realizing your full potential," her eyes were pleading. You nodded in response but knew that your mind was made up. As 'bright' and 'determined' as you were, family came first and there was simply no way you would be able to sustain yourself, a student, and your father, a professional alcoholic and piss-poor gambler with no money. You needed to work and without school in your way, you would have room to take on more. You could see it in your counselor's face when she looked at you; the disappointment she felt in your 'circumstances'. It wasn't a secret who your father was, nor was the insurmountable debt that he'd accumulated over the years after your mother's passing. Debt that now sat on your shoulders. You had given up relying on your father to pay it off and the threats were only getting more and more brazen with your father's debt collecting interest by the day. "I wish I could continue," you finally respond, "But at this point, I don't really have much of a choice," you don't give your counselor the opportunity to protest, rising quickly to your feet and pulling the strap of your bag over your shoulder. "Thank you Ms. Choe, for everything," and with that you were out the door. You hadn't cried in what felt like years. After your mother passed it was usually your father prone to bouts of depression. He tried to make sure you never saw his tears but you always did. On the other hand you didn't have the time for tears; there was always too much to be done. Another thing you had learned early on was that, despite the sweetness of your father and despite how badly you wanted to blame him for the difficulties you faced so frequently, you couldn't. Your father was a broken man and there was nothing you could do with a broken man. Instead, you took on the responsibilities he forfeited without questions. You hadn't cried in a long while but on the bus ride home you couldn't hold it in. You felt your future and the hard work you'd dedicated to studying to make a better life for you and for your father slipping from your fingers the further you got from your counselor's office. ----- Stepping into the door of your home, you noticed your father's shoes, splayed in the entryway. It'd been days since you'd seen or heard from him but seeing his shoes there in front of you at least now you knew he wasn't dead. Not that you ever really feared it. Your father seemed to be the most resilient drunk there ever was and for it, you were grateful. You eased into your small living area to find him, collapsed face first on the couch. His clothes were half hanging off of him, half scattered about the room. Trying to be as quiet as you could, you bent down and gathered the loose articles in your arms, placing them in a hamper off to the side of the room. Your eyes darted to the clock and you knew you didn't have much time before work, so you got started on dinner. The smell of the army stew you'd made waft passed your nose as you turned off the flame; not long after, hearing the stirring of your father from the couch. He lurched himself upward and into a sitting position, rubbing over his heavy eyes and pushing back the hair from his face. He patted his belly once, and standing with a long yawn and stretch made his way to the small makeshift dinner table you'd fashioned from an old lopsided card table you'd found. After your father had sold the one your parent's received as a wedding present for drinking money. He plopped down in front of it and you placed a full bowl of stew and a smaller bowl of rice in front of him. He grunted, clearing his throat and took a long hardy sip of the stew. "Yaaa~~" he mused, taking another long slurp and digging a hungry spoon into his bowl of rice. "What are you up to tonight?" he asked, voice still gruff from sleep. "Work," you responded, turning on the faucet and beginning to clean the dinner dishes. "How was school today?" "I dropped out," your response was quick and casual. Nothing in your inflection relaying your disappointment. There was silence for a moment but you could feel your father's eyes on your back as you bent over the sink to scrub out the pot you'd cooked the stew in. He was speechless. He didn't know what to say and to be honest, what could he have said? Feeling his eyes finally fall away from your frame sent a rush of relief over you. He finished the rest of his meal in silence. You rinsed your final plate and placed it off to the side, before drying your hands. You walked over to the couch where you'd dropped your bag and grabbed it up, heading for the door. "y/n…" he started, "I know this seems like a setback but if there's anything I know, it's that setbacks are usually just setups for something greater," You felt your stomach drop at his words. A sudden thrust of anger rising from your belly to your cheeks in seconds. You were almost lightheaded with irritation. Your skin prickled and you felt your whole body freeze. You wanted to turn on your heels and scream at him; scream and holler until he truly understood what his irresponsibility just took away from you -- but you refrained. "I know dad. We'll get by," you turned to him over your shoulder and offered him a weak smile. "There's army stew in the fridge, enough to last you for a few days. I won't be back tonight. After work, I have to see about another job. I'll be back tomorrow evening. Don't wait up for me," a look back at your father's expression has you crossing the room and placing a kiss on his cheek. "Try and take care of yourself while I'm gone, yeah?" ---- Present. You sat, staring at the summons in your hands. It was from no judge, nor any court of law but from the newly appointed CEO of Inspirit. Of course you knew that someone had to take over the company in Mr. Jeon's stead and of course you figured that it would be his son but seeing it here on paper had your mind darting back to the look of disdain he'd given you only days ago at his father's funeral. You weren't shocked but your chest did tighten at the notion. You'd spent the better part of the last 14 years in the service of Mr. Jeon as his chief secretary. A service that was laudable and in which you worked hard to prove yourself capable and loyal, only now to be summoned like a dog and no doubt - in his mind - a sheep soon to be slaughtered. Thankfully, the meeting wasn’t for a few days. Thankfully you had time to prepare yourself for what you knew was coming. You hadn't left your apartment since the funeral and now there was really no rush to do so. You walk over, and step out onto your balcony. The sky is getting darker, losing its last rays of light to the swarthy lull of a nighttime sky. The wind is cool and you have half a mind to grab a blanket and stay out here all night. The hustle and bustle of the city streets below you always seemed to have a calming effect on your nerves. From your balcony you could watch people moving about, rushing from one place to the next and something about watching people live their lives always seemed to keep the fire in you going.   Your mind drifted back to your summons. In all honesty, you couldn't bring yourself to blame Jungkook for his hatred of you. He was justified in his feelings and you wouldn't pretend otherwise. You were no victim. Every choice you made, since the beginning had been a conscious one and you knew, that for the sake of Mr. Jeon, for the sake of his legacy and for the sake of the life you had been blessed with, you had no choice but to stand right where you were. There was no pity left in you for yourself and certainly no shame. But…. You thought back to Mrs. Jeon's face again. The same expression that had plagued you since the day of the funeral when you first saw it. Her eyes, hollow and swollen from tears haunted your dreams every night; Jungkook's face, his pain. Mr. Jeon, for the amazing man that he was, did he not consider his family? Did he not consider the grief he left them to bear? Unanswered questions and half-truths swirled around the Jeon family and now, there seemed there might not be any end to it in sight, no closure. You didn't know much of Jungkook but he seemed kind. The sort of kindness that is usually snuffed out by life and circumstances. Even in his derision he was kind. Much like his father…. ----- Flashback. "Do you know where you are child?" the sound of a voice faded into focus. Your head was ringing and your jaw, tight. It felt like your whole body had been hit by a truck; soreness in your legs, gut and chest. It wasn't for several moments you realized that in fact, you didn't know where you were. It was slightly dark with only bits of light to illuminate your surroundings but it seemed the light was always moving. There one moment, gone the next and then back again. Streetlights. You were in a moving vehicle, passing by streetlights as it sped along. Fear gripped you as the memory of what happened flooded back to you. You were surrounded by several men and despite knowing well how to defend yourself it still seemed a slim possibility you'd be making it out of the scuffle without a scratch. Most of the men, you'd never seen before in your life but the one you did recognize, you recognized immediately. Your father was in a great amount of debt, meaning that he'd borrowed money and also meaning that he owed someone else that money back. The man's face was gnarled at the side and he walked around with a permanent scowl. He'd come to collect but you were short which the man was apparently not too keen to hear. You remembered the first blow. Rocking your head to the side and then back in a harsh rebound motion, drawing blood from your cheek and filling your mouth almost instantly. The copper taste, bitter and metallic. You turned your head to spit, your lip busted and tender to the touch of your tongue. You were snatched up by the collar and the man held you at eye level. Your hair swayed into you face, slightly covering your eyes and sticking to the dribble of blood running down your chin. "Your old man must think this is a game," "And we all know how good he is at those," you commented sarcastically. "You tell him, I will have what he owes me," You chuckled in response, "I don't know what you plan on squeezing out of us. If we have nothing you get nothing," The fury on his face at your nonchalance had you biting back another chuckle. But soon his eyes grew dark and in the stead of anger, a wicked grin. "You know, there are other ways to make money to pay off your old man's debt," he smiled, his breath reeking of alcohol. "Why not let each of us have a go at you and we'll take a little off what your father owes," Your eyes narrow, "What? Can't get a good fuck on your own?" The second blow is a blur but you remembered the sting in your gut, and the weight over your body being pressed to the cold concrete. "We'll see if this bitch has such a smart mouth when we're finished with her," You shot up and felt all the blood rush to your head. You're surroundings were quiet but you clung onto your body, feeling around in the dark for your clothing. Although your shirt had been half torn from your body, you were still, for the most part fully dressed. You press the base of your hand to your forehead. "Easy little one," you heard a rich voice soothe. You whirl around to find yourself in the company of a man. A man you'd never seen before. Looking around in bewilderment you notice that you were right, you were in a car. You scramble to the other side of the backseat, guarding yourself. "Who are you?!" your voice almost a shout. "I know you must be frightened," the man offered, "I saw the altercation between you and those gentleman and thought it best I intervene before it could go any further," Any further. At his words you buckle a little in relief but you immediately shoot back up, spine straight as a board. You look up into the face of the man. His eyes are soft and reassuring and you notice how he keeps his distance from you as well. Easing as far to his side of the space as he can manage as not to alarm you. The man's hair is mostly dark with a streak of silver that catches in the light of passing street lamps. He wears glasses and is in a suit with no dress jacket, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "I only wanted to get you out of harm's way which is why you've woken up here in my car but now that you're awake, I can take you home or anywhere you'd like for me to take you. The hospital maybe," he raised his hand and you immediately shrink back, eyes narrowing in caution. But instead of breach the space between you he simply gestures to the gash on your lip, "you have quite a cut there," "Or I can stop the car right here and let you out," he offers. "You can go about your way and I can go about mine. I am certainly not keeping you here," Your eyes are glued to his every motion. "Stop the car" you manage despite the tightness in your jaw. The man looks toward the driver, "you heard the young lady. Stop the car," The car comes to a complete stop and you immediately reach for the handle, pushing your way out with haste. The second you're out of the car you make your way down the sidewalk and the car wastes no time making its way down the road. You watch it getting further and further away before, suddenly your legs give out beneath you and everything goes black. When you wake up, the first thing you notice is the sound of gentle instrumentals playing around you and the softness of the surface you’re laid on. Instead of shooting up, you eased yourself up instead. Taking caution not to make any noise. "You're awake," the chime of a familiar, rich voice startles you and you look over to see the same man, walking toward with a tray in his hands. "Do you remember what happened?" he asks, setting the tray down in front of you and taking a seat on the coffee table opposite you. You shake your head, no. "Did I pass out?" you ask. He nods, turning and dipping a cloth into a bowl of water, ringing it and handing it to you. "For your lip," he motioned. You take the cloth from him wearily and press it to the cut, flinching back at the sting. Your eyes dart around the room. You weren't in a house but in what seemed to be an office if the large desk, floor to ceiling windows and large bookcases were any indication and you were sitting on a couch off to the side of the room. "I know you're probably weary of me, and as you should be for the night you've had," you eyed the man. "I saw you collapse before my driver could turn the corner. I couldn't leave you out on the street so I brought you here to my office, until you came to,” You nod. “How long have I been out?” You ask, your head ringing. “Not quite an hour,” “I know we don’t know each other but since I saved your life twice in a single evening, I have a few questions for you,” In the warm glow of the office lamp light you could see, in better detail the features of the man. He looked up at you with a gentle, unassuming smile. The reassurance of his voice matched that of his eyes tenfold and you found yourself unwittingly, slipping into an ease. If he wanted to hurt you he could. But something told you, that wasn’t his intention.

“What kind of questions?” You asked, pressing the cloth to your lip again. The sting less intense the second time around.

“Well for starters, who were those men?” He stood, walking over to his desk and grabbing a small box from it. “Men, I owe a lot of money,” you mused, watching him make his way back over to you. He eyed you warily. There was a brief glint of shock, only to be replaced by a seeming curiosity. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe you but something told him your truths weren’t full truths.

“How much do you owe them?”

“More than a student, working 3 part time jobs could possibly pay in this lifetime,”

“So, you’re a student?”

“I was,” your eyes fall to your lap, “like I said, I owe a lot of money. I don’t need school right now, I need more work,”

The man came to sit before you again, setting the small box in his lap and removing from it ointment and a bandaid, “Let me see that lip,” Still cautious you lean forward only enough to just barely be within his reach, forcing the man to ease forward and close the space.

He brought a gentle hand up to your lip to pat ointment over the gash. You wince a little and he pauses, waiting for a silent cue for him to continue. As he leaned into your face you noticed, for the first time, how handsome the man was. Not only in his demeanor but in the innocence of his large brown eyes, the sharpness of his jaw and slight pout of his lips. “The cut’s pretty deep and in an awkward position. I’m afraid this band aid would prove to be more annoying than anything,” he leans away, running a hand through the back of his hair.

“But the ointment should keep it protected while it closes,” You nod.

“So, Ms.---“ You lock eyes with the man, refusing to respond. At your silence he chuckles, “Fair enough,”

“Ms. Stranger, how did you come to owe so much money and to characters like those?"

You laugh, bitterly, “Let’s just say I had a little help,” you respond in a low voice, to yourself. You could feel the man’s eyes scanning over your face, picking it apart.

“You say you need work?” He says, closing up the box on his lap and setting it off to the side, on the coffee table. “I just so happen to need an employee,”

Your eyes shoot up to meet his, “What kind of work are we talking about here?”

“You can call me Mr. Jeon,” he offers with a smile, “And I’m the CEO of Inspirit,” Your eyes shoot open. Inspirit was the largest steel corporation in Seoul.

“I’m sorry Mr. Jeon but I don’t think I can help you,” “How do you know? I haven’t even made my offer yet,” His smile was truly mesmerizing; warm with a hint of something, you couldn’t quite place.

“Here’s my proposition Ms. Stranger,” he adjusted, leaning back onto his palms. “You will come work for my as my personal secretary. What you earn here working for me will help you absolve the debt you’ve accumulated and in return you will finish school and pledge yourself in service to me for as long as I live,”

You can’t help but laugh out at his bluntness, “As long as you live?” “Don’t worry,” he chuckles, “I plan to live a very long life,”

----

Present. Standing outside of Mr. Jeon’s office felt strange somehow. Everything was the same but nothing was. Mr. Jeon was gone and in his wake there was nothing tying you to this building but your memories.

“Mr. Jeon is expecting you,” You took a deep breath and ran your hands down the front of your pencil skirt to flatten any wrinkles before taking another step forward. You pulled the handle to the large dark wood doors, the same as you’d done so many times. You stepped into his office, the same way you’d been doing for the last 14 years but instead of Mr. Jeon, sitting, nose deep in papers and books piled high on a desk he could never seem to keep organized was Jungkook. And with him a bite to the air that seemed to rip away all former memories of this place. As you stepped into the room, he stood.

Jungkook was much like his father only admittedly a different kind of handsome. He was tall and broad. His waist, cinched by the tuck of his shirt and his belt. He walked with an ease and grace so natural it was unfair. His dark brown hair parted to reveal his forehead, brows and…the same big, brown doe eyes of his father before him. As you approached his desk, you bowed.

“Ms. y/l/n,” Although his words weren’t overtly terse, the tension as he spoke your name was still present.

“Mr. Jeon,”

“I’m sure you know of the terms of your employment,”

You nod, “I do sir. Very well,”

“It wasn’t made apparent to me, until recently, these terms,”

You nod.

“It has come to my attention that my father,” Jungkook faltered at the word, “Seemed to be rather fond of you,” You don’t know how to respond to his remark. Rumors had circled about the nature of you and Mr. Jeon’s relationship for years. You knew what Jungkook meant by “fond”. It was meant in the same way most meant it. He might as well have called you his father’s mistress outright.

“And I of him, Mr. Jeon,” His eyes shot to meet yours. You watched his jaw tighten but he continued.

“In his fondness, he has made it nearly impossible to remove you from your position as chief secretary at Inspirit until your contract period is up,” You nod, knowing full well the wishes of the late Mr. Jeon. “Of which I still have one year, Mr. Jeon,”

“I am well aware, Ms. y/l/n,” he bites back matter-of-factly, “I refuse to put my mother through the stress of taking this matter to court,” Jungkook walks around his desk, setting himself at its edge, “She’s been through enough,”

You nod and Jungkook stands suddenly, crossing the space between you. As he approaches you notice the tailor-made fit of his all black suit. Jungkook stood, towering over you, with only a breadth of space between you.

“But let me make one thing very clear,” the bite in his voice returning, "I don't care who you were to him. Understand this, you are nothing to me. For the sake of my father, albeit, I owe the man nothing, I will stomach his wishes until your contract is up but stay out of my way Ms. y/l/n,"

Jungkook’s eyes immediately grow detached and cold, glaring back into yours. "I won't tell you twice,"

---

I want a vibe

this tab has been open on my computer for so long... last edit was Nov. 1... I planned on proofreading or even just rereading before uploading but... idk, these are my thoughts.  I don’t need to censor, refine, edit myself.  these are my thoughts and a part of who I am– or at least discovering who I could be... it’s now Nov. 17, 2020.  clearly I’ve dwelled on this topic for a while, but only with it hanging like an apparition in the back of my mind.

Something about writing directly on tumblr makes me feel so… wow, she’s a writer and can’t put the feeling into words.  I feel like there’s more purpose and intent to it.  I don’t quite feel more professional, but I…

I know there’s this thing called synesthesia.  Here is Wikipedia’s definition: perceptual phenomenon in which stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway leads to involuntary experiences in a second sensory or cognitive pathway.  I used to want it.  It’s a cool idea, to have so many things invading your senses.  But not invading, just… popping in to say hi!

Cognitive.  Maybe.  I associate certain things with very specific mental images.  Typing directly into tumblr has me feeling like I’ve got wide-rimmed, bookish glasses resting on my nose.  The middle’s broken, but’s been poorly stuck together with a piece of old tape, the edges sticky with fuzz.  My hair’s in a messy bun and in the afternoon sun it’s glowing a light chestnut, hues of red streaking through.  I’m in a big sweater and there’s a cup of peppermint tea beside.  It’s hot.  I only drink cold tea because my tongue is very sensitive.

But I’m writing in google docs right now because I’m in class.  And I don’t quite want the people behind to see I’m on tumblr.  Not that I’m embarrassed, but I’m not proud either.  It exists, and it’s mine and I don’t need anyone else’s thoughts on it because it’s not for anyone else.  Just for me.

I want a vibe.  I’ve been getting into Corpse Husband’s stuff recently– but not his original scary content.  I’m too much of a chicken for that.  And even in seventh grade I started listening to panic! and fall out boy more often.  Twenty one pilots too.  Eighth grade was when MCR joined the mix.  And even when I was little, I wanted to be called “it” because I didn’t like the stereotypes associated with being a girl, but I didn’t want to be a gross boy.

I always pictured myself as some sort of hardened youth.  She wears flannel, swears a bit too much, hard exterior but a good friend, kind of detached.  And no, I don’t swear, and I only own one piece of flannel.  I am sort of detached, but more so hyper, silly, tangential…  occasionally detached.  So when the default me that people see is a bubbly and fun girl, I feel almost mean pulling out the side of myself that I feel a bit more comfortable in.  The cheerful me is not a fake version, I am completely and fully a child at heart, and I love to have fun.  But, I’m also mean and I like to tease people.  I’m somewhat physical, but I never hit any of my female friends and when I moved at the end of sixth grade, suddenly I didn’t have many male friends.  Now, when the urge comes to punch someone– however teasingly– I can’t.  Because then my female friends’ feelings will be hurt.

My current fashion sense is comfortable.  It’s not trying at all.  It’s jean shorts and a top.  Loose jeans and a top (but I live near the equator, so I only wear jeans on rainy days in this year-round-summer climate).

Anyway.  Corpse.  I found myself wanting black nail polish.

It’s Saturday now, the next day.  I’m not in class.  I’m still writing on this doc.

Anyway.  Corpse.  Black nail polish.  But I don’t want to get into that, because using nail polish implies I put effort into my appearance, I cared about what color my nails would be for some aesthetic appeal.  I want to wear combat boots because I’ve always thought that the laced up shoes, clunky and powerful, looked… cool.  I want to be cool– my version of cool.  But then combat boots would look nice with fishnet-clad legs leading into them.  And then some type of corset, some chokers, dark eyeliner, and suddenly, yes, mom, it is a phase.

But I also want baggy jeans and tight tees for the simplest way to be comfortable and to flatter my figure.  I like wearing skirts, because they’re typically more high waisted, and the area of my torso that cinches in is much higher above my waist.  But I manspread a lot and am never careful when sitting or jumping.  I want to emphasize how fun and kind I am.  I want silly earrings and bright tees with motivational quotes on them, and either mom jeans or a cute skirt, or maybe high waisted shorts.  A faded light blue.

I want what I wear to have some meaning and to reflect my personality, but I can’t even figure out what that is.  I know people say you can be a ‘baddie’ and a soft girl, dress how you are and show off the multitudes of your identity, but it’s strange to me.  To think one day I might go out with a ponytail, sweatpants, and a black tank, and the next, I’m going out wearing ripped lace up boots, black jeans, and heavy makeup (though I don’t wear makeup and I don’t intend to).

This isn’t very poetic, nor is it doing the best job explaining my feelings, but I don’t know how I feel.  I also just don’t want to invest much time into altering my appearance.

Hi I’m back!  It’s the next day.  Clearly a lot of thought is being put into this.  Not this the writing, but this the concept.  Idea.  A lot of people will comment– on youtube, instagram, twitter– things like “Corpse’s vibe: (followed by dark emojis, chains, wilting roses) Corpse’s personality: (insert cute flowers, blushes, pink hearts)”.  And it got me thinking.  If this whole identity crisis and vibe dilemma was spurred on by Corpse (it’d taken deep root in my mind previously, but I just sort of ignored it due to the amount of effort it would take to deal with it), then why not… be like Corpse?  I can keep my personality and just… express the other parts of myself in other ways.

Yes.  But then the issue would be buying corsets and explaining them to my mom.  Or asking my mom to buy them.  And then having my mom see me in them.  And then wear them outside.  Oh my gosh.  What about my dad?

A somewhat joking end to this, but… I don’t know.  I think I’d feel confident in stompy boots and black lace up dresses (not lace itself, I don’t like how itchy it is), but I’d also feel… not like myself.  And I’m motivated enough to go ahead and make that myself, so.  For now.  Maybe when I go to college, I’ll collect a diverse wardrobe.  Dress up at home.  And then occasionally go out once I’m thinking less about what I wear and more about how what I wear makes me feel.