#and I don’t really need the art money anyway so I don’t mind | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whataperfectwasteoftime · 3 months

Text

Love Bites

Pairing: Marcus Pike x f!Reader (feat. Max Phillips!)

Rating: M (adult content, non-explicit smut, 18+)

Word Count: 9.7k

Warnings: Vampires! Blood drinking, talk of hunger (for blooooood) and killing (for bloooooood!). An art crime which is never actually solved, Soft Marcus, sarcastic asshole with a heart of gold Max. IDK if this is a threesome but it’s definitely threesome-adjacent, idiots in love, vampire venom causes euphoria and spontaneous orgasms because I said so, kissing, men kissing men, vampire bites, feeding, sharing blood through kissing,

Summary: You and your partner, Marcus Pike make a house call to the home of a wealthy art collector who just reported the theft of a two-million dollar glass, er, “sculpture.” At first, you can’t stand the smarmy Max Phillips, but when you find Marcus unconscious in the man’s living room, you find you have bigger problems than Max’s gross overuse of vampire puns…

A/N: I hallucinated this entire thing one night a few weeks ago instead of sleeping. Many, many thanks to @littlebirdsbookshelf for enduring and encouraging an endless line of screenshots of this fic and for helping with the moodboard!

Masterlist

As you read your newest assigned case file, your eyebrows feel as though they’re skyrocketing up into your hairline. You look up, shooting your partner a skeptical, unamused stare.

“Someone’s pulling your leg, Pike.”

Your partner playfully rolls his pretty brown eyes and flashes you that boyish smile that you lov–that you think is really nice, that’s all.

“You don’t think I had the presence of mind to fact check and verify this guy’s story? You wound me.”

“Who the hell spends that kind of money on this?”

Marcus shrugs. “It’s not uncommon for affluent art collectors to buy million-dollar pieces for their collections.”

“Yeah, but this?”

“Don’t tell me that you, of all people, are going to give me that old, tired dismissal of modern art simply because you don’t understand it.”

“This is a dildo,” you deadpan.

Marcus presses his lips together, nodding slowly. “...Some people have more money than sense.”

“Apparently.”

Your partner crosses over and picks up the file you’d dropped on your desk. “I spoke to the collector on the phone earlier,” he says as he scans the page. “Has a penthouse up in West End, told him we’d be up to do forensics this afternoon.”

“Yipee.”

“This is serious. It’s not every day that… ‘Arthur Feathermoore’s… Animals of Pleasure’… goes missing,” Marcus says, squinting down at the file as he reads the name of the sculpture.

You can’t help but snort at the title, and it causes your partner’s serious facade to dissolve into laughter himself, and the two of you giggling like rookies for a few moments before your eyes meet. Marcus’s face is the very picture of warmth, and as you often do, you feel as though you’re falling into his dark brown pools. The mirth is suddenly replaced by an uncomfortable silence that he breaks first, coughing awkwardly and looking back down at the case file in his hand.

“So anyways,” Marcus says brightly, “how about a little field trip up to West End?”

“You got it. I need to meet the idiot who spent a million dollars on a glass dildo.”

“Feathermoore’s Animals of Pleasure,” your partner corrects with a teasing smile.

“Quite the place,” Marcus comments as the two of you enter the ornate lobby of Maplebrook Heights, the building of luxury condominiums where your art collector lives on the top floor penthouse.

“I think it’s shit,” you say, eyeing the crystal chandelier hanging near the elevators. Something about the place makes you want to leave greasy handprints all over the spotless mirrors and stainless steel elevator doors.

You flash your badges to the lobby attendant, who picks up a phone receiver, listens for a couple minutes, nods, and sets it back down again.

“Mr. Phillips has been expecting you,” they say, leading you over to the elevators and pressing the top button without saying anything more.

When the doors open again, they reveal a man in a well-tailored suit with an overly-starched shirt and even starchier expression. The overall effect evokes a sort of statuesque rigidity–a man made out of stone. Suddenly, though, as if just noticing your appearance in the elevator, the man’s lips curl up into a smarmy, affectatious smile.

“You must be the feds,” he says in a buttery-smooth tone that you aren’t sure is real or as artificial as the rest of him seems to be.

“That’s us,” Marcus replies cheerfully, stepping forward and offering his hand. The man seems to pause, looking your partner up and down with his head cocked to the side before taking it and shaking it firmly.

Trying to be professional, you extend yours as well. Rather than give you the same firm handshake he offered Marcus, the man gently grasps your fingers and ducks his head as though he were about to kiss the back of your hand. Feeling off-balance, you give his hand an awkward squeeze and shake before stepping back quickly.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Phillips,” Marcus says, expertly disguising your discomfort, much to your relief.

“Max, please,” the man replies with an amused pout. “Come this way, I’m sure you’re both dying to see the scene of the crime.”

You shoot Marcus a look behind Max’s back, raising one eyebrow at his odd phrasing. Your partner shrugs gamefully before following the suited man through the double-doors to his penthouse.

As soon as you’re inside, your eyes widen at the décor. Every available inch of wall is covered in artwork from the Renaissance to the Modern, and you suppress the urge to gasp in amazement.

“Quite the collection,” Marcus comments.

“Mm, yes. You could say that I've spent generations acquiring it.”

“So art collecting runs in the family?”

“Of course.”

“This piece, er–Animals of Pleasure–was that an inherited piece, or…?”

Max grins widely, showing a row of alarmingly white teeth. “That one was a personal favorite–the sculptor is an acquaintance of mine.” He walks through the living room to an empty display case and regards it with a little frown. “Look at that. Like a wooden stake to the heart.”

“Apparently it was the personal favorite of someone else, too,” Marcus remarks.

“You’re a funny one, I like that,” Max drawls.

“In your report, you said you noticed it was gone on the morning of Sunday the 25th,” you interject. “What were the circumstances leading up to that discovery?”

“I had a… rather sizable party here the night before,” Max answers with a crooked smile. “I assume the culprit was one of my esteemed guests.”

“Got a guest list?” Marcus asks.

“Of course I do.” Max produces a paper from a nearby desk with an exaggerated flourish.

“Anyone on this list that might have shown particular interest in the piece?”

“They’re all a bunch of vampires,” Max scoffs dismissively, waving his hand. “I’m sure there are more than a few of them who’d love to sink their… teeth… into my collection.”

“Are you suggesting this theft was out of revenge?” you ask with a confused frown. “Did any guests have a personal vendetta against you?”

“Now, now, I’m practically the life of the party,” Max chuckles. “Most of the attendees and I go way back. There’s no bad blood between us; if anything, I’d say this is simply a distasteful prank.”

“You called the FBI for a prank?” you can’t help but ask.

“I like it,” Max says, putting on what’s clearly his best ‘sad puppy dog’ face with exaggeratedly upturned eyebrows and pouted lips. “It’s the crown jewel of my collection, and I want it back.”

“Of course,” Marcus reassures the other man. “We in the Art Crimes division treat art theft with the utmost importance it deserves.”

“Ah, yes, the FBI, always as serious as the grave.” Max says teasingly, giving Marcus a simpering smile. You don’t like the way he’s looking at your partner–sizing him up in the same way one would a conquest… or a meal.

“We’ve got what we need, Mr. Phillips,” you say brusquely, snapping your notebook shut a little more forcefully than necessary.

“Of course, of course,” the other man says dismissively, as if he couldn’t care less about the whole affair.

“We’ll keep you informed of any progress,” Marcus adds, smiling amicably. He always did do a better job than you of hiding his distaste for unpleasant characters.

“You should go use the little girl’s room before you leave,” Max suggests, again flashing you a row of perfectly white, straight teeth. “Long drive back to HQ.”

You’re just about to tell him where to shove that condescending suggestion, when you suddenly realize it’s a great idea. It is a long drive back, and you don’t remember needing to before, but for some reason as soon as the suggestion leaves his lips, you find yourself needing to find a bathroom sooner rather than later. You nod and excuse yourself, turning your back on the odd twinkle in Max’s eyes.

What a weirdo. You’ve worked with some characters before–and sometimes it seems the richer they are, the more eccentric and out of touch–but Max Phillips really takes the cake. The uncanny smile, the stupid puns, the uncomfortable innuendo that you never could figure out were intended for you or for Marcus…

You hope the case wraps up quickly, is the point. You finish washing your hands on a towel that feels as though it has a higher thread count than any set of sheets you’ve ever owned and hurry back to the sitting room where the two men are waiting for you.

When you get there, Marcus is lying on the floor, unmoving.

“Marcus!” you exclaim in alarm, pushing past Max–who is standing calmly as though nothing unusual has happened–and drop to your knees beside him. “What the hell happened?” you demand, staring up at the other man.

“Dunno. He just collapsed.”

You want to scream at him. How can you be so indifferent? A man just collapsed in your home. Before you can say anything, though, Marcus coughs.

You whirl back around, cataloging Marcus’s face frantically as he opens his eyes and blinks dazedly.

“What–Why am I on the floor?” he asks, staring up at you in utter confusion.

“You tell me,” you murmur, placing your hand on his clammy forehead. “I came back and you were on the ground. Mr. Phillips says you collapsed.”

Marcus sits up blearily. You watch as he frowns and shakily brings one hand to his neck, feeling it gingerly as though he’d been injured, although you don’t see anything to indicate it.

“Yeah,” he agrees breathlessly. “Yeah, just… collapsed. Uh–” He looks around the room with wary eyes.

“Can you get up?” you ask, standing yourself and extending your hand.

Marcus nods and allows you to pull him to his feet. Once standing, he sways and blinks rapidly, as if he were dizzy. When you place your hands on his shoulders to steady him, he giggles, like he suddenly finds the entire situation hilarious.

You don’t share his humor.

“C’mon,” you say, grabbing his wrist and trying to lead him away. You can’t explain why, but something in your lizard brain is telling you to get out of there as quickly as possible.

“Feel better soon,” Max offers lightly, smiling that unsettling smile again. “Drink plenty of fluids.”

You don’t bother answering.

Marcus continues to be unsteady on his feet, and you end up having to help him down the front steps of the building and into the passenger seat of the car.

“Hi!” he slurs enthusiastically when you enter and sit down in the driver’s seat. “Wow, I feel really funny.” You watch with growing concern as he holds up his hands and examines them as though he’d never seen them before.

You don’t know how to respond, so you busy yourself with adjusting the seat to your height, since Marcus had driven you there. Pressing and holding the button, the electric motor whines as you slowly slide upward, then a good deal forward.

Marcus giggles again. “You have short legs.”

“Astute observation,” you grumble as you turn the key into the ignition.

“Legs,” he repeats, and laughs again.

“Jesus,” you mutter. “Marcus… were you drugged? Did Max Phillips drug you?”

“No!” he protests. “I… I don’t think so?” he adds, sounding less sure.

“What happened when I was gone?” you asked. “Before you collapsed.”

Marcus shrugs exaggeratedly and makes a nonchalant ‘nnNNnn’ sound.

“You don’t remember?’

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head. “Wait… he said… the–the guy?”

“Max?”

“Max! Yeah. He said uh…” Marcus giggles again. “He said… I was pretty? That’s weird. Is that weird?” he looks over at you, looking so concerned and worried that you almost laugh in spite of yourself.

“Little weird,” you agree.

“He said that I was pretty… and that it would be a shame to let that go to waste,” he adds, frowning down at his hands as he remembers.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I guess it means I’m pretty,” Marcus says matter-of-factly, sitting back in his seat and grinning for a few moments before suddenly sobering again. “I think he was… gonna hug me?”

“Hug you?” you ask, looking at your partner in confusion.

“Yeah, he… he was really close, and–” Marcus’s hand absentmindedly touches his neck again. “Nah. Never mind. I don’t think that’s right.”

“I think he gave you something,” you tell him, starting to feel more and more worried by the minute. “You aren’t acting like yourself.”

“Hey! You know what sounds really good?” Marcus suddenly asks, sounding excited. “Tomato juice. Except… not tomato juice. Something like tomato juice, but… different.”

“Like a bloody mary?” you ask skeptically, humoring him.

He purses his lips, as though thinking deeply about something.

“Yep,” he finally agrees. “That’s it. Bloody mary.”

“Great,” you say as you pull in front of Marcus’s building. “Tell you what, you go to bed and sleep off whatever the fuck this is, and I’ll buy you all the bloody marys you can drink.”

You help Marcus up the stairs (nearly an impossible task, because he keeps stopping and looking around him as though he’s never seen a stairwell with chipped paint and cracks in the walls before) and when you finally reach his apartment, you unceremoniously deposit him onto his bed.

He’s asleep the second his head hits the pillow.

You watch him snore for a couple of minutes, completely at a loss for what to do now. All you know is that you can’t leave him–not when you don’t know what’s wrong with him. And something is wrong. Every nerve in your body is in agreement there: Marcus is not okay.

You resist the urge to press your palm to his cheek and gently trace the line of his cheekbone. He’s asleep. He wouldn’t know.

No. Even now, you can’t bring yourself to give into that temptation. Even with as worried about him as you are, physical affection is still way off limits. You’d be showing too much of yourself.

Shaking the thought, you turn and walk from the room, quietly latching the door on your way out.

And you wait.

And wait.

By the time Marcus’s bedroom door opens again, you’re nearly frantic with worry. Just the soft sound of the doorknob turning has you jumping to your feet and muting his TV. You watch as he stumbles out, one hand pressed to his forehead and the other steadying himself against the wall.

“How… How long did I sleep?” he asks, face a maelstrom of confusion.

You glance quickly at the clock. “Twenty-five hours.” And seventeen minutes. Not that you were counting.

“What? Jesus…” he mutters.

“How are you feeling?”

“Starving. Like I haven’t had a proper meal in years,” Marcus answers, moving past you into the kitchen, where he starts opening cabinet doors at random, pulling out food items, examining them with a frown, and discarding them on the counter.

“I could, uh, order something?” you suggest warily, watching him go about his task in a whirlwind of movement.

“That’s not necessary,” he answers absentmindedly, staring blankly at a can of pinto beans before putting it on the counter next to a jar of artichoke hearts.

“Well, I’m hungry,” you say, grabbing a takeout menu at random off of Marcus’s fridge with a little more irritation than is warranted. “Shit.” You hiss, jerking your hand back and watching as a sliver of red appears on your thumb, a little bead of blood welling up and threatening to spill out of the newly-created crack.

Before you can blink; before you can even react, before your brain even registers the movement, Marcus is there. With a low, desperate, almost animal sound, he grabs your injured hand and brings it to his mouth.

The taste of you seems to make him moan louder; he greedily licks and sucks at the wound as though he were parched and this small papercut his only oasis.

At the touch of his tongue, or maybe the feel of his saliva, a sudden, inexplicable wave of euphoria washes over you. You gasp softly, watching with open-mouthed shock as he licks and licks and licks until there’s nothing left.

Eventually, Marcus slowly–almost reluctantly–releases your hand and blinks rapidly as though he were waking from a deep sleep all over again.

Whatever spell that seemed to be holding you in place breaks; you jerk your hand back and stare at him in horrified confusion.

“Marcus… what the hell?!”

“S-Sorry,” he offers weakly.

“Have you lost your mind?” You can’t tell if your question is intended rhetorically or not.

“I… I don’t know,” he answers softly. “I don’t know.”

“That’s not a comforting answer,” you say dryly.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Marcus murmurs, quietly enough that you aren’t sure if he intended to speak the words out loud.

“Thinking about what?”

“How I want to– I want–” he begins, but whatever it is he wants, he never manages to say. Rather than finishing the sentence, his hand slowly comes up to–alarmingly–wrap around your neck, his thumb pressing directly on your pulse point. He’s too close; you can feel his rapid, heavy breathing against your face and all you can do is stare up at him, the silent question of what the fuck written in your eyes.

Suddenly, you’re being released and Marcus pushes you away, stepping back from you with an expression of abject horror all over his face.

“Leave,” he commands raggedly. “Please, you have to.”

You shake your head in protest, frowning. “Marcus, you’re not well–”

“LEAVE!” he roars, and you flinch as though he’d slapped you. In all your years as his partner, you’d never heard him yell. You take one more look at him–really looking, taking in his clenched fists, his heaving chest, and the odd, almost inhuman look in his eyes–and obey. Backing away slowly at first, and then increasingly quickly, you flee the kitchen.

Your hand is on his front door when you suddenly come to a halt. No. You can’t. You can’t leave him. You cast your eyes around until they fall on the door to the nearby guest bathroom. With a hissed curse under your breath, you open that door instead, slipping inside and locking it behind you.

For a few moments, all you can hear is the sound of your shaky breathing. Then, footsteps as Marcus approaches. They pause, as though he’s working out what happened. You jump, suppressing a shriek, when a loud thump resonates in the small room before you hear the unmistakable sound of someone sliding down the wall and onto the floor.

The heavy, defeated sigh is audible through the bathroom door.

“I told you to leave,” Marcus remarks sullenly.

“I left the kitchen,” you point out.

The answering silence lets you know what your partner thinks of that response.

“I’m scared,” he admits quietly. “Something’s… not right.”

“I’m here,” you tell him. “I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure it out, okay?”

Marcus is quiet for so long, you almost begin to wonder if he’d fallen back asleep.

“I can feel you,” he suddenly whispers. “There’s a door between us, but I can feel your pulse like it’s still under my thumb.”

“Wh-what?”

“I can sense it all. Your heartbeat. The blood rushing in your veins. It’s unbearable,” he chokes out, voice breaking on the last word as though he were at the end of his wits.

“I don’t understand what that means,” you admit. “And I’m not gonna lie, that’s freaking me out more than a little bit, but I meant what I said. I’m right here and I’m going to help you, okay?”

“Okay,” Marcus whispers shakily. “I… I appreciate that. You–it–means the world to me. You being here, I mean.”

“Marcus,” you say, your heart pounding even more than it had been, “I–”

Whatever you had planned on saying is interrupted by Marcus’s cell phone.

“It’s Max Phillips,” your partner announces, somehow, after everything, jumping into work mode. “I’ll put it on speaker. This is Pike,” he answers.

“Hey, buddy!” Max’s voice is so cheerful compared to the tense situation you find yourselves in that it feels jarring and almost makes you physically recoil. “How ya feeling?”

“You,” Marcus hisses accusingly. “You did something to me.”

“Oh, that,” Max says dismissively. “I couldn’t help it.”

“Help what,” your partner growls.

“You haven’t figured it out yet?” Max laughs.

“Stop playing stupid and help us!” you shriek through the bathroom door, completely out of patience and good manners.

You’re greeted by crackling silence on the other end of the call. Then… “She’s… she’s still with you?” For the first time, the careless demeanor seems to have dropped. Max sounds… concerned.

“Not that it’s any of your goddamn business,” you snap, unable to stop the flood of anger now that you’ve released it, “but I was fucking worried about my partner after he left your house acting drugged–”

“Where are you?” Max interrupts. “I’ll come to you. Bring supplies. But she needs to leave. Now.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you shoot back belligerently.

“Your funeral,” Max says, adopting the aloof nonchalance once more. To Marcus, he says, “Text me your address.” Then the line goes dead.

“Are you going to tell him where you live?” you ask skeptically.

“I don’t think I have a choice,” Marcus says quietly. “I don’t know what’s going on with me, but it’s clear that Max does. And if he knows, then maybe he can… stop it, somehow.”

“What did he mean, ‘bring supplies’?” you ask.

“Dunno,” Marcus sighs. “Guess we’re gonna find out.”

You’re forced to listen to Max’s arrival through the safety of the bathroom door.

No sooner than he walks into the apartment, you hear him stop and–is he sniffing the air?

“She’s still here,” he accuses.

“‘She’ can hear you,” you snap.

“She’s in there?” Max asks, sounding indignant. “Behind that flimsy-ass door?”

“It’s not that flimsy…” Marcus begins, but Max cuts him off.

“Pal, I’ve seen newly-turned vampires claw through cinder block walls with their bare hands to get at a food source. You could have ripped that door from its hinges, but here you are–”

“I didn’t want to hurt her,” Marcus interrupts. “I couldn’t fathom it, I– Hang on, did you say ‘vampires’?”

“Yup. Like, y’know, Dracula and all that. Undead. Drinks blood. Vampire.”

“This was a mistake,” Marcus mutters. “You’re clearly insane, and I don’t have time to listen to the bullshit ramblings of a sociopath.”

“Oh, it’s bullshit now, is it?” Max says airily. “You’re going to sit there and tell me you haven’t been sitting there desperately trying to stop yourself from ripping your pretty partner’s delicate little throat wide open and gorging yourself until she’s a withered corpse?”

You can hear Marcus sputtering angrily… but he doesn’t deny Max’s accusation.

“Great. Now, we can continue arguing over semantics and nomenclature while you just get more and more hungry, or you can accept the truth and drink this.”

A zipper–on a backpack, you assume–unzips, and the faint sound of crinkling plastic reaches your ears.

“What the hell is that?” Marcus asks, voicing your question for you.

“B positive. I won’t lie to you, O-neg is where it’s at in terms of flavor and mouthfeel, but beggars can’t be choosers, pretty boy.”

“Are you giving him blood?” you shriek through the door, but no one answers you. Irate, you bang on the wood. “Hello!?”

“He’ll be right with you,” Max says in a sing-song voice. “He’s busy at the moment.”

“Marcus,” you say lowly, “please tell me you are not drinking blood right now.”

“Mmph–so good,” your partner groans through mouthfuls of… something.

“I’m coming out there,” you announce, jumping to your feet.

“Wait,” Max commands, an odd timbre to his voice, and you stop immediately, your hand hovering six inches from the doorknob. “Not until pretty boy here has another pint.”

“Marcus,” you say warily, pressing your palm against the door as if you could somehow feel him through it.

“I’m okay.” And strangely, Marcus’s voice is calmer, more… human… than it’s been since the moment he woke up from his day-long nap. You still don’t trust Max. But Marcus has been your partner for years. You’d trust him with your life–and you find yourself believing him when he says it’s okay.

“One more,” Max says. “O-positive from 2020. Practically a vintage at this point.”

You shudder, imagining your partner with red tinged lips, a trickle of blood running down his chin as he–

“How are you feeling now?” Max asks.

“Better,” Marcus answers. “Can… Can she come out? Is it safe? I won’t… I won’t hurt her?”

“Depends on the vamp,” Max says. “Most newborns I wouldn’t trust within fifty feet of a pulse, but you? You’re an odd one.”

“I’d never hurt her,” Marcus says again. “I’d rather die.”

Max lets out a loud, barking laugh, as if Marcus had just told the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “That might be easier said than done,” he chuckles. “But I get the sentiment. Come on out, doll.”

In any other situation, you might have scolded Max for even daring to call you ‘doll,’ but your body is thrumming with anticipation–and a little fear–to see Marcus again.

Carefully, slowly, you unlock the bathroom door and swing it open.

Your gaze–as it usually does–finds Marcus before anything else. He’s sitting on the floor opposite the bathroom, his long legs awkwardly bent in the narrow hallway, with two crumpled blood donation bags laying beside him. He’s staring back, his eyes swimming with apprehension and worry. The strange, animalistic glint you’d seen earlier is completely absent.

Still, you find yourself moving cautiously and deliberately, as though a sudden movement might break this tenuous moment of peace. You carefully sink to your knees, at his level, and extend your hand.

Marcus swallows thickly, watching you. For a few tense moments, he doesn’t move. Then, he shifts–and oh, how you hate yourself for flinching. You try to hide it, but you can tell by the hurt in his eyes that he definitely noticed. Never once taking his eyes off yours, he slowly reaches back until his fingertips are just barely brushing against yours.

You don’t miss how Marcus’s breath catches at your touch. His eyes slip closed for just a moment, and he lets out a shaky exhale.

“Hi,” you say quietly.

“Hey,” he whispers back.

“You scared me.”

“I know. I scared me, too.”

“Is this real?” you whisper, hardly daring to voice the question. “You’re really–?”

“I think I might be,” Marcus says softly. “It’s… it’s the only thing that makes any of this make sense.” He gestures at the two empty blood bags he’d been given by Max.

Max.

In a fury, you round on the other man, grabbing the collar of his stupid-expensive shirt and slamming him against the wall.

“What the shit–” Max exclaims in surprise.

“You did this,” you hiss, pressing against his throat. “You… you made him into this.”

“I couldn’t help it,” Max wheedles, putting his hands up in supplication. “I thought he’d make a really sexy vamp.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” you growl.

“I’d love to see you try,” the man drawls with a lazy smile.

“Hey.” Marcus says softly, putting a hand on your forearm and encouraging you to release Max. “What’s done is done. This isn’t going to help anyone.”

“It’ll help me,” you say dryly, still glaring at Max.

“I can see why you like her,” Max grins.

You shove harder, your other hand coming up to join the first as you take out your anger on the man’s dress shirt. “Here’s an idea. Stop talking about ‘her’ while she’s still in the room.”

Max suddenly sobers, sniffing the air again. “You were bleeding,” he says accusingly. “When?”

“What? No I wasn’t,” you protest. ��Well, okay, I got a papercut, but it stopped bleeding ages ago, after–”

“After what,” Max prompts.

“He–” you begin weakly, your eyes flitting quickly to Marcus and then back to Max again.

Max moves you away from him as if you weighed nothing at all, before turning to Marcus with a look of utter disbelief. “You fed from her?”

“Uh… yeah, I guess I did,” Marcus answers slowly. “I… I didn’t really realize what I was doing, I–”

“Did you puncture her skin at all?” Max interrupts. “This is important.”

“No,” you answer for him. “He just… licked it clean, I guess?”

Max stares at Marcus skeptically, then turns to you. “He just licked it,” he repeats.

“And… sorta… sucked?” you add weakly.

“What’s the problem?” Marcus interjects.

“Newly-turned vampires aren’t exactly in control of their bodily functions,” Max explains. “A puncture might mean inadvertently injecting venom into your bloodstream.”

“Which means…?”

“Which means this would have turned into a two-for-one vamp special.”

“He can make me a vampire?”

“How do you think he became one in the first place?”

“I wouldn’t remind me of your role in this too much, if I were you,” you growl at Max.

“...Venom?” Marcus asks, interrupting your standoff.

“It’s got some interesting properties,” Max says with a grin. “Injecting it in its pure form will a vamp create, but the trace amounts in your saliva is what makes feeding fun.”

“Do you ever actually explain yourself?” you ask irritably.

“Let me put it this way. When pretty boy here licked that little papercut of yours, what did you feel?”

You think back to the moment–through the fear, through the unease, back to the sensation of Marcus’s lips and tongue on your skin. Finally.

“It felt… good,” you admit quietly.

“Just good?” Max asks, pouting his lip teasingly.

“Better than good,” you whisper. “It felt like… joy. Like everything was right with the world.”

You risk a glance at Marcus, who is staring at you open-mouthed with an inscrutable expression.

“That’s the venom,” Max says with a shrug. “Creates a feeling of euphoria in small doses. Can also cause spontaneous orgasm.”

Marcus makes a pained choking sound, and Max slaps him on the back. “That’s the fun part.”

“How the hell do you… feed… from someone without accidentally killing them?” Marcus asks.

“Carefully.”

“No shit.”

“I can show you if you want,” Max says lecherously, making a show of sweeping his gaze up and down your body in the most exaggerated way possible.

“I think the fuck not.”

Max guffaws loudly, slapping his knee. “I knew you'd be a good time.”

“He is not your good time,” you interject.

“At least let him speak for himself, princess! Nah, as… interesting… as that could be, I can tell when a guy's unavailable.”

“Oh,” you laugh awkwardly, shaking your head. “He's not–I mean, we're not–”

“We're partners,” Marcus adds helpfully.

“Oh yeah,” Max agrees condescendingly. “For sure. Just partners. Well anyway, apropos of nothing in particular, I wouldn't recommend feeding from anyone you particularly care about for quite some time. Not until you can control yourself.”

“Speaking of,” Marcus says, clearing his throat, “got any more of these?” He holds up one of the empty blood bags.

“No,” Max says indignantly. “I have got some backup supplies, but I wasn't exactly prepared for this situation.”

“What are you talking about? You turned him yourself.”

“No, this situation. The situation where you're here, with your pulse and rushing blood and warm flesh. Your presence would be fucking kryptonite for any new vamp,” Max hisses. “You're a neon sign of temptation. A little hen in a henhouse with a very hard-to-control fox. Had you not been here, two bags would have lasted until pretty boy here could arrange his own supply, but you complicate things.”

“Well, excuse me for making sure he was all right,” you say, placing your hand on Marcus’s arm in a way you hope is comforting.

Marcus murmurs your name softly, but urgently. “Can... Can you… back up? Just a little,” he asks, looking pained.

Eyes widening, you take several hasty steps backward.

“How long will it take you to get more?” you ask, not taking your eyes off of Marcus.

“Any amount of time is too long when you insist on staying here,” Max says.

“It worked out fine the last time,” you point out. “I'll just go back into the bathroom and lock the door again.”

Marcus shakes his head warily. “I–I don't know… Maybe you should leave.”

“Not a chance.”

“I don't want to hurt you,” Marcus says softly. “I don't even want the idea of it. Please. You don't know what you–”

“What I… what?”

“What you mean to me,” he confesses, and you could swear time stops. “I could never risk it. I can't… I can't bear the idea of losing you.”

“You won't,” you promise.

“I didn't want this,” he says bitterly, casting an agonized glance at Max, who, for once, has the decency to look regretful. “All I ever wanted was you.”

You feel as though you’d just had the wind knocked out of you, the words affect you so deeply. Resisting the urge to steady yourself on the wall, you fix Marcus with a stare that you hope conveys every single emotion you’ve ever felt for him.

“I'm staying here,” you say. “And that's final.”

Both men shake their heads at the same time.

“What if... what if he uses me?” you ask Max, ignoring Marcus's protest. “You said it's normal to uh… feed off of live humans.”

“I believe I also said it's something he shouldn't even begin to consider until he's out of the newborn phase,” Max says.

“What if he's careful?” you ask. “What if you help him?”

Marcus softly says your name in warning, but you don't back down.

“Whatever I mean to you,” you tell him earnestly, “you mean the same to me. The same and more, Marcus.”

Time seems to come to a standstill as his eyes widen with realization.

“You… You feel the same?” he asks breathlessly.

“For a long time now,” you find yourself admitting.

You watch as a slough of emotions flicker across Marcus’s face–yearning, longing, affection, and regret.

“I… I wish I had known,” he murmurs sorrowfully. “Before now. I’d… God, I’ve imagined this moment so many times, and in none of those times did I ever tell you to back away because I’m worried I’d just as soon kill you as kiss you.”

“I guess you owe me,” you tell him with a little chuckle. “When this is over. When you aren’t hungry anymore. You can drink from me without hurting me, I know it. And Max is here to stop you if you–”

“This is all very cute,” Max drawls, interrupting you, “but okay. Let's say he's careful. Let's say I stick around to help and intervene if he loses control. I want to make sure you understand that this is… intimate, you understand? Like, I'm all for a sexy romp, myself, but I don't know if I stressed the effects of the venom enough before.”

“You mean the uh–”

“Spontaneous orgasms,” Max finishes for you. “Yeah. Wasn't kidding about that.”

“So, what you're saying is–”

“Is that I'm usually all-in for a feeding orgy, but you two have something else going on entirely, and call me a romantic, but I'd rather not get between you.”

“So you do have a conscience,” Marcus deadpans.

“If you tell anyone, I'll deny it.”

Marcus takes a deep breath, and suddenly shudders. “Shit,” he mumbles to himself. “Shit, I feel–”

“Like you’ve been wandering a desert for days on end with no water? Yeah,” Max shrugs. “That wears off, or gets easier to manage, I dunno. But after a while it’ll start to feel more like normal hunger and less like a–” he trails off, waving his hands back and forth.

“Like an all-consuming fire threatening to stamp out every last shred of my humanity?” Marcus fills in wryly.

“Yup,” Max answers. “Something like that.”

“Does it hurt?” you ask softly, reaching out to touch him again.

This time, it’s Marcus’s turn to flinch. He pulls back, eyes widening in alarm and leaving you to wonder whether you really should be this close. But no, your desire to comfort the man you’ve been secretly harboring feelings for for years overrides your sense of personal safety.

Or any kind of sense, whatsoever.

So you persist, running your hand up and down his arm soothingly and watching his eyes flutter shut at the feel of your skin. The expression on his face–agony, yearning, desperation–causes an ache to sink like a stone in your chest.

“Yeah,” he answers with a rough, strained note to his voice. “Yeah, it hurts.”

You look to Max with pleading eyes. “Help him,” you demand. “Help us. It was you who got us into this situation, so if you have any sense of morality left in there, make it stop hurting.”

Max’s eyes flicker dangerously. “As long as you acknowledge what that entails,” he says quietly.

“Blood,” you deadpan (Marcus shudders pitifully again), “I assume.”

The other vampire rolls his eyes. “Sure, right. Fine,” he mutters, scooting closer to you and Marcus. “First lesson. You don’t bite here–” he carefully taps his index finger on your neck. “That’s either gonna get you another vampire, or a corpse. The, uh, thighs–” he clears his throat awkwardly– “are good places to feed, but you’ve gotta be careful about the femoral artery.”

Marcus lets out a pained sound and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes with gritted teeth, rocking slightly back and forth.

“Alright, that’s enough lessons,” Max says brightly. “Good place to start for a newbie is the wrist. So, uh, you’re just going to want to puncture the skin a teeny tiny bit, and drink from that. Less is more, waste not, et cetera, et cetera.”

No sooner than the words leave the other man’s lips, Marcus’s fingers curl around your wrist like a vice grip, and you gasp.

“Jesus, hang on a minute,” Max sighs. “New vamps, always so lacking in table manners. Listen to me–you’re gonna probably lose control and try to take more than what she can give, and I’m going to do everything in my power to restrain you and get her away. Up to and including violence.”

Just as Max’s words leave you wondering whether this is actually a terrible idea and you should have done what Marcus had asked in the beginning and simply left, Marcus’s eyes meet yours again, his expression surprisingly clear-headed.

“I won’t,” he says softly. “I said I’d never hurt you. That’s a promise.”

Solemnly, you nod. “I know,” you tell him. “It’s okay. I trust you.”

You slowly reach toward Marcus with your palm facing upward like an offering. You’re suddenly hyper aware of your heartbeat racing, thrumming loudly and quickly in your chest, and you somehow have the wherewithal to wonder whether Marcus will get more of you as a result.

Marcus cradles your forearm as though it were a precious gift. You can feel the trembling in his hands, see the quiver in his lower lip as he tries to keep all his emotions–the hunger, the fear, the worry–in check.

“Tiny bite,” Max reminds him in a low voice. “Just the tip.”

You shoot him a disparaging look, but when you see the ghost of a smile on Marcus’s face, you realize he successfully broke the tension.

Hesitantly, he lowers his mouth to the delicate skin of your wrist, and just as you’re wondering where the hell the vampire teeth are supposed to be, his face… changes. You do your best to hold in the gasp that threatens to escape; you don’t want to startle the man and risk him accidentally tearing your flesh. He’d put a stake through his heart himself, you muse. Wait–is that a superstition or a fact? You make it a point to ask Max later as you watch Marcus with curiosity. His face, it’s not ugly, exactly, but certainly monstrous. It’s grotesque in the same way the circus can be grotesque–in a way that fascinates you, thrills you, draws you in…

Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp as you feel his teeth sink into you.

The split-second of pain melts immediately to a wave of pleasure like nothing you’d ever experienced before. Every nerve ending seems to tingle, sending a frisson of electricity up and down your spine–again, and again, with every lick of Marcus’s tongue. It’s every good sensation you’ve ever felt condensed into one moment, and somewhere in the back of your mind you wonder if any human has ever become addicted to being vampire food. You wouldn’t blame them.

Soon, though, the fact that a vampire is drinking your blood completely fades, because all you feel is unadulterated euphoria. Euphoria… and Marcus. Now you’re consumed with one thought and one thought only: get closer to Marcus. You scramble into his lap without a second’s hesitation, not hearing the sudden sound of surprise that comes from Max.

Marcus, who had been single-mindedly consumed in his task, looks up in apparent awe as you straddle him. The hand not gently holding your wrist immediately winds around your waist and pulls you even closer. Now that your eyes are locked, you can’t look away. Those beautiful brown eyes that you know so well are flecked with an animalistic yellow-amber, his brow sharper and more pronounced in his monstrous form but still very much Marcus. He holds your gaze as he lathes his tongue across your skin over and over, each lick causing flames of ecstasy to course within you. You can’t look away–not even when he swallows gratefully with red-tinged lips and dives back in for more. You start to squirm in his lap, each little wave of euphoria–a side effect of his venom, you know, but it feels so real–causing warmth to build in your core. Marcus moans around your wrist when he feels you grind against his leg, and you start to whimper every time your clothed center meets the delicious resistance of his thigh muscle.

As your movements become more and more frenzied, so do Marcus’s; he licks and sucks at the little twin puncture wounds with a fervor that could only be described as carnal. Everything starts to pull up tight deep inside you, and you know, you know what’s about to happen–but suddenly, another arm is there pulling you back, away from Marcus, away from this beautiful pleasure unlike anything you’ve felt before and how dare they, you’re so close, you’re so close, soclosesoclosesoclose–

“That’s enough. Enough,” someone is saying behind you. “It’s time to stop.”

Marcus lifts his head, his lips still smeared with your blood and his eyes dazed and glassy. His face, although still contorted into this macabre new form, is open and unguarded as he tries to comprehend the source of the interruption. As Max pulls you away more forcefully, however, Marcus bares his teeth and hisses at the other man in what’s clearly a show of territoriality.

In a split-second, before you can even begin to worry about being in the middle of a fight between two vampires, Marcus regains his wide-eyed, earnest expression, and his exaggerated features seem to melt, giving way to the face you know so well.

“I’m fine,” he promises, chest heaving. “I’m okay. I’m done, I’ve stopped. Please, can–” he swallows, looking up at you with pleading eyes. “Can you come back? I just–I need–”

Before he can finish his sentence, you’re scrambling back into Marcus’s arms to kiss him with everything you’ve got. He opens to you immediately, his tongue darting out to explore your mouth, and you shudder when you taste the tang of iron. It should disturb you, you think to yourself. The blood, the fangs, the fact that he could kill you at any second. You should find his distorted face horrifying, but you can’t help but be mesmerized by his features in any form.

Marcus’s hands are everywhere–rubbing up and down your spine, gently palming your face, reverently stroking the skin of your wrist as if to apologize for taking what he so desperately needed from you. You sigh contentedly into his mouth as your hands explore him in kind–carding through the hair at the nape of his neck, pressing against the soft muscle of his chest, tenderly tracing the little crease in his brow in an unspoken promise of forgiveness.

You’ve imagined kissing this man so many times, and yet you now know you’ve never once come close to the reality of how it feels to have his lips against yours. It might be cliché, you might be projecting your own desires here, but everything about Marcus’s mouth simply fits, like a puzzle piece. Like recovering a long-lost part of you. Kissing him is coming home.

When Marcus pulls back, you follow him, causing a joyful smile to spread across his face as he whispers, “Are you okay?”

You smile back as you nod.

“Here.” Something orange is thrusted into your field of vision, and you look up to see Max standing awkwardly next to the two of you, still entwined on the floor against the wall of Marcus’s apartment.

You accept the fruit–because it is fruit–and start to messily peel it before popping a slice into your mouth.

“Do you feel dizzy at all? Lightheaded?” Max asks as he watches you chew.

You shake your head. “Nope. Nothing like that. Just… kinda tingly,” you giggle, glancing back at Marcus. “Not in a blood loss way, more like in a um, well. You know.”

Marcus grins and pulls you back down for another soft, chaste kiss.

Pulling back, you give Max a smug look. “Told you he wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I won’t lie, I’m pretty surprised,” the other man replies, frowning slightly. “You don’t have any frame of reference for this, so you’ll just have to take my word for it that this is not normal. New vampires cannot control themselves and kill any living thing they try to feed from. Every time.”

“How many of those new vampires were deeply in love with the person they tried it with?” Marcus asks, meeting your eyes with an ardent gaze.

“Of all the times I’ve dreamed of hearing that from you, I never imagined it would come out quite like that,” you say with a wry smile.

Max makes something like a strained choking noise in his throat, grimacing uncomfortably. “Well kids, this has been fun, but I’m gonna get out of here.”

He sticks out his hand and you accept it, letting him pull you up to standing. Once on your feet, all the blood seems to rush away from your head, and you sway slightly.

“She should lie down,” Max comments, watching you.

Marcus nods in agreement and wordlessly (and effortlessly) lifts you into his arms and moves in the direction of his bedroom.

“Does ‘she’ get a say in this?” you protest, although this time it’s somewhat more good-natured than before.

Your answer is another kiss from Marcus before he gently sets you down on the comforter.

Sitting here, on Marcus’s bed, with him hovering over you, opens up an entirely new set of opportunities. The look in Marcus’s eyes lets you know his thoughts are along the same lines, and when he inhales, his breath catches in his chest.

“I’d caution you against that,” Max says in his characteristic deadpan tone from the doorway. “Really easy to lose control in the heat of the moment, and he’s still hungry.”

“Are you?” you ask Marcus hesitantly, who shrugs and drops his gaze.

“Was trying to be polite about it.”

“I didn’t let him take much,” Max explains. “Far easier to rectify taking too little than too much.”

“Does that mean he could do it again?” you ask, the breathlessness in your voice giving you away immediately.

Marcus is, predictably, the one who quickly tries to shut that idea down, murmuring your name and shaking his head in concern.

“You don’t know how it felt,” you whisper. “I think I’d do it every day if I could.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Marcus answers for what feels like the hundredth time.

“You won’t,” you promise. “And besides, Max will be here just in case.”

The two of you turn to the other vampire, who’s leaning against the doorway with an exaggerated sulk. “Oh sure, let’s ask Max. I’m sure he won’t mind watching you feed in the throes of ecstasy… again. Max has no opinion, Max can manage his own hunger, it’s fine.”

“Done pouting?” Marcus asks pointedly. “I think I’m justified in saying that you fucking owe me one.”

Max glowers, but offers no further protest.

“Is this wrist sore?” Marcus asks you, running one fingertip across your skin. “Should I do the other one?”

You shake your head slowly. “I had somewhere else in mind.” Capturing Marcus’s hand, you guide it downward until it rests on your inner thigh. “Here,” you whisper.

Max makes another garbled noise, which Marcus deliberately ignores. Keeping his eyes fixed on your face, he carefully sinks down onto his knees before you. Carefully, so carefully he unbuttons your pants and draws them down your legs, leaving you in your underwear.

“Fuck, I can’t–” comes the sudden exclamation from the bedroom doorway. “If this is retribution, I guess I deserve it, but still.”

You turn your head to look at Max, who appears to be doubled over in pain, and something pangs in your chest. Marcus, who is still fixated on the crux of your thighs, ignores the interruption.

“Marcus,” you whisper, getting his attention.

“He’s fine,” the man murmurs, clearly distracted.

“He’s hungry,” Max groans pitifully. “I might not be a newborn anymore, but I have feelings.”

“He can wait,” Marcus growls. The words sound slightly slurred, and when you look down again, you can see his fangs already protruding.

Max makes another pathetic whimper as Marcus runs his nose along your upper thigh and inhales greedily. You stop him with a gentle hand carding through his hair.

“Maybe we are being cruel,” you say softly. “He’s been trying to help.”

“He’s not feeding from you,” Marcus insists darkly. The possessiveness seems to make his face transform even more–his brow thickening and his eyes flickering with an eerie yellow glint.

“She’s–she’s yours,” Max agrees weakly. “I know. Just—shit.”

Marcus pauses, his tongue darting out to touch the tip of one elongated canine as though testing their unfamiliar shape.

“Come here,” he commands.

Max frowns, hesitating.

“Before I change my mind.” Turning to you again, Marcus strokes the sensitive skin just below the seam of your underwear. “May I?”

“You might be the politest vampire I’ve ever known,” Max muses to himself as he walks toward the bed with cautious steps.

“Please,” you whisper.

Marcus runs his nose against your thigh again before he lowers his mouth. You feel the sharp sting of his fangs for only a second before a sudden wave of pleasure overtakes you.

Perhaps it’s the change in location–from your wrist to somewhere much more… intimate, but this time the sensation of his venom feels even stronger. So much so, in fact, that everything pulls up tight without warning and you come undone while Marcus’s fangs are still buried within you.

You shriek in surprise, bucking your hips instinctively, but Marcus follows, sealing his lips around your thigh and sucking. Each aftershock makes the wound feel like it’s pulsing, but all you can do is writhe on the bed and whimper as the vampire–the man you love–takes from you.

Suddenly, though, Marcus pulls back, pressing his hand against the twin puncture wounds, which are still bleeding openly. With his mouth clearly full, he fists Max’s shirt collar, pulling him in for a rough kiss. Max makes a shocked noise–you think you do, too–but quickly groans in pleasure as Marcus gives him your blood from his own mouth.

Over and over he repeats the action: gently licking and sucking your thigh as you gasp and squirm under the euphoric influence of his venom, then pulling back to give some to Max before swallowing it himself.

The constant waves of pleasure reach a peak several more times, although you can hardly keep track. The combination of the venom and the blood loss, perhaps, is making you woozy, and you’re already drifting in and out when Max gently tugs Marcus’s hair and draws him back. You hear him say, “That’s probably enough,” before you lose consciousness entirely.

Everything is peaceful. You don’t think you’ve ever slept this deeply or felt relaxation this profound. When your eyes open again some untold amount of time later, you do so with a lazy, serene smile.

You blink lazily, trying to gather your senses and focus on the scene in front of you. You can feel the rise and fall of a strong chest beneath you, comforting arms surrounding you as you lay on Marcus’s bed. You know without looking that it’s him that’s holding you, keeping you safe and protected with his body.

To your surprise, Max–you figured he’d be long gone by now–sits at the bedside, watching you with an unreadable expression.

“She’s awake,” he says to Marcus, who immediately loosens his hold and gently tilts your head back onto his shoulder to look at you.

“Hey,” he says softly, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone. “You scared me a little, there.”

“Told him it was normal,” Max says, with the air of someone who’s said the exact same sentence fifty times already, “and that she wasn’t in any danger.”

“Still,” Marcus fusses gently, scanning your face with a slightly furrowed brow.

“Here,” Max interjects, handing you a small bottle of gatorade and making sure your hands are wrapped around it before pulling back. “Drink this, and once you can sit up, you need to eat a little something.”

You accept the drink gratefully and take greedy sips until the bottle is empty. When it is, Max sets it back on the nightstand and hands you a couple of oreos pilfered from Marcus’s cabinets, and the rest of the orange from before.

“How are you feeling?” Marcus asks–still with a hint of concern in his voice–as you eat.

“Really good, actually,” you answer with a sigh. “That was–listen, not to be weird or anything, but that was… amazing.”

Marcus chuckles low in his chest as Max smirks next to you.

“Can’t say I minded that particular method of feeding,” the other vampire comments wryly. “Might almost be better than from the source.”

Marcus clears his throat awkwardly, and when you glance up at him again, his ears are tinged pink.

“I didn’t know that about you,” you say softly.

Marcus tries to shrug noncommittally, blushing deeper as he does. “I like to keep my private life private.”

“Fair enough.”

“Don’t mind sharing with the people I care about, though,” he adds.

“Awww, he cares about me!” Max simpers with a teasing pout.

“I hate you,” Marcus counters with no conviction or malice behind the words whatsoever.

“No you don’t.”

“I was talking about her, though.”

“And me!”

“Children,” you sigh, shaking your head in exasperation. “I hate to interrupt, but can I trouble one of you bloodsuckers for some juice or something?”

Marcus raises one eyebrow at Max, who salutes sarcastically and marches out of the room.

“I can’t tell if I like him or if I can’t stand him,” you murmur to Marcus when the two of you are alone.

“Makes two of us,” your partner hums, ducking down to kiss your temple.

“Really?” you ask incredulously. “Didn’t look like you minded so much before.”

Marcus huffs quietly. “It was the solution that came to me at the time.”

“Is that all it was?”

He lets out a slow, even breath as he tightens his hold on you. “No.”

“Wanna talk about it?” you ask, as Max comes back with a glass of juice and another handful of oreos.

“Maybe later,” Marcus answers, sounding a bit bashful.

“Vampires have super-hearing, you know that–right?” Max comments as he moves back toward the bed.

“Wh–what?” the other man chokes out nervously. “Really?”

“...No.” Max hands you the glass of juice with a deadpan stare.

You try and fail to contain your laughter, snorting as you cover your hand with your mouth to disguise the smile.

“But now I know you were talking about me,” Max purrs, leaning toward the two of you.

“No,” Marcus lies–unconvincingly.

“Pretty boy,” Max chastises with that same childish, teasing pout he’s done before. “I thought so highly of you–don’t tell me you’re in the middle of some silly gay panic right now.”

Marcus snorts. “We’re too old for that, don’t you think?”

“You tell me.” Max’s expression is guarded, but you can tell he’s very invested in the other man’s answer.

“Truth is, I’ve harbored feelings for this one for a long time,” Marcus says affectionately, looking down and brushing his hand up your forehead and over the top of your head. “A long time. And it feels disingenuous to even consider the idea of treading on that, somehow.”

“Right,” Max says, standing up stiffly and quickly. “I’m gonna–”

“Wait.”

The vampire pauses, eyeing the two of you warily.

“In a way, it was you who… brought us together, in a way,” Marcus continues. “In a weird fucking way, I’ll add, but I can’t deny that this day has been… beyond my wildest dreams. And–” he swallows thickly, licking his lips before continuing, “–you were a part of that, for better or for worse.”

You carefully sit up, extricating yourself from Marcus’s arms to lean up and kiss him on the cheek.

“I’m not used to this much attention,” he adds, laughing self-deprecatingly as he shakes his head in apparent bewilderment. “And now I’ve got the two of you looking at me like that, and I’m not sure what to do with myself.”

“Enjoy it,” you tell him with a soft smile. “I love you. Max likes you. Maybe that’s all we need to know right now.”

“He can speak for himself,” Max teases, parroting your earlier words.

You look at him. “Did you really turn him because you thought he was pretty?”

“Can you blame me?”

#marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x reader x max phillips #max phillips #the mentalist #bloodsucking bastards #pedro pascal

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iam93percentstardust · 2 months

Note

Kissing prompt!!

Forbidden kisses + "i really, really want to kiss you right now"

Bestie prompts! Bestie prompts! Check out the read more for the rest of it <3

Part 1 | Part 2

Steve would have liked to have talked to Tony about that kiss, but he hadn’t gotten the chance to before Rhodey had realized the time and hustled the two of them back out the door so they wouldn’t be too late in getting to their dorm and have to sleep on the porch. He would have figured out a way to meet up with him in person, except that the football team is doing a retreat in California and doesn’t have the kind of money to fly back and forth to New York. He would have texted him over the summer instead, but Tony had told them all before the semester ended that he wouldn’t be able to talk to any of them because his dad monitored his communications too closely, and Steve doesn’t want to get him in trouble and run the risk of Howard moving Tony to yet another university. So it’s a restless summer, wanting to completely clear the air between the two of them and make sure they’re on the same page and being completely unable to.

He has every intention of talking to Tony when they both get back from summer break, but Tony is apparently playing Least In Sight, which hopefully doesn’t mean that he’s decided that Steve isn’t what he wants and is just nervous that Steve has changed his mind.

With that in mind, Steve has every intention of tracking Tony down himself, but there’s only one problem with that—he can’t actually get into the omega dorms. Tony has always come to their college to hang out, so Steve doesn’t even know which dorm he’s staying in, let alone which room he’s in or how to get in without getting spotted by the matron.

“So go to his apartment?” Natasha suggests like he’s an idiot when he complains about his problem to her.

He lifts his head off the table and blinks at her. “…What apartment?”

“What do you mean what apartment?” Natasha asks. “The one his mom got him.” She reaches over and flicks his forehead. “Duh.”

“Tony’s mom got him an apartment? Why?”

“Because Tony likes to nest and it’s impossible to do that in the dorms. She thought he needed a safe space. He spends most of his time there. He really never mentioned it to you?”

“Guess it just never came up,” Steve muses, not terribly hurt by the idea that Tony didn’t confide in him. Omegas tend to be very protective of their nests—if they like to nest in the first place—and anyway, he and Tony never really got on the subject of nests. They always had other things to talk about.

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Alright, well—” She grabs a piece of paper and a pen from Steve’s bag—“here’s the address. Go over there and put him out of his misery, would you? Don’t come home until you’re both thoroughly debauched.”

“Why, Natasha Romanoff, what kind of alpha do you think I am?” Steve says, putting a hand to his chest as though he’s scandalized. She grins, seeing right through his act, balls up the paper, and throws it at him.

“Get out of here, Rogers.”

Tony’s apartment is in the nicest part of the town—well, it’s all nice; if Steve wasn’t playing football for the university, he definitely wouldn’t have been able to afford it—which says something about how nice it is. The lobby is gilded with what might be actual gold, the floors are marble, and the Art Deco style has Steve’s fingers itching for his sketchbook. Tony lives in the penthouse, and though Steve is fully anticipating that he’ll need a special key for the elevator, it turns out that instead, the elevator opens up into a small room with a door on the other end.

He takes a deep breath, steels himself for whatever Tony might say—even if it’s a rejection—and knocks.

It’s only about thirty seconds or so before the door opens, but it feels like forever, Steve’s nerves building and building to a fever-pitch.

“Steve!” Tony exclaims when he opens the door, looking surprised. He looks gorgeous in an oversized button-down that smells faintly of Rhodey and a tiny pair of shorts. His hair is messy like he’s been running his fingers through it, his lips are red like he’s been biting them, and Steve really, really wants to tip him over onto the closest bed and find out if that’s what he looks like when he’s just been fucked too. “What are you doing here?” Well. That doesn’t bode well.

Steve takes a deep breath, readying himself to give the speech he’s spent all summer working on—only for the words to promptly flee his mind, leaving him floundering.

“I don’t know why you haven’t come to see us yet,” he starts off. “Rhodey was there on Wednesday, but not you, and I don’t know why, but I’m terrified it’s because you realized this isn’t what you want. Or maybe you think I don’t want it, or you think I’m scared of what might happen if we get caught, but Tony, sweetheart, I’m not scared. I don’t care what’ll happen, I could never care because I’d have you, and that’s better than anything else in the entire world. I really like you, Tony, and I’m hoping you really like me too, so if you want to take a shot at this, then I’m more than game. I will literally get on my knees and beg for you to give me a chance.”

“There’s no need for that,” Tony says immediately, looking faintly alarmed. His hand tightens so much on the door that his knuckles turn white. “You really don’t care that fraternization is forbidden between us?”

“I really don’t,” Steve swears. He hesitates, then adds, “I hope that means you want this because, I’ll be honest here, sweetheart, I really, really want to kiss you right now.”

The corner of Tony’s mouth tips up, and the next thing he knows, Tony’s hand has fisted in his shirt and he’s being pulled inside, the door closing behind them with a very final-sounding thud. Steve finds himself slammed up against the door, a very eager Tony attached to him at all the places he can be attached—including Steve’s mouth, which he suddenly realizes isn’t nearly active enough for the attention being lavished on it.

He kisses Tony hard, tongue tracing his lips until he opens for him, and flips them around, pressing Tony into the door. Tony makes a muffled noise that sounds a little like a moan and a little like a whine, and then he’s wrapping one leg around Steve’s hips, hands twining around his neck, as Steve kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. Tony tastes like coffee and vanilla creamer, and Steve desperately wants more of it.

Breathing, however, is an unfortunate necessity, so he pulls back after another long kiss. He feels lightheaded, and he doesn’t know if it’s from the lack of air or just the fact that he has Tony in his arms, wrapped around him like ivy on a brick house.

“Hi,” he says softly, leaning forward to kiss the tip of Tony’s nose.

Tony beams at him, eyes soft and dark and warm, as inviting as a fireplace in winter. “Hi,” he says and kisses Steve again.

#alle writes #alle answers #stevetony #if you like please reblog

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wsdanon · 2 months

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Heyo! I would love to hear about your new au if you'd like to talk about it? I hope everything goes well and alright with what you described <3

hi \o/ just quickly it might not even happen but if it does I will be okay all up it will just be a bit shit for a little bit

onto the au: I’ve been inspired by some art pieces I’ve seen with the basics—vampire!pac/vampire hunter!fit. I won’t go too into the plot in case I do end up writing it (or even just sections of it to post as wips) but here we go I’ll put it under a cut

i think the big thing to me is that fit is a vampire hunter because it pays well. it’s not because he hates them or has a grudge against them or wants to protect people or anything. maybe he enjoys the fight a little but it’s mostly about the money. also maybe not when he first started but by the time the au starts he has ramon so you know he needs to provide for ramon!

i don’t really have anything against “guy who hates vampires and kills them learns not to hate vampires by falling in love with one” stories but it’s not something I’m particularly interested in writing so the motivation of money (specifically money for ramon) is important to me and I think fits fit’s (lol) character better anyway

pac and mike are vampires who were turned by cellbit ages ago when they were escaping from prison together. I like to think through the whole losing his leg thing pac got turned somehow and then mike got cellbit to turn him too so he wouldn’t have to be without pac/pac wouldn’t have to be without him. (Sidenote: I think pac is kind of upset he couldn’t turn mike but mike was panicking a little so… cellbit)

at the time of the au they all live together with felps who is like… the “human” they all feed from. he’s their special little guy and boyfriend (fuga four are all in an established polycule by this point to me) felps is a saint in this au \o/ but it doesn’t really effect those three* it mostly just means he can heal pretty fast/regenerate blood pretty fast so they don’t have to go feed from the townsfolk. they used to though! especially cellbit. but it just ended up being way too much negative attention and they figured out they could feed from felps fine so they decided to stick with that. Richarlyson is also with them \o/

(*there’s probably some way I can fill in the plot hole of vampires being repelled by holy things but still able to feed from a saint but I haven’t figured that out yet. Right now I would say it’s probably because he’s not a proper saint in my headcanons)

also this will probably be exposition if I write it at all so I’ll mention it here: but the thing that kicks off the plot is felps is kidnapped for a month so they have to go feed on townspeople again and that prompts someone to hire a vampire hunter aka fit

the dynamic between fit and Pac here is very much onesided enemies to lovers as in: fit is very insistent to himself that he’s just here to do his job. pac is certain they are living out an enemies to lovers plotline and is having fun flirting with someone who’s trying to kill him because it’s pac so of course he is. and with how fit keeps reacting to his flirting it just confirms it in his mind that this is the path they’re on. pac is right anyway it definitely is enemies to lovers and despite the attempts at professionalism fit is very much falling for Pac

i think from here on it gets into more plot stuff so I’ll leave it here for now \o/ thank you for the ask!

#wsd/v.ampireau #wsd/a.sks #astatinu

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givemetherapyimawritingtravesty · 4 months

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For @goodboylupin 's RS Candy Hearts (nearly a year late 🙃 but will I ever forget about it? Maybe never ...)

Maybe Never - Three Times Sirius Won’t Shut Up About His Husband, and One Time Remus Won’t

(1)

“You know, MY husband is an author. Writes all kinds of things. See, he started in journalism and then made his way to publishing. These days, MY husband writes high fantasy instead of hard hitting journalism. Though in my opinion it’s still ‘hard-hitting’…” Sirius trails off with a smirk and a nudge to Remus, who is standing beside him, hands in his pockets.

Remus blushes, leaning in to grumble, “Really? Must you talk about me at every opportunity? I thought you wanted to get in and out of this benefit your brother’s hosting. You hate these things.”

“I do. But I love talking about MY husband. All accomplished, supporting me and my art.”

“Like you don’t make well enough money selling under your family name anyway. Will you ever tire of talking about me?”

Sirius hummed, “Maybe Never.”

((2))

Another Sunday brunch with Remus’ parents, another meal sitting back and watching Sirius drone on about him. Remus has already finished eating is sitting with his arms crossed, leaning against the back of his chair and occasionally sipping his tea.

“See, MY husband just submitted his newest work to his editor and so MY husband is taking us on a little vacation to London to celebrate while he waits for edits and feedback. Not that there’ll be much that needs editing, MY—“

“Yes, dear, Your husband. Our son, must you refer to him like that every time, he has a name that we gave him,” Hopes says with a teasing smile. Truthfully she finds it endearing more than anything, but she has to call her son-in-law out on it anyway.

“Yes, I must,” Sirius says matter of factly.

Remus scoffs, “Don’t you think you’ll get sick of it?”

“Maybe Never, so get used to it.”

(((3)))

“So anyway, MY husband loves this recipe. MY husband says it’s the only good think my parents ever gave us, besides me and my brother of course.”

“Sirius, who are you— oh. Hi, instagram,” Remuss says as he sees the phone propped up against a bag of flour.

“Here he is now, MY husband. Say hi everyone.”

The comments flood with greetings as Sirius continues on baking away. Remus walks up to him for a brief kiss.

“Will you ever even consider stopping referring to me so formally?”

Sirius smiles ear to ear, “Maybe Never.”

(+1)

Remus stands beside Sirius at the art gallery opening, glass of champagne in hand and smiling politely at whoever comes by to talk to Sirius about his art. Currently, some gentleman is talking about considering buying some art for his office, something about sprucing up the family practice.

“Well,” Remus interjects during a brief lull in the conversation, “MY husband, I’m sure, would also be more than happy to do some commission pieces for you too, if there is a theme you have or if you wanted something relating to… teeth? Dentistry, correct?”

“Yes, yes, that’s correct. You think that would be something he— you could do?” The man looks from Remus to Sirius.

“Absolutely, MY husband loves the opportunity to create things especially for patrons. I’ll take a business card if you have one and have MY husband reach out later this week.”

“Yes, I will contact you and we can discuss what you might have in mind for the pieces,” Sirius says, extending a hand to shake before turning to Remus as the man wanders away. “Really? MY husband?”

“How’s it feel?” Remus asks with a smirk.

“Will you ever not tease me? I just like calling you mine.”

“Will I? Maybe Never,” Remus whispers as he leans in for a kiss.

#rscandyhearts #wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black #in my defense my account got deleted and it took actual MONTHS to get it back and i lost the draft but then i re wrote by hand and ta da #maybe never #thank you again for doing this fest it was one of my first ever and still love it its so cute

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nerves-nebula · 1 year

Note

Trigger warning for Donnie’s suicide note!

—

Leo finds out last.

She’s at the apartment, unloading the groceries she’d just gotten home from buying. They had a bit of excess food money this month, so she’d splurged and bought some special treats for herself and her brothers. She knew Mikey loved those gross sticky gummy candies, so she’d bought a huge family size pack of them just for him. Raph tended to forget to eat when he was in a hurry, so she’d picked up some meal supplement bars that she’d make sure to sneak into his backpack. Donnie, she’d spent some extra time thinking about. His texture issues made buying food for him harder, but she’d eventually settled on a box of water flavor packets that had some great nutritional stuff in it. Hopefully Donnie would like it, and if not she would just dare Raph to drink the packets raw.

She didn’t hear her phone ring from the table, too busy with her task. She couldn’t the stuff that needed to be refrigerated go bad.

As she finished she gave a twirl, feeling free in her new dress. Of all people, Casey had found it for her! It had tons of ruffles in the skirt that made it super poofy and felt so soft against her skin.

She took out the recycling while she was at it.

When she got back to the apartment it took her an extra ten minutes to remember where she’d put down her phone. When she finally found it anxiety spiked in her chest.

Fifteen missed calls.

Thirty-two texts from Mikey.

Ten texts from Raph.

Forty-six texts from April.

Seven texts from Casey.

One text from Donnie.

She opened the backlog.

Donathan💜👓: Hey, I left something on your bedside table. Grab it when you can, okay? Love you.

She frowned. The message was weird. She could count the number of times they’d texted “I love you” on one hand, and she only had three fingers! She made her way towards her room as she went and opened up the rest of the messages.

Sewer Bigfoot🏒: dude call raph

Sewer Bigfoot🏒: smthn bad happened with don

Sewer Bigfoot🏒: pls answer ur phone man

Sewer Bigfoot🏒: raph needs u 2 get all dons paperwork stuff

Sewer Bigfoot🏒: were at the hidden city main hospital

Sewer Bigfoot🏒: call when you can

Sewer Bigfoot🏒: im so sorry

Alright, now she was getting scared. She got to her room and immediately found what Donnie had left. A piece of paper, folded in perfect thirds. She had bought him this cardstock for Christmas. He only used it for things he thought were of the utmost importance.

“Leonardo,

I want to apologize to you. We made a promise to each other, a goofy promise, but a promise nonetheless. I’m going to break that promise.

I’m really proud of how you’ve grown. You’ve become one of my favorite people in the world, despite everything. You are strong and brave and you’ve learned how to love with your whole heart. I know you’ll grow and do amazing things.

Mikey and Raph have grown, too. Mikey’s art is going to take off in the Hidden City, I just know it, and Raph has the potential to do anything he sets his mind to. Gosh, I sound like I kindergarten teacher, but it’s true. I couldn’t be more proud of my family.

But I’m holding you back. I haven’t grown. If anything, I’m regressing. I can’t see a future for me where I do anything but hurt or hinder you, and I never want to do that. I want you to be free to live without the restraint of caring for a useless burden of a brother.

So I’m taking myself out of the equation.

I know it’s unfair of me to ask you to understand my reasoning. I know its unfair to ask you not to be sad or to not grieve.

I just hope one day you’ll understand.

Please don’t follow me.

Your brother always,

Donatello.”

Leo called Raph.

——

Yay! If you like it I’ll write everyone else’s perspectives, too.

-Monster Anon

*in tears* UM. OW???? I'M SUPPOSED TO BE THE ONE MANIACALLY CACKLING WHILE THROWING ANGST AT YOU GUYS??? WhaT thE Hell??

anyway I was thinking of how donnie would try to kill himself and I thought of him and his brothers joking around and Leo being like "Remember when you got so upset you turned yourself into a monster for like a week??" and Donnie laughing and saying "Yeah, b-b-but in my defense I've l-learned from my p-past! I only drink p-poison when I know ex-exactly what it'll do!" and they all laugh and Donnie is just sitting there like: They Dont Know I'm Going To Mystically Poison Myself :)

#nnstuff #suicide tw #ask #tmnt donnie #teenage mutant neglected turtles #neglected fic #tmnt leo

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junkbbykow · 1 year

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💎🎠🎀 𝒫𝒜𝒞 - 𝒞𝒶𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓇 𝒜𝒹𝓋𝒾𝒸𝑒 & 𝐹𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓃𝒸𝒾𝒶𝓁 𝒰𝓅𝒹𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓈 🎀 🎠💎

Collab with @daarlingdatura! This PAC is all about the current state of your finances and what is coming just around the corner for you love bugs 💐

Visit my newest reading ‘Ur That B*txh’

Please like, reblog, follow me and @daarlingdatura for more 🤑

PILE 1 - Knight of Wands | Queen of Pentacles

Pile by @junkbbykow

There’s obviously something you want. Bad and you are move towards it with speed. Don’t forget your manifestations are already yours and it is okay to rest, have fun, and so on.

Doors are opening and it’s up to you to walk through them! I made a post about this that I think y’all should check out here!

This project ignites passion, spontaneity, and creativity in you that people can only dream of. Like I said before REST and also evaluate the opportunities with the rose tinted glasses off. Rushing into things can have consequences down the line.

With the queen following this energy, this venture is your BABY. Put your love, energy, and time into this, but I don’t need to tell you this. This opportunity is bringing in stability and security which is probably why you’re going so hard for it. Send gratitude out into the universe and share this stability in the present. Being kind and loving always comes back ten fold. But before you nurture others, nurture yourself!

I see this project leading to A LOT of abundance and coming into your power. Y’all are entrepreneurs, artists, or something. You have an incredibly forceful energy and you are busting down doors and making this world (or industry) yours for the taking. Trust yourself. Believe in who you are and what you have to offer.

I pulled a song for you and all I have to say is don’t let people leech off of you or your success. Sometimes people have to do work for themselves in order to reap the benefits. You probably love these individuals but me mindful of needing to create your own abundance and manage it for longevity. ALSO, please reevaluate some of these relationships. They may not be as loving as you think, but that’s for you to decide. Nobody has the power to stop your success you can only give them the power to. (I an OF COURSE not meaning in a systematic oppression way more on a 1:1 basis) Have a mind of matter perspective 🐬

Visit my masterlist for exchange and paid readings 🪩

PILE 2

Pile by @daarlingdatura

There's a lot of information here. It seems like a lot of you have felt overwhelmed and bogged down by your current job or financial situation. Hold on tight though, it's time to start preparing for transition. I see here that although your current situation may feel drab or unlucky there is some kind of abundance hidden amongst it all. It's clear to me some of you can be rather ungrateful for the stability you've developed for yourself, you may forget to appreciate everything you've cultivated. Constantly living from a mindset of lack and disadvantage. When in reality your situation is just going through a change rn. I know the stagnance has been intense, and I feel like some of you could get a job offer from a parent? I'm gonna say really rationally think through if that's healthy for you. Some of you should take the offer and other's shouldn't. Don't put yourself or your livelihood at risk any further. A lot of you may not realize but if you just hold on a little tighter and keep pushing some form of recognition is coming for you. I really do feel like someone could've done work on some of y'alls money and livelihood? If you seem to have horrible luck with money and always be in a situation then it might be time to do an uncrossing and reflect on your relationship with money. Anyways, a lot of you have been feeling a need for public recognition and I do feel it's coming. Whether it be praise for your change in work ethic and taking things more seriously. Or on a more personal level with art and creativity. If you're in hot water at work you may be able to appease to a grandmotherly type figure by taking things on very seriously and just being sure to upkeep a calm home environment. Many of this pile is in big need of personal responsibility and accountability. There's a tendency to blame others or not want to be real with oneself. all in all, know that everything happening right now can and will get better. If you have been the main breadwinner a bit of stress may be relieved off of you. You need to put more energy into recognizing and releasing your flaws so that you can become a better version of yourself. The star popped up in this reading, but it seems like you are lazy and don't really recognize or put energy into this star power. What you may not see for those of you in a relationship is that a continued better attitude towards your connection on both ends will bring in more money, success, comfort, and even artistic recognition. Collaboration may be a key here, someone could end up making a mixtape or album that goes viral or gets very popular under some kind of moniker with their partner.

Okay so the Financial advice part I am going to channel. Please do an uncrossing, because someone is really betting on your financial downfall right now. For some of you it could be the aforementioned parent who wants to give a job offer. If you do this money uncrossing, you may find there is a great amount of hidden abundance and even some lenience popping up for you guys. Many of you may run across an even better job offer or opportunity that pays you properly and is significantly less stressful. It's just really important here for you to put protections around your money, finances, home stability, and relationship.

If you'd like a more personalized look at this situation hit me up for a 15$ branch off reading.

PILE 3 - Chariot | Ten of Cups

Pile by @junkbbykow

Your career or the next level of it is on its way to you! I feel like maybe you feel as if there was a certain inheritance or something you worked extremely hard for that you never received the fruit of your labor for. It was either delayed or something much more abundant than the typical inheritance is going to come to fruition.

You are special and that comes with hardships but also great abundance. I know your tired. Rest, conserve energy so that when the moment strikes and that opportunity knocks on your door, you’ll be ready.

Lmao I just heard a gunshot and it seemed kind of like an off to the race’s energy. You’re in the energy of carboloading, stretching, and mentally preparing yourself for this next race. Be prepared for obstacles but nothing obscene or out of your capabilities 🐅

Remember this is a race, not a chase. What you are manifesting is already yours. You’re waiting on your moment to act on it.

The race leads to HEAVY abundance. You’ll be able to rest and enjoy the the beauty of the universe. Connect with this energy by meditating in nature or reflecting daily on the aspects of your day that brought you joy in peace.

You’re tired I get that but don’t quit when you’re so close spirit is right there with you to make SURE you pass the ‘finish line’ 🍁

You’re going to recognize you have power for a different reason ‘See I’m fiercer now. I got a job. I got an education, and I got someone waiting at home for me gahd damit.’ You hold your power nobody or anything else use it as you see fit babes 🥮

Visit my masterlist for exchange and paid readings 🪩

PILE 4

pile by @daarlingdatura

Hello Pile 4, I'm seeing these are my people who may own their own business or be spiritualists/readers. You're on fire right now, and I see that you've been making a lot of moves and advancements towards a better future. An offer is still coming, many of you may have gotten downloads about this offer or opportunity. It's just on hold for a bit, there are circumstances around you that are kind of creating a situation in which you need to go into hermit mode right now. There could be someone actively trying to meddle with you Pile 4. Many of you could also be drawn to pile 2 or have a partner experiencing what is happening for pile 2. You're being asked to shed what keeps you from bringing n the abundance you're really seeking. The water is hot right now, but by making sure not to share your plans, ideas, motivations, or energy with anyone outside of yourself, your relationship, and your obligations you should be okay. It's important to keep fighting, just have faith in your future and know that you will be okay no matter what. You don't need to do an uncrossing like pile 2. As much as you need to posting nothing personal on socials, up your protection, and if you also relate to pile 2 or your partner gets pile 2 they need to do an uncrossing like seriously badly. Balance is coming, the fruits of your labor are paying off. Don't worry, just keep fighting and pushing.

Try not to give money to other people right now or share money. It's important you hold onto everything you've got. Don't share your finances or your situation with anyone, keep it all extremely private. Consider not even telling anyone in your direct vicinity including partners. You are trying to make something blossom, transmute the shit other people send your way. It's really important that everything is kept private and well put together. You may need to bite off more than you can chew rn to make ends meet. So if that means temporarily lowering prices or coming up with new and improved methods of making money then do that. There is abundance on the other side, I realize you've been hearing this for so long. You just have a few more things to be put in order. I'm sorry it keeps getting delayed pile 4. Best of luck, please keep faith and know that in the end you will be happy and blessed.

Thank you for reading! Please follow @junkbbykow and @daarlingdatura for more :)

#Spotify #witchblr #intuition #beginner witch #astrology #baby witch #witch notes #gratitude #healing #spirit guidance #ancestors #tarot pac #intuition game #intuitive readings #pick a card reading #pick a card #pick a pile reading #pick a picture #pick a number

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theteasetwrites · 2 years

Text

The Beginning Is the End Is the Beginning

Chapter 91: Contingency

❧ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female Reader ❧ Era: Season 11 ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: mild swearing, references to anxiety, generally chaotic/anxiety-inducing situations, pregnancy... ❧ Word Count: 5.7k

❧ In This Chapter: It's been a week since Aaron and Gabriel left to investigate a settlement, and two days since Daryl left with Hornsby and the Commonwealth Army to find them. Now, you're alone, with the kids, and nine months pregnant. It can't get worse, right?

❧ A/N: We're back??? With a new chapter??? Wow. Cool. Crazy. So um we're getting to the end of The Beginning! Or is it? Is there ever really an end? Or a beginning for that matter? These are the existential questions of the series I guess? Idk it's not that deep. Anyway, there is (sadly) no Daryl in this chapter. He's off being a sexy boyboss with great hair and trying to get back to his family to get them out of Commonwealth, but for now, it's Reader (she's basically her own character by now lmao) and the kiddos just hanging out in Commonwealth, trying to stay alive lol. Lots of stuff going on in their world rn, but the priority is, of course, Daryl Jr.

Two days, and no word about what was going on with the soldiers they sent out to investigate the attack at Riverbend. When you’d tried to ask, inquiring about the safety of your husband and brother, you were told that you were on a “need to know” basis. In other words, if you needed to know, they’d tell you.

Hornsby must’ve decided you didn’t need to know, because when you confronted Mercer, he told you the same thing.

The stress of it all was beginning to get to you, more than it ever had before. You swore that even living on the road for six months after you lost the farm was easier than this. Then again, you weren’t about nine months pregnant, taking care of four children, and worrying desperately about Daryl and Aaron, all while outside your apartment, hundreds of Commonwealth citizens protested in front of the City Hall, demanding justice after learning about Sebastian’s schemes. At least you had a roof over your head, and plenty of food.

Food that was burning as you stood staring out the kitchen window, watching the protesters brandishing handmade signs, with the words Find him!, Money for LIVES, and How many more have you killed? You absentmindedly held the ten-year-old amethyst around your neck as you chewed your lip in thought, wondering about nothing and everything.

The people chanted, “We want justice!” over and over and over again. You couldn’t blame them. You’d be out there with them if you weren’t cooking breakfast for the kids.

What’s that burning smell?

“Aunt (Y/N),” Judith’s voice alerted you.

“Hm?”

“The pancakes are burning.”

“Oh!”

You scurried back to the stove, where sure enough your pancakes had been charred beyond edibleness. “Shoot,” you huffed, always mindful not to curse in front of the children. “Sorry.”

The four children, Judith, RJ, Gracie, and, of course, your Robin, were sitting at the circular dining room table, each tending to their own crafts. Judith and RJ were drawing, Gracie worked on her beaded jewelry, and Robin was experimenting with watercolors (Daryl had bought her a new set a few months ago).

As you scooped the burnt, lifeless pancakes into the trash can, Robin stood up to take her water cup and brushes to the sink, where she diligently washed her art supplies. “Mommy,” she said, “when are they coming home?”

You didn’t have to ask, you knew she was referring to her father and her uncle.

The other children’s heads perked up at the question, as if they, too, were very curious about the answer.

“Soon, I’m sure,” you replied, offering them a reassuring smile. It was oh, so tiring to pretend that you weren’t incredibly worried that something had happened to them, but you had to put on a brave face for the young ones, especially Robin and Gracie. “Don’t tell me you like their cooking better.”

Robin shrugged as her lip quirked into a precious little smirk. “No… I like Daddy’s pancakes better, though.”

Daryl could only really make two dishes: blueberry pancakes, and stew with squirrels or possum or some other type of roadkill.

You scruffed up her hair in faux teasing. “Yeah, yeah. I know. I do too.”

The little girl returned to her seat to continue her painting, and just as you were about to prepare another batch of pancake batter, you felt a sharp tightening in your lower belly, which you were reluctant to admit you had been feeling a lot more lately.

You exhaled a sharp hiss as you held your belly instinctively, slightly doubling over. It was the worst cramp you’d felt yet, and it’d only been getting increasingly strong. Of course, you were brushing it aside as Braxton Hicks contractions, but the closer you got to your due date, April twentieth, the more you began to worry. Really, the baby was due to come any day now, though you were too afraid to even acknowledge it. Daryl wasn’t here, and him not being here terrified you. There was no way you were going to have this baby without him holding your hand. It simply couldn’t happen that way. He gave you strength, made you feel safe. Most of all, you knew he’d hate himself if he missed it, seeing his son’s first moments.

“You okay?” asked Judith, while Robin looked wide-eyed and panicked as you winced in pain. “Aunt (Y/N)?”

You shook your head, as if to dismiss the concern. “I’m fine,” you said. “Baby’s just… restless.”

When you lifted your head to calm yourself, you found your eyes drawn to the crowd outside again, particularly to two people, a man and a woman, who were fast-walking through the crowd with a stern, cold determination in their eyes and a harshness in their step. They looked to be heading towards the downstairs entrance to your apartment building, and when you stepped a little closer, you could recognize their faces.

Eugene had told your inner circle about a run-in he’d had with two of Hornsby’s minions. If you remembered correctly, it was them, and you weren’t about to risk anything.

“What’s wrong?” asked Gracie, noticing your face deepen with concern.

“Um… maybe nothing…” Your paranoia got the best of you, and you turned to face the children, trying your hardest not to scare them, though you looked drained of color and slightly wide-eyed. “Okay, we’re gonna play a game.”

Judith furrowed her brows. “Game? But what about breakfast?”

“We’ll have breakfast later,” you said, frantically beginning to clear up the counter. “Right now, we’re gonna play the, um… Quiet Game.”

Judith and RJ hid in the shower, while Gracie hid under your bed. Robin was the last one to hide, while you scrambled to make the place look less lived-in, in case Hornsby’s goons really were after you and the kids. After all, you had quite a bit to do with Connie’s exposé, and you were starting to wonder if Daryl and Aaron were facing problems with the Commonwealth outside the walls. It’d make sense for them to go looking for you and the kids, to ask you questions… Robin didn’t understand that, but she wanted to.

“What’s going on?” she asked, with all the innocence of a six-year-old (almost seven, she would have you know). “Why are we hiding?”

You sighed as you knelt down to hold her hand, looking her sternly in the eyes as you spoke. “I’m not exactly sure, but… I think there might be some people looking for us, some people we’d rather not talk to. Do you understand?”

Her silvery blue eyes blinked rapidly as her mouth gaped slightly in confusion. She was much too precious, much too young to really understand everything that led to this.

You held her shoulders and offered a smile, though it was hard to smile when you began to hear the heavy, fast-paced footsteps coming up the stairs in the hallway.

“Look at me, baby,” you said. “Everything’s gonna be fine, just… listen to me. I need you to hide in that cupboard, the empty one by the fridge. Quiet Game means you gotta try to be as quiet as possible, otherwise you’ll get caught. Like Hide and Seek, but you really don’t want to be found. I’m going to be outside, right on the balcony. I’m too big to hide anywhere in here without getting caught, but if they find you, you make a lot of noise and I’ll help you, okay?”

It was a lot for her to process, but she was a smart child, and obedient. If told to stay quiet, you knew she would, even if she didn’t completely know why. “Okay,” she said with a nod. “What about the baby?”

You looked down to follow her gaze, which was directed at your belly. “He’s fine,” you said, and when you heard those footsteps begin to slow, but come closer, you stood up to quickly open the cabinet and coerce Robin’s small body into the cupboard. “Stay in there until I say the coast is clear, and be quiet.”

Before heading towards the balcony door, you pulled a freshly sharpened butcher knife from the wooden block on the counter, then silently opened and closed the door to hide against the wall on the balcony, waiting.

Soon, you heard a knock at the door, and you were sure your paranoia had paid off. The door opened just a few seconds later, and though you couldn’t see inside the kitchen, you knew they were there. You felt them there, as if your motherly instincts told you your child was frightened, and she was.

Robin’s breath hitched as she peered out through the small crevice between the cabinet doors, allowing her to see the large, bald man walking around the kitchen, while a woman with dark hair entered her bedroom, then Judith and RJ’s bedroom, then the master bedroom, then the bathroom…

The man stayed in the kitchen, though, his presence terrifying the young child, though he seemed to not know she was just a few feet away from him, cowering in the cabinet.

Memories floated to the surface, invoking that same feeling of dread as when she’d hidden herself in that secret compartment within her closet back at home, while the evil giant in the dead man’s mask who still haunted her dreams a year later lumbered around her bedroom, looking for her.

When she felt a lump begin to form in her throat, and a whimper about to release from her lips, she cupped both hands over her mouth to silence herself. The man came closer, though, examining the fridge, upon which were several drawings, paintings, and photographs that had been collected by your family the last seven or eight months.

There was one that had been taken at the Autumn festival, with you, Robin, RJ, and Judith in your costumes, and Daryl dressed as he normally did, but a sweet, soft grin upon his face as he held Robin’s hand, who held yours, too. His other hand rested on Judith’s shoulder, and yours on RJ’s, with your belly much smaller than it was now. Carol had taken the photo, and when it developed, you were almost tempted to make holiday greeting cards, though you knew that kind of thing was both unnecessary and slightly annoying. In any case, it belonged on your fridge, until the bald man took it, and stuffed it in his pocket.

He moved away from the fridge then, allowing Robin to silently release her breath as a small tear trickled down her cheek.

The woman soon emerged from the hallway. “It’s empty,” she said. “Are you sure he didn’t say anything else?”

“Dixon was the only name that came through,” the man replied, sending a fresh wave of panic through the youngest Dixon’s chest.

She watched the woman cross the kitchen to peer out the glass door leading to the balcony, and for a moment, Robin feared that the woman would open it, though if she knew her mother well enough, she figured that woman would be in big trouble if she did open the door and find you.

Indeed, you held your knife close to your chest, blade pointed upwards and ready to strike if the woman came outside.

There was silence for a while, when the woman crossed back over to the dining room table where Robin and the other children had been sitting just minutes ago.

She investigated the assortment of craft materials splayed out on the table, and spoke once more before they left: “Let’s check the school.”

When you heard the door close, and waited a few moments in silence, you quickly returned to the kitchen to open the cabinet, ushering Robin out. “Come on,” you said, still trying to be quiet. “We’re leaving.”

To where, you weren’t exactly sure, but you had friends here, so surely someone from Alexandria would take you in. One thing was certain, you weren’t going to leave the Commonwealth, not with your baby so close to his due date.

You retrieved the other kids, and instructed them to pack their school backpacks for the day. Whatever was going on, you didn’t like the sound of what the man had said, about the name “Dixon.” It seemed as though you were wanted, by Hornsby.

When the kids were prepared, you slung your purse over your shoulder and picked up the emergency hospital bag Daryl had meticulously put together (intending to be even more prepared this time when the baby would come). You turned to face the curious, confused, and slightly concerned children, then gave them yet another assuring smile. “We’re going on a little adventure today,” you said, in a slightly sing-song voice. They weren’t buying it. They were all too smart.

As you turned to open the front door, you heard more footsteps just outside, and the sound of shifting movements. Great, you thought. We’re America’s Most Wanted.

Your voice turned serious once again. “I need you guys to go back to the bedroom and wait,” you said quietly, gesturing towards Robin’s room. “And don’t come out until I call. Go.”

They each nodded obediently, retreating to Robin’s bedroom.

You swallowed hard, trying to maintain your composure as you prepared to answer the door. This time, though, a familiar voice called out to you from the other side. “(Y/N),” said Carol, whispering rather loudly. “Are you home?”

With a sigh of relief, you slowly opened the door, revealing Carol, and then Jerry behind her. The further you opened the door, the more surprised you became.

Negan’s face showed itself, slightly smirking at you. It was a familiar sight, but not an expected one.

Your brows furrowed as your jaw dropped a little. You hadn’t seen him in… almost a year. Not that you particularly missed him. “Negan?”

He smiled, lifting his hands a little as if to present himself as a gift. “Well, if it isn’t the goddamn Ice Queen herself. How are you, sweetheart?” His eyes immediately trailed to your stomach, where one hand cradled your baby bump. “Ho-ly shit, you’ve been busy.”

The three visitors came inside, with Jerry standing “guard” behind the front door. Though at first you were mostly irritated to see Negan again, he quickly made himself useful, sitting down with you and Carol to inform you about what was going on outside the walls. But of course, the first question you could ask him was, “Daryl and Aaron, are they all right?”

“Depends what you mean by ‘all right.’”

You glowered at Negan, both worried and incredibly annoyed by his Negan-isms. “Now is not the time.”

“They’re alive,” he said. “But they’re being hunted. Maggie and Gabriel are with them, too. What I know is that Hornsby brought Daryl, Aaron, and Gabe to Hilltop with the whole Stormtrooper Squad, and Maggie didn’t, uh… respond well.”

“What exactly happened?” asked Carol.

“Hornsby tried to scare Maggie by interrogating Hershel, so the thought is that he is somehow gonna use the kid to draw her people out.”

“And Daryl wouldn’t let that happen,” you said, understanding your husband’s motivations to turn against Hornsby. “Right?”

“Your man turned an automatic rifle on the bastard and tried to hit him with a car at full speed,” he replied. “I’d say they aren’t exactly on good terms.”

“And that’s why they came here,” figured Carol.

Negan nodded. “Uh huh.”

You thought for a moment, processing the whole thing. “But if Hornsby sent those two,” you said, “that means he’s keeping it under the radar.”

“Which means we might be able to get ahead of them,” Carol added. “And him.” You could see the cogs working in Carol’s mind. She always had a plan, even if they weren’t always the best plans. At least she thought of something. “Jerry, do you still have access to that attic space?”

You looked wide-eyed between Carol and Jerry, not knowing that there was such a thing. “Attic space?” you asked.

“Contingency plan,” replied Jerry. “It’s stocked with supplies, too. No one knows about it. Well, except Carol.”

“Keep the kids there and get word to the others,” instructed Carol. “Tell them to be ready to move on your signal.”

“Get ready for what?” you asked. “I mean, it’s not like we can just… stroll out the front gate.”

“That’s why me and Negan are gonna try to get some insurance,” she replied.

That sounded all fine and dandy, but there were still some things to be discussed. “I hate to sound self-centered,” you said, “but, where exactly do I fit into this plan?”

“Aren’t you pregnant?” asked Negan. “Or are you hiding a watermelon under that dress?”

If you weren’t trying to get along with Negan for the sake of your family and friends, you’d consider telling him off, but there was no time to argue. “I’m pregnant,” you said, “but the kids are my responsibility. If anything happens to them—”

“(Y/N),” said Carol, reaching over to place a hand over yours. “Jerry will take care of the kids… You should stay here. You can’t be running around.”

Indeed, your feet were swollen and aching terribly, and your legs could barely carry you. To get through the crowd undetected, you’d have to be quick on your feet. You weren’t physically able to do that now. Not with a good ten pounds added to your abdomen.

Still, there was that other terrible feeling: loneliness. If Jerry took the kids by himself, you’d be alone, and you were scared. As much as you hated to admit it, after everything you’d been through, being without Daryl, or even Aaron, this far into your pregnancy, when you were sure you were going to go into labor soon, was difficult. You couldn’t say that in front of Carol, though. She was known to be unforgiving and, at times, rather coldhearted, even to you.

“Okay,” you said. “But… Jerry, please don’t let anything happen to them.”

He offered a smile. You trusted him immensely, but he wasn’t you. “Of course.”

You fetched the children from Robin’s room, telling them that they were to go with Uncle Jerry and to listen to everything he said. The other children joined Jerry in the living room, but Robin took a moment to hug you, holding her stuffed white rabbit in one hand as it dangled over your back.

“I love you, sweet pea,” you said, squeezing her tight as you kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you later, once this whole thing outside dies down. Maybe Daddy and Uncle Aaron will be home by then.” You pulled away to smile at her, and to brush her bangs aside. The almost blonde highlights in her wavy, caramel colored hair shone in the sunlight that poured through her bedroom window. She looked so much like her father, especially when you first met him. Her cheeks had that same delicate contour, but she was more youthful, and more perpetually curious looking. You supposed she inherited that from you. “You’re so precious to me,” you said. “You know that?”

She chewed her lip, then lowered her head as she spoke. “I don’t wanna go,” she said. “I wanna stay with you… Daddy told me to take care of you.”

Your eyes widened as you let out a chuckle and a snort. “What? That’s silly, I’m supposed to take care of you.” You poked her belly to elicit a small hiccup from the child. “Dog will take care of me.” You nodded to the sleeping canine, lounging on Robin’s bed.

She shook her head vehemently, with an adorably stern look on her face. The tightness in her lips was uncharacteristic of her, but it was always interesting to see a new side of Robin. “No,” she said, for the first time in her life being particularly disobedient, and stubborn. “I’m not going nowhere. I’m staying with you. That’s what Daddy would want, and that’s what I’m gonna do.”

You tilted your head and sighed. “Robin Elizabeth,” you said, and she knew that when you used her two names, you were serious, “where is this coming from?”

“Dixon’s stay together,” she said, showing you her bracelet, the familiar beads spelling out DIXON. “And you shouldn’t be alone. You and the baby.”

“Robin, I—”

“Almost ready, kiddo?” Negan’s voice interrupted you unintentionally, and Robin smiled at the man, though her eyes remained serious.

“Hi, Negan,” she said, crossing her room to hug him. “Where have you been?”

“Oh, here and there… Hey, you ready to go with Jerry?”

She looked between you and Negan, then firmly stood her ground. Well, as firmly as she could. She still wasn’t quite used to this “rebellious” thing. “I want to stay with my mom,” she said, putting on her grown-up voice she’d recently developed. “I’m not going anywhere without her.”

You shook your head and crossed your arms, unsure of what to do. “She should go with the others,” you said. “It’ll be safer once they get to the attic.”

“Kid, why don’t you let me talk to your mom for a minute?” he asked. “Maybe I can talk some sense into her.”

Negan? Talking sense? Into me?

Robin headed into the living room, and Negan gently shut the door behind her, turning to face you as you sat yourself on the rocking chair by Daryl Jr.’s crib. “She can be stubborn,” you said. “But not like this. She always listens to me. She might… fight it a little, but she listens.”

Negan huffed as he leaned against the wall, his eyes trailing around Robin’s bedroom, then finally landing on you. “She should stay,” he said. “In case…” He gestured with his finger towards your abdomen. “You know.”

“Pfft,” you scoffed. “What is my six-year-old daughter going to do? She’s just a child herself. I need… I need Daryl. I’m so scared. Everything is just… not working out the way I thought it would.”

“How did you think it would go?”

“Well,” you sighed, “I didn’t think Daryl and Aaron would go rogue, but I know they have their reasons. This place isn’t like what we thought it was. Or maybe it’s exactly like what we thought it was… I don’t know. I just… I thought I could have the baby here, and then go back to Alexandria, once everything was fixed. Carry on, like it was before the Whisperers. What I really want is to not be afraid for once. For a while, I guess I wasn’t, but it’s always there. Fear. The older I get, the more I realize that it never goes away, and that we just find more things to be afraid of.”

You felt the baby kick inside you, as he had been doing for a while now, though this one felt stronger than all the others. “Now, this baby… I’m afraid he’s not going to have the life Robin did, and I’m afraid that Robin won’t have that life again, either. I thought… I thought they would be okay. I think I got my hopes up again. I always get my hopes up. God, I’m so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” replied Negan, in that serious tone of his. “You were trying. Trying to live. And, Hell, it’s working. You’ve made it this far.”

“But you said they’re hunting us, hunting our people. Trying to kill them. What kind of life is that? And for this?” You gestured to the air around you. “This place is corrupt. It’s like… everything bad about the old world in one place.”

“Maybe,” agreed Negan. “But what’s important right now is sticking together, and your kid, she’s smart. She knows that. Let her stay with you. Besides, no one can keep her safer than you.”

You laughed and shook your head. “Well, Daryl could… But I would do anything to keep her safe.”

You thought for a moment, stroking your abdomen as you felt another kick, and another, stronger contraction. Negan eyed you worryingly, then stepped closer, kneeling down to face you. “You all right?” he asked.

“Mhm. Fine.”

Negan was suspicious, but he also knew you well enough to know that if you really thought it was bad, you’d say so. “What’s the story?” he asked, nodding towards your stomach.

“What do you think?” you asked. “Do you know how babies are made, Negan? Or is that beyond your comprehension level?”

He chuckled under his breath. “Yeah… You know, I got married.”

You scrunched your face in confusion. “What?”

“Yeah, met a lady out there… Her name’s Annie. She’s with Daryl and the others right now, actually.” He smiled as you continued to stare at him in bewilderment. “What, are you surprised?”

“Frankly, yes. What woman in her right mind would—” His smile began to fade, and though you had no reason to, you felt a little bad. You still hated him, but you felt bad. Just a little. “I mean, um… I am a little surprised, yes. You don’t… seem like the marrying type.” That was a nicer way to say what you were really thinking, which was that any woman who would willingly marry Negan either didn’t know about his past, or knew about it, and was an equally morally bankrupt person.

“Hm, you know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say the Ice Queen is a little jealous.”

Your eyes widened in amusement. “Jealous? Oh, please, don’t make me laugh. I’m nine months pregnant, my bladder can’t take it.”

“Oh,” he said, standing back on his feet, “that reminds me, Annie’s pregnant, too.”

You huffed and folded your arms over your belly. “You’re messing with me, right?”

“Nope,” he said, hitting the p sound especially hard. “Not as far along as you, but she’s got a bun in the oven.”

You tilted your head and glared slightly at him. “Is this information supposed to make me like you or something? Some kind of… Negan redemption arc?”

He only chuckled, then turned to leave Robin’s room. “You gonna be okay, you and her, and the baby?”

“Fine,” you said. “Daryl Jr. isn’t coming out today. I won’t let him.”

Famous last words.

Robin sat upon the window seat in her bedroom, looking out to keep an eye out for Jerry and her “cousins” as he led them through the crowd. The protests continued, with chaos remaining mostly under control, which soothed your anxiety just a little as you worried about the children.

Wherever Negan and Carol were, you hoped they were getting the information they needed to intercept Hornsby and his men and get Daryl, Aaron, and the others back home. Meanwhile, you just had to stay vigilant, hoping no more goons showed up at your door to question you.

At least you got to stay home, keeping watch at the living room window, and trying not to worry too much about the increasing strength and decreasing intervals of your contractions.

Dog sat curled up on the couch, keeping an eye on you, as if Daryl had instructed the canine to keep you safe, too. You wouldn’t be surprised if he had. “What are you looking at?” you asked him. “I’m fine.”

You weren’t fine.

Not long after that, you felt a much larger contraction, one that had you completely doubled over as you dropped your binoculars on the hardwood floor. “Oh, God!” you cried out, now kneeling on the floor, already tearing up from the pain. Your hand reached out to grab the edge of the couch as Dog jumped up to stand by your side, his nose nudging you repeatedly. The canine began to whine loudly, and soon Robin was hurriedly approaching, eyes wide and voice full of panic. “Mommy?” she asked. “Mommy, what’s wrong?”

“I…” You shook your head vehemently, your speech gone for a moment as you tried to process the pain. “The baby’s coming… The baby’s… definitely, definitely coming.”

The child froze, unsure of what to do. After all, what was she supposed to do? She had no idea how to help you, but she knew about the emergency bag by the door, the one Daryl constantly was adding things to. She scurried across the room to pick up the bag and bring it to you.

“What do I need to do?” she asked frantically.

“H-help me up,” you said, holding out your hand. You felt horrible, having to ask little Robin to help you up, but there wasn’t any other way you could get up, and you needed to get to the hospital. She did what she could, though she was too weak to help you up completely.

Once you stood on your feet, you took the bag from her, and shakily crossed the room to sling your purse over your shoulder. “Come on,” you said breathlessly, realizing you had no choice but to take Robin with you. There was no way you were about to leave her alone. “We’re going to the hospital.”

It was at this moment you desperately wished you still owned a car. You hadn’t driven one in so long you wondered if you even remembered how to drive in the first place, but that didn’t matter—all you could do was walk.

One hand holding your bag, the other holding Robin’s hand, the two of you walked quickly through the protesters, trying to tune out their shouting as you walked.

You were fortunate that the hospital wasn’t too far away, but when the sound of a man’s voice over a megaphone sounded, you stopped in your tracks, keeping Robin close.

“A swarm has been detected five miles out!” he said. “Lockdown has been instituted by order of Governor Pamela Milton. Return to your homes immediately.”

The chanting began to die down, but the citizens still bickered in confusion. “After curfew, anyone found on the streets will be arrested for their own safety.”

He continued speaking, repeating his message, and mentioning something about “the brave Commonwealth Army.” You didn’t care to listen, as you had no other choice but to keep walking in the opposite direction of your home. You came here with the intention of having your baby at a hospital, and that’s what you were going to do.

Robin held your hand tighter as you moved faster, the contractions getting stronger and longer with each passing moment. “Come on, baby,” you said, not wanting to lose her in the chaos. “We’re almost there.”

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“I don’t know… but we need to keep moving.” You tightened your grip and kept her closer as people began to move faster, anxiously returning to their homes. Soon you were swarmed, people everywhere you looked, pushing and shoving as a stampede began to form. “Stay close to me,” you said to Robin, pulling her against your leg. “Stay—”

Another intense, sharp contraction had you doubled over, stopping momentarily as you lost feeling in your legs. You felt the wetness of your water breaking, dripping down your legs underneath your maternity dress. If you had any lingering, hopeful doubts that this was actually labor, they were gone now.

The immense, terrible pain of your contraction forced you to let go of Robin’s hand as you fell to your knees on the concrete sidewalk, with dozens upon dozens of people trampling over each other, and over you, too. You quickly realized you no longer held your child’s hand, and you turned your head frantically to look for her—she was nowhere to be seen.

“Robin!” you cried out, tears flooding your voice as it cracked in desperation. “Oh, God! Robin!”

You tried to stand, but several people had pushed you back down as they stumbled over you in the stampede, of which you were in the middle. Another contraction had you screaming in agony, holding your stomach as you wept, crying out Robin’s name in the ensuing chaos.

“Help!” you finally yelled, no longer able to pretend you could do this alone. “Please! Help me!” It was humiliating, and you felt so weak, but at the same time, what else were you supposed to do?

For a moment, your eyesight became hazy, and your head swayed back and forth deliriously until you began to fall over completely, but when a hand cupped underneath your arm, lifting you up, you came to.

“(Y/N),” huffed Ezekiel. “You all right?”

You shook your head as you tried to make out his face, and when you tried to break free from his grasp, he held you tighter by your arms. “Robin!” you said. “Robin, I can’t find Robin! She was holding my hand, and then…”

Ezekiel noticed the water around your feet, and the stain on your dress. “Your water broke?” he asked, and you could only nod, sobbing as you looked around for Robin.

Soon, you felt another hand on your shoulder—it was Connie, with Kelly by her side, and thank God they were there. Ezekiel’s mind moved at the speed of light as he thought of what to do in the chaos of the moment. “You two get her to the hospital,” he said, making sure Connie read his lips. He turned back to you, making sure you were paying attention to him. “I’m going to find Robin,” he said. “Get to the hospital.”

In your panic, you could only nod and wipe your face of your tears, as Connie and Kelly held your arms and helped direct you towards the hospital, clearing the way through the crowd.

You couldn’t say you were completely conscious, because at times you felt like you had passed out from the pain and the worry and the fear, but your friends kept you stabilized, until the pristine whiteness of the hospital flooded your vision, and soon you felt yourself become horizontal, on a hospital bed, you presumed, if your mind was in any state to make presumptions.

The rest was a blur, a cocktail of profound agony and confusion. Outside, you swore you heard screaming, and something akin to canisters being dropped, but maybe that was your imagination. In any case, at some point you’d passed out, but not before hearing one last thing. It was very faint, fragile, blurred by the heavy beating of your heart.

It was the sound of a baby crying.

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kawaii-angelanne · 1 year

Text

TW/CW: nudity of minors (not sexual!), all characters (except the teacher) are in high school

KEY TAGS: spoiler-free/pre-canon, female reader (afab and themes of womanhood), second pov (reader's pov), meet-cute, fluff, strangers to ???

WORD COUNT: 6202

CROSS POST: ao3

OPENING NOTE: thanks for clicking on this! please do not repost, copy, modify, or overall plagiarize this work anywhere else please. plagiarism is never acceptable, both in mla 8 format and in fanfiction! for translations, message me, and we can talk about it! reblogs, comments, and likes are super appreciated :>

SUMMARY: "'So…' you trail off, shutting the door behind you, 'How should I do this? Do you have a certain pose in mind or…?'

The blue-haired painter (painter-in-training?) turns to you, 'Well, in order to start, it would be best if you began taking off your clothes.'

'E-excuse me!?'"

Or where Kitagawa Yusuke needs a nude model, and you unknowingly sign up.

“Why don’t you just get a job?” your friend, Yanai Toshiko, points out the most obvious solution to your money problem while chewing in one side of her mouth, “It’s pretty easy these days. All you have to do is take a magazine from the job stand in Shibuya Station, look for a job that interests you, and call them up.”

“Right, and,” your other friend, Akagawa Yokkako, takes a moment to swallow her food before continuing, “if you tell them you’re a Kosei High student, they will most definitely hire you.”

“But that’s so much work!” you groan loudly, burying your head in your arms on the table and then lifting your head up high enough to be able to see your friends, “Besides, my brother’s birthday is in a week. I wouldn’t get the money in time even if I got the job.”

“That’s your fault for leaving it to the last minute,” Yanai clicks open the next tier in her bento box, “I don’t understand how you’re still at Kosei with all your procrastination.”

You perk up at this, “Uh, just because I don’t do my work weeks ahead of time like everyone else here doesn’t mean I don’t do well, thank you very much.”

“What’re you even getting your brother that costs so much anyways?” Yokkako finishes the last of the bun she bought from the school store, crumpling the transparent wrapper in between her hands.

“Limited-edition action figure set of this anime he watches,” you drag your chopsticks absentmindedly across your school lunch, depressed from just remembering the price tag.

Yanai admires her octopus hotdogs, her chopsticks holding one in midair, before eating it whole, “Can’t you get him, like, crayons or something?”

You stop swiveling your chopsticks across the pile of rice on your tray at her suggestion, “He’s not six. He’s turning twelve!”

“What’s the difference?” Yokkako snickers behind her hand, earning one smack on the shoulder from you.

“Seriously, guys,” you now resort to hopelessly picking up singular grains of rice with your chopstick, “Do any of you know how I can get cash quick and easy?”

“Well—”

“And legally.”

Yokkako wilters at the last part, her eagerness to tell you to be a cam girl or start selling drugs vanishing in a flash. While she isn’t involved in stuff like that, you knew she would suggest such a thing anyways, which would have annoyed you more.

Yanai nimbles on her chopsticks in thought, “Y’know, on my way to the teacher’s office—I had to drop something off—, I overheard one of the art students asking around for a model. He said he was willing to pay in cash.”

“Really!?” you straighten up from your slumped position, eyes sparkling at the prospect of possibly getting enough money for your brother, “Who? Do you know how much he’s paying? Did anyone say yes?”

“Hmm,” Yanai places her chopsticks down, “I only heard his voice, so I don’t know who he is, sorry. I didn’t stick around long enough to hear everything, so...”

“Ask one of the art teachers!” Yokkako chirps up, “They might know who it is. I think their office is on the…third floor?”

You turn to Yanai for an answer, who nods silently as she focuses on packing up her lunch, and, with her confirmation, you immediately stand up from your chair, “I’m going to go now then! Can’t have anyone taking my precious money! I’ll see you guys later!”

Dashing off, you try not to bump into unsuspecting students, spitting sorries when you do. You’re going to find this art student no matter what!

“Oh, right, I heard Kitagawa asking one of my other students to be his model yesterday,” the first art teacher you encountered answers, “She said she was too busy.”

Still catching your breath from sprinting up three flights of stairs, you stare blankly at her. Her answer as to who was asking for a model was hardly an answer. For all you know, there could be tens of Kitagawas in this school (it would be funny if they were all in the same art class too). Also, why did she talk more about the person he asked? She isn’t your main concern.

She returns to her work, so you press the subject further, “Kitagawa…?”

“You don’t know?” she makes the effort to turn her chair to face you completely, “Kitagawa Yusuke? He’s one of Madarame’s students.”

“Who?”

“Madarame, the artist?”

When you shake your head, she gapes at you but immediately pulls herself together, “Never mind. What do you need Kitagawa for anyways?”

“I was hoping to ask him if I could be his model,” you don’t bother to explain all the itty bitty details about how you desperately need the cash; she doesn’t need to know that.

The teacher squints at the grid paper taped on the wall in front of her, “I have him next, so I can ask for you. I’ll email you what he says. What’s your name? Include your first name as well, so I know what email to use.”

After telling her your name, she writes it down on a blank notepad, and you thank her for the help before leaving. At least you don’t have to track down this Kitagawa Yusuke.

You slide the door open and then close. Checking your watch, you yelp at the time. Class on the fifth floor is starting in three minutes, and you don’t even have your bag!

“Crap, crap, crap!” you repeat under your breath and push your legs to move faster, brisk walk accelerating to a full-out run.

As you make an abrupt turn around the corner to the downstairs, you harshly crash into someone. You shut your eyes, groaning when you make contact with the ground. Still reeling from the fall, you see the obstacle you bumped into, who is somehow gracefully sitting upon the linoleum floor.

“Pretty boy…” the words flow out of your mouth without a second thought, and your hand slaps itself over your mouth.

But really, is there anyone who wouldn’t have the same reaction? Navy blue hair framing the boy’s cheeks so perfectly and shining like it belongs in a shampoo commercial. The lack of blazer all students have to wear with their uniform revealing his lissome frame. The longest eyelashes you’ve ever seen. The most luscious lips—.

“Are you okay?”

At his words, you cease your shameless ogling, “Y-yes! S-sorry, are you okay? I should have been watching where I was going!”

“I’m quite alright, thank you,” he gets up from the floor, brushing one stray hair away from his face, “Do be careful though. It would not be safe to bump into anyone else like that.”

Before you can retort, you remember why you were in such a rush earlier and rise to your feet, “Oh god, I’m really going to be late now! Again, sorry, but gotta blast!”

You abandon him and take off at the same speed as before. Screw getting your bag; you can just ask Yukkako for paper and a pencil.

Your mind races back to the slender guy you bumped into as you scurry up the stairs. You’ve never met him before. However, you don’t think your paths will cross any time soon. It’s been a month since school started, but you haven’t seen him in any of your classes. Besides, he’s too…graceful. And pretty! Definitely not your crowd.

The bell rings once you reach the fifth floor, and you frantically scramble to the classroom door. You practically fall through the back door. Somehow, no one but Yukkako notices your tumble in and waves her hand rapidly. The teacher strides in the front door the moment you sit down, and you breathe out a sigh of relief.

The moment you step foot in your dorm room, you toss your bag to a corner of the room and launch yourself into the comfort of your bed. Thank god your roommate isn’t here right now. As always, a day spent at the illustrious Kosei High deserves a nap.

Too exhausted to take off your uniform, you snuggle on the top of your bed (also too exhausted to get inside the blankets). Closing your eyes, you feel yourself hazing out of reality and into the wondrous land of slumber.

Ding!

Your eyes snap open, tranquility gone and irritation kicked in. When you reach down into one of your pockets, you pull out the rectangular device. The brightness burns, and you don’t hesitate to lower it.

When you read the subject, “Art Model Information”, you sit up from your bed like a vampire from their coffin. Unlocking your phone, you hastily scan the message.

“‘I asked Kitagawa…need to go to Madarame’s studio tomorrow…might let you model!?’ I’m not even hired!?”

You almost throw the phone down on the mattress out of frustration, sleep disturbed for this. You have to travel to his place and aren’t even guaranteed the job? What if you travel for nothing? That would be a waste of a good subway fee!

To calm yourself, you take a deep breath and release it with most of your annoyance. There aren’t any better options, so what choice do you have?

Scrolling down the email, you find the address of this “Madarame’s studio”—you still don’t know who Madarame is—and copy it to paste into your navigation app.

Your finger repeatedly jams the doorbell as you cower underneath the veranda too small to properly cover anyone. Even though the forecast reported no rain, it began to downpour mere minutes ago with no relent in sight. Fortunately, you had a jacket to drape over your head, but it’s not going to hold for much longer at this rate.

“Oh, come on, answer the door already!” you whine.

You pressed the button just once when you first arrived, but, the longer you went on without a response, the more fervent your pressing became. Maybe you should be more patient. However, how good would a drenched model be? You need to get in soon, or else.

Before you resort to holding down the buzzer, a voice slices through the heavy rainfall, “Who is it? If it’s Sensei you want, he’s not here.”

You pause briefly at the strange familiarity of the voice before answering, “Hi, I’m from Kosei High! I don’t know her name, but one of your teachers told you about me? It’s raining pretty heavy out here, so, if you could let me in, that’d be great!”

“One moment.”

The transceiver disconnects. Footsteps approach behind the door, and the voice’s speaker unlocks it. You can’t help but gasp when the door opens to reveal who was talking to you.

The pretty boy you bumped into yesterday!

“It’s you!”

“It’s you…”

You’re too stunned to move, despite the rain pouring (partially) on you. So, this is Kitagawa Yusuke? You even said yesterday that your paths wouldn’t cross any time soon! What’re the odds?!

“...Will you be coming inside or…?” Pretty Boy, now identified as Kitagawa Yusuke, raises an elegant brow while stepping to the side to let you through.

“Oh! Yeah, sorry!” you step inside and take off the jacket on your head, “I just didn’t think that you’re Kitagawa! Crazy coincidence, right?”

“Indeed, this truly is a trick of fate…”

“‘Trick?’”

What did he mean by that?

Kitagawa doesn’t answer you and immediately begins to circle around you. He mumbles to himself, too incoherent for you to understand. The longer this goes on, the antsier you get. It’s as if you’re being picked apart with his eyes punctuated by those sharp lashes.

It’s not exactly the most comfortable experience.

Before you can ask him if something is wrong, he returns in front of you, done observing you like an abstract work of art, “I suppose you will do for now. Normally, I would try to find a more inspiring subject, but I cannot afford to on such time constraints. Do not worry about taking your shoes off, and, please, follow me.”

Your eye twitches at his slightly objectifying attitude, but you follow him anyway. Before leaving, though, you wring out your soaked jacket directly over the poor excuse of a doormat. Seeing the water permeate fills you with mischievous satisfaction. Seeing how far away he was, you run over to catch up.

It doesn’t take long for you two to enter a small studio room. Towards the backend of the room there’s a window to let natural light in. However, there isn’t exactly a lot of “natural light” shining through due to the storm. The ceiling light seems to provide just enough lighting, some darkness accumulating in the corner.

Various painting and sketching supplies are shelved in the back of the room as well. Three stools are pushed to the side. One stool sits in the middle, and an easel without its canvas in front of it.

Kitagawa goes ahead of you to set up, and you stand awkwardly by the doorway with your jacket over your arms.

“So…” you trail off, shutting the door behind you, “How should I do this? Do you have a certain pose in mind or…?”

The blue-haired painter (painter-in-training?) turns to you, “Well, in order to start, it would be best if you began taking off your clothes.”

“E-excuse me!?” you almost drop the jacket onto the wooden floor from pure shock.

No…is this a nude modeling gig!? Even though themes of nudity happen to make up a majority of famous paintings, you never even considered this would be the case. You’re also a high school student, just like him! Is this even legal?

“Were you unaware that you would be modeling nude?” he strokes his chin, clearly confused, “I made sure to specify that to the teacher though…”

You gulp. Maybe you should have read the email entirely…

“You are more than welcome to leave if you do not wish to do this anymore,” Kitagawa already makes moves to clear up shop, disappointed and…annoyed(?) at this turn of events, “However, if it comforts you, I have absolutely no interest in your naked figure. I am purely doing this for art. I assure you I have no ulterior motives other than painting another piece of work for Sensei.”

“Uh, w-well,” you fidget about, not completely unswayed by his words (even though you should be!), “h-how much will you be paying?”

“Did the teacher not tell you that either?” his brows furrow even more (you really should have read the email entirely), “It might not be much, but, when we finish, I will pay you about one hundred and fifty thousand yen.”

One hundred and fifty thousand!? That would cover your brother’s birthday gift and still leave you some cash to spend! All of that for modeling? Granted, you’ll be naked, but it would totally be worth it!

Wait. Jeez, are you really that desperate for money that you’ll strip for some guy you just met? …No, no, that isn’t the case here! You’re contributing to the art world! So what if you’re in the nude? If this painting is a hit, you’ll be famous, have money, and make your brother happy for this birthday. Well, secretly famous. You don’t want this spreading around, especially to your parents.

“I’ll do it,” you declare despite your heart beating wildly at what you’re committing to, “B-but on one condition! I won’t be officially associated with this. I don’t want people to know that you painted me…naked. So, I don’t want to see my name anywhere near this, got it?!”

“You have my word, thank you,” he softens his curt tone in gratitude, and his lips even curve into a small, pleasant smile.

Your heart stutters for a moment at the unexpected nicety. While Kitagawa hasn’t been outright scornful, you couldn’t help but feel iced out at first.

“Do not mind me as you undress,” his back faces you out of consideration, “I will prepare in the meanwhile. Let me know when you are ready.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Even though his back is already turned to you, you turn your back to him as well for added protection. Well, it would only be your rear side instead of your front side he would see if he turned around (if he does, you’re leaving without a second thought!). When getting ready for today, you opted for a comfortable but still nice outfit rather than your uniform. Had you known you would be modeling naked, you would have just come in sweatpants and a hoodie.

Sitting on the stool, you first remove your shoes. You strip out of your clothes one by one, stacking them into a messy pile on the stool closest to you. Your hands pause at your undergarments. As the room’s chill travels across your skin, goosebumps prickle your skin.

You take a deep breath.

One.

Two.

Three!

You unclasp your bra.

Another deep breath.

One.

Two.

Three!

You push down your underwear.

Adding the two articles to the unorganized mountain of clothes, which had somehow not collapsed yet, you turn around to face Kitagawa. Your hands wrap around your torso, insecurity trickling in like water from a sōzu. Now that you’re actually naked, you don’t feel as confident as you did before when you agreed.

Still, you don’t want to back out now, not after you’ve gone through the process of taking off your clothes. Ugh, you better like that gift, Hanzu!

“Is everything all right?” Kitagawa asks, back still to you.

“Y-yep!” you breathe deeply again to steel your nerves, “I-I’m all ready now!”

He turns around, seeing your naked body for the first time. Despite that, his insouciant expression doesn’t change. He merely clutches his chin between his fingers again; you could almost see the cogwheels turning inside his mind. His ever-observant gaze causes you to cover yourself up even more, your hands sliding up more and legs gradually crossing over each other.

“Stop right there,” he commands with such purpose it freezes you into submission, “This heightened vulnerability and bareness… It perfectly encapsulates both innocence and womanhood at the same time! To think that you would be able to deliver such a concept… Yes, I can work with this. How foolish of me to doubt fate earlier.”

“Th-thanks?” you’re not sure whether you should be pleased or creeped out or if that even sounded like you.

“Please, remain still for now,” he sits at the easel, pencil in hand.

“Sure thing…” you search for an interesting crack in the wall to distract yourself with. With the state of the place, there are plenty of cracks to choose from, which means plenty of story material.

You’re unsure how much time has passed. All has been quiet save for your breathing and Kitagawa’s sketching. Since the session started, you’ve gotten more comfortable. Not completely, but definitely better than before!

However, you now face a new dilemma.

As you learned in psychology class, your brain requires stimulation. When it’s not getting stimulated, like right now, the urge to do something eats away at you like an annoying parasite. And it’s definitely not helping that you’ve been standing the entire time! But Kitagawa told you to stay still. You may have just met him today, but you feel that disobeying an artist’s orders, especially one as passionate as Kitagawa—that’s the impression you get anyway—is just as bad as waking a sleepwalker.

If you can’t move your body, you can at least move something else.

“So, how’s the drawing going?”

His hand falters in the line he was sketching out. With a sigh, he quickly erases it before redrawing. You quietly wince, not intending to irritate him. Maybe you should have realized that talking to him would have snapped him out of his artistic mojo.

He continues to sketch your figure, eyes flickering to you and then the canvas. The silence is even louder, and you’re too ashamed to ask again. Is there perhaps another crack you already didn’t make a story for?

“The sketch is almost finished,” he finally speaks, and you almost relax completely at an answer despite not wearing any clothes, “Sorry, I understand modeling for a painting can be difficult. Would you like to take a short break? I completed the part I was working on and can afford to pause now.”

A break? You thought he would reprimand you for speaking, but that was oddly considerate of him. Well, not like he hasn’t been, but…

“How close are you to finishing? Because, if it’s not too long, then I can handle it.”

He surveys his drawing, “Fifteen minutes should be sufficient enough.”

“Then we can continue, no worries,” you adjust your position to its original state.

“You have my thanks,” he nods and even flashes a gentle smile before resuming the sketch.

After a few more soft pencil scratchings and a few more riveting narratives of the Cracken terrorizing the town with no end in sight, Kitagawa picks up the small, deformed eraser and rubs it strongly against the canvas. His effaces become more and more frequent until he slumps over completely. Despair and hopelessness radiates from him.

“Uh, Kitagawa? Everything all right?” you make it your best effort to not move while also straining to get a better look at him from behind the easel.

“Something’s not right,” he lifts only his head to meet your eyes, “For some unknown reason, I cannot properly draw this last piece. Perhaps it’s the angle of your legs? Or maybe your arms?”

“I swear I didn’t move at all! Not even an inch!” you prepare yourself for a scolding, even though you are one hundred percent certain you didn’t move your legs at all no matter how badly you wanted to.

“I never said you did,” his expression shows no irritation, but his words still cut into you like the crack in the wall, “Allow me to think on this for a moment.”

Mumbling unintelligibly to himself, he pinches his chin between his fingers as his eyes scrutinize you once more like they had in the beginning. You immediately avert your gaze to the other side of the wall. Is it like an artist thing, or does he have this innate ability to pick you apart with his eyes alone?

“That’s it!” he sits up again with such a fervency it almost inspires you to do the same, “Please cross your left leg thirty degrees more inward.”

“D-degrees?”

With hesitant estimation—what exactly is thirty degrees?—you slowly slide your left leg.

“No, apologies, I meant your right leg.”

At his new orders, you, silent and compliant, move your right leg back to where it was originally and repeat what you did earlier to your left leg this time.

“A bit more, please, and point your right foot as well.”

You struggle to maintain your balance at the new position. Praying he doesn't make you do this for much longer, you attempt to keep the shaking to a minimum.

He tuts his disapproval, and your obedience slowly transitions into annoyance.

“Could you curve your foot a little more?”

“Please lower your right leg a little.”

“...Try moving your left leg outward.”

“No, move it back.”

“Why don’t you just do it for me then!?” you practically yell out, frustrated from having to adjust your already-sore limbs every second.

“Good idea, it would save us precious time,” he stands up straight from his seat with such poise and grace, it sends shivers down your spine.

“W-wait a minute, you’re coming over here?” your arms hug you tighter as an unsettling realization crawls on your back.

Not only is Kitagawa going to be extremely up close and personal, but he’s also going to put his hands all over your arms and legs and bend them at impossible angles!

He pauses in his steps with confusion scrawled all over his features, “Yes? Is that not what you asked?”

“W-well, it is, but…but I’m naked!” you state as if it’s the obvious reason (because it is the obvious reason).

“But you have been for the past hour or so,” he raises an eyebrow in even deeper confusion, “What makes now so different?”

“I’m naked,” you strongly emphasize the word “naked” as if Kitagawa somehow did not see an issue in the concept, “I don’t know about you, Kitagawa, but I am not comfortable with you putting your grubby mitts on me as you spread my legs and whatnot. It’s already enough that I’m modeling naked for you!”

“Spread your legs? Why would I ever—?” he stops mid-sentence, finally understanding what you were trying to get at, and his pale cheeks flush red, as if dragged from the center to the red side of the color wheel, “O-oh, I-I see…”

With a clearing of his throat, he continues, “My apologies for being so oblivious to your concerns. However, you currently seem to be incapable of properly executing what I envision for this painting. What to do…?”

Ain’t no way is he touching you! There has to be another way!

“M-maybe!” you interject before he decides that A) you’re not a fit model for him anymore and thus denied the pay you were promised or B) there is no other choice but for him to treat you as if you are nothing more than a wooden lay figure, “Maybe you can…pose like how you want me to? And then I can…mirror it? Yeah? How’s that?”

He stares blankly at you, and, as if a three-second timer went off, he livens back up, “What a splendid idea! Please do your best to imitate me.”

After adjusting his stance to better match yours, he first, as asked of you before, moves his left leg slightly higher to the crux where his legs crossed over. Oh, so that’s what thirty degrees are. Then, with a shift of his torso, he freezes with his eyes intently on you, silently commanding you to imitate him. You immediately follow suit, dumbfounded at how easy it was to copy him when you had failed multiple times.

“Perfect, now please stay like that for just a moment more,” he returns to his stool behind the canvas, pencil already in hand.

You sigh with relief, having successfully escaped any more torment, and focus back on doing what you were hired to do.

This time, instead of continuing to mentally write fanfiction between the crack on the left side of the wall and the crack on the right side of the wall—a true Shakespearean tragedy split by the great schism in the middle—, you find yourself staring at Kitagawa. Since you’re barely a meter away from him, you can see him up close for much longer than yesterday.

He’s so focused. His dark-blue eyes would unblinkingly scan across the canvas as his pencil dragged across the surface. Somehow, a mere glimpse to you can provide enough material to last him minutes of drawing. While his extremely hunched-over posture is left to be desired, his zeal clearly shows with how much he’s leaning in. Any further, and his nose would be touching the canvas!

You also take the time to comment (mentally, of course) on the strange seventy-thirty hair split he has going on. When it comes to parting hair, most go for a twenty-eighty or thirty-seventy split. However, he went the other way and managed to make it look as charming as ever. Even now, side parts aren’t the latest in style, but anyone who saw him would strongly disagree. Somehow, the right side of his hair perfectly frames his cheek. Yes, he has to push a strand or two out of the way every now and then. But, for the majority, it stays perfectly still, coiffed with enough curvature to not appear so limp.

Urgh, he’s a pretty boy in every sense of the word!

After some back and forth from behind the easel to you, the saccades shorter and shorter each time, his eyes then shift to your own. At the sudden eye contact, you flinch, caught red-handed.

“Is something the matter? You’ve been staring at me for quite some time,” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“O-oh, it’s nothing!” you laugh awkwardly, trying to act as if you weren’t staring at him for the past couple of minutes, “I-I was just zoning out, haha! Don’t mind me!”

He accepts your excuse without a second thought (is he really that gullible?), “Well, I am just about done with the sketch. All that is left is to paint it. I greatly appreciate your service and—.”

“Ooo! Can I see?” you jump up from the wooden stool and bounce over to see what he was drawing for the past hour.

Kitagawa immediately stiffens at your close proximity, but you’re too enraptured with what’s before you.

When people meet you, there are some words that easily come to mind: rambunctious, tomboyish, immature, incorrigible. However, you don’t see any hint of that in Kitagawa's depiction of you. You see exactly what he raved about earlier: vulnerability, innocence, and womanhood. How was he able to illustrate you in such a way so different from how most characterize you despite only formally meeting you today?

You also can’t imagine how striking the painting will be when finished. Will he use pop, bright colors to imply your teenage youth? Or will he use muted mature shades to highlight a sense of coming-of-age?

A stammered yelp of your last name draws you back into reality.

“Sorry, sorry! This is just so amazing!” you practically squeal while covering your mouth with your hands, “I can’t believe someone so talented is my age! Can I take a picture? Whoa, this is so cool!”

“I-I thank you for your kind words,” he avoids your gaze, finding the floor most intriguing, “You can take a picture. Please be sure not to post it anywhere should someone come across it and choose to plagiarize my work.”

“Got it!” you hum all happy, ego also inflated from being drawn so well and so beautifully.

Instead of answering, he fully turns his body away from you. You move to his side to find a faint dusting of pink across his nose and the top of his cheeks.

“Hey, are you feeling okay? Your face is kind of red, and—.”

“I’m f-fine,” he clears his throat and shakes his head, all while still concentrating on the weathered floor, “I-I would greatly appreciate it if you can get dressed, though, so I can pay you for your services.”

You look down at yourself, suddenly remembering that you were indeed not wearing clothes, and feel your body heat up from embarrassment, the slightly-cold draft in the room be damned. Your face is as red as a tomato, and your ears are tipped in a similar shade. Squeaking out an apology, you hastily move to the pile of clothes on the chair and fumble through putting them on, too flustered to do so calmly.

Right as you slip on the last of your shoes, you snatch your phone out of your pocket to take a quick snapshot of Kitagawa’s drawing. Up from his stool but still with his back turned to you, he busies himself with something in the furthest corner.

With the press of a button, his sketch is saved on your phone. You observe it on the digital screen, but, even then, it doesn’t even compare to the actual artwork. Well, digital copies never amount to the original anyways.

Pinching in and out of the photo to pick out the finer details, Kitagawa approaches you with a thick, money envelope in his hand, “Here is one hundred and fifty thousand yen, as previously agreed upon. I once again thank you for being my model. You truly brought the perspective I needed for this painting. Don’t worry, I intend to bring this painting the beauty it wholly deserves.”

“Oh, thanks…” your heart skips a beat at his words, moved at his dedication.

With two hands and a slight bow, you accept the money from Kitagawa, who then moves to clean up his supplies. As you stare at it in your hand, unease settles in your stomach.

Was this really going to be the last time you saw him? You don’t share any classes with him. Hell, you never even knew the guy existed until yesterday!

You can’t place your finger on why, but you want to get to know him more. Was it because of his formal speaking mannerisms? His talent? His creativity? His pretty boy appearance (you most certainly didn’t forget that)?

Clutching the envelope tightly, you stride up to Kitagawa with a surge of unknown need, “H-hey!”

Great start.

He turns around from putting his pencils away with utmost confusion, “...Is something the matter?”

“W-well,” you gulp and spit out your first coherent thought, “I-I wouldn’t mind modeling for you again!”

“...Excuse me?” he looks even more confused, and you panic on how to explain yourself.

“Wh-what I mean is,” you clear your throat to stall for time, “I-I really want to see how you paint this and make sure it’s good! It is a painting of me after all, a-and I can be there as a real-life reference! I can even model again, i-if that’s what you need!”

Stupid, of course it’s going to be good. He already drew you perfectly. Actually painting it shouldn’t prove a problem, especially since he’s taught by Madarame, who you found out last night is actually a super famous artist.

Still, despite your floundering attempts, he appears to strongly consider this proposition, “It would be extremely beneficial if I had my subject with me as I painted… However, I wouldn’t be able to pay you again. Unfortunately, I’m a little low on funds this month.”

“That’s fine!”

“Then, it’s a deal,” he takes out his own phone from his pocket, “Let’s exchange contact information, so I can message you when I begin the painting process. It will most likely be in the next day or so, so please keep your schedule open.”

You mentally do a fist pump, “All righty, do you have LINE or something? I have social media too, if that’s better.”

“I must confess I am not all that interested in what the online world has to offer,” he pulls out his phone from his back pocket, “I also don’t have any messaging apps outside of the one already on your phone, so your phone number would be best.”

Nodding, you exchange phones and open his contacts. You’re astonished at the names that flood his screen. Arita Takemi, Mihara Kurumi, Natsuhiko Nakanohara—wow, both his names start with “N!” That’s kind of cool—, Yoshihisa Haru… The list goes on and on! How does he know this many people? Or keep up with them? You don’t even think you have this many classmates!

Choosing not to ask him about it, you put in your number as a new contact. With the addition of your name, you raise his phone in the air to take a selfie of yourself (with a peace sign, obviously). Handing it back, you take your phone to find his contact only with his full name and phone number.

Well, you didn’t really expect much more than that from him.

“Hmm, it appears the rain has yet to stop,” he checks the time on his phone, “and it’s quite late. My sincere apologies for keeping you here for so long. I would walk you to the station myself, but I need to prepare for Sensei’s return.”

Surely it can’t be that late; you got here around noontime. Checking your phone as well, you quirk a brow at his definition of late.

You jam your phone back into your back pocket, “Um, it’s only a little past 5:30, Kitagawa. I’ll be okay on my own, but I appreciate the thought.”

He doesn’t look convinced and leaves the room, “At least let me get you an umbrella. I won’t be long.”

True to his word, he comes back as quickly as he left with an umbrella too big for only one person.

“Oh, thanks!” you blink at it in your hands, surprised at his offer, before back at him, “Well, I’ll be on my way now, but I’ll return it next time I see you!”

“Farewell,” he waves you off, and you do the same.

Leaving the room and out the front door, you notice how the rain isn’t coming down as hard as before. In fact, it’s such a light drizzle, using an umbrella would be superfluous. Still, you open it up before walking out from underneath the extremely narrow veranda.

Kitagawa Yusuke.

He’s so strange and perhaps a little blunt.

But he’s also far more polite than the rest of your male peers.

You put a little more pep in your step and smile with anticipation for the next time you see him, hopefully sooner rather than later.

ENDING NOTE: i present to you a project months in the making with a huge hiatus in between completion! i thought this would be ready to release to the world a month ago but. i was wrong LOL!

so, for a little context, i have always wanted to play persona 5 ever since it came out six years ago. however, i never got a ps4. THEN! p5royal got announced for switch and other devices, and i pre-ordered it almost immediately. now, it hasn’t been long since it came out, but i just finished up makoto’s palace.

playing this game also reignited my love and worship for the man that is yusuke kitagawa. the amount of screenshots and videos i took during his arc is embarrassing. then, i read a yusuke x reader oneshot at like 2 am (it’s on ao3 titled “Emperor” by deareststars! so good, the friends to lovers in me enjoyed it so much!). i sat up from my bed with such urgency at the lightning strike of inspiration and starting writing this.

this wasn’t written all in one sitting; this took about...3 months, and, with college apps, my progress was quite stifled! i originally wanted to do this sunshine, tomboyish, easygoing reader with a begrudging, “i need you to do my painting (for madarame)” yusuke. so, yes, an enemies to lovers. however, i don’t think it was that enemies. i think it was quite normal LOL. there isn’t a lot of romance in this either. i was rlly struggling on what to tag this because there isn’t romance; this is just like. the start of it all! miniseries? no…probably not LOL. right before i was going to post this, i realized i forgot to include the posing scene. my original thought was for yusuke to actually move your legs to how he desired, but i was like reader wouldn’t like that, and yusuke wouldn’t do it if reader expressed discomfort (and she did so). so. you got that teehee.

tl;dr: this was self-indulgent 101%.

#kitagawa yusuke #kitagawa yusuke x reader #yusuke x reader #yusuke fluff #yusuke oneshot #persona 5 fanfiction #persona 5 #persona 5 royal #《angel writes》#《med shot》

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rewordthis · 4 months

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The struggles of art, are not for everyone.

It’s really not, indeed.

You have to like the process first and foremost.

If when putting the tip of the pencil down onto paper your main thoughts are how you’re bad, how you won’t have any progress, or hope you’ll be as good as those famous artists you follow on here or Twitter, then you’re really doing it wrong.

I’ve been drawing for forever and I still don’t seem to make anything better than before but having an old drawing around always puts things into perspective. I draw because it gives me peace of mind. If it just gives you anxiety then sure, it’s not for you.

And in the end, what I love the most about it is the sensation of my pencil-tip scratching that blank void that a sheet of paper is. Not the prospect of earning likes, a following, or money from it. I have tons of art that’ll never see the light of day for many reasons, that I’m so hang up on the fact that I made it. I was in my best condition when I made those pieces, in the right headspace, I was whole. The muses guided my hands these times, God smiled down on me.

What can I say? I’m a girl of simple things.

But the whole debate about whether AI is a medium for creation or easy theft, has soured my mood.

I do NOT consider AI art when its main ‘reference’ is straight up stealing and plagiarising someone’s sweat and tears. Before feeding it your favourite artist’s (or writer’s) work to mince and chew it up like it’s nothing in order to vomit a halfassed attempt at creation on your part remember this, the artists and writers the works of you used, are real people. They breathe, they eat, they cry. They pour TIME into their works. Time that you do NOT respect. They put feelings into their works. Feelings that you do NOT respect. For some of them, it’s also their main income. Income that you DEVALUE by stealing what is considered a unique trait of their trade!

You will NEVER learn anything nor get better at anything other than stealing that way. Because you haven’t known the value of hard work. The value of putting a chip of your soul into what you make. The value of living inside every work you’ve ever CREATED. You never lost sleep, food, or a piece of your sanity trying to make something from scratch. Trying to make it work. Trying to give birth to something unique.

What pitiful existences really, are those who can’t value someone else’s soul enough to respect it…

Anyway… this is getting heavy for me so I’m not going to rant over this anymore. I just want to say that I’m going to release some basic everyday steps for those who really want to learn drawing to follow on their own. Art takes time. Great writing takes time. It also takes for someone to be happy each time for what they were capable of creating.

That said, let me be clear that these mini exercises aren’t gonna clinch you a job at mappa, nor are they going to teach you proportions or whatever else those tutorials promise you, they’re specific to making you understand how 3D and observation works in order for you to be able to pick the elements you need every time you make a new piece. That’s all!

Progress isn’t jumping from 3yo art to fucking Rembrandt. It’ll suck ass before it even looks remotely decent!

Make sure to have that☝️printed and posted on your wall. That’s an order! *flexes whip*

Ok, I’m kidding, but seriously that’s your only motto from now on if you want to get better.

And now let’s prepare the ground for your exercises.

What you’ll need first is either a normal pencil or a 2mm one. No 0,5’s or whatever… in general NO mechanical pencils. Personally I’d recommend starting with a wooden pencil, though.

A good eraser that doesn’t smudge. It doesn’t matter what colour or brand as long as it erases the graphite well and without too much mess. Remember, NO SMUGES! *Forgot to say, a charcoal eraser will be a good friend, if it’s affordable. (Sorry for forgetting that.)

Now, hardness:

Find your typical hand writing pressure in the table below.

Generally the harder you press, the more difficult to erase. So bigger pressure (aka black marks, scratches etc) is 5.

5 4 3 2 1

2H H HB B 2B

How it works:

If you’re 3 you’ll need:

H: tracing

HB: outline

2B: shading

If you’re a 5 you’ll need:

2H: tracing

H or HB: outline

B: shading

If you’re 1 you’ll need:

HB: tracing

HB or B: outline

2B: shading

If you are 2 or 4 you’ll have to go through trial and error. Sorry. Just keep in mind that depending on where you lean; extremes or average (3), you follow the guidelines above.

For example, I am a hard 5 (if not 5,5 lol) so at some point I resorted working with just 2H and HB. I only ever use B when I need something to be black— which admittedly happens rarely. It’s only a few times you’ll need to depict actual black.

> You generally need a tracing pencil that won’t leave too dark visible marks behind when erased. People 5 and 4 will have to be a little careful though and not scratch the paper but that will come with practice.

> Your outline has to be enough to ‘stain’ the paper so you won’t lose your main sketch. It’s also correction time. Yey!

> Your shading shouldn’t smudge because you’re going to use layers. Yes. Even in traditional art you darken in layers, typically in as light moves as possible and in varying angles until you get the shade you want but that’s for later.

I personally don’t have any specific papers to propose to you (bitch you’re using basic photo-printing A4 papers wth lol). You’ll just need a hard surface, especially my 5 and 4 palls.

Ok, that’s it for today, folks.

Let me also slap a disclaimer here: I am NOT a professional art tutor. I just love art. 🤗

#hazy outlines: an impromptu Saturday art class #art #traditional art #see me trying to help people actually learn to draw properly…#this came to me like in a few hours ago #sorry for my mini rant #art rant #*edited

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starry-pierrot · 9 months

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Picking Habits (Y/N+Wally. Platonic/Roommates)

Wally talks to you about a concerning habit.

Gender Neutral Reader

Tw: Blood. Self Harm. Skin picking.

Authors note: Please know this is based off a lot of my own experience with this, I have yet to be diagnosed with anything and I do not attempt to name what it could be in fic. But I promise this is more fluffy/wholesome with minor mention of blood and more so describing the act then actually describing anything beyond blood.

Please comment and share if you like it!

The television let out a blood curdling shriek from its speakers making you just jump slightly at the sound, why do they always have to be so loud in horror movies? Or maybe you just had the volume up too high? Reaching over to the small coffee table you pick up the remote and turn it down. It’s a bit harder to hear the voices but you weren’t really paying attention anyway.

It has been raining all day making the world feel gloomy and moody, making you feel like laying down in your living room to watch whatever you could find. That being an old fifties horror movie you don’t remember the name of but it had some mutated fly in it that was a cult classic.

With the calm ambience of the rain outside you couldn’t help but sink further into the cushions being as comfortable as can be…until a different sort of itch began to take over. This itch often came when you allowed your mind to wonder too much, something you’ve been trying to keep a lid on with not much success.

Your hand lifted and soon your nails were picking at your skin that was littered with scars from previous acts of scratching. Any bumps or scabs you would pick, not minding if you bled from it or if it even hurt a little.

Soon the TV became muffled background noise as the world around you began to blur, your fingers digging at whatever little bump or scab they could find as your mind began to go numb to the world around you.

“You shouldn’t do that, Neighbor.”

Ah. Little Wally Darling.

His monotone voice snapped you out of your trance as your blood covered fingernails stopped mid scratch, glancing over at the three foot tall puppet standing just beside the couch.

“That can’t be good for your skin.” He supplied as he looked from your arm to you. “It looks like that would hurt. Does it hurt?” He asked.

Your brain took a moment to catch up to what he said before you sighed, “Sorry, Wally. I didn’t mean too…and no not really.” Moving to sit up, giving the puppet a spot on the couch as you adjusted.

“It’s okay. But maybe I should get the first aid kit?” He offered up as the helpful little guy he was, that lazy smile not at all betraying his need to be a friend.

Nodding, "Okay. Thanks, Wally.” You smiled down at the puppet as he stretched his smile just a bit wider before heading off to the bathroom, the sound of the stool being moved made you chuckle under your breath.

Wally Darling. You don’t know how you ended up with him but it was purely by luck, you work at a rather crappy job that didn't offer much money so you would often go to garage and estate sales. Well this one guy in town had died recently and he was some sort of big vintage collector online, you swear you’ve never seen so many other nerds in one spot beyond an anime convention.

The whole house was packed as you had made your way around and eventually you made your way into the attic. And in the center of it was this little bright yellow and blue puppet. He was in great condition despite his supposed age.

The puppet was small and in good condition, you had no idea what show he had been from but for some reason you couldn’t put him down. Unfortunately the rest of the house didn’t have any other puppets like him and after picking up a few tapes you headed home with the little guy.

If anything he was cute to look at and maybe you could do something artsy with him.

You had that puppet for a good two weeks before you woke up to sounds coming from your art room and walked in on Wally Darling himself covered in paint looking like the kid with his hand in the cookie jar.

Suffice to say your screaming scared the poor guy.

It’s been two months since then and you’ve gotten used to the puppet being around and...alive. You had tried asking how he even was alive but the most he would say were vague answers and that you shouldn’t pry too hard or you wouldn’t like the answers. Creepy but he’s been a good roommate and hasn’t tried any weird stuff yet beyond his fascination with apples. So for now you don’t care to pry into how he came alive.

Probably by some blood ritual or something. God you hoped he wasn’t made with people. Or animals.

The little quiet pitter patter of feet altered you to your little darling's arrival as he rounded the corner of the couch with the much too big for him first aid kit, struggling to place it on the couch. He just about had it over when he suddenly tipped too far back and fell with the medkit right on top of him!

"O-oh. Oh dear."

You couldn't help the laugh that snorted out of you as you tried not to laugh too much, but the vision of the puppet just stuck underneath the large med kit was too funny!

Luckily after a moment Wally seemed to find it just as funny, "Ha. Ha. Ha." He didn't move as he laughed seemingly fine with just letting the box squish whatever stuffing inside he had. But soon you slipped off the couch and hoisted the box up onto it as you looked down at Wally.

"Help me up, Neighbor?" He asked, still with that cat like smile on his face.

"Like I would leave you on the floor." Another snort as you picked the little puppet up from under his arms and gently placed him on the couch, even fixing his hair just a little so he was back to his old self.

“Thank you, Neighbor.” You began to rummage through the kit and find what you needed to clean up your arm, Wally watching all the while. At first his staring had been creepy but you had gotten used to the feeling of being watched, it’s not like he was doing it to be creepy. He was just like that.

A little hiss as you used the alcohol swab to clean off the blood, “Why do you do that, Neighbor?” Wally asked curiously. “The scratching.” He clarified.

You were quiet for a moment thinking it over.

This habit had started years ago when you just turned eighteen and starting out in your first job, the job had been brutal to say the least. Who just expects a new adult to understand everything without supervision with only three days worth of maybe two hour a day long training in some back room on a program? And to not even offer any shadowing?

The only people willing to help were the other employees all the while you stood there thankful for at least some help while crying like a child.

Anxiety hasn’t been a stranger to you since High School but after you got into the ‘real’ world it got much worse.

Eventually you developed this little habit of picking at your skin when things were at their worst in your family home. You weren’t proud of it but for some reason when you felt your nails against your skin you couldn’t quite stop yourself, as if you weren’t really in control or even doing it yourself.

At least it only went surface deep but it did leave its fair share of scars that usually were covered with some arm warmers, which you've forgotten to wear today.

“Well….it was a way to deal with stress. Probably doesn’t make much sense but it helped me ignore some things for a while.” Pulling out the bandaids you picked the colorful ones and began to stick them on, “Eventually it just turned into a bad habit ... .I really should see a therapist about it but without insurance I can’t afford it.” So you try to do what you can. Like wearing those arm warmers.

Surprisingly Wally pulled them out from behind his back holding them out to you, “I’m sorry, Neighbor. I hope you stop soon.”

“Yeah me too little buddy.” A smile on your lips as you took the arm warmers and quickly slipped them on making sure they didn’t pull off the bandages. “Maybe with you around I can at least stop more than I’ve been able to. You’re being pretttyyy helpful.”

Wally couldn’t help stretching his smile at that as his eyes widened, “I’m helpful?” he asked pointing to himself.

“You are.” Your own smile is still on your face.

“I’m helpful!” He said with a monotone cheer, seemingly much happier than he was a moment ago, a small laugh from you filling the space before it went quiet.

Another scream from the TV had the puppet looking over, “What are you watching, Neighbor?”

You gave it a thought before reaching over for the TV remote and switching it to a much more family friendly channel, “Nothing I was paying attention to, Wally.”

#welcome home #self instert #reader #self harm #blood #skin picking #wally darling #welcome home fanfic #x reader

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honeysmokedham · 1 month

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Vanquished from the Crypt

Who: @vanoincidence & @honeysmokedham When: Last Month Where: Nora's Crypt What: Van comes to check on Nora after the bugbear spends a good chunk of winter hibernating in her crypt.

Van hadn’t heard from Nora in… well, she didn’t really remember how long it’d been because she’d been too preoccupied with her own downfall. But! That wasn’t what friends did, and she knew it. She left her nest of bundled blankets and candy wrappers, begrudgingly pulling on her shoes and coat to go and find Nora at her crypt. It was bitterly cold, and Van wondered if Nora being a bear had anything to do with her being able to withstand the drop in temperature.

“Nora?” She had a plan, and it would work. The idea had come to her in a dream– a restaurant ran out of Dr. Kavanagh’s apartment. It would make her and Thea some extra money, and if Nora wanted to be involved, then maybe it’d make her some money, too. “Nor–” Her eyes widened as she entered the crypt, art supplies littering the ground, overtop of some of the cement, and endless amounts of balled up scraps at her side. Nora was vigorously working on something and didn’t even turn around. “I brought you ham.” She unearthed the delicacy from her tote bag, a large hock of ham she’d gotten from the neighborhood butcher.

The crypt was filled with the fumes of oil in an improperly ventilated area. After Thea had pointed out that safety hazard while trying to clean Nora's crypt into something acceptable, Nora set up a fan in the crypt. The only thing the fan managed to accomplish was the displacement of the fumes from one static potion into a constant flow around the chamber. Babadook had decided to go and take a walk, but Nora hadn't noticed. She was too focused on the canvases splayed before her. "Nora?" That was her name being said. Her name still caused a shiver down her spine, the anticipation of getting in trouble, or getting caught, or recognized was so severe in her that the physical reaction was ingrained. A moment. A beat. Realization crossed over Nora. That was Van's voice.

"Down here," Nora called back, not moving from her post in front of a particularly horrific creature formed of eyes and crystal. Van was already down there. Nora probably could have smelled her if it hadn't been for the fumes. Nora kept painting. "Thanks. You can put it wherever." Hunger, normally Nora's constant companion, was currently a distant memory. Moved to the back of her mind with the promise of her current art project. The only things she could consider were sleep and work. Sleep sang to her, it always did in the cold of winter, but she had to fight it. Hibernation was for real bears. Nora was a bugbear. "What's up?

“You don’t want it?” Van weighed the meat in her hand, fingers digging into the plastic bag that she’d deposited into. There was no fridge inside of Nora’s crypt, and though it was cold outside, she wondered if it’d keep or if it’d spoil before Nora finally got to it. The smell of paint fumes curled beneath her nose as she finally set the plastic bag down next to Nora’s sleeping bag. Maybe she’d remember it if it were there– have herself a midnight snack or something. “Oh, nothing, I just wanted to visit you.” It’d been a while since she’d seen her self-proclaimed best friend, and what better way to see her than to drop in uninvited? Nora did it all of the time.

“I know you like your crypt and stuff, but my house is like, super empty if you ever need to go and shower or whatever.” Something told her that since the goo had cleared, Nora was probably taking advantage of the shower anyway. Van squatted down next to Nora and looked over her work, nodding as if an appraiser of the finer things in life. “This is super cool.” Though she wanted to touch it, she refrained– this wasn’t her project, and she’d just ruin it. If it was something she’d created, she would’ve grown bored already. “Are you going to keep it? If you don’t, can I have it? A Nora Pine original, or to outsiders, Norma Pinhead.”

“I want it.” There was a rumble in her tummy that reminded her it had been a while since her last meal. “But I need to finish this.” Nora didn’t turn to see where Van placed the ham. It did wonders in the crypt, adding a delicious layer to the paint fumes. Almost delicious enough to make Nora want to try some of the oil paint in front of her. Almost. “Sick. Welcome to the bear cave. It’s like the Batcave but I’m not a snitch.” In Nora’s humble opinion as someone who only became aware of comic books when Cass introduced her to them, there were not enough people focusing on why crime rates in Gotham City were so high. Nora could only assume that the billionaire Batman was refusing to pay his workers a living wage, causing them all to turn to a life of crime. She had no evidence to support this and was not interested in reading more about Batman to find out. “Sit wherever. Paint wherever. I have a lot of blank canvases over there.” Nora pointed towards a less lived-in direction of the crypt.

At the mention of a shower, Nora paused, putting the paintbrush down and taking a big whiff of herself. Yeah. She could smell it. No wonder Van wanted her to take a shower. “Sure yeah. I’ll shower when I’m done with the collection.” Nora pointed to another less lived-in direction where a row of eleven canvases were in various stages of drying and completion. “Showers can wait. These paintings need to happen now.” They were all paintings of various monsters, the one thing they had in common was the rock or crystal coating the creatures. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to them. Might see if they can go up in the gallery. Might trash them.” Nora lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug before going back to her work. “You think I could be pinhead? I think I could be scarier than pinhead could ever dream.”

“A snitch…?” It took Van a second to understand what Nora was referencing and she let out a snort before dropping down next to Nora, bringing her knees to her chest. She twisted around to see the empty canvases before shaking her head. “No, I don’t want to waste them.” She wasn’t exactly artistically inclined, and the last thing Van wanted to do was waste paper when it was already part of the reason the earth was dying. She figured it wasn’t that deep, but whatever. She watched Nora, equally as concentrated as her friend as the brush moved against the canvas, a myriad of colors coming together to create something cohesive.

Van leaned back slightly as Nora smelled herself, immediately catching a whiff of the sour odor. She wrinkled her nose, not sure if it was the paint or Nora herself. “There’s still soap, I think… if not, I’m sure you can steal some.” Maybe from a neighbor– the one who always complained about her skating in the street after dark. “If I find them in the trash, I’m so totally going dumpster diving.” The thought of doing so gave her a mild ick, but she’d take everything out of the garbage if Nora deemed them unlovable. “I think you could definitely be whatever you wanted to be, but that’s just a name. You know Pinhead Larry?” It was obviously a Spongebob reference, but Van wasn’t really sure if Nora would get it. She pulled an image up on her phone, showing it to her friend. “Like him.”

“Wouldn’t be a waste.” Art was never a waste, but Nora wasn’t a wordsmith. Her feelings were crafted on the canvases before her. To Nora, painting anything, no matter how much the creator may hate it, was an accomplishment. It was the act of doing, feeling, and accepting that made it matter. Surely, Nora decided, all of that sentiment would be transferred to Van’s knowledge with the four words, wouldn’t be a waste.

“I used to steal soap from Thea. She has,” Nora paused, paintbrush moving against canvas “a lot of soap.” How much soap Thea had was unreal. There was also the deal with Emilio that she made, for him to keep soap supplied. Now that Axis had converged with Teddy’s, it was probably Teddy in charge of the soap. It had been a while since she’d been in the office. She was too tired during the winter months. Most days she got up, painted, ate something, and slept again. Sleep-consuming chunks of her day to the point they all merged.

“Pinhead Larry?” Nora repeated the name, pausing in her work as Van showed her a cartoon image from her phone. “Oh, Spongebob.” Nora wasn’t allowed to watch SpongeBob growing up. Nora wasn’t allowed to watch most things growing up. She was destined to become a star. She had lessons piled upon lessons, then photoshoots and videos. There wasn’t time for television. At least, not according to her fathers. But Nora was a creature of the internet now, she was aware of SpongeBob by its memes and distinctive art style. “Right, I forgot about Spongebob.” Nora lied, like she was a kid in school again, trying to fit in with the other kids. It was a casual slip, a slide back into the person she used to be and it jolted her. Nora blinked once. Twice. Three times. She placed the paintbrush down. “What day is it?”

“Yeah, I think she’s really afraid of smelling bad.” Van noticed the amount of soap that’d begun to accumulate in Regan’s apartment, and how she never knew if the one she was using was the last one she was using or not. Van prided herself on at least being hygiene-smart. Granted, she wasn’t smart in a lot of other ways, so at least there was one win on her scale.

“How could you forget about Spongebob?” Van tucked her phone away, eyebrow raised. Even when she pretended to hate Spongebob because her grandma hated it, she could never forget about Spongebob. It was annoying– that laughter rang in her ears a lot of the time when something funny happened. Phantom sounds, or something. “What… day is it?” Van looked around them, realizing that Nora really hadn’t left the crypt in awhile. “Um, it’s Tuesday, I think.” That sounded right. She pulled out her phone again to check. Yeah, Tuesday. “Tuesday.” She showed Nora her screen again with a smile before dropping her phone down next to her. It hit the crypt cement with a clunk, but Van made no move to check if the screen cracked or not.

“So… because it’s like, winter and stuff, are you just sleeping a lot? Since you’re a bear and all that?” Van wasn’t sure if that was rude or not, so she immediately cleared her throat. “Sorry if that’s like, super invasive! I was just wondering, you know?”

“Yeah. We met cause I called her stinky online, and she told me it wasn’t true and gave me her address to find her and smell her. I think she should be more worried about giving strangers on the internet her address.” Poor Thea. Because of that meeting, because of their friendship, Thea had been dragged into a lot of bad situations because of Nora. Debbie. It’d almost been a year since Debbie, and yet the hunter still haunted a lot of her waking thoughts.

Nora gave a half-shrug. “I know better art now.” It was easier to maintain this normality than to talk about her past. It was wild. Before Van came, Nora had been fine just painting. Not thinking about anything but the stroke of her brush on the canvas and what the next piece was going to be. Now she was talking to someone, and the emotion of being alive was creeping back into her. God. Pathetic. She needed to get out more. “Oh right, Tuesday.” Tuesday meant nothing to her. Time was a construct. Was it still January? Nora watched the phone fall, and also didn’t move. Phones broke. That was the way of the world.

“Yeah. Winter leaves me tired.” A yawn escaped, just thinking about it. “Don’t you get sleepy during winter? I just feel like I could sleep for a week. Or longer.” Nora put the paintbrush down, resigned to step away from her work. Be a person - er - bugbear and all that. “It’s not invasive. At least, I don’t think so.” There was no one else to model her behavior after. “It’s just me. I think. Unless its not normal to be sleepy during winter. Then maybe I should go to a doctor.”

“That’s how you guys met?” Van remembered how in the grocery store after she’d come out of the bathroom, not realizing that they had closed, Nora had walked in with Thea. They seemed to be a lot closer then, but she guessed they were all closer now, especially after what had happened when Debbie showed up. “That’s… that sounds like Thea, actually.” She wouldn’t judge Thea for anything, especially not for wanting to smell good. It was her right!

“I’m always like, tired… winter or not.” It was because she didn’t get enough sleep and she knew that was a her problem. It wasn’t like she could blame it on her magic. Or maybe she could. She did feel exhausted after melting situations or portal openings. Then again, neither of those had happened in a while. “I think sleeping for a week would be really nice. If I didn’t have to work or anything. Or maybe I could clone myself and they could work, but then I think they’d be mad I was able to sleep a lot and then they’d try to like, kill me or something.” Van picked at some dry skin on the side of her hand, realizing she probably didn’t make much sense. She thought Nora was used to that, anyway.

“I’m really sorry if you decide that it’s invasive later or whatever.” Maybe she should’ve dropped the whatever, did that come across dismissive? Van shrugged. “You’re the only bugbear I know. But like, non-bugbears get tired, so… maybe you inherited that from them?” It made sense to her, at least. Plus, she didn’t want Nora to start spiraling about whether or not it was normal to sleep– what if she tried to keep herself awake? “Do you want your ham now?”

“Yeah. Surprisingly I can make a friend without getting a drink spilled on a multi-thousand dollar outfit.” Nora made the joke lightly because it was a fond memory. It was funnier now, estranged from the world of fashion and her fathers. It should have been funny then, but, well, it was the past. She needed to stop thinking about the past and do something with her future. She looked again at the mines crystals inspired art that was taking over her crypt. She needed to stop ruminating more than she realized.

“Hmm.” It was a non-commital answer as Nora tried to think of a time she wasn’t tired. The two years of walking, she was always tired, but she knew it was from lack of rest and food. She was tired when she lived with her dads because she was always working. “Maybe life is just always being tired and wishing you could sleep for a week. And bears are just brave enough to do it.” Nora put the thought out into the universe. “I don’t think your clone would try to kill you. I think your clone would cry from overworking, steal your gaming shit and run away.”

“It’s chill. I probably won’t.” When Van said she was the only bugbear she knew, Nora let out a huff of laughter. “You and me both. I do want my ham now. Do you want to go for a walk? We can leave the crypt and church door open and air this place out.” Nora got to her feet, stretching out. “Sound good?”

Van frowned. “That was a really long time ago, and besides– it was…” She remembered the way that the mess had seemingly disappeared. That must have been what happened. Nora using her abilities that came with making people see things she wanted them to see– now it all made sense. “I haven’t spilled anything on you since, so…” She shrugged, scooping her phone back up, not bothering to look at the screen to see if it had cracked or not. Instead, she shoved it into her pocket.

“I think bears are pretty brave for it, yeah.” Van looked at Nora with a fond smile. “I think you’re the bravest person I know.” She wasn’t aware that Nora’s inability to actually be scared lent into that trait, but it wasn’t like she would care if she knew it anyway. It’d just make it that much more true. Van narrowed her eyes at Nora. “You know, that would kill me. I have so many saves for Jing Liu’s re-run, and if my clone took that from me… it’d be over.” She shook her head, disappointment for the idea that the nonexistent clone could do such a thing to her. Van followed Nora to her feet, dusting off her legs. “It does smell like paint in here, I’m surprised you haven’t gotten like, sick or something.” She squinted around them before glancing at the painting again. “A walk sounds good though! You can eat your ham while we walk.” She walked back over to where she’d set down the ham and grabbed it, leading the way out of the crypt. Van handed over the ham as they walked, grateful that she was able to get Nora out to stretch her legs.

#chatzy #chatzy: van #best friends #best friendss #best friendssss #thank you for the chatzy appointment ci

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