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2kmps · 27 days

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PERSIMMON & INK ; PT ONE OF TWO

yakuza!getō suguru x tattoo artist!reader| 1/2 | wc; 12.9k

story summary; you're a tattoo artist hidden amidst the bustle of shinjuku city and renown with tourists. due to a misstep of your shady employee, you're visited one night at closing by an eerily beautiful man in a disheveled suit and no tie requesting an intricate back piece done traditionally. the undertaking slowly begins to unthread your life piece-by-piece the closer you get to him until there is no way out.

story warnings; dark content, yakuza au!, details about tattooing, traditional tattooing (tebori), money laundering, injuries to mc, implied death of oc, manipulation, power imbalance, a bunch of cultish shit, mc doesn't fuck around and is a hardass + sort of a bully to their employee, sex w/ injury, getō smokes, mc dogging on foreigners, implied stalking, prose + detail heavy, explicit sexual content, heavily implied homicide, graphic details of violence + wounds.

read the warnings! + mdni! events within this story are not indicative of my personal viewpoints.

thank you @ceruleansol for your earlier proofreading efforts! appreciative, as always!

a/n: this is part one of two. i strongly implore that you reblog & interact with this post! it helps out authors tremendously when you do!

A silvery peal called out to the little shop stifled in past-midnight silence. During regular business hours, it was a good sound to hear; it meant that your next client had parked their feet through the threshold behind a closed door and jittered a bell hanging by a red string. In this case, you hadn't been fast enough to flick off the neon signage anchored into the building outside, nor set the deadbolt to signal the shop had retired for the night.

You were still hard at work wiping down your workspace, the last appointment of the night having taken several hours longer than intended with a squeamish foreigner who couldn't bite his knuckles long enough for you to finish linework on his ankle.

"It's past midnight. Come back some other time," you said, inflectionless, unwilling to be deterred in your task. It didn't occur to you to even give this newcomer the time of day by looking at them. "I have all my information online. Email for appointment bookings."

"Oh, really? That's too bad," replied the stranger, voice traceless of the frustration you were accustomed to when turning people away at odd hours. "I was told this would be a better time to come by for a consultation."

That made you jolt upright, swiveling toward the man standing inside your shop. Strangely, you hadn't anticipated the way he sounded when he spoke—affable, syrupy, and an elegant, fluid stroke on glazed canvas—to be so different from how he looked—tall, lean, refined with a sort of edge to him that'd intrigue anyone in a room he walked into.

Apart from his appearance, something you couldn't be sure was real with him bathed in the faint neon-red glow from flickering bulbs filtering in through the windows, you were drawn to the somewhat disheveled suit he wore. It looked like something a salaryman uniformed himself in while sitting on his ass for twelve hours in one of Tokyo's skyscrapers.

He doesn't have a tie. That stood out to you at this late hour.

"I didn't tell you that." You suspected who did and let your voice rise above the pitch of the checkered wall clock and drone of an oscillating ceiling fan directly above you. "Kōji! Get out here!"

From the depths of your little shop, tucked away in the furthest corner behind a door painted the same morose gray as the walls flanking it, there was a great ruckus—a chair tipping over, a body smashing to the floor, and feet fumbling over and over again until a weaselly fellow skittered out into the parlor.

"Ye-yeah? What's up? Time to—"

"Get this guy scheduled for a consultation for next month." Nothing prepared you for the way Kōji's color sank out of his cheeks and neck when you turned toward him. You pushed onward boldly, "I'm booked out for the next few weeks. Since you told him he could come by whenever, take responsibility and get him out."

Kōji's eyes were so much bigger, the whites of them showing, knuckles turning stark when his hand grasped your forearm, and he hinged forward at his waist, bowing so low you thought he'd fall forward.

"Thank you so much for your patience." Kōji sprung back up, feet popping into the air as he whisked you away into the back office, still repeatedly dipping his head to this man. "Please, give us a couple of minutes, and we'll be right with you."

"No worries." The suit guy smiled at you, catching your gaze before the gray door was pulled shut in your face. "Take your time."

Inside the dinky space, surrounded by unsteady towers of boxes brimming with all the things your second-floor apartment couldn't handle without making the walls burst at the seams, Kōji still had a hold on you. This time, however, both his hands gripped your arms, hot and clammy on your bare skin.

"You can't tell him to leave." Kōji hesitated to take any stance against you, any tone that could be implicated as threatening or domineering. Even through his quivering breaths, he tried to sound firm.

You looked at him incredulously, neck craning back in hopes it got the message across. It was easy enough to sweep away his hands. "The fuck, I can. It's my shop. Tell him to get out."

Kōji let his posture sag, whittling deep into himself as his fingers came together to pick at minuscule slithers of skin that left raw spots around his nails. He shook his head. "Not someone like him."

"Kōji—"

He was trying hard not to stick the underside of a fingernail between his teeth. A couple months ago, he had told you he wanted to kick the habit because he couldn't stand looking at his hands. This job and his natural disposition worked against him—long hours pouring over finances and bookkeeping, tucked away in a tiny room with a humming desk fan and no windows, would be enough to drive anyone's anxiety through the roof.

It wasn't ideal for him, you knew that, and suggested that he move his workstation around the shop or to the front-end counter as long as he didn't disturb the flow you kept going with clients. Worse than the isolation was his aversion to handling any potential customer interaction.

That's what made this so odd to you, so strange that he simply reiterated time and time again, "We can't kick him out," anytime you'd try to get anything else in word wise.

You had to back up, put some pressure against the new pulse in your temples. Kōji let his gaze flutter around the room, never steadying on your face for long enough for you to get a better read on him. His hair and neck were soaked with sweat. Beads of it dripped from his brow onto his shoes, leaving glistening, branching paths behind that never quite dried before more took their place.

It came to you then, just as a guess but one with enough certainty that dread wound itself against your spine and made you fidget.

"Is that—is he part of a gang?"

Kōji did a lot of work to keep his eyes off of you, still, lips thin and wet with sweat that he lapped away.

No confirmation was a confirmation—you launched yourself at him, wringing fistfuls of his stiff button-up until it was tight against him. You felt the heat of his body through the fabric wrapped around your hands.

He was shorter than the man in the parlor, but still taller than you. His feet stayed planted on the floor as you brought his face down to your height. "Did you fucking tell the yakuza about my shop, Kōji?! Is he here because of you?!"

"No, no! Not me! Not me!" Kōji wailed, crumbling beneath your bulbous stare. "Not on purpose! I swear! I swear! It was an accident. I was at lunch with… some friends, and I mentioned that I was working here. I guess word got around!"

"So, you're having lunch with criminals now?!" You wanted to wring his neck. It was physically impossible to bring yourself any closer to him without tasting the salty drops on his skin. "Are you insane?!"

Since the start of Kōji's employment years ago, you knew that he was a leery character, and having him on board to handle the more mundane, unsavory parts of running a business wasn't your best call to judgment. Still, he was efficiently organized in a way that made sense. He was fast and dedicated enough in doing things right that you stopped asking yourself questions about what antics he did on the side.

Up until now, he had never brought anything from the outside in to disrupt your status quo, the fine-tuned, well-oiled gears that kept your business running and clientele coming around like revolving doors. This was an entirely different ordeal, though, and you didn't know how to handle it.

You let Kōji whimper around your fists for a while longer, releasing him only once you were ready for a deep breath.

"I don't care." you said, taking a wide step away from him as your fingers scouted through all of the pockets on your person. There was one stick of gum left in your hoodie that went straight into your mouth. "I don't care. Stop being a fucking wuss and fix your mistake. Get him out of my shop."

Kōji gasped, scuttling closer to you just as his skinny, knobby knees bent inward and trembled. The weight of his body nearly toppled you when he went down to the floor, hands on your clothes. "No, no. Please. If you—if you turn him away, he'll tell the others, and who knows what'll happen to… us."

The selfish little imp actually meant himself.

It killed you to acknowledge that he wasn't wrong. You knew as much about the movements and customs of crime syndicates in Japan as anyone else, probably even less than the regular citizen, but they were still criminals with tight fists on the economy and underground.

All it would take is one bad remark and everything you had worked for would be razed to the ground.

"Who is he?" You pushed him off by the shoulders. "Who is that guy?"

You didn't like his silence, how his face warped, and his eyes fell to the white tips of your shoes. "Kōji."

Slowly, he answered, "He's the kingpin of the Uzumaki-kai."

"Goddamnit."

He stayed sniveling on the floor while you scrambled around the back office, turning over boxes and water-stained folders for particular papers you needed to go forward. Once you had them, you blotted the tip of an ink pen on your tongue, ripping a piece of white printer paper out from the tray and beginning a frantic scrawl that you weren't even sure was discernible.

You weren't in that room with Kōji for more than twenty minutes, reemerging into the parlor to find him—Getō Suguru, boss of the Uzumaki-kai—still waiting for you exactly where you'd left him. Only now, the smile he greeted you with was smug, shoulders lax against the door with one foot hiked up on it.

He had heard the entire thing, all of your shouts and Kōji's perilous pleas. The walls weren't as thick as you wished they were.

"You should find a different artist who specializes in the kind of work you want." you said, spreading your array of papers out on the front counter. The pen dotted your tongue once more before touching them, a messy signature left behind on black condemning lines.

"I've looked at your portfolio online." He had come closer, eyes set on the motions of your pen flying across paper. "It's the best I've seen in Tokyo."

There was something in his words that rang sweet and untrue. With Tokyo being one of the foremost tourist magnets in the world, attracting domestic business and foreign intrigue, competition amongst tattoo shops during peak seasons was staggering. You were part of the cluster of shops preferring to bring in international clientele because they were lured with anything quick and easy and cheap.

Simply put, they were your revolving door. Kōji monitored your shop's social media presence well, eyeballing analytics, trends, and patterns in the algorithm, so you stayed a persistent pest on the front page most days. Whatever moves he pulled worked, filled the books until you were writing in last second, twenty-minute appointments against the seams in your spiral bound to keep tabs.

You'd see anywhere from eight to twelve clients on the worst of days, most of them coming from overseas to tour the city or countryside. Every one of them chose premade designs from a catalog you kept nearby, all work you had committed to muscle memory and knew so well you could do the line work without a stencil and let your mind float somewhere else.

These foreigners wanted memorability, everlasting art imbued with stories from their exotic balmy summertime getaway where they stayed in air-conditioned hotels and shops and harassed the locals because it gave them a swell of adrenaline, a sense of adventure from the belief that they were in possession of more culture now than they had been before.

They tried to talk to you about those things because when they'd first see you, stepping under the chiming little bell, there was a brightness in their eyes of knowing you weren't someone who belonged—just like them. After so many years in the business, you were conversationally fluent in several languages but pretended not to be for all of two or three.

"I'll do it, but—" You pulled yourself from that reverie, pen flipping through your fingers for him to take. "You have to sign a bunch of waivers and there are conditions."

Getō had waited for you in well-tempered silence for several minutes and maintained that even now with a neutral expression. "Can you explain them to me?"

"The waivers are pretty standard," you said, shifting your weight against the counter. "The first three are making sure you understand the risk of scarring, infection, colors bleeding together. Fourth one is a liability waiver."

When you reached the final piece of paper buried beneath all the rest, the one you had handwritten and hastily signed, his eyes were gleaming with intrigue.

"What's this?"

There wasn't much to it, really, just a single paragraph on a bleach-white background, one blank line below your signature with enough room for a timestamp after it.

You made sure it was in his hand before you spoke again. "This is a rigid waiver agreeing that if I do your tattoo, you can't tell anyone you're associated with about this shop.

Getō wore an aloof smile. "What are you implying? I never said—"

"Stop trying to make me sound fucking stupid." You winced after the fact, not intending for it to have come out so aggressive. "Either sign it or leave, please. If anyone finds out you came here, it could ruin my business."

All but the ticking wall clock, a jarring neon against a backdrop of dark walls, and the ceiling fan with its monotonous beat from spinning blades had kept your shop from catapulting into silence.

You hadn't realized it until now, not until Getō had taken many long moments to examine the papers you'd given him and wordlessly signed them, that your chest was starting to ache from how hard your heart rammed your ribs.

You couldn't believe this was happening.

A snare formed in your throat once he finished printing the date and time on your special waiver, pen aside, papers stacked together as he tapped them on the countertop so they were neat.

He held them out to you, still with a beguiling smile that betrayed everything he represented. "Could I get copies? I'd like them for myself too."

You smeared sweaty palms down the back of your sweatpants, flexing out your fingers over and over until you felt sure enough that you could handle those papers without trembling. This must've been how Kōji felt when he had walked in earlier.

"I'll be back." Your bow was stiff and slight, probably an affront, but he let you go, turning to find a home on one of your low couches in the corner and started perusing the pages of your catalog displayed crookedly on an acrylic table in front of him.

It was all you could do to not slam the office door behind you, to intentionally scare the soul straight out of Koji's ass for putting you in this hard spot. If he weren't such an integral part of keeping this place afloat, you'd have fired him ages—years ago.

"I need copies," was everything you needed to say to make Kōji rifle through his arsenal of ridiculous expressions. He shrank under your stare, sliding deeper into his seat behind his desk. "You still need to be back here at eleven."

"Yes, I know." he mumbled, handing you fresh copies after stapling them together. You let the warmth sit on your hands for a while. "Do you want me to leave?"

Truthfully, you didn't want to be alone with Getō. You wanted to yell at Kōji a little more.

"Yeah. Get out of here."

And he ran.

A part of you hoped that Getō would've gotten bored with how long this entire process had been just to sign some flimsy agreements and listen to you pitch a fit at your employee. You prayed that the fleeting glance Kōji had made to the corner of the room was to check, not to confirm.

You stepped out into your workspace, boldly expecting to see it bathed in nothingness and shadows—but he was still there.

Getō let the tip of his shoe, a pointy closed-toe, jerk with the sounds of your wall clock. His leg was crossed, your catalog still splayed across his thigh as he looked at your preset designs, work made to appease the masses and feed into their fiction of Japan. You had half the hope that he'd be turned off by them and change his mind.

"What you're offering here and what's on your website are completely different."

This guy was observant.

You didn't like that.

"I get a lot of travelers." It crossed your mind to rip the book out of his hands. "They're the ones who make up the bulk of my business. My website hosts my professional work. It's what I prefer to do."

He didn't look up, continuing to leaf through the pages with long, lithe fingers. "So, you cater to foreigners, then?"

"My shop is small. It's just me and Kōji here. This place has to stay running somehow." You weren't sure why you were explaining yourself to him. "If that's something that bothers you, I can shred these papers, and you can find another artist."

Getō let his smile return, closing the catalog to drop it back onto the table. As though to challenge your stubbornness, he took the copies from you and skimmed them one more time.

"Thank you." He moved those aside too, now wholly focused on you. "Do you have time tonight to hear out my ideas?"

You were facing the wall clock now; it was almost two in the morning. If he wanted something more complex, it would take hours to work up a sketch for him. And that was being so bold to believe he'd like it on the first try.

"Got a deposit?" you asked. "Nonrefundable, of course."

He paid you what you wanted right then and there, to your complete astonishment. The price you had given him was astronomical, an act of spontaneity that you decided you'd pose to him as a joke if he got mad or guarded with severity.

No questions.

No doubt.

Just the warm clip of folded yen from his pocket that he didn't even look over. The yakuza were historically a stingy bunch, but he didn't even do a second sweep, didn't try to double back on you, and didn't seem to care.

"Let me get my stuff." You left the cash off to the side on the acrylic table. It was your equivalent of a cat showing its belly good-naturedly.

The money was still there when you returned with a tablet stuck under the sweat of your armpit and two mugs of tea, an act of hospitality you didn't often invoke mostly because you didn't care. These were dire circumstances, though, and you couldn't put it out of your mind (or nerves) that you were walking on thin ice laden with eggshells.

"It isn't anything fancy." You put your things down before handing him his mug. "It's from some random box I grabbed at the store."

Getō gave his thanks and took it from you, first sips coming as soon as he could bring his lips to it. He made no mention about the flavor or quality, didn't look at it with any amount of suspicion. It simply rested there against his palms while he waited patiently.

He was defeating every stereotype of yakuza that you had adopted from the movies and media. If it weren't for Kōji being a scummy little rat who liked hanging around trash in his off time and believing all of his reactions from a while ago, you'd be convinced that Getō wasn't affiliated at all.

A businessman with questionable practices, maybe, but not a greater part of the underbelly of society.

"It's a sort of complicated idea." He rearranged his legs so they were spread wide, back sinking into the worn green leather. Another sip. "Tell me if I should slow down."

True to his word, the tattoo he wanted was ambitious, terrifyingly ambitious, and something better left to a specialized skill set, not someone who bounced around between commercialized brand characters and bastardized interpretations of The Great Wave by Hokusai.

"I'd like the dragon to be white." Getō was partway through his explanation, now sitting forward on the edge of the couch, an elbow pointed down on a thigh to cradle his cheek. He was invested. "The eyes, hm, yellow or gold. You can choose what'd go best for the inside of its mouth. I want the head of it in the top left—"

"Hold on." You sighed, managing a lukewarm drink from your tea. "So, to go about the white, there are a couple of options: we leave that space empty, so it'll be your skin tone. Most people get dragons that are red or green or black. It'd be better to try that if you—"

"It has to be white." He looked at you the same, but his words were razored in a way so slight yet unmistakable. "What else can be done?"

"Well"—the leather creaked against your back the deeper you dug into it—"I could do white ink. I could get it opaque, but the problem with it is that it fades drastically; you'd need it retouched every couple of years."

"I see." His smile was wider. "I like that idea. Let's go with that."

You frowned. "You do know that white ink is expensive, right? So the price is going to jack up, and there's more pain involved since I'll have to apply more pressure."

"That's fine with me."

More specifics for the work he wanted flooded in: He wanted to start with his back, covering every bit of surface from his neck down to his tailbone. Afterward, he would branch out to both arms and finish the design over his breasts. It certainly aligned with artistry you've seen done by yakuza tattooists; the entire point of them was to be seen by those who mattered, easily concealed to those who didn't.

Most of the real estate was going to the white dragon with gold eyes first, the rest of it going to freestyle characters from fiction such as kuchisake-onna and religious iconography that he pursued with quite a bit of insistence.

You sketched until four in the morning, arranging characters and wispy, dreamy clouds. Long whiskers floated away from the dragon's snout, while the teeth you gave it were more comically blunt and human-like rather than jagged and threatening, a detail he seemed particularly delighted to see.

"What's with the Buddhist symbols?" You had to bring out your laptop to research those, settling on a few he gave a nod to. "Are you some kind of priest? This is a pretty specific scene you're giving me."

"It came to me in a dream." he said.

What a weirdo. Your fingers ached and cramped by the time you finished the draft, stylus leaving deep impressions in your skin that you were sure had knocked bone a few times.

From up close, you weren't too partial to how it looked like an amalgam of things surrounding all of the labor you put into specifics of the dragon, but when you moved it away, it came together like some hazy dreamscape.

"I should tell you why I chose you in the first place," was what he said when you spun the tablet around for him.

You had the device facing you again, pen notched through your fingers to apply some simple colors to the design. "I thought it was because you were enamored with me and my online portfolio."

Getō stared at you, humoring your joke with a smile even though you didn't see it. He stayed slouched over his thighs, fist moving to the side of his head to keep him upright.

"I'm looking for this to be done traditionally."

The tablet flattened on your lap, stylus rolling off of it onto the floor. You couldn't believe you didn't think of this. If he really was part of a crime syndicate, of course he would want all of the work done traditionally.

"That's going to bring in a whole host of problems." You let your thumb hover dangerously close to the trash bin button in the top right of the screen. "First of all, the overall cost of this is going up by twice what I've already quoted you."

"No worries." Getō shrugged his shoulders. "I've done my research."

But you weren't done. "Healing time will be reduced, but some of my clients have told me it's more painful than a machine."

"I'm not 'some' of those clients." he rejoined.

You were suddenly wishing your tea wasn't cold so you could disappear into it for a while. The tablet ran hot on your thighs, dragging your eyes back down to the drawing, thoughts flitting through what it'd mean for business, expenses in versus expenses out, and how committing to this would solidify you as a yakuza artist.

It would be inescapable and follow your reputation into the ground if Getō ever spread word about it.

"This back piece is going to take me a really long time to do for you. A machine cuts that time in half." Maybe you could beg him to change his mind.

He wouldn't budge. "Yes, I'm well aware."

"So"—fine then, you'd give him something to reconsider—"you know for the sake of longevity that traditional isn't going to be the best? Machines are able to apply more force into the skin and move faster. Because you'll be relying on me instead of a machine, your line work will start to bleed within a few years and your color is going to fade pretty significantly, too."

If he was dissuaded, Getō never let on because he grinned. "You were the right choice, after all."

That ended the discussion and your night. Your eyes felt dry in their sockets, rolling them towards the wall where you read a big black number “5” on its clear plastic face. Getō didn't share that same urgency. He hadn't even checked a watch or a phone the entire time he was with you.

"Remember," you said, your tone daring, "you signed an agreement to not tell anyone about this place. I expect you to keep your word."

"Of course. I wouldn't consider breaking it in my wildest dreams." Effortless and gentle, he said this to you with fondness that felt oddly misplaced. "After all, we prefer choosing our artists. And, now, you're mine. I'll see you soon."

You locked the door after him without saying anything, losing track of his body through the window as he went somewhere under the shadows cast by taller buildings close by.

This time, you made sure to flip off the neon signage that had been glowing outside all night long.

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The Uzumaki-kai had started out under a different name in the forties, one seemingly redacted from all publications shortly after the change. It had a tumultuous history with frequent power shifts and internal disputes that had left it nearly eradicated by the seventies until Yorimitsu Asahi climbed to the peak of the hierarchy. Within ten years, membership tripled, revenue increased into the billions, and nearly all records of their exploits had dropped off the edge.

Kōji had hit a dead end in his research for you, an attempt to give you some peace of mind in what you were dealing with. The idea was to hit the ground running, so when Getō came back around, you'd have some vague notion of what to expect. But all you were able to do was skim the surface of an, allegedly, power-hungry and morally depraved bunch of men and women.

The most recent details of their movements dated back two years ago, whereas the more credible sources haven't reported anything for nearly seven. In the earlier articles by a journalist gone undercover, they had a significant hand in the economy, mainly through casinos, prostitution, and ties to religious institutions.

You had to let out a groan because Kōji hit a wall—again. All of the latest news you could find were just sensationalist reprints about how they were actively scouting people, or giving charity to orphans, and where the yakuza ranked in the world amongst other crime syndicates.

"Hey." Getō was standing in front of you, just on the other side of your counter. "Ready to get this started?"

Snapping shut your laptop had been an instinctual response. A flush of adrenaline in your veins was chased away by the cold creep of fear reaching up your spine. This wasn't the same as mom catching you watching porn or a teacher hovering close enough to see you cheat.

This was the chill of knowing you were digging into things you shouldn't be.

"Wel—welcome back." You didn't mean it but bowed your head low anyway. "I never got a chance to schedule you in. It'll take me a while to set up, if you'd want to come back another day."

Getō had his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed just like the last time, and looked around the small square footage of your shop. It was big enough to arrange a few compact pieces of furniture in the corner, give breathing space for a couple of bodies in the middle while you worked on them, and the front-end counter where you sat.

You made use of decorative shelving to display all the things that customers wanted to see: bottles of ink, strange art, little trinkets to give the place some interest so you wouldn't have to be. Everything else was shoved into the back office to clog up Kōji's space or upstairs in your apartment where you could fit it.

"No." Getō took a walk over to one of the shelves, a collection of inks you had arranged by color family. "I'd like to start today. I can wait for you to set up."

"Okay." You licked your lips. "Yup. That's fine. Kōji!"

With Kōji's help, what would've taken you close to an hour to prepare for Getō was whittled down to about thirty minutes. Just one look and the smarmy guy took on a more diminutive attitude, convincing you that if you were to walk away and come back, he'd probably be spit-shining the tops of Getō's shoes.

At least he wasn't sweating all over the floor again. You could watch the fragile flattery without completely twisting in disgust.

"One thing you didn't do last time was confirm that you were happy with the sketch." You had Kōji fetch your tablet and bring it up to show him. "Also, I refuse to start unless you have payment upfront. That was something else we didn't discuss."

"Th–that's a joke." Kōji sputtered.

You looked straight at Getō. "You're yakuza asking me for an extremely elaborate piece done traditionally with a lot of white ink. I have a right to want to protect my time and resources."

"I agree. The sketch is perfect." Getō said, fluid strides bringing him less than a couple of feet away. "Do you prefer cash or card?"

You were seeing him in the daylight, not awash in flickering neon or shrinking away into shadows, and he was absolutely breathtaking. It made you think how easy it'd be to lure someone into the Uzumaki-kai by his looks alone.

Payment had been seamless enough, a quick transaction that Kōji verified before scuttling out of the shop for the evening. You were left with this man, this dangerous, handsome man, to undress in front of you, casually peeling layers of his suit away until the first slithers of pale skin sent your gaze to the instrument in your fingers.

Getō only removed his jacket and button-up since his back piece alone would take months to complete, a damning thing to realize once you thought about it.

This just felt too real.

This was really happening, and all you wanted to do was blame Kōji for putting you in this position.

"So, what you're going to do is lie down." You slipped on a pair of disposable gloves and gestured to the massage table behind him. A white sheet had been placed over the black leather underneath. "If you need extra padding, let me know. Since we're building this entire piece around the white dragon, that's what I'm focusing on for now."

He leaned his weight against the table, hands back in his pockets. You tried keeping your eyes off his chest, off of his defined pectorals and abdomen, away from the thickness of his arms. The knowing smile inching onto his lips proved that you had failed.

"I'm going to be using a projector to position the image on your back, draw it out with a marker, and start with the needles." You could finally show him the thing in your hand. It was a long glazed stick with a metal ferrule attaching a row of sterile needles at the tip. "You'll feel me stretch your skin and start poking. It makes a weird sound because of how it needs to be angled, how it goes into the skin."

You took a breath, and he actually laughed.

"That was a mouthful." He hinged forward, bringing his face closer to the rod. "Not quite as 'traditional' as I thought it would be."

"There are modern adaptations to everything. It used to be bamboo, this is made from persimmon." you said, lowering the instrument onto a silver tray next to all the others of varying sizes. "What makes it traditional is the technique applied. I guarantee your buddies aren't going to back-alley places in Japan and having someone stab their backs with unsterilized needles tied to a piece of wood."

His dark eyes followed your path to the projector, watching you flip the switch and cast an image of the dragon on the table. "You never know. Some of them just don't know any better. They don't always have the best show of judgment. They need guidance."

You had something to say to that but thought better of all your organs and didn't. "Cool. Get on the table so we can start."

The landscape of his back was as defined and lovely as the front of him. You waited until the white dragon was scaled down to the appropriate size and positioned over him to touch his skin, letting your fingertips soak up all his warmth.

"We'll see how far I get today," you were saying, dragging a narrow marker tip across the broad sprawl of him. "It's going to take me longer than it usually does, and I don't really go longer than eight-hour appointments."

"There's plenty of time." This guy had infinite patience, it seemed.

And when the time came for the first prods with your needles, you paused to ask, "Need a break? Want some background noise?"

"I'm talking to you," he said, pulling a few straggling pieces of ebony hair over his shoulder. "That’s enough for me." It sounded ridiculous when he said it and worse when it replayed in your head. "What made you want to practice traditionally?"

You were already in several jabs, wiping down between them to keep a visual of what you were doing. "My mentor is one of the best traditional artists in Japan. I learned everything from him. He used to work in Osaka, I'm not sure about now. I lost contact with him years ago."

"That's too bad." he said. "Have you thought about looking for him?"

The last thing you were interested in was talking about finding people with yakuza, so after a few more pokes along the middle of his back, dipping into that pretty region that made his waist look so waspy, you decided to flip the script.

"What about you? Did you just dream about joining a gang, or…?"

He shifted his cheek to his arms, looking along his nose at your hunched shoulders. "Would you believe me if I gave you an answer?"

You dabbed his skin. "Probably not."

There wasn't much of a lull in conversation before he was onto the next topic, steering away from the niceties onto the real things he wanted to ask. You had been around the block a time or two; you knew the look people got when they had certain questions stewing inside their heads.

The only thing that ever stopped them was the devastatingly desperate aversion to kicking up dust and drama in public, and probably because they weren't yakuza.

Getō was the opposite in this scenario, so you lost.

"Where are you from?" There it was.

You sucked in a breath. "Gifu prefecture."

"That's not what I meant." He was still observing you with all the self-possession of a saint, but also unflinching obstinance that you couldn't get out of by hijacking the conversation again. "You weren't born in Japan, were you? Isn't it pretty bold of you to play off foreigners' lack of awareness for profit?"

As you swiped at the traces of ink and blood that coalesced into a single ugly bead, you noticed he hadn't winced once the entire time you pushed ink.

Would he if you stabbed him a little harder?

"That's a long story." Stab. Stab. Stab. His expression remained beautiful and pristine. "I don't feel like answering it."

He smiled. "Hm."

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The game of twenty questions spilled over from one session into the next, weeks apart, yet Getō always remembered where you both left off like he was troubling himself to commit all the contents of a crumpled-up list to memory. Sometimes, between a peaceful interlude that rendered conversation bare, the flawless terrain of his back stretched between your fingers as your needles sunk deep, you'd think to yourself that had he been any other man—you'd be impressed by the effort.

Unlike other scenarios that leaned in your favor, boorish foreign men left unanswered when they'd talk about your body—where were you hiding tattoos? Under your clothes? Can we see? They'd laugh with one another because they almost always traveled in groups. Questions morphed into ugliness when they translated silence to incompetence; quips turned lewd and derogatory, but you no longer existed to them because you couldn't talk back.

That luxury of feigning ignorance wasn't packaged with Getō, having had lured that nugget of trivia out of you by the end of his first session. He never said those things about you, never let his inquisitiveness or eyes roam like you already had him. It was disgusting how being beneath his stare made you feel so vulnerable, stripped down to nothing but your underwear without that ever happening, without him ever having touched you.

You told yourself you'd be relieved the second this piece was finally finished, and he'd be gone from your shop for good.

"How long have you been a tattoo artist?"

But, still, for now, this little game with him continued, and he led the way.

"About ten years." No one had asked you that before, so it took you a few seconds for you to respond. Even then, you weren't entirely certain that was right. "Yeah, probably about ten years."

"Hm." Getō was in the habit of making that sound to quite a few of your answers. "You don't look it."

You jolted upright in your chair, fingers lifting away from his back just as you gave your tongue a reproachful click. All it would take would be one hard open-palm slap right against the sorest spot on his back to put him in a world of hurt and permanently fuck up the ink under his skin. You'd absolutely have your throat slit or neck snapped at the gallows, but it would be well worth the risk at this moment.

"What the hell is that—"

Getō's mellifluous laughter made your anger whittle to heat behind the ears before any words even made it out of his mouth. He tried keeping his back still. "Haha, sorry, that came out wrong. I meant: you look too young to have been doing this for ten years."

Good recovery. Smooth man.

You weren't nearly as amicable. "Aren't you too old to be playing pretend with a bunch of other guys?"

He let air out hard through his nostrils, lips pulling his smile wide enough for you to see the wet glisten on his white teeth.

"Fair enough."

Time crept along like that for the pair of you, multiple sessions coming and going with inconsequential banter that was always more upsetting to you than it ever was to him. Somewhere along the way, you had been convinced that Getō was unflappable—impossible to rouse to anger, regardless of the times your clap-backs had taken a personal edge, aiming to bury deeper than any of your needles could reach.

It was enough when he'd frown, his pretty mouth pressed firm and drawn down. Oddly, when he'd look at you like that, it was reminiscent of something wholly unsettling, pulled from some deep recess in your memory that you couldn't quite put a finger on until it happened again one evening.

You had taken things a bit too far, reminding yourself that it was better to keep your distance from him. All it would take was one wrong comment on one bad day for this rapport to come crashing down on you with every bit of the same force as a tsunami, ruining everything you had built.

Getō had decided he needed a break, something uncharacteristic in the months you had spent with him as your client, and got up from the table. He couldn't go far without covering his back, so he stayed wedged between the inside and outside, trapped in the door and setting off the delicate, jangling bell overhead more times than you were comfortable with.

He had looked at you before walking away, though, that frown marring his visage, weighing down his beauty with cavernous shadows around his mouth. You acted like Kōji in that moment, feeble and pathetic, withering into a smaller version of yourself so maybe he'd show mercy.

Between those tense minutes, until he returned to the massage table, you figured out what made his disapproval so familiar.

It was like burdening the weight of a disappointed parent, like knowing you had failed another test in school, and your teacher was delivering results with that same sort of dissatisfaction while peeking over their glasses at you.

You felt like you were being reprimanded in the way only someone with influence on your life could have.

It really rubbed you the wrong way.

"Sorry." It was a hard word for you to say. Getō was on his stomach again, cheek pressed atop his arms so he could look at you. "Sometimes, I get carried away. Guess that's what I get for spending all my time with Kōji."

Cue a loud sneeze from the back office.

His placid smile was a relief to see. "You should get out more often and see other guys."

There was no disputing that fact. Besides your mainly male clientele, Kōji was the only man you were in any regular contact with. Life had a way of keeping people apart, widening the gaps of time from months into years, wearing away at those delicate threads of friendship until they were all but frayed and irreplaceable.

It was simply the natural progression of adulthood, and it was boring and terribly lonely. Tattooing made your life easier, numbed you to becoming just another downtrodden drunk hunched over a glass full of glowing gold, lusting after the bare minimum of affection from anyone.

This job kept your head above water, just enough so you could forget all of that and spend your time exactly how you wanted to—

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

His question hit you full throttle, stealing the breath from your lungs as though he had landed a fist into your gut. It was just a few nonchalant words, an easy way to keep the conversation flowing, yet it had set your heart aflutter. You heard the rhythm of it ricocheting in your skull. It was suddenly so much harder to hold his skin taut, fingertips slipping inside the nitrile gloves you wore.

"A boyfriend?" A word that sat heavy on your tongue, unfamiliar, flustering you. "I don't have the time for that."

Getō shifted on the bed, something he usually didn't do without warning you beforehand. You let him get situated, taking that moment to also change your gloves beneath the table after patting them dry on your thighs. The skin around your fingertips had swelled and indented from moisture, further augmenting agitation.

He was gazing ahead now, narrow chin cradled in a slot made by his fingers. You couldn't tell what he was looking at since you kept so much stuff mounted on the walls to detract attention from you. It could've been anything.

You did think his vision aligned with your catalog of preset designs, though, leaving you just a little more self-conscious than his question had already made you.

When he did say something, his smile didn't quite reach how despondent he sounded, "It seems like no one has the time anymore. We've all lost our way."

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Getō came by astonishingly early one day with the earthiness of a good brew wafting all around him. The shop had been open less than an hour, giving you just enough time to unlock the entrance and flip on all the signage before he walked in.

The little bell signaled him, both your eyes and nose lured by the cheery sound of it as well as the scent. You had expected to see Kōji at first; it wasn't unlike him to show up before his scheduled shift. Years of cubicle servitude had a way of battering people into automated drones. Workers like him might as well have been walking on conveyor belts their entire lives—going somewhere without actually getting anywhere.

Kōji also only survived off of his thirty-two-ounce thermos sloshing with coffee. Sometimes he'd share with you so you wouldn't need to deplete the shop's supply or climb two flights of stairs to your apartment to make some, but more often than not, he was halfway through that gigantic flask by midafternoon.

So to see that it was Getō taking languid strides up to your counter with two coffee cups, palms wrapped around slithers of cardboard to keep his skin from blistering, you had to correct a grimace.

"Getō." You used his name tentatively, always sparingly. It tasted unwelcome on your tongue, like the smoky bitterness of charred meat or the tang of vomit that burned through your nostrils and made your mouth salivate. "I didn't have you down for today. I have other clients coming in later."

"I'm sure they don't mind rescheduling." He smiled as usual, but the finality behind his words sent quakes down your spine. "I don't know how you take your coffee, so I just asked for cream and sugar. I'm more partial to tea, but sometimes it just doesn't give the kick I'm looking for."

You meticulously avoided his fingers as he handed over one of the cups. The lid was marked with your initials, an act of thoughtfulness you would've been moved by had he—once again—been anyone else.

For Getō, he simply watched you with a tired, satiated smile as though the very notion of buying you coffee was worthy of some ovation. For you, seeing those black lines smear and spear outward across the white lid as dainty wisps of steam escaped wherever they could felt damning.

"How is it?" he asked, lips caressing the lifted rim of his own beverage. "You can be honest."

He sipped at the same time as you, pacing himself so your cups tilted simultaneously, eyes locked on tight, evaluating your slightest flinch. A hot trickle reached your tongue and crawled down your throat, feeling as though it were blooming out into your lungs and veins. It was known by him as well, like sharing the same experience, tipping the same cup and tasting those faint traces of one another, emulating warmth against your lips and in your mouth, lessening whatever uneasy longing he had started to spur inside of you.

You didn't know if the shudder that rattled down along your back came from the penetrating depths of his dark eyes or the bitter drink sinking into your cheeks, making you pucker.

Time forwarded for you again after that. The wall clock continued its eternal rotation, bustling bodies passed your shop, and you had lost those few seconds as though trapped in a dream.

"Did I add too much sugar?" Getō acted the same, perfectly pleasant smile seeming more like a fastened feature to you these days. "You sort of winced."

You set the cup down, ducking away from the front counter to collect your things out of the back office.

"It was actually too bitter for me."

Kōji came through the threshold about an hour later with some semblance of urgency, nearly knocking the door wide enough for it to slam into the wall. All of the color bled out of his cheeks, leaving his face a ghostly hue once he realized he was on the receiving end of Getō's stare. You were hunkered over his back, hands at work with the long stick and needles.

"If you break something, it's coming out of your paycheck." you drawled, so thoroughly enveloped by the black tracks left behind from your ink that you didn't notice Kōji's uneasiness turn into dewy skin and a beading forehead.

"I—can I talk to you in the back for a second?" Kōji hung onto every word, testing the sound of them while gauging Getō's quiet expressions. "There's—you need to see something."

"Kōji, seriously?" You didn't think you needed to point out Getō, or the fact that you were pulling ink from a glob on your glove. "Just tell me later, dude."

His face stretched as though wounded. "It's important. I swear. I wouldn't be asking if—"

"Is there a reason why you can't say it in front of me?" Getō had his nose pointed at Kōji, arm turned red beneath his cheek as he simpered. "Nothing's stopping you from telling us both right here, right now."

The scrawny man melted into himself, fingers fiddling together in a brave attempt to keep his teeth off of his nails and open sores on his cuticles. Whatever thing he had wanted to say was abandoned in that moment, stifled in his throat by a few words from the man on your massage table.

Your fingers halted, hovering over Getō's back as you took in the tone of his remarks to your employee, contemplating with a frown to threaten to throw him out.

"Don't talk to him like that." The leather underneath you groaned as you sat up straight on your stool. "This is my shop. You're not going to disrespect my employ—Kōji!"

He had already rushed away behind the somber gray door into the back office.

"Kōji!" You swiveled away from Getō, instrument an afterthought on the silver tray at your side. Seconds later, you swung back around. "You need to leave."

Getō, who had watched the entire thing from his arms, suddenly lifted his head and shoulders up, face weighed by surprise.

"What?" His eyes were wide. "Come again?"

You didn't falter. "Get the hell out of my shop. We're done for today."

His confusion mellowed into something undefinable, an expression you couldn't read with eyes that tracked across your face as though trying to catch a bluff. Nothing familiar remained in his gaze, the cold snare he held you in for several seconds, the depths of him black as coal and empty. For those few beats, until he looked away, you had held your breath without realizing it and heard blood gushing in your ears.

"You live in the apartment above here, right? On the second floor?" Getō still had his back to you, fingers fussing with the buttons on the front of his white shirt. "You should be careful."

Every ounce of courage you had gathered just moments before was suddenly sucked dry, stolen from your bones and spine, making your posture crumble on the stool. Dread wrapped around you like freezing, creeping tendrils that made the fine hairs on your neck stick out, put a knot in your throat that might as well have been his fist.

"How—how do you know that, Getō?" You were halfway out of your seat, fingers resting against cool metal and close to your arsenal of needles mounted to persimmon dowels. "Are you watching me?"

"Mm, not quite." He turned around while finishing the last buttons, expression void of that easygoing smile and mirthful glint in his eye that you had come to rely on from him. Without it, it was like you were freefalling into the unknown without a net to catch your back. "You should fire that assistant of yours soon."

"Kōji?" You had thought that same thing many times, but hearing it from someone else was an insult. "He's been here for years. He does his job. Who do you think you are to come in here, harass my employee, and tell me to fire him? This is my shop. Before you're anyone, you're a client who I have every right to refund and turn the fuck away."

"I suppose that's true." Getō said, rounding the table, coming into such close proximity to you that you could smell faint remnants of coffee on his clothes and breath, saw the late morning glow filtering in through the windows give his eyes a golden glint. "It's only a suggestion, but you should take it. I don't want to see you take the fall for things he meddles in."

You frowned. "What does that mean?"

He showed you one of his good-tempered smiles instead of answering, an easy way to stop the conversation before it could snowball into something else, dragging you deeper into his world more than what you already are.

There was a part of you convinced that he wanted to submerge you into that gross underbelly with him all the way, steal you below the surface, take you away from everything you'd ever known. But when the light would return to his eyes, just like now, and he looked upon you with such fondness, trying to smother your inquiries with lips pressed thin and tight so as to seal all his secrets behind them, you weren't so sure what his intentions were.

Some of his weight was suddenly on your shoulder, collected in the palm of his hand cradling the roundness of it. His fingertips pushed into the fabric, pressed divots into your skin and burned where he squeezed.

"Take care of yourself." Getō said, surprising you one last time by using that same hand, the very peaks of his knuckles to skim your cheek on his way past. "I'll see you soon."

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Firing Kōji was never an option, no matter what he involved himself with after work. There would be no business for you to spin signage for in the mornings, a studio to keep tidy, leather chairs to polish and preserve, and no stuttering neon light to bask under in the late hours of silence before returning upstairs to your bed.

Long ago, you had decided it made more sense to simply not see what didn't involve you directly, what didn't benefit you, because it was easier than acknowledging that the person you'd chosen to run everything in the background probably wasn't ideal. You'd known for years that his dealings outside your shop erred on the wrong side of the law, most likely, but it didn't matter as long as you didn't have to know exactly what it was.

As long as no one found him out, traced his employment to your tattoo shop, and turned your revolving door of clientele into thin, dwindling trickles, you'd force yourself to forgive him for whatever misdeeds he committed. He came into work on time every single day with his coffee flask and messenger bag, made no complaints about his workload and worn-in swivel chair that sometimes squealed when it turned, and didn't try to usurp the business from you.

He was the perfect employee and still was, even weeks following the incident with Getō. Every attempt you had made since then to get information out of him about that day was thwarted, distracted by numbers, stock invoices, client bookings, and asking if you wanted yakisoba from the little old lady down the road for lunch.

Kōji had decided you were untrustworthy now, a fact you were well aware of and unsure of how to handle. Less because he was your only employee—and, regrettably, the closest confidant you had in your life at all—but more that the entire ordeal left you uneasy and bothered.

He was doing something he shouldn't be, and Getō already knew about it and where you lived. Things weren't adding up, and you were the only one left in the dark.

One Sunday afternoon off left you with plenty of time to mull it over while packing around armfuls of groceries. A mid-autumn breeze was fabricated by cars passing through the city, throwing your hair in disarray, catching crisp bursts of air under your collar to leave you colder than you had been seconds ago. Your body was lulled into a relaxed state from the wind rocking your body left and right, pulled by the invisible force of it.

Your eyes stuck to the crosswalk sign, waiting for it to turn green, for the cluster of scuttering bodies to trot their way across and clear the area so they weren't stranded there until the next rotation. Their idle chatter hardly registered to you while you stood there next to them—colors of clothing, small domes of umbrellas, the drone of passing car engines felt so far away and surreal to you.

Everything seemed to vanish except your heartbeat when the light finally changed, eyes drifting down toward something that had an inexplicable pull on you, first as a slither of all black that grew tall and eventually into the shape of a body. You felt like you were searching through a sea of pines for that one glimpse at something that had caught your attention.

It was then that you realized what had you so engrossed was the unfaltering stare of another. You nearly collided with a man in a beige coat two feet ahead of you when you saw that it was Getō standing at the other end of the crosswalk.

Why is he here? Is he following me? You didn't give yourself the time to ruminate before ducking low behind a group of teenagers eagerly discussing their new idol obsession. A couple of the girls were in gyaru fashion, something you'd expect on a day trip to Harajuku, not on the west side of Tokyo near Shinjuku.

They paid little mind to you lingering entirely too close to them, using the shelf of a boy's shoulder to hazard a peek out at the scene until you had reached the end of the crosswalk with them. They dispersed in all different directions, sharing casual partings before you could think of where to go next, legs suddenly snared to the concrete when Getō called out from nearby.

"Hey, what a coincidence to see you here."

"Is it, really?" You tried remembering where you were in Shinjuku.

The red-light district, Kabukichō, the typical yakuza stomping grounds, wasn't far from here. It was one of those things that was easy to forget once the novelty of living in the area wore away, but it always meant something to someone else. That group of kids flashed in your mind briefly. It might've been their first time exploring a place like Shinjuku by themselves.

Getō came closer with his hands buried deep in his pants, the other half of a black sweatsuit that was too large for his frame. You tried to keep your eyes moving around a thinning crowd, steeped in uncertainty of how different interacting with him on the streets would be to piercing his back with needles.

"Are you heading home?" He saw your discomfort before the bags on your arms, his tone softening in the same way you expected it would for a frightened animal. "Do you need help carrying—"

"Hey, Suguru!" Another man showed himself through the intermix of bountiful bodies, his shape hidden beneath similarly slouchy, loose folds of clothing. His voice carried a similar pitch as the other, albeit inelegant and insouciant, with a head that was fully white and eyes so terrifyingly blue you guessed he had to be mixed with something.

For those few seconds you spared him a glance, you were set awash in a sensation of familiarity—a distant type of it. The same sort you'd expect to have while watching a movie with the appearance of an actor that startled you because you knew you had seen him from somewhere, but you couldn't place just exactly where.

If it hadn't been for his petulant seeming disposition on arrival and slothful bearings that ruined his posture and any semblance of class based on his bizarre, exotic beauty—you would have thought he was a model or someone of status, at the very least. His voice was annoying, however, and somewhat nasally as he complained about being left behind when Getō had noticed you skulking from afar.

Getō handled him benignly, almost disinterestedly, despite all of the speaking that coalesced into something even you stopped caring about. You made up your mind to use the distraction as a way to get out of this brush in public, spun on rubber soles, and almost began away until Getō broke apart from him and took the straps on one of your bags.

"Hold on"—he didn't let go despite how your features purposefully deformed from his nearness, a brazen attempt to look ugly to him—"you're a long way from home. Let me carry a few bags to help you out. Gojō, I'll see you around."

"Whaaaaat?! Seriously?" complained the other, making a whale of a noise that didn't match his relaxed stance. His bones seemed to collapse into the heaps of fabric he had stuck his arms through that day.

You tried putting opposite pressure on your bag to reclaim it from Getō, though he got what he wanted in the end. "I don't want to trouble you. I can carry these myself."

"It's no trouble." Getō insisted, still with obscene patience that overwhelmed your dogged determination to avoid causing an awkward shift between the two men.

As it was natural in Japan, jumpers and coats and pretty umbrellas wove through your motley bunch without being too distracted by the scene. They all had somewhere to go, somewhere to be, however truly inconsequential their destination was. It would've demanded too much of their concentration and willpower to look at everyone who made a ruckus in the streets of Shinjuku, but maybe they paid a little more attention because Getō and Gojō were beautiful, and you were like the hapless protagonist in a drama.

In that moment, however, you felt equal parts unfortunate that Getō bunched his long fluid strides to shorter ones to mime the pace of yours as he walked away from Gojō alongside you, all but two of your bags on his arms, and equal parts secretly enthralled by the experience and that you had been chosen over whatever former objective the two men shared.

"What was the point of us coming to Shinjuku if you're just leaving me here?! You suck!" Gojō's voice was carried by the false autumnal breeze whirled up by cars and gas exhausts, loud and strange because the urgency behind it had dropped off long ago. Now, it just sounded like he was calling after you both in casual parting like someone would from their doorstep down the road.

On that same fake wind, somewhere farther away but still close enough to see the uneven tips of Gojō’s white hair fluttering out away from his scalp, you could've sworn you heard the shape of your name—the pronunciation of it unmistakable—with all the same inflection Getō uttered when using it with you, weaponizing it so your ears would perk and be forced to hear him.

"I'm not doing any more of your tattoo until next week. I hope you know that." You had walked most of the way with him back to the studio. Seas of somber, dark concrete crosswalks with white lines and faceless beings in sometimes nice clothes had shrunk from a hearty basin of converging intersections to a gentle downstream trickle of interweaving streets that housed residences and hidden businesses. "Sunday is my only day off. I don't make exceptions for anyone."

Getō stayed with you the entire time, his movements a little more sluggish than you were used to seeing since you didn't have the same leg reach as him. He could probably open up his arms and touch buildings on either side of the street with the blunt nails on his long fingers.

You wondered, briefly, to your shame, if he could wrap himself around you twice if you were to do it first.

"I know," he said, an affable smile in his eyes and curved onto his lips. The look of him grew even brighter when he noticed you were staring, your face blemished by creases and lines and uneasy, fluttering eyeballs that conveyed your distrust and intrigue all at once. "What? You don't believe me? My back is still healing from the last session. I think you went deeper with the needles than previous times. It's taking longer."

You probably did bury ink deeper into the pretty flesh on his back because he upset your employee—your only employee, your safeguard to a successful business.

"Remember, you signed a waiver about infection. If there's too much redness and swelling, you should get it looked at." It wasn't often any interest to you to give unsolicited advice outside the shop, but Getō was your special exception. "I'm not going to touch your back again until that's completely ruled out. Besides, the dragon is done, so now we're just adding all your weird folklore and buddhist iconography."

"Hard to believe we've made it all these months." he said, now standing with you outside the building you rented for your studio and second-floor apartment. Despite the nylon straps on his arms digging cavernous divots into his black sleeves, he didn't act as though he were carrying around bags of lead like you felt you with yours. "I couldn't have chosen a better artist. I wasn't lying when I said your online portfolio was one of the best I'd seen in Tokyo, by the way."

What he said still sounded so sweetly untrue, but you unlocked the old door with a grimy brass key and let him inside to take his shoes off in the entryway and climb the stairs behind you to the second floor.

"I never have guests, so I don't really have anything for you. Coffee? Tea? Water? I may have some orange juice left." Every inch of tiny countertop and kitchen floor was swallowed by plastic totes and your bodies. It didn't occur to you at that moment to try putting some things away first to make more room, so you stumbled through the mess for your one-cup coffee machine that doubled as your tea kettle. "Sorry for the mess, I guess. I spend most of my time working, so I don't get the chance to clean up very often."

Getō betrayed no emotion, didn't seem afflicted in the slightest by the state of your apartment, and kept the curl of his smile fastened all the time. "Tea is fine. I'll just take whatever is easiest for you."

Minutes later, he politely sipped from the rim of your favorite mug, one hip implanted into the edge of the counter, staved off from helping you unload your groceries because you told him it'd be weird for a yakuza boss to do that. He still tried to take some boxes of stuff and stick them in your cabinets when you weren't looking, though.

“Did you tell that guy about me?” The sound of your voice, sudden and suspicious, was enough to startle Getō into a wide-eyed stare. He asked you what you meant, so you told him, “That guy back at the intersection you were with. Who was he? He knew my name. I saw him. Is he one of your gang friends?”

The alarm sank out of his expression, tension in his shoulders along with it. Despite the severity of your questions, he barely seemed to register them seriously and resumed stacking things on shelves to clear the countertops.

“Getō.” you pressed.

“No.” He closed the cabinet once he finished and came to you, undaunted by the obstacles spaced out on the floor. “I didn't tell him about you. I've kept my word. He's an annoying shit who likes snooping around my business.”

“Then, how did he…”

You receded into your thoughts, now trying harder than before to recall who that man was. His identity was tilted there on the edge of your memory, one word or phrase or image away from awestruck revelation. When it finally happened, seconds later, Getō was in front of you, heavy hands on your upper arms as though keeping you upright, and face bright with intrigue.

“Wait. Wait. Wait!” You cried out. “Gojō as in financial Gojō? As in one of the richest families in Japan, Gojō? Gold spoon baby Gojō?”

Getō gave a jubilant laugh as though delighted by you figuring it out on your own. His hands rose higher on your arms, capping your shoulders in warm weight that felt as refreshing as it did unusual. You couldn't remember the last time someone had touched you like that.

“He's my best friend—my only one. I'm not surprised he was able to figure out I was getting work done at your shop.” He said lightly, but doing nothing to assuage your doubt. “I know you don't believe it, but he's good to know if you need help. I'll give you his number so you—”

“I don't want it.” you said with feeble resolve. “It’s already a pain in the ass enough to have yakuza hanging around all the time. I don't need some trust fund baby to know where I live, too.”

Your heart wasn't in those words, finding that all you could concentrate on was the space of his palms encapsulating your shoulders, deft fingers leaving marks in your clothes as though trying to feel your skin through fabric. He didn't allow himself to roam you, but the taut muscles in his hands revealed a sort of composed restraint that was close to snapping.

He said your name once; a low, raspy sound in his throat that seemed so much like him yet unlike anything you had heard leave his mouth before. His eyes were darkened by his lashes, mesmerizing you in some dreamlike haze that only intensified when he stooped his head to kiss you.

His lips found rhythm with yours; slow, at first, to test the feeling and how much either of you actually wanted this. You responded with quiet sounds, a sigh and a moan, followed by the spread of your arms reaching around his neck to bring him closer, feel him more.

Getō backed your body against the countertop and leaned forward on his hands behind you to press down harder into the kiss. The blunt edges of your fingernails dove through black downy hairs on the back of his neck, trailing further down the ridges of his spine, molding to the ridges of his vertebrae that pushed up below the surface of his skin.

Goose flesh marked him all over, breath stuttering in your mouth like he was stifling pleasurable sounds of his own. You expected more self-control from a man of his status, yet there he was melting into you and sucking the air from your lungs while tasting your tongue with the roughness of his.

There was an ache between your legs, unabated heat which you had forgotten could be stimulated by another person. You weren't ashamed to take care of yourself when the need arose, although even those instances were far and few between and lacked this same urgency—this need to have another person wrapped up in you, touching you, devouring you.

You thought about how bad of an idea this was, how Kōji would react if he knew how weak your willpower truly was. It made sense to expect someone like Getō to exert his influence over you like this, for him to give into his every impulse without fear of consequence because there simply was none for him. He was above needing to restrain his inhibitions if that's what he wanted in the end.

“I can make you feel good.” He said apart from your lips, now pressed into the underside of your jaw after stretching out the neckline of your shirt. “Tell me what you want. I'll do it. I've wanted you since the beginning.”

What would happen if you told him to strip off your pants and get on his knees? Would the kingpin of the Uzumaki-kai obey someone lesser and bow and swallow the nectar from your body? Would he laugh at your brazen attempt, call you a wretch and drag you away for trying to make a mockery of him?

“Just… touch me.” Those words were not your own.

“Where?” Getō’s hands left the countertop to pile underneath your shirt, hands a light caress against the skin on your lower back. The heat of them made you flinch. “Here? Tell me where you want me.”

Something about this was too surreal, stirred unease in your chest and hundreds of quivering butterflies in your gut. It had come on as suddenly and dimmed the lust in your groin, lifted the fog from your eyes and cotton in your brain. It left you pliant in his arms, yet far away in mind as you searched those deeper recesses of yourself for an answer.

Getō noticed the disconnect and passionless kiss, your lips barely taking shape against his, and lifted his hands off of you.

“What's wrong?” He asked.

“I—” Something about you. “I don't know. This is just unprofessional. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done it.”

There was still darkness in his eyes, emotions shimmering through them despite an effortless smile he secured on his face. It was an eerie mask this time around, but your vulnerability and reddened, bruised neck kept you from saying anything on it.

“I should be the one apologizing.” Getō said with that unshakable calmness of his. “I didn't have the intention to push myself on you. I just thought…” He tilted his head a little left, tempting you to lean with him. “I thought we wanted the same thing.”

You couldn't answer that truthfully because then this would never end and he'd wind up in your bed. Had he been any other man, you'd have stripped him down to nothing and let him ravage you as he said he would.

But, you couldn't because he was your client.

You couldn't because of who he was.

You couldn't because he liked to keep his secrets close to his chest, and while you had your neck exposed—warm, sucking lips at your jaw and on the small swells in your throat when you'd swallow—you realized you couldn't trust him not to sink his teeth in and rip out gore and stringy sinew and let you bleed out on the floor.

He knew that distrust, had probably seen in everyone he’d ever known, yet he kept that smile which had grown stiff.

“It's not a good idea, Getō.” Because there's something off about you. You're a wolf masquerading as a shepherd. “Of all people, you should know that.”

Getō said nothing else as he was led downstairs and let out into the brisk evening air. Briefly, you worried he would feel the chill through this baggy sweatshirt and had to think better of fetching him a scarf for the trip back to wherever he belonged.

You stayed behind the door near the stairs, leaning through it far enough for him to reach out and stroke your face with the peaks of his knuckles. It was a fleeting touch, perhaps an attempt to not overstep as he had before.

And then, just before he pulled away, he said something familiar, “I'll see you soon.”

━◦○◦━◦○◦━━◦○◦━◦○◦━━◦○◦━◦○◦━

a/n: so i started this project late last year, i think. i put it aside after i started working on my original android x reader oneshot (which is posted and y'all should read it *hint**hint*) but i'm picking this back up to finish it.

originally, i was going to post this in its entirety once it was finished (est. 20k-22k), but decided just to get this out of my face and do the other half separately. if y'all wanna see the second half and conclusion to this please reblog and interact with this!! if i don't really gauge any interest in it, i don't really see the point in putting my time into finishing it.

the second half has the sex scene and all the drama and stuff.

anyway, deuces!

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alessiamalfoyzabini · 3 months

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𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫

Pairing | Yandere Jungkook x Reader

Word Count | 2,438

Warnings | +18, kiss and touches noncon, Jungkook is always obsessed and gets a bit angry

This does not reflect my way of thinking or living at all, it is just a work of fiction, it is like watching a horror movie, many of us love horror movies, but we would never dream of what we see in those movies happening in reality as well.

Simply put, this story was written for entertainment purposes, it should not be seen as a reflection of my values, opinions or morals. I absolutely do not condone such acts.

⤷ Summary | If she had paid attention earlier to the sin that dwelt behind those obsidian irises, she would never have trusted it.

If she had noticed earlier the devouring love that dwelled in his corrupt heart, she probably would have fled.

She had done none of that, and now she had to come to terms with her new reality.

➢ Author's Note | Hi, guys! Ready for you the fourth chapter of Happy Ending! ❤

If you have any questions, please write to me! 🥰

Taglist: @katherine-kookie, @douknowbts

Taglist is open!

Chapter List - I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII / The End

When Y/N opened her eyes that day, she felt strangely physically satisfied, stretched her arms with a smile on her face, thinking that she must have finally had a good night's sleep.

Too bad the environment around her was quite different from what she had become accustomed to for two and a half years now.

The sunlit walls that gently filtered through the window were cream-colored, not gray and gloomy like those in her apartment, plus the mattress she was lying on was too soft to be the uncomfortable second-hand one she had bought to fit in her monthly expenses.

Even the blankets were different, and soon an alarm bell went off in her head.

She stood up abruptly, seized with terror.

"Where the fuck am I?" she muttered to herself, cradling her head in her hands in a vain attempt to think clearly.

Could it be that they had kidnapped her? But who, then-and for what purpose?

Her parents were not rich and wealthy people, she was a normal, average girl, she knew her neighborhood was dangerous, but to go this far?

Maybe... maybe they wanted to sell her.

She had heard of girls disappearing in the middle of the night and never to be found again.

She blanched, seized by a sick feeling, and although she wanted to refuse to believe her own consideration, the well-appointed and elegant room suggested only that one option-why else kidnap her if not to make her work in some illegal brothel frequented by bigwigs?

She shrugged those soft and foreign blankets away from herself and stood up with trembling legs, noticing that she no longer had only her camisole and panties on, a long nightgown that reached her calf covered her body, but she still felt naked given the absence of panties concealing her intimacy. In a flurry of shame she realized that whoever had been abducting her had also seen a lot of her as she blissfully slept.

The girl took a deep breath, walking to the door, which, to her surprise, she found open.

Had they forgotten to lock it? ... Or, was it a trap to test her?

She opened it wide slowly, her heart caged in a powerful grip of anxiety, the first thing she saw was a long dark hallway with artistic paintings hanging on the walls, to Y/N that style seemed similar to something she had seen before, but she could not give herself an answer.

She went into the corridor hugging herself with her own body, she did not know what she would find during her exploration, perhaps a group of kidnappers with sullen faces and brutal manners?

She noticed a bright glimmer at the end of the corridor and reached it at a slow pace, her bare feet stepped on soft carpeting that kept her from feeling cold, and even that made her say that the house must belong to someone wealthy. She could only dream of such an abode, so the idea that she had been abducted for her body grew stronger as the seconds ticked by in her mind.

When she opened the door from which the light reflected in the hallway came, a choked breath caught in her throat at the sight.

The boy with his back turned, busy among the stove, seemed all too familiar, she prayed it was not him, her beloved professor, but the sight of the tattoos on his arm, visible thanks to the short sleeves of his dark shirt, spoke volumes.

It was him, her captor was Jeon Jungkook, the same boy who had promised to protect her only the day before.

"Professor?" she asked anxiously, the young man at the stove froze.

There were a few seconds of stalemate that weighed in the air like boulders, then the boy turned around, revealing the handsome, jovial face of her teacher.

It was really him.

The bewildered girl took a step back, a gesture that did not escape Jungkook's notice.

The latter narrowed his gaze, "Y/N, you've woken up!" he exclaimed coming toward her.

Y/N shook her head, made to put further distance between them, but Jungkook grabbed her by the arm and this reminded the girl of Yoozu's attack the previous day, she found herself shaking and this alerted Jungkook.

"Sweetheart, are you sick?" he gently placed a palm on the girl's forehead, fortunately she was not burning hot, but something in her pallidness told him that something was wrong, "No...you're not hot, maybe.... It's because you're here, isn't it?" he smiled gently in her direction, Y/N would have liked to answer, but her voice wouldn't come out of her throat.

"I know it might feel strange at first, but I'm sure you'll soon get used to it, after all, I did it for your sake, baby."

Baby.

Trying to ignore the all too affectionate nickname, Y/N opened her mouth, forcing herself to answer, "You said you would protect me, that I just had to trust you," she croaked, shocked.

Jungkook frowned, "That's right, here I will protect you from all those people who have always treated you badly or never believed in you! I believe in you, and I love you, honey!" he brought his perfect face closer to the girl's, trying to steal a kiss from her, but Y/N managed to break free from his grip, not that it had been a feat, Jungkook had softened his grip for fear of hurting her, he had already seen the bruises Yoozu had given her without regard, to say Jungkook was pissed off was little, at the next opportunity he would eviscerate that useless blowhard.

Y/N, for her part, recorded his words confusedly, had he really said "I love you" to her?

She denied with her head, it couldn't be true, the professor she had so admired and had a crush on...was a psychopath.

"You can't be serious, tell me this is just a joke," begged the boy, who frowned.

"I'm not joking, Y/N, I'm sure that past this moment of confusion you'll realize that you love me too, and you'll accept me," he concluded confidently, "Now, which breakfast do you prefer? Sweet or savory?" he continued cheerfully, approaching the stove, Y/N saw toast already crispy and ready to be topped with chocolate or scrambled eggs, she took the opportunity to run out of the kitchen.

Jungkook sprinted toward her, missing her by a whisker, "Y/N!" he exclaimed shocked, not understanding the young woman's hostile attitude. He only wanted to protect her, give her the gift of a fairy tale happy ending, why didn't she understand?

Y/N returned to the previous hallway, ignoring the bedroom she had come out of, and spotting that and the kitchen, the front door must have been further down on the opposite side.

Too bad that was not a normal house, it was in fact structured differently and what she found as she pushed open yet another door was just a storage room.

She imprecated mentally, trying to turn back, but her race to safety ended with Jungkook managing to tackle her from a corner.

Y/N shrieked, terrified.

"Let go of me! Let go of me! I don't know what you want from me!" she burst into tears, she wanted to go home, her parents had done so much for her, she could not waste the opportunity they had given her to study and make a name for herself in this way, especially after they had shown themselves to be so displeased. She just wanted to make them proud.

How mocking the world was, just yesterday she had shouted those exact words, and had been saved by the very person who was now showing herself as the real danger.

Jungkook clutched her to his body, causing her to turn abruptly as the back of the small figure in his arms went crashing against the wall.

The boy inhaled in irritation and to shut her up he attached his lips to those of the woman, who widened her eyes trying to push him away.

The boy pressed even more against her, biting angrily on her lower lip, Y/N had to open her mouth wide because of the tremendous twinge she received and the man's tongue invaded her completely, demanding absolute dominance.

Y/N felt violated as the boy expertly entwined their tongues, unaware that the night before Jungkook had dared to do much more with that same tongue.

Jungkook moaned in that violent kiss, enjoying in the taste in which he was willingly drowning himself.

He reached down with one hand between their bodies, lifting one of the young woman's legs and bringing it around his hips, pushing his already hard cock against her pussy covered only by her nightgown, Jungkook could only feel the softness of that area so delicate and delicious, Y/N's eyes widened, between the lack of air and that vulgar gesture that shocked her, she began to moan shakily without any more resistance, in a pitiful surrender that made Jungkook pull away from her lips with a loud pop.

The breathing of both of them was labored and Jungkook's wild eyes met Y/N's tear-filled ones and begged him to stop.

Jungkook did not want to get that far so quickly, but the girl's actions had not pleased him, not at all.

"If you'll be good, I promise I'll stop," he hissed, "We'll go to the kitchen, where you'll eat your breakfast and we'll talk about how it's going to be between us from now on, understand?"

The girl nodded, obediently, and followed him into the kitchen, and when Jungkook let go of her wrist she sat clutching her legs, unable to banish the heavy sensation of a cock against her folds.

She had never had a boyfriend, consequently had never received such attention; it had been shocking and strange.

Why did someone like him want to be with someone like her?

Jungkook put some toast in front of her with a variety of toppings next to it, there was jam and butter, chocolate and even eggs with bacon and cheese, he filled a glass with juice for her.

The boy wanted her to eat and feel good, he really wanted the best for Y/N and was very sorry to see her so uncooperative.

He took a seat in front of her and began to eat, giving her a look that intimated her to do the same, the girl tremblingly took the butter, beginning to spread it on her toast, she did not want to anger him again, she had yet to find the entrance and realized that in order to get the go-ahead, she had to first keep the landlord happy.

"Y/N" she lifted her eyes to his, a twinge of guilt hit the boy in the stomach in front of those red, shiny eyes, "I only wish you to be happy" he began, but Y/N interrupted him.

"But you kidnapped me" she said in a huff, Jungkook for a moment did not know what to say.

"No, I didn't kidnap you, we belong together since we first met," he said confidently, "Do you remember that? You were completely wet with rain, I saw you and you bound me to you with one look, my job is to protect you and make you feel loved."

Y/N remembered that day, which took place seven months earlier, but she did not think she had left such an indelible mark on her teacher, in short, he had never shown any interest and she had never given herself false hope.

"Why didn't you say anything before, because-"

"Jungkook." the boy blocked her, "Call me Jungkook, I'm not your professor outside of school," he pointed out, disturbed by the continuous distance Y/N seemed to want to put in the dialogue.

The girl sucked it up and agreed with him.

"Why didn't you ever come forward, Jungkook?"

In a normal way, she would have liked to add, but did not want to dare too much.

The young man took a moment to absorb as best he could the girl's voice as she spoke his name with what seemed to him to be familiarity; he found the sound of those syllables coming from his woman's lips enchanting.

Y/N did not understand, why had he suddenly approached her and in such a crazy way then?

"Because I'm your professor and it wasn't ethically correct, plus you had never given me a reason to step forward...until yesterday, I couldn't allow them to go on with their torture," he said harshly, "You'll be safe with me forever."

The girl took a deep breath before she began to speak.

"You can't keep me here forever, I have a family and studies to complete, take me back to my home, Jungkook," she begged him again, the boy shook his head.

"You are home, and don't worry about your studies, I will help you and you will get your degree one hundred percent, the principal is a good friend of mine...as for your family, they were the first to hurt you."

The girl's blood drained from her face, she began to finally understand where Jungkook was going with this. He wanted to isolate her from the world, because the world had been evil to her.

Jungkook in those months had been researching the young girl's parents, neighbors told him about how they were always rude and irritated with Y/N, went around saying that the girl was squandering all their savings on that absurd belief that she wanted to continue her studies, not understanding the sacrifices they had made to raise her.

Those statements were enough for the boy to realize that they did not deserve a daughter like her, too good and sweet for such people.

"It's not the same thing!" blurted out Y/N then, ready for another fit of hysterical crying, "I want my freedom!"

"Freedom? For you to live like that is to be free? Living with the constant fear of being attacked at school or in that neighborhood you call home, without a shred of a friend?" he asked, strangled.

Those words struck Y/N, because they were so fucking true they hurt.

But still, those were not good reasons to kidnap a person, and he had done exactly that.

She shut up for a few moments not knowing how to retort, Jungkook looked at her with disappointment.

Y/N felt a pang in her heart, because in spite of everything, that was still the guy who until the night before had given her butterflies in her stomach, seeing such a look in him too made her want to vomit.

#bts #bts fanfiction #bts smut #bts x reader #yandere bts #yandere bts x reader #yandere jungkook x reader #yandere jungkook #bts yandere smut #yandere bts smut #jungkook x reader #bts fanfic #yandere #yandere jeongguk #jeongguk x reader

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mchlgayser · 1 year

Note

heeey could u write about mason’s family finding out he has a girlfriend because she shows up at his door (when he answers she kisses him and everyone is shocked) thank u

OH MY GOD: : mason mount x female!reader

author's note: this is, by far one of my cutest fiction I think?! but lemme know what you think anon!! luv xx

contents warning: none // not proofread

'You got me a dress? ...In my closet room? ...Mason when did you even get here?!' He chuckles through the phone 'I'll tell you about that later alright? Just get dolled up for me angel!' He hung up the phone and you sigh, exasperatedly.

Mason told you today he wanted to bring you to a dinner date at his house, and you as a person who could't said no, you agreed to. What could possibly go wrong anyway?

Everything

You jog upstairs to your room and the linked closet room to see a black box with gold ribbon laid before you on the accessories drawer. You carefully pull open the box to see a long and elegant pink maxi dress neatly tucked

You present the dress in front of you feeling giddy and bubbly to wear it for today's special occasion.

You did your make up not too long after, putting on the dress and get your 'M' initial necklace and a pair of eggshell white pearl dangling earrings. After that you put your hair on a neat low bun and strands of hair at the front curling it a bit.

Satisfied with the look, you grab a purse along with a few of your necessities and then left the house.

Mason on the other hand started to grow more anxious, his polo-collared shirt is beads with sweats, his hands is shaking, too scared for your reaction and his family but he knows none of it won't be too negative but he'll get nagged from both parties.

His family are still preparing the dishes while his father and his brother in law on the hall talking business, him on the other hand has been quite nonstop looking out the window to see if your car had parked outside his residence.

'Guys, dinner's ready!' His sister, Chloe announced 'Mason come on--'

'I invited--'

The front door bell chiming, the whole family turns up to Mason 'Friends coming over?' He gulps, his mom head shake at the weird behavior of his son and gets up 'Let me get the door!'

'I'll do it, mom,' He rush to the door, his whole family is still eyeing him, he could see it from the corner of his views

He opens the door welcoming you, you squealed giving him a long chaste kiss on the lip and his cheeks. A series of 'What?' and a shrieking 'Oh' comes after that, you peep from his shoulder seeing his whole family looking at you both, well partially you...

You gapped in surprise, eyes going back and forth between Mason and his family. The mother came up to you first 'Gosh dear, you must be Mason's girlfriend,' She laugh immediately easing the tension, you gulp eyes burning holes into Mason as she drags you over the table and strike an immediate convos. His father joined in and soon his sister

'So how long you to've known each other?' She questioned you, you awkwardly chuckle 'It was't long, eight months I think? We met during an award show, I was the host and we had short interview together..' You blurted out, Mason beside you smile along and confirming it.

It was like that for the next past hours, his family opening up to you, especially his mom, she's very supportive, very reliable and caring too, easy for a timid person like you to even talk to her.

The day went by fast, and soon they left, you rolled your eyes at Mason and went back inside the house 'Wait babe--'

'What?! You got me meeting your family while I'm like this..' You pouted at him and he laugh, clasping one hand over your waist 'Like what..? You look decent.'

'Am not, I would've put more effort if I know it would be a dinner date with your family... I know I said that I'm ready to meet them whenever but not surprising me like Mase!' You complained, hand crossing over your chest getting sulky

He crooks a small smile and kiss your hand 'Well it went well innit?'

You suck your teeth and dismissed the topic 'Whatever but next time you gotta tell me first so I can prepare gifts or something...' He hums and followed after you inside the house

'You could say that all my family are fond of you, especially mom..' He admitted with a toothy grin, you mirror his expression and nods 'I think so, not too bad am I? Do you think they'll approve me to be part of the Mount family?' You joked sending a giggle his way, he froze for a second before he wraps both arms around you 'Yeah, they won't mind that, I think mom will definitely say this "the sooner the better" don't you think?' You flush down to your neck as Mason laughs at your unexpected reaction 'So cute!' He cooed scooping you up and bringing you to his bedroom

'Stay for the night, yeah love?'

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calabria-mediterranea · 2 months

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Altomonte, Calabria, Italy

Altomonte is a charming medieval village sitting on a promontory 450 meters above sea level, at the foot of the National Park of Pollino.

The place corresponds to the old village of Balbia, name of Phoenician origin (that means Lord) mentioned by Roman author Pliny, the Elder, when celebrates the goodness of the Balbino wine.

Situated on the hill, the houses seem to be welded to the ground and the rocks, the hills with olive trees, fields and spots are a real timeless spectacle.

During the medieval period, Altomonte became a fortified center and played a significant role in the defense of the region. Over the centuries, the town developed into a typical Calabrian village, preserving its historical character and traditions.

The heart of Altomonte is its historical centre, characterized by narrow cobbled streets, stone houses, and ancient buildings.

The many streets and stairways cluster around the center of the village, where the Church of Santa Maria della Consolazione is located. A true Gothic-Angevin art treasure, with a rose window and a very elegant facade, while the bell tower is decorated with a mullioned window.

Adjoining the church is the Dominican Monastery that now houses the Civic Museum, where important works of art are preserved.

The village offers visitors a chance to savor traditional Calabrian cuisine, with a focus on local products such as olive oil, cured meats, and regional wines.

#altomonte #calabria #italy #italia #south italy #southern italy #mediterranean #mountains #mountainscape #landscape #italian landscape #landscapes #italian landscapes #architecture #italian #gothic

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greetingfromthedead · 13 days

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Wedding Bells (Vash x Bride!Reader)

Plot: You didn't really think too hard about your wedding day, planning to perhaps sign a paper and then go celebrate with drinks, but both you and Vash had made a promise to Lena and Granny to include them and once Meryl and Milly found out, the event took on a life of its own.

Series: None.

Pairing: Vash x Bride!Reader

Raiting: Everyone

Tags: post-Trimax (no major spoiler), fluff, happy ending, wedding, found family, love of your life

Word count: 3k

Author's Note: I went with a slightly "nontraditional" approach, mixing different wedding customs together as that's partially how I imagine things on No Man's Land to be (a blend of different Western (sorry) traditions), but I did lean more pagan and Celtic since I am self indulgent.

This has gotten a bit out of hand. You think to yourself as you look out the window at Kasted City. You can't believe how much the city has changed since you were last here. Repairs have been made, and everything looks as good as new. The last scars left by the bandit infestation have been wiped away completely. The city is thriving once again. You stand in the middle of the room on a chair, and the narrow window only reveals a small glimpse of the landscape. You lean forward, trying to see more, but immediately get pricked by a sharp needle.

"Ow!" you complain before settling back.

"I have told you time and time again to stand still! Stop fidgeting so much!" Granny scolds you as she makes the last alterations to your dress. "I'm almost done with the hem."

This was supposed to be just a little homecoming to fulfill your promise to Lena and Granny. Vash had sworn that when the time came for the two of you to finally tie the knot, they would be included. In your mind, it meant that you return to the toma farm, perhaps sign a piece of paper, and go to have a drink, but it turns out that word travels fast. Especially when it comes to the Humanoid Typhoon and his companion, who have touched many people's lives. Meryl made quite a fuss when she found out about your plan, and Milly was close to tears when she got the impression that they weren't welcome. So you assured them it would be nothing fancy, but if they wanted, they were more than welcome to join. You get the feeling that's where the cat got out of the bag.

When you got to the city this morning, you were greeted with a buzz of excitement and anticipation. You brushed it off as just something unrelated to your arrival, but as you made your way to Granny's ranch, it had been decorated with streamers and bows. Lena and Meryl were hanging up a giant sign adorned with both your and Vash's names, and you felt a shiver run down your spine. You knew this was going to be a day to remember. While a hint of tread creeped into your soul, you turned your head to see your beloved fiance's face light up at the sight before him. A smile crossed his face, and you knew that whatever happened next, you would face it together. That's when Granny appeared, and after a warm welcome, you were separated from your dearest.

Granny and Lena had been working on a dress for you. It's simple but elegant and made with love. There are no extravagant embellishments, but you could see the care and effort put into every stitch. They also showed you the tiny pocket on the inside of your dress at the back of your neck that had a 5 cent piece in it. They did not, however, elaborate further.

From Granny's care, you move on to Meryl's, who makes you sit by the window to do your makeup. She chatters about all the preparations for the wedding as she carefully applies your lipstick. The others come and go, busy with preparations yet desperate to catch a glimpse of you.

"Done!" Meryl proudly proclaims, but she tilts her head and looks at you thoughtfully. "Something's missing…"

Her piercing gaze makes you nervous as you try to figure out what she is talking about. Suddenly, her eyes light up, and she reaches to remove her earrings.

"Here! These will work well! But I want them back!" She grins as she hands you the long golden earrings. You take them hesitantly as you look at them.

"Thank you, Meryl!" You smile up at her as you turn to the mirror and put them on.

"I see you have something borrowed. How about something blue?" A new voice speaks up from the door behind you, and you whip around in your chair.

"Luida!" you exclaim in surprise. She smiles her signature calming smile at you.

"It's good to see you again," she says and comes closer. "My, you look gorgeous!"

A slight blush colors your cheeks as you thank her for the compliment. Your eyes trail downward slightly, and you see something in her hand. Before you can ask, she lifts it up and removes some paper from around a brilliant blue bouquet made from the flowers she grows on Home.

"I meddled a bit with them; they should be preserved in time as they are, and hopefully they will never wither," Luida says softly as she hands you the beautiful flowers and you take a whiff. The scent is sweet and fresh, filling you with a sense of calm and happiness.

"I too have something for you," Milly says, coming closer with a slightly nervous look. "Or rather, Livio sent it with his apologies since he couldn't make it today."

"Oh, that's okay. Someone had to stay with the kids and birds." You smile, but then look at the little box Milly puts in your hand. "What's this?"

"Something old. Livio wanted you to have this since you and Mr. Priest were so close. He said he had this since the orphanage; apparently, it's the only thing he had from his birth parents. After he passed, Livio held on to it but always intended to give it to you." You hear the tears threaten to roll down her cheeks in Milly's voice. She has always been the emotional kind. You open the box, and inside you find a small cross pendant with no chain.

"Thank you, Milly! And give my gratitude to your dear husband too!" You smile at her reddening face as she tries to keep it together. You pick up a safety pin from the vanity and carefully fasten the cross to the inside of your dress's neckline, close to your heart.

"So, we have something old, something blue, something borrowed, and a 5 cent piece! We're only missing something new!" Granny said with glee, and before you could start to protest against any more gifts, Lena appears with a giant box.

"Lucky, we received a parcel a few days ago, and it's addressed to you!" She announces happily as she holds the box towards you. You hesitate for a moment, your fingers hovering at the edge of the box, before you remove the lid. The inside still doesn't give you a clue as to what this could be, as the item is carefully wrapped in paper, on top of which lays a small card. You pick it up to read it.

My dear!

The wonderful news has reached us here at Misdon! We are all so happy to hear that our two biggest heroes are getting married! You saved our lives and our livelihood! The whole town will forever remain in your debt, even if you didn't save the rest of the world too! We wish we could attend, but times have been busy, so we send you this gift. I hope you like it. Everyone pitched in and did a little bit!

Your friend,

Adeliene

You are reminded of your adventures in the mining town of Misdon, where bandits tried to take over the crystal mine. You and Vash had your hands full driving them out, and you had to personally protect Adeliene, the daughter of the mine owner. You even took a bullet for her. You carefully remove the paper to be greeted by a blinding shimmer. The sunlight from the window hits the content of the box and sends dots of light dancing all throughout the room. Everyone gasps at the sight. You touch the delicate translucent fabric and let your fingers run over the hundreds, if not thousands, of small crystals sown onto it. They look like constellations.

"This is gorgeous!" you whisper in awe as you continue to admire the intricate design.

"Alright! I can't wait to see it on you!" Lena seemingly shakes with excitement. "But first, we need to fix your hair!"

The young girl puts aside the box before quickly moving on to grab the hairbrush.

"We should get back! Let's make sure everything is perfect for the big day." Meryl announces and drags Milly away by the elbow, Luida quietly following them. You remain in the room with Granny and Lena, who fill your head with hairpins and finally fasten the veil to your hair.

"You are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen in my long life. We are truly blessed to call you part of the family, my love!" Granny squeezes your shoulders as you sit in your chair and gives you a kiss on the cheek. Gratitude swells in your chest as you thank Granny for her kind words and embrace her tightly.

"The big goofball is wholly your responsibility now!" Lena chuckles, giving you a playful nudge with her elbow.

As you are left alone in the room, you stand up and take a long look in the mirror. You can't help but feel a rush of excitement for what the future holds. Your face is covered by the light fabric, and as you let your fingers run over the delicate lace, the room is filled with sparkling lights dancing on every surface. This is not how you imagined the day going—to be surrounded by your friends and family, turning this day into possibly the most magical one of your entire life.

It doesn't take long for the music to start sounding from the parlor, signaling for you to make your entrance. So you head out through the backdoor as instructed and walk around the building to the large saloon style doors at the front of the house. The music sounds more clearly now and you can hear the chatter of the guests inside. You're not sure if Granny saw you from where she sits behind the piano or if someone else spotted you and signaled her, but the music changes. The beautiful melody has a different rhythm, and everyone knows to quiet down.

You take a deep breath and clutch the bouquet of flowers tightly. Two men push the sides of the doors and keep the doorway open for your entrance. All eyes turn to you, and gasps of adoration fill the space. The people standing on either side of the aisle are all people you've left a mark on. You have saved them in one way or another, and today they are here to pay their respects and celebrate with you. If you looked at them, you would see people from Kasted City and the neighboring villages, people from far and wide, but your eyes are on the dark haired man waiting for you at the end of the red carpet.

Vash's eyes are wide, and you can see the moment his lips part for a gasp. His gaze is so filled with love and adoration that you feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You can't believe this is happening to you. You have found such a wonderful man, and you're about to vow your everlasting devotion to each other in front of all these witnesses. And as you look into his eyes, you know that this is just the beginning of a beautiful journey together, despite everything you've been through already.

He wears a dark burgundy suit jacket, and you are sure Granny had a hand in his attire. From the chest pocket, poke out a few crystal flowers and small silver stars, catching the light and sparkling at you, mixed together with the blooms of red geraniums. He looks magnificent and handsome, and you can't help but smile at the thought of Granny and the others conspiring to make him look his best for this special occasion. You see the tears well in his eyes as he looks at your approach, and he takes half a step forward as if wanting to run towards you and lose the distance as soon as possible. However, he holds back, his emotions overwhelming him, and he lets out a small sob before brushing the tears away.

The tall windows on either side of the parlor cast light on you, and the warmth stroking your skin makes everything else fall away. In your mind, there is only you and him. Together, as always. As you reach him, a smile is painted on your face, so wide it almost hurts. He reaches out his hand, and you gently take it, feeling the electricity between your fingertips.

"My beautiful Stardust! You make the night sky jealous!" he says as the two of you stand there, basking in each other's presence, knowing that you are each other's forever.

Meryl, who has taken in her position as officiant, lets out a small cough to wake the two of you from your trance. You take another step forward without letting go of the man you love, ready to start the next chapter of your lives together.

Meryl begins the ceremony, speaking with a warm and calming voice that fills you with joy and excitement. She thanks the guests and begins to share heartfelt words about the love and dedication you both have shown towards each other. But you can barely hear her as you steal glances of the man standing beside you. His handsome silhouette and glimmering eyes as they meet yours fill you with butterflies. You can feel your heart racing with anticipation as he gently squeezes your hand.

"My dear friends, the bride and groom, I ask you to look into each other's eyes," Meryl speaks, and you turn to face your soon-to-be husband. The love and adoration in his eyes overwhelms you, confirming that you are about to marry the person of your dreams. He still holds your hand, but lifts it up a bit as he faces you. "Will you honor and respect one another and seek to never break that honor?"

"We will," you both say devotedly.

"Will you share each other's pain and seek to ease it?"

"We will."

"Will you share the burdens with each other so that your spirits may grow in this union?"

"We will."

"Will you share each other's laughter and look for the brightness in life and the positive in each other?"

"We will."

"Dear bride and groom, as you bind your souls together here, in front of people who adore you, may your spirits be joined in a union of love and trust. Above you are the stars, and below you is the earth. Like the stars, your love should be a constant source of light, and like the earth, it should be a firm foundation from which to grow. Let your love guide you through the darkest of times, and may it always be a beacon of hope in the storm. Do you have vows of your own you would like to share?"

"Yes," Vash speaks as his eyes stay on yours. "My love, you are the one person with whom I can share all that I am. I promise to trust you and to be honest with you. I promise to listen to you, respect you, and support you. I promise to laugh and play with you and grow and bend with you. I promise to cherish every day we have together. I promise to do all of this through whatever life brings us—richness or poverty, health or illness, through good times and bad—until the end of my days. And beyond this, I will cherish and honor you through this life and the next."

Lena steps forward with a small pillow, and Vash takes a golden ring from it. He releases your right hand, and you take your flowers into it so he can gently slide the ring onto the ring finger of your left hand. He bows down and places a small kiss on the band. You have Lena take your bouquet so you can tightly hold onto both of Vash's hands, feeling overwhelmed with love and joy.

"My love, I choose you. We shall walk side by side, through sunshine and storms, health and sickness, good times and bad. We will meet whatever comes together. Under the starry night sky and in the scorching desert heat. I promise to love you forever and a day. My love, I choose you to be my partner in life and always. Our love endures, forever and a day." You make your promises while looking into his tear filled eyes, your own vision blurring from the emotions too. You pick up the golden ring and slide it on his prosthetic hand. You whisper, "I will never leave your side, no matter what challenges come our way."

"And with that, I pronounce you husband and wife!" Meryl's cheerful voice sounds over the room. "You may kiss the bride!"

Vash carefully takes the edge of the veil between his fingers before he lifts it up, revealing your face completely. He lets the veil fall over your head and gently takes your face into his hands, planting a soft kiss on your lips to seal your marriage. You feel overwhelmed with love and happiness as you realize that this is just the beginning of your life together. The whole room erupts into cheers and applause, celebrating your love and new journey as a married couple.

As he pulls away, you look into his tender face, and he mouths a silent I love you. Lena hands back your bouquet, and hand-in-hand, you walk through the room again, now with Vash by your side. Feeling like the luckiest person in the world, you head out of the parlor as the people gathered throw colorful confetti at you. Further away, from the city's chapel, you hear bells echoing over the desert.

Did you like this? Go check out my MASTERLIST and drop a follow for any and all future projects!

#trigun #fanfiction #fanfic #vash the stampede #humanoid typhoon #plant boi #x reader #writing #trigun stampede #tristamp #trigun maximum #trigun 98

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monin1ca · 1 year

Note

Hello, hope you’re well. Could you please write a Chamber imagine where the reader (female or general, idc) says ily for the 1st time? And the reader doesn’t know for sure if Chamber loves them back but he happily & passionately says iyi back. Nothing nsfw, thanks!

Word count:495

Warnings: nothing~~ just pure fluff

Sypnosis:

“Vincent.”

“Hm?”

You breathed in softly, shutting your eyelids closed;

“I love you.”

The hushed ‘swoosh’ of the wind sent shivers down your spine, even though a thick duvet covered your body; head-to-toe. In front of you, a beautifully carved mantel with elegant clocks softly ticking alongside the occasional crackling of the fireplace, the dancing flame bringing heat into your shared home with Vincent. ‘The morning would show the beauty of the ice for sure,’ You thought, allowing your brain to be empty, content to exist and be. Your head whipped in the direction of the soft crunches of the snow; you smiled. ‘It must be Vin.’

The soft bell rang, signaling Vincent had entered the home. Muffled shuffling of feet and thumps were heard as he made his way to you. “Ah, Mon Cheri. How I’ve missed you….” Your boyfriend hummed, his cherry-tinted fingers skimming your skin, then placing a small peck on your forehead. “Just where have you been, Vincent?” You playfully pouted; the marksman kneeled at the side of your makeshift fort; “Me? Haha! I was out getting you the most delectable Hot Chocolate of your life!” Vincent proudly presented it; the cup smelled heavenly. Mumbling a soft ‘thank you,’ you carefully took the hot cup and, taking a few sips of the drink, you squealed, delighted. “It’s lovely, Vin!” “See? I know your tastes, mon ange.”

Your lover hunched down to the level of the fireplace, feeding the fire more logs. The fire roared as it continued to grow and consume the wood. Dusting off his hands, he placed himself beside you, smushing your small fort of pillows and blankets. “Vin!” You whined, softly punching him as he mumbled, “What now?” “You ruined my fort.” “Ah, but aren’t I a great addition? I’m your knight and shining armor, am I not?” You rolled your eyes, “Yeah, c’mere big boy~.” Your arms and legs tangled together as you basked in each other's warmth and love. Vincent’s hair was ruffled, as was his coat. Though he didn’t seem to mind as much, he was half-asleep. While you were taking in his beauty, every perfection and imperfection reminded you how much you love this man.

“Vincent.”

“Hm?”

You breathed in softly, shutting your eyelids closed;

“I love you.”

The silence was almost deafening, but you couldn’t force him to say it back. It was heavy words that not everyone could say to another person. Nevertheless, you wanted him to know how you felt.

“Amour, open your eyes.”

Obeying, you slowly opened one eye and saw Vincent smiling and blushing. Not from the cold but from your words.

“I love you too. I love you to the moon and back.”

You beamed happily, snuggling closer to your man.

Author’s note: HII I’M BACK FROM MIDTERMS! I THINK THIS WILL BE MY WARM-UP WRITING SINCE IM A BIT RUSTY BUTT DO FEEL FREE TO SEND IN REQUESTS!

#valorant #valorant headcanons #valorant imagines #valorant x reader #valorant chamber #chamber valorant #chamber #vincent fabron #vincent x reader #chamber x reader #fluff

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imaginidol · 10 months

Text

Taemin: Distant Bells Are Ringing

I don’t always leave an author’s note but I loved writing this for my anonnie’s request <3. So much so that I listened to both the instrumental pieces I mention in this headcanon whilst writing it, and I 100% would recommend you guys do the same bc I felt like crying the whole time lolzzz hope u like it !! :)

A sound of faint, classical music catches your attention as you’re exiting your dark SUV. Your bodyguard outstretches his hand in your direction, offering to lead you carefully out of the vehicle. You look around happily as you lift the sides your long, elegant gown, planting your heels firmly on the ground as you made your way to the entrance of the wedding venue.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” the familiar voice of your wedded friend’s brother greets you at the doors. “I can’t believe you made it!”

“Of course I had to come, how could I miss one of my closest friend’s wedding!? Thank you for inviting me,” you say as the boy leads you inside.

You walk into the beautifully decorated wedding venue, admiring every detail about the grandiose place in awe. Your eyes travel from the high vaulted ceilings to the intricately designed stained-glass windows. The center isle is filled with gorgeous arrangements of flowers and floral arches. All around, people were murmuring in excitement as the ceremony would soon begin.

You’re about to walk to your seat when all of a sudden, you nearly let out a shriek at the touch of a person’s arm against your shoulder.

“What the—,” you quickly turn around and find yourself making unexpectedly hard eye-to-eye contact with none other than…

Lee Taemin.

Honestly? This probably wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for the absolute heart-wrenching heartbreak I had to endure all alone after we broke up…

Your mind quickly threatens to recall all the miserable nights you cried yourself to sleep for the boy standing in front of you, but you immediately brush them aside and plant the biggest smile on your face instead.

I can’t think of the past now.

“Taemin! Oh, I didn’t know you were here,” you say, awkwardly looking around to make sure no people were looking your way. It was no secret to the media that you and Taemin were once a favorite celebrity couple sought out by all kinds of fans, journalists, and paparazzis alike.

“Of course I’d be here. Don’t you remember we met through the bride?”

“Oh, right,” you answer, letting out an awkward half-laugh.

“I saw you walk in and I couldn’t not tell you how… how amazing you look!” he says, an innocent smile spreading across his face.

“Thank you, Taemin. You look pretty handsome yourself, actually,” you cheekily say back.

“Mister and Missus,” the voice of an older gentleman approaches you both. “Allow me too guide you to your reserved seats tonight,” he says, guiding you and Taemin into the ceremonial room.

“Oh, we’re not togeth—” you stop your sentence when you feel Taemin place his hand against your back, following the gentleman to wherever he seemed fit.

“Thank you,” you say to the gentleman anyway once you’ve reached your reserved seats.

Taemin sits next to you and, to your surprise, there aren’t many other people sitting in your section yet.

“Uh, Taemin?” You carefully look around the room before whispering into his ear, “we’re the only people sitting in this row right now… doesn’t it look a little…”

“Scandalous?” He finishes, giving you a smirk. “I’d be surprised if someone doesn’t take any pictures of us tonight.”

“Right,” you huff, turning your attention back to the front of the room.

For a moment, neither says a word, until Taemin finally speaks up.

“So… how’ve you been?”

“I’ve been… I’ve been good.”

“Yeah, I hear you’ve released a few albums since we last spoke. They’re really good. I really liked your most recent comeback,” he says quietly.

“Thank you, it means… a lot, actually.”

There is another awkward silence, before you speak up this time.

“How about you? How have you and SHINee been?”

“We’re still aiming to be the best we can be,” he smiles. “You don’t listen to us anymore, huh?”

“What? Of course I do. Just because you and I were… a thing… doesn’t mean I don’t love Minho any less.”

He scoffed. “Minho was always your bias, huh? Even when we were a ‘thing’?”

“Well, duh,” you roll your eyes, “look at him. He’s gorgeous!”

“Whatever,” he says, looking around him as a few other couples and guests slowly filled the seats more and more.

“You know,” he says, crossing his arms and turning his eyes toward you, “I only started talking to you just now ‘cause I don’t think I know anyone else here…”

“I thought you said you wanted to talk to me to tell me I looked pretty?”

“Oh, oops, yeah, that too,” he smirked. “It worked, ‘cause you’re still talking to me.”

“You’re still so annoying,” you say, crossing your legs.

He laughs mischievously, lightly punching your thigh.

“Isn’t it crazy how we almost instantly clicked again after so many years of not talking, though?”

You don’t answer him for a moment, thinking carefully of the words you’d say next.

“I guess,” you start to respond, “even after we went our separate ways, our comfort when being around each other never really went away.”

“Hmm,” he ponders, “why do you think that is?”

You don’t get a chance to respond because the ceremony begins, and all guests’ attention turns towards the front of the room.

The wedding ceremony of you and Taemin’s mutual friend plays out flawlessly beautiful.

An organist begins playing O Holy Night, at the request for the bride’s entrance. The bride walks in gracefully as ever. Her princess-styled silk dress was intricately decorated with mesh flowers, her long-sleeved white gloves featured complex designs of floral delicacies. Even from the bride’s back-view, her long, delicately designed dress tail captured and maintained all eyes on her.

Taemin had quietly moved his eyes from the bride at one point and turned his attention secretly to you.

You also looked lavishing in your dark green gown tonight, beautifully complementing the colors of the wedding decor altogether. Taemin couldn’t help but wonder if…

…if you could ever be his bride.

His eyes slowly began to water at the recollection of hundreds of shared memories alongside of you as your partner.

All the laughs, the jokes, the cries, the arguments, the make-ups, the love you shared privately in more ways than one.

He had… missed you.

Why’d we have to break up? He thoughtfully wonders as the bride and groom begin taking their vows.

If only we’d worked through our problems and not run away from them…

But it was almost every day that the arguments would arise.

The bride and groom exchange wedding bands and hold their hands together.

Taemin turns his eyes from the soon-to-be-married couple and focuses again on you.

Yes, while you were physically close to him at this very moment, he couldn’t help but think about how far you truly were.

If only I’d tried harder from my end, Taemin thinks defeatedly. I’ve been through the best and the absolute worst of this industry. If only I hadn’t let the malicious false rumors of that cheating scandal get the best of you…

The old priest raises his hands towards the crowd.

…maybe it would’ve been us on that pulpit by now.

He announces the couple as husband and wife.

But I couldn’t protect you without losing myself in the process.

The groom and bride share their first kiss as husband and wife, and the room erupts into loud cheers and happy tears. The organist beings playing the all-too familiar tune of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, and the new man and wife begin preparing to make their way back down the isle for their final grand ceremonial exit.

Taemin closes his eyes as a couple tears begin rolling down his cheeks. He’s in too deep in his own thoughts when he feels the soft touch of a cloth rubbing against his face.

His eyes open and he makes direct eye contact with you.

You’d taken a handkerchief from your purse and wiped the tears gently from his face, not saying a word.

All around you, white confetti and red flower petals fall as the bride and groom begin exiting the room, the cheers of their guests roaring louder, the organist’s musical arrangement filling the room with l endearing excitement.

You and Taemin are caught frozen in each other’s gaze for a moment in time. Your hand is gently cupped around his face, his tears have slowed, and your emotions are caught in a trance.

What ever will we do? You think to yourself.

How could I ever move on from you? He thinks to himself.

How could I ever… you look into his eyes,

…have left you? he wonders,

…And now I find myself, you ponder,

…having feelings for you, he comes closer,

…even after all, you close your eyes,

…this, his nose brushes lightly against yours,

…time! your lips clash against his.

All around you, couples take notice of you and Taemin sharing an intimate moment together. The gentlemen cheer and begin taking their partners hand in hand, leaning them back against their arms to share kisses of their own in celebration of light of a new marriage.

White confetti and red flower petals continue to float about the room and around all the couples, guests, the newlyweds as the organists begins intensifying the final chords of the infamous Wedding March.

Taemin pulls away slightly, a few more tears escaping his reddened eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to you. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you.”

You shake your head, not wanting to hear the words you longed to wish for.

“No, Taemin, I’m sorry I ever doubted you. I’m sorry I abandoned the trust I had in you… in us.”

“I should’ve gone back even after all the—”

“There’s no point in bringing up the past anymore, Tae,” you whisper.

“But I have to—”

“Shh,” you gently place a finger against his lips. “I received all the proof from your agency once the investigation was over. I now know you never had betrayed me like that.”

“You… you do?”

You smile. “I’m sorry I never went back for you. I was too ashamed to face you after you were proven innocent.”

“No,” he whispers. “I’m the one who should’ve fought harder.”

“Tae—”

Your words are cut short at the realization that there was no point in arguing further. You had grown and reflected, and so had he.

Knowing what you both knew now, there was an opportunity for the trust to grow back.

Perhaps tonight you could start over.

Perhaps tonight at the wedding reception, over delicious dinner and sugary wedding cake, you could start over.

Perhaps tonight you and Taemin would finally be able to reach the closure you both longed for, and start walking together towards a happily ever after of your own.

—

The wedding reception had gone just as fun and smoothly as the ceremony. The guests had gathered around the bride and her groom to cut their enormous marbled-flavored cake. A couple minutes before the cake-cutting begun, the bride caught a glimpse of you and Taemin and quickly walked over to you both.

“Hey, you smoochy lovebirds, why didn’t you tell me you got back together!?”

“What? How’d you even know—”

“Oh, please!” she giggled, “You started the little kissing-train back at the venue, didn’t ya? Look, it’s already making headlines!!” She excitedly pulls out her phone from her sleek reception gown’s pockets and points the screen at you both.

Indeed, there’s a half-blurry picture of you and Taemin sharing a loving, lasting kiss amidst the newlyweds’ grand exit. The headline at the top reads in bolder letters: BREAKING!! HAVE THE STARRY-EYED COUPLE ALLEGEDLY MADE A COMEBACK!?

Underneath the post, thousands of comments were already flooding the media with fans excitedly screaming their heads off at the sight of their favorite celebrity couple rumored to be seen together again. Fans from all around the industry—even fans who didn’t actively listen to you or Taemin’s music—enthusiastically shared well wishes and celebration for you both, many of these fans hoping that this time your relationship would lead to a much happier ending.

“I’ll say, your kissing stunt was absolutely perfect!” the bride excitedly bounces up and down. “All my wedding exit pictures have guests sharing kisses in the background and it’s so… so beautiful!! I’ll have to get that moment framed for our new home!”

Taemin places his hand around your waist, pulling you closer.

“If it weren’t for your wedding, I wouldn’t have gotten closure with my love again,” he smiles. He then turns his attention to you.

“And,” he adds, “I never would’ve believed I could fall in love with the right person all over again.”

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wonder-worker · 6 months

Note

I heard that Edward IV and Elizabeth Widvile were known to be very beautiful. Were there any reports on their appearance at the time?

anon 😂

But yes, contemporaries and post contemporaries in the 16th century were pretty much unanimous in praising their appearance. I'll list some of the ones I could find:

Elizabeth:

'The most beautiful woman in England' ('la plus belle fille d'Engleterre') - Jean de Waurin

'Her very great beauty' ('sa tres grande beaute') - Jean de Waurin

"Her beauty of person and charm of manner" - Dominic Mancini

"None of such constant womanhood, wisdom and beauty" - Hearne's Fragment; its author was one of Edward IV's servants

"A daughter of prodigious beauty' - 1469 Continuator of Monstrelet's Chronicle

"Both faire, of a good favor, moderate of stature, well made and very wise" - Thomas More

Edward IV:

"The beauty of your personage it hath pleased Almighty God to send you" - James Strangways, Speaker of the Commons in Parliament

"The king is a handsome upstanding man" - Gabriel Tretzel, travels of Leo of Rozmital

"A handsome prince and had style" - Oliver De La Marche

"In the flower of his age, tall of stature, elegant of person" - Croyland Chronicle

"One of the handsomest knights of his kingdom" - 1469 Continuator of Monstrelet's Chronicle

"A handsome and worthy prince" - Pietro Alipranto

‘...Tall and strapping as the king’ - John Paston, Paston Letters

"He was young and more handsome than any man then alive" - Philippe de Commynes

"A man so vigorous and handsome that he might have been made for the pleasures of the flesh" - Philippe de Commynes

"The handsomest prince my eyes ever beheld" and "I don't remember ever having seen a man more handsome than he was" - Philippe de Commynes

"A very handsome prince" - Louis XI, from the Memoirs of Commynes

"He being a person of most elegant appearance, and remarkable beyond all others for the attractions of his person" - the Croyland Chronicle, referencing Edward a few months before he died

"He seized any opportunity that the occasion offered of revealing his fine stature more protractedly and more evidently to onlookers" - Dominic Mancini, writing shortly after his death

"He was a goodly personage and very princely to behold...of visage lovely, of body mighty, strong and cleanly made; howbeit in his latter days, with an over liberal diet, somewhat corpulent, but nevertheless noy uncomely" - Thomas More

Etc.

I'm tagging @edwardslovelyelizabeth because I think you got a similar ask?

I hope this answers your question, anon! I don't generally pay a lot of attention to the physical appearance of historical figures (I find it pretty irrelevant), but in this case, it ultimately does play a role in both Edward IV and Elizabeth's historiographies for better and for worse, and seems to have actually been a personal prop of Edward's kingship, so I don't mind discussing it :)

#either anon is making rounds or someone else saw the ask and asked me something similar 🤷🏻‍♀️#edward iv #elizabeth woodville #ask #also (I wanted to make a separate post about this but fuck it I'll just rant in the tags):#Something I find very interesting (read: fucked-up) is how we have multiple independent accounts praising Edward IV as extremely #attractive at the end of his life #Yet for some reason (aka fatphobia) most historians simply assume that he lost his looks over the years because he put on weight #even though his actual contemporaries (sans Commynes who in any case didn't even see him after 1475) certainly didn't seem to think so #as we can see: Croyland Mancini and More all noted the fact that he had put on weight AND emphasized his attractiveness #because the two are not mutually exclusive in the slightest and assuming that they are is not only incorrect it's also deeply problematic #it's similar to how so many historians assume his health was failing towards the end of his life when we KNOW - we are literally TOLD -#that his illness was both unexpected and baffling to contemporaries #(there is a contemporary reference to his supposedly deteriorating health but as Horrox says this is actually an editorial interpolation)#and the thing that's *always* referenced almost synonymously with this alleged non-existent ill-health is his weight #and the thing is - even if both of these were true they still ultimately wouldn't (and SHOULDN'T) matter. But we KNOW they weren't #and so it's incredibly indicative that historians and general histories STILL automatically assume them - and this assumption #is almost always on conjecture with his weight. (I don't think I've framed this coherently but oh well)#I'm still not over Katherine Lewis's deranged and frankly extremely ignorant epilogue in 'Kingship and Masculinity'#she literally framed her entire perspective on him around his weight with some really ridiculous (read: fatphobic) speculations/assumptions #she's even worse than Thomas Penn who is also revolting (and AJ Pollard isn't much better)#though of course they're not the only ones - almost every historian and general history does this

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anotherhumaninthisworld · 10 months

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I arrived in Paris and ventured to call at the Convention. But the deputies with whom I was in relations were without influence, and only looked after their personal safety... A lady, who had had relations with Mme. Couthon, proposed to introduce me to her, and advised me, if we succeeded in approaching the husband, to plead the cause of my unfortunate compatriots. She succeeded in overcoming my repugnance, and soon in even making me regard the signal favour of being admitted to the presence of this influential member of the Committee of Public Safety as a Heaven-sent blessing. We arrived... Couthon had a kind face and rather distinguished manners, especially for a time at which the most coarse language and most grotesque ways were common. He occupied, near the Tuileries, a fine apartment, the furniture of which showed great elegance.

He wore a white dressing-gown, and on his arm was a young rabbit which he was feeding with clover. His son, an angelically beautiful boy of three or four, alternately stroked his father's hand and the pretty white animal. These innocent sourroundings and Couthon's great affability charmed me.

”In what way can I be of service to you, Monsieur?” he asked. ”A gentleman who is recommended to me by Madame is entitled to my warmest regard.” So I related the misadventure which had befallen my poor judges, and asked what advice I could give them.

”Acknowledge that the Convention,” said Couthon, ”is to be pitied for being forced to send into the Departments men who are incapable of distinguishing the real enemies of Liberty! These madmen will end by making all Frenchmen hostile to us. As regards your judges, it is probable that they have been warned and are no longer at home. Let them remain hidden. Judging by the good character which you give these honest men, no great search will be made for them. They will escape imprisonment…”

After a momentary silence, he continued:

”Your magistrates are interesting. On reflection, I have given you dangerous advice. They will come to Paris to hide; the police will discover and arrest them; and, remember, Paris prisons are unsafe. Tell them to return home. The authorities will not refuse to allow a gendarme to be at each of their houses, and I will willingly endeavour to make this inconvenience as short as possible.” Persuaded that Couthon was sincere I said to him:

”Monsieur Couthon, you who are all-powerful on the Committee of Public Safety, are you aware that the Revolutionary Tribunal daily condemns unfortunate men who are accused of the same crime as these magistrates? This very day, Monsieur Couthon, sixty-three prisoners are to be executed under this pretext.” This reflection produced an indescribable effect on Couthon: his face became distorted and assumed a tiger-like expression… He made a movement. The rabbit was overturned and the child, weeping, rushed into his mother's arms... Couthon had seized the bell-rope, but the person who had introduced me threw herself upon him and held him in his armchair.

”Escape!” she exclaimed, with an emotion which chilled me with fright. Then, lowering her voice:

”Go and wait for me in the orangery!” I descended with lightning-like rapidity, and reached the end of the Terrasse des Feuillants at the top of my speed. As soon as I saw my guardian angel approaching in the distance, I rushed towards her and asked for an explanation of what had just happened.

”The wretched man,” she replied, ”merely wanted to discover your inmost thoughts. Your cutting reproach was like a dagger-thrust in his heart. I, like yourself, thought that he was sincere! Couthon, like all the members of the Committee of Public Safety, has five or six guardsmen stationed at his house, and he was about to summon them when I held him in his chair. You would have been placed this very day in the fatal tumbril with the sixty-three victims of whom you spoke! Fortunately, I have succeeded in making him ashamed of the crime which he was about to commit against one whom I had introduced to him in confidence. I attentively followed everything you said. He is ignorant of the fact that you do not live in Paris… Return home quickly, but, for fear you are recognised, do not travel by the ordinary route. And, finally, profit by this lesson.”

I set off there and then without seeing anybody in Paris. The judges remained immured until the death of this man Couthon, of whom I cannot think without shuddering.

Romances of the French Revolution (1909) by G. Lenotre, volume 1, page 171-173

And the ”lady” here is Charlotte Robespierre 😂🤣😂

#charlotte tackling couthon in his wheelchair omg i can’t #charlotte robespierre #georges couthon #frev #what charlotte kept silent about in her memoirs #also the guy reporting the story was Fouché’s good friend 😂

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scryarchives · 5 months

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𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫 - 𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐢 𝐲𝐮𝐮𝐣𝐢 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

kugisaki nobara never really liked the sight of bullying, so it's no surprise that she stepped in to save the new kid

masterlist | previous , next !

–pairings: itadori yuuji x oc

– warning: fluff, canon divergent, pre-shibuya arc

– author’s note: gahhhh im so so sorry if nobara's really ooc, im still watching s1 of jjk and im absolutely open to anyone who's willing to correct me!

disclaimer: i’m not of japanese descent and am unfamiliar with japanese honorifics, etc. feel free to correct me!

The wind rustled through the mid-autumn leaves, the air cool and biting despite the sun’s bright light shining down. A little girl with short, messy hair sat underneath the leaves, a dark blue puff jacket wrapped around her red tracksuit — a uniform of her school, which kept her little body warm under the shade of the trees.

“Tsubame!”

The six-year-old’s head perked up at her name, her wide brown eyes looking towards the glass sliding door that separated the backyard from her quaint home. Her mother, as elegant as ever, donned a smart blouse and dress pants, and walked towards her child, holding her hand out to her daughter’s smaller, outstretched one.

“Come, we should leave now or you’ll be late,” Chizuru hummed, guiding her daughter out of the house.

“And it’s your first day of school, we don’t want to have a bad impression.”

“But Okaasan,” Her daughter mumbled, looking away in embarrassment, clutching her mother’s hand tighter.

“Isn’t it weird that I don’t look like a girl?”

Chizuru glanced down at her child in worry, seeing the quiet child attempting to hide her face further into her puffy jacket.

“Bame,” Chizuru smiled, squatting down to her daughter’s height. "How you look doesn't matter, as long as you stay true to yourself, and my darling daughter, you're so much more than what you believe you are. Just remember, Otousan and I love you very, very much. You're gonna make so many friends and they'll adore you just as much as we do, okay?"

Chizuru watched the way her daughter's head lifted in the slightest, hazel eyes filled with hope before it darted down again, Tsubame settling for a small nod at her mother's words.

"Now, give me a smile!" Chizuru chided, her fingers darting to the little girl's sides, wriggling as she pulled giddy laughter out of her little one.

"There we go! Now you're all ready to go!"

Tsubame smiled widely at her mother, Chizuru standing up to her full height as they walked hand-in-hand to the direction of the school.

"Now, you remember how to introduce yourself, right? Why don't you give it a shot?"

"Ok! My name is Shu Tadashi, and I'm six years old!" She grinned before a frown of confusion rested on her chubby cheeks. "Okaasan, it feels weird having two names."

Chizuru chuckled, a light pat landing on Tsubame's head.

"Don't worry, Bame, it's only temporary."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

“Looks like the new kid has it rough, Kugisaki-chan.”

A red-headed girl followed her classmate’s line of sight, spotting a little boy with messy, dark hair, and eyes screwed shut. A group of boys surrounded him, fingers jabbed in his direction as they laughed and jeered.

“What’s going on there?” Kugisaki’s face morphed into a frown, as her classmate shrugged.

“Beats me, but boys will be boys.”

Kugisaki let out an unsatisfied hum as the school’s bell rang, signifying the end of their lunch break. She watched as the largest, the leader — she assumed, of the ring of boys, gave the new kid a hard shove before walking back to their class, her glare trained in the older boys’ direction.

She’s not even a friend anyway.

“Hey,” Kugisaki called out, despite her classmate’s various calls of warning; both not to approach the group and to return to class.

“Tsk, what do you want, little girl?” The largest boy sneered, crossing his arms as his friends behind him snickered at the eight-year-old before them, their faces screaming — “Such an arrogant girl! He’ll teach her her place!”

“What’s your deal with Tiny over there?” She pointed to the poor boy who rubbed his head, flinching at the sight of the leader’s stare as his feet took him to his class faster than any of them anticipated.

“Oh him? Nah, he’s just a weakling, and he’s a real sissy. He’s just an annoyance, yabbering about ghosts,” He shrugged before his smirk returned. “Why? You got a problem?”

The redhead girl stared him dead in the eye, searching his soul for any remorse, but there was nothing to be found other than a disgusting form of pride he held over having more power than a boy smaller than him.

“Nah, no problem,” She brushed her shoulder off, walking away as the boy rolled his eyes.

“Whatever.”

As per usual, these were the famous last words of a poorly judged boy, as when 3:15 came around, he resumed his hobby of picking on the new kid, who sat peacefully in his quiet classroom, a piece of paper taking shape in his hands.

“What do you have there, yowai?” He sneered, finding enjoyment in the way his hands instantly darted behind his back to protect whatever he was hiding.

“N-Nothing. It’s not important,” Tadashi muttered, hazel eyes darting away guiltily.

“It’s definitely important if he’s hiding it!” His lackey chided, surprising the young boy from behind, and catching him off guard.

Instantly, the paper in his hands collapsed on the floor, revealing a dainty little crane. Before Tadashi could reach for the folded piece of paper, his bully nabbed it, pinching it between his fingers with a scrutinising glare.

“This for me?” The boy grinned, watching Tadashi’s lack of reaction before crushing it in his large palm.

He watched with amusement, seeing the dread that grew in his victim’s eyes, a laugh bursting out of his accomplice who simply held the new kid back, preventing him from approaching his creation.

“Oh well, you were too slow. Too bad!” He jeered, leaning closer to the new boy. “But that’s what you get for acting smarter than all of us. You think you’re so great ‘cuz you entered halfway through the year? Boo, hoo, hoo—“

“Oi!”

Tadashi’s line of view instantly darted to the doorway, seeing the red-headed girl from lunch standing with her arms crossed, a sneer on her features aimed at the large boy.

“Back away from the new kid, loser.”

“You again?” He frowned, turning to face the girl. “And who you callin’ a loser? You always get in trouble with the teacher anyway with how many times you were caught wrestling.”

“That should make you even more scared of me then!” She huffed, rolling up the sleeves of her red tracksuit.

“What are you gonna do? Hit me? You’re a girl, you’re wea— ACK!”

A punch across his jaw cut him off as Kugisaki’s fist collided with his face, the boy’s lackey watching with horror as his friend stumbled back on impact, and Tadashi could only watch in awe of the girl before him.

“Y-You!” The boy glared. “You dare hit me?!”

“Quit whining, you pansy!” Kugisaki hissed back, parking herself in front of Tadashi as his bully’s friend walked up to the girl with a threatening glare, although the redhead child wasn’t affected by it in the slightest.

“You’re a freak!” He hissed, jabbing a finger in Kugasaki’s face, her eyelids lowered in boredom. ”Just wait til the teacher hears about this.”

“Akemi-sensei?” Kugisaki questioned before a smile grew on her lips. “That’s too bad, ‘cuz she believes everything I say. What can I say? Being a cute kid has its perks.”

The older boys froze in confusion, bare of a comeback to insult the girl. Instead, they reluctantly sauntered out of the room, but not without the older boy hissing a threat in Kugisaki’s direction before he left.

“You’ll pay for this.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, keep up your blabbering and maybe then you’ll finally run out of things to say,” She huffed, slamming the classroom door shut behind her, but not without sending an insulting expression in the older boys’ way.

The girl let out a scoff, turning around to check on the boy, but all she was met with was a look of awe and wonderment as the small boy quickly bowed in respect.

“Thank you for helping me, Miss! My name is Shu Tadashi and I’m six years old and forever in your debt!”

“Woah there! No need to call me Miss, geez. You make me sound so old,” Kugisaki sighed, waving her hand dismissively as the small boy stood straight once again, a disgruntled mumble escaping the slightly older student.

“And my name’s Kugisaki Nobara, not Miss. I’m eight, so I’m not that much older than you.”

“Kugisaki-chan, thank you for your help then!” Tadashi nodded, pulling out the crane he had pocketed, despite its slightly crushed appearance.

“Please! Take this crane as a form of thanks!”

“I don’t need your thanks, Tadashi,” She sighed. “Just make sure you better keep your mouth shut if anything happens.”

“I can keep secrets! I’m super good at it!”

“Really? Fine then! Prove yourself.”

A silence fell upon the two, Tadashi’s posture stiff before he started to fidget, a sigh escaping him.

“If I do, can you promise to keep this between us?”

Kugisaki eyed the boy up and down, letting out a sigh before nodding, finding that the boy had nothing against her at all.

“Fine,” She shrugged. “Spill the beans, then.”

“Okay, well, my name’s Tadashi, but I’m not a boy! I’m actually a girl and my name’s Tsubame, although my mother doesn’t want me to tell anyone ‘cuz it can cause trouble, though I’m not sure what, but you hafta promise me—“

“Geez! Okay, I’ll keep your secret! You ramble too much, sheesh,” The red-head girl huffed, but regret washed over her as she saw the younger girl shy away ever so slightly.

“But uh, Tsubame, huh?” She questioned, watching the younger girl nod, eyes regaining their eager shine.

“I’ll call you Tsu-tsu. Hey, shouldn’t you be going home soon?”

“Oh no, my mama is picking me up later at four, my papa’s still at work until five!” Tsubame shook her head, recalling her parent’s work schedules. “So I’m gonna be here waiting until then!”

“Nonsense, come over to my place,” Nobara nonchalantly tucked her hands into her pockets. “I can get my parents to call yours and you can hang out with me while waiting.”

“No way, really?” Tsubame’s smile grew, Nobara smiling slightly before she cleared her throat.

“Yeah, totally. But on the condition that you tell me whenever jerks pick on you, and you call me Nobara. No need for honorifics or whatever, you don’t need to be formal with me.”

“Does this make us friends then?”

Kugisaki went silent for a while as she pushed the classroom’s door open. She’d never really opened up to anyone other than Saori, and the idea of having a new friend who she’d have to constantly watch over did make her wince… but who else did Tsubame have?

With a nod, she held out a thumbs up.

“Yeah, we’re friends.”

“Awesome!” Tsubame beamed, pulling the straps of her backpack over her shoulders while following her new friend out of the classroom, the two chatting along the way.

“Oh, by the way, I have another friend you’d have to meet.”

“Another friend? Nobara you’re so cool!”

“I know I am. You don’t need to remind me.”

gif by @kakiriyo

taglist: @mooncleaver @underwateredwrld @mcmisbehaving @neteyamrealgf @khany2026 @tinkerbelle05 @iheartamajiki < comment/dm me if you’d like to be on the taglist! >

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #itadori yuuji x oc #itadori yuuji x reader #jujutsu kaisen itadori yuuji #jujutsu kaisen anime #itadori yuuji #itadori yuuji jjk #ocs #kugisaki nobara #fushiguro megumi #oc #jujutsu kaisen oc #jjk oc #sam writes !#i swear yuuji appears next chapter #GRAHHH i did no justice to nobara :((

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jomarch-wannabe · 2 years

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I’m not hungry (Eddie Munson x Fem! Reader)

Pairing: Eddie Munson x girlfriend!fem!reader

Summary: Reader has an experience in the lunchroom that leaves her feeling insecure

Warnings: Angst, Allusion to ED (Anorex!a), Feelings of depression

Author’s note: This is part 1 of a series I’m starting.. I will continue to post it in different parts based on scene changes

P.S I don’t give anyone permission to copy my work, but you may repost it if you wish :)

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You were in the lunchroom of Hawkins High School, sitting at a table claimed by the Hellfire Club. Seated diagonally from Eddie and in between Dustin and Mike, you watched as they stuffed their faces with food. Their laughter bounced off their plastic lunch trays as Eddie blurted out another one of his speeches. Unamused, you shifted your attention to the busyness of the room: Rows of girls whispering the newest gossip, jocks practicing basketball drills with crumpled-up napkins, and the over-achievers glued to books, studying for their next test. Gossip echoed off the walls as students’ feet shuffled on the ceramic floors. A wave of hairspray and cheap cologne evaporated off the popular kids; the smell was nauseating.

What brought you out of your trance of hyper-fixation was a blonde ponytail gleaming in the sunlight. A short green skirt that flowed perfectly with each step, and two slender legs that didn’t make a sound as they glided on the school floor. A sigh of discontentment left your lips at the sight. Chrissy Cunningham. So thin and elegant. Her perfectly slender hips shifted with grace. She exuded such effortless poise and charm. A magnet to men and an icon for women. She was everything you’re not.

“Chrissy!” A masculine voice called out, with an athletic frame. His tamed blonde hair bounced as he jogged over to her. “God, you look amazing.” He breathed, admiring her doll-like features. She held a hand to her mouth as an airy giggle escaped her lips. He took the opportunity to wrap his arms around her waist, and she reciprocated by locking her fingers behind his neck. Her torso was thin enough to fit in his open hands.

Upon watching the interaction, you subconsciously held your torso with your own hands, feeling its width in comparison to her trim frame. A tear pricked your eyes as you continued to watch the praise she received from girls, and the affection she received from guys. All of it served to amplify your feelings of inadequacy.

“Y/n!” A pubescent voice squeaked, interrupting your train of thought.

“Y/n!” You shook your head at the noise, breaking out of your trance.

“What?!” You asked in annoyance, searching for the frantic speaker.

“I said, are you going to eat that?”

A set of bright eyes met yours alongside a toothless grin. You looked down at the meal in front of you: a pb+j on wheat bread, strawberry yogurt, and a bag of carrots. Your gaze shifted past his shoulders, bringing her into view again.

“N-no. Go ahead.” You replied unenthusiastically, shoving your lunch box down the table.

“Sweet!” He exclaimed with a huge grin before taking a bite of the sandwich.

Your head fell into your hand as you softened your gaze to the crumb-covered table. You stayed like this for a while, mindlessly tapping your fingers on its surface. The chatter of your friends blended seamlessly into the background of your thoughts.

Lunch finally ended at the ring of a bell mounted to the wall. Swarms of people rose at the sound, already off to their classes. You forced yourself up, grasping the strap of your backpack and swinging it over your shoulder. Dustin and the rest of the gang scattered off, walking in pairs as they discussed their next D&D tactics. When you began from your seat to class, a pair of sweet brown eyes met yours, followed by a charming smile. You couldn’t help but crack a smirk as you sluggishly walked over to his open arm. He received you with a snug grasp, smoothing his ring-covered hand over your shoulder. Your cheek tickled as his fluffy hair brushed against your face.

“May I escort you to class, your highness?” Your boyfriend offered with an outstretched arm, mimicking a royal accent. You accepted with a nod, taking his hand in yours, and walked in sync to the double doors.

——————————————————————————

To be continued! Part 2

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson angst #stranger things #stranger things fics #joesph quinn #joe quinn #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic

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eleanorblythe · 9 months

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Romantic Homicide - Anton Chigurh x Original Female Character - Chapter 2

This has been so much fun to write. I had honestly just intended to write some filth and call it a day, but the more I wrote the more I cared about these characters. I promise filth is coming, but right now it’s a whole lot of angst and emotions.

You can STILL use this as a reader insert because I STILL haven’t given her a name, but I think at this point it’s more of a deliberate choice than the lack of a good name, it gives her some mystery (and maybe makes me a little pretentious??)

I don’t think this will be a fully fledged fanfic, like I said this was meant to just be some disgusting smut, but apparently I need foreplay and I have ideas in the back of my mind for one off scenarios - so if I do continue this I would be open to any suggestions you have or want to see - requests will be open.

Also on Ao3 with author notes and translations - here

When she rose the next morning it was almost easy to forget there was anyone else in the house. When she walked through the dining room and peered into the bathroom to get to the kitchen, everything was exactly as it was meant to be. There was no mess, no blood and no glass. She couldn’t help but look over at her cabinet and see the empty spot where her sixth rocks glass ought to have been, but there were slightly more important things to worry about.

But first. Coffee.

Like with everything else in her home, she had the best (his) money could buy. So she was lucky enough to have a coffee machine that came with all the bells and whistles. This included a steam wand that was used for frothing milk. She quickly filled a small cup with milk and turned on the steam wand, letting it make the most awful noise. Screeching and wailing while she simply turned on her stovetop and placed her stovetop coffee maker on it to make a pot of black coffee.

She never has milk with her coffee.

Her antics did the trick. Before long Anton came wondering into the kitchen, somewhat bleary eyed and wondering at the hideous cacophony of sounds emanating from her kitchen. Her eyes tracked him from the dining room and once he set foot onto the linoleum of her kitchen she switched the steam wand off and poured her cup of frothy milk directly into the sink.

Anton clenched his jaw as his eyes bore into her. He watched her pour black coffee from her stainless steel pot into a rather elegant looking glass coffee cup.

She raised her cup, in the form of a mocking cheers or toast and kept steely eye contact with him as she sipped her coffee with one hand, and proceeded to pour the entire pot of freshly brewed coffee down the sink with the other.

Anton exhaled through his nose, whether it was with amusement or frustration or derision, she could not say, his face betrayed nothing.

But his eyes did. There was anger, exhaustion and…hurt? With her or at the loss of a very nice cup of coffee, she wasn’t entirely sure.

She made a satisfied sound as she savoured the first sip before she wondered out of the kitchen to go about her usual morning routine, once again leaving him with barely an acknowledgment of his existence.

She knew she would eventually have to confront the issue head on, but for now he would have a small taste of the type of existence she has lived through these past months.

Or perhaps he would prefer it this way?

She dressed and readied herself for the day. She had nowhere to go, but she contemplated whether to take herself off somewhere for the next eight hours, until she realised she was being childish.

This was her home, why should she be the one to leave it?

Instead she granted a small kindness, by calling Andrews from her bedroom and asking him to visit discreetly, as she was not convinced Anton had the skills to mend his arm on his own - skilful as he was.

She stepped out onto the front porch to collect the mornings’ paper. She noticed an unfamiliar car sitting on her driveway behind her own car. She thought he might have had the foresight to park it far away from the house, but the pain must have overridden all else. She took a moment to look out at the rest of the neighbourhood. Quiet. Calm. Private. She surprisingly found herself suited to the suburban life, what a difference a few years can make. She could have done without the snobbery of some of her neighbours, but she found that she was able to combat them in other, more creative ways now, that didn’t involve guns. Or knives. Or ropes. Or explosives…

She was not entirely sure Anton could. But she was sure once his arm was mended he would be back on his way again. The only sign he was alive being the regular cheques found in her mailbox. There was never a letter or note accompanying the cheque. Ever. Just a rather large number and his signature.

She looked along her fence and saw one of the boards had splintered slightly. She resolved she would have to replace the whole fence. Ridiculous. She knew, but she kept up hope believing that one day she would finally have wasted too much money on all these frivolities and open the door to find Anton glaring down at her and be given the dressing down she so dearly deserved.

And needed.

And wanted.

Desperately.

She shook herself out of her reverie and came back into the house to find Anton sitting in the living room staring at the television - that wasn’t on. It was her turn to exhale through her nose, her derision quite clear. She turned on the tv as she passed before seating herself at the far end of the farthest chair and opened up her newspaper making as much unnecessary noise as she could possibly make.

Anton’s deep, withering gaze slowly made its way from the screen to her, but by now she was completely covered by the broadsheet with only her hands peaking out holding up the sides. He noticed she still wore her ring. Not all hope was lost then.

The newscaster quietly droned on in the background, Anton wondered if this was what domesticity was. Well it would have been, he supposed, without the arsenal of weapons they both had buried under the floorboards.

There was now a reporter standing outside a motel in El Paso, surrounded by police and caution tape. He talked about the bloodshed that occurred there and linked it back to similar incidents in other motels within the surrounding area.

At the mention of El Paso, the newspaper came down a little until she was peering over the top. She knew that was one of the places Anton had been and wondered for a morbid moment whether they would show any of his handiwork on the screen. The reporter mentioned something about locks being punched out of doors. From behind her paper she allowed herself to smirk, knowing his trademark.

“Your work, dear?” She finally asked, after raising the newspaper back up when the report was over.

“Some of it,” he mumbled, his eyes still glued to the television. He couldn’t help but hear the bite in her voice at the word “dear”

She offered no other comments or conversation and for a while they remained in this seemingly blissful image of home life. Until there was a knock interrupted the quiet.

Anton snapped his head towards the front door and wished he had his pistol to hand. She curled the corner of the paper down and peered out of the window.

“You’d better get that, darling, being the man of the house and all…” she said as she folded her newspaper and tossed it onto the coffee table. The sarcasm dripping from every word.

He was skeptical, but she didn’t look too concerned so it was probably a neighbour. He rose slowly and stalked his way to the front door glancing through the peephole before releasing a long suffering sigh, recognising who was at the door.

He opened the door just wide enough to poke his head around. Andrews met his eye and his grip tightened around his medical bag.

“Mr Chigurh.” He gave a a tight smile and a nod.

“I didn’t call you.”

“N-no sir, but your wife did.”

“Why?” He practically seethed.

“Because you were half delirious and drunk when you attempted to fix yourself.” Anton heard behind him. She stepped forward, ushering Anton out of the way with a limp wave of her hand. “Come in, Andrews. Use the back room, keep him quiet, not that, that should be a problem,” she opened the door further to allow Andrews to enter.

Andrews squeezed himself between the small gap left by the couple who had both at one time or another been “patients” of his, as they entered into something of a stare off. He hurried down the hall and began to set up in the back bedroom. She had given him a brief explanation of what had happened and while he was aware Anton was more than capable of taking care of himself, it did sound like a rather serious incident that needed at least some modicum of professional care.

Anton eventually came into the room, with her in tow. She remained in the doorway as he gingerly sat on the edge of the bed.

“We’ll start with the arm, if you please, but I’d like to take a look at your leg too,”

“My leg is fine.”

A quiet scoff pulled their attention.

“Just do what the man says, Anton.”

Anton saw from his peripheral vision, Andrews gulp and exchange a tense and worried look between the two, then pretend to busy himself with his latex gloves.

She continued to stare at him, like a teacher deciding whether he needed admonishing. She must have known what he knew. The bone wasn’t set properly.

He needed help.

He did contemplate rolling his shirt sleeve up but it was too tight to do so without causing pain and he didn’t want to cut up yet another shirt. He slowly began to unbutton the first two buttons before stopping and flicking his eyes up to her. Her eyes narrowed in questioning then widened and barked out a laugh at his apparent shyness.

For a single moment, Anton saw warmth, even tenderness creep into her eyes. It quickly dissolved and she looked on in that cold and dispassionate way of hers. The whole moment reminded him of watching her at work, the way she could switch between different people, different personalities like a switch.

Once Anton begrudgingly finished unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, Andrews helped carefully peel off the shirt and started to examine the red and swollen area, all under the watchful gaze of her.

He tried. He tried so hard to show no weakness. Not in front of her. But with every poke and prod, he could feel his mask slipping. At one point Andrews must have struck a nerve because Anton flinched violently and let out a small shuddering gasp. He couldn’t help but look back at her.

She had the most inscrutable expression. Her eyes obstinately on his arm, but she could feel his eyes on her. Her eyes were moving, almost frantically, between Anton’s arm and whatever Andrews was doing with his hands.

After rummaging around in his medical bag, Andrews drew out a scalpel, he cut through the stitches Anton had obviously done the previous night and she watched as the deep crimson seeped out and started to bleed further down his arm and drip onto the plastic sheet spread over the bed and floor.

She was reminded of another time - all that blood, all that pain…

Anton gritted his teeth and kept his reactions to the pain as minimal as he could. He decided to anchored himself to her, tried to find his strength in her. His eyes never leaving her face as he waited for her to look back.

When she did finally look up at him, he was a little taken aback. Her jaw was stern, her mouth drawn in a thin line, her nostrils flared, her eyebrows drawn. But her eyes…

There was no anger, no contempt, no mocking, just total understanding, empathy and…fear. He watched as her eyes glistened with unshed tears. Her lips parted as she drew a sharp inhale, like she wanted to say something, but snapped her mouth shut and immediately left the room.

Andrews muttered something of an apology followed by an almighty crack. Anton gave a chocked off scream mixed with a groan. He gripped the edge of the bed, the rustling of the plastic sheet almost deafening.

There were other cuts, other breaks that had to be made and throughout he felt weaker and weaker. At one point he had passed out.

He awoke to the pleasant relief of a cool towel being dabbed against his forehead, he opened his eyes to see her leaning over him. She met his gaze and lay the towel against his forehead. He felt the faintest brush of her fingers down his temple and cheek as she reached for something he couldn’t see. He then felt the unpleasant stab of a needle in his uninjured arm.

“Morphine.” She said quietly. “I found some, in your stash,” she pulled the needle out and placed a cotton wool ball over the small bead of blood that escaped the puncture wound.

“How long?” He all but croaked.

“A few hours. Andrews said it was worse than he thought, but it’s done. He suggested a cast, but,” she glanced over at his left arm, so did he. He saw instead of a plaster cast, an arm brace; “I thought this would be a better alternative,”

“What else?”

“The gunshot wound to your leg is already healing quite well, he didn’t need to do too much, the laceration on your other leg has a few stitches as well as the one on your forehead. You broke 3 ribs, but I imagine you already knew that, you’re to remain here for the next six weeks. After that…” she gulped as she tidied away the morphine and needle “You can go back to what you’d like,”

Anton now knew what was wrong. He never pretended to know about people and their seemingly unnecessary emotional ways - that was always her strength, but he always thought he’d at least be able to read her well enough. Perhaps the reason for his problem was the very reason she was upset and trying desperately to hide it behind her cool and facetious exterior. He wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here. For months. A wife needs her husband, and if he was honest; this husband needed his wife. The work gave him purpose, but she sustained him.

It was, perhaps, easier for her when they were both in the field, the fleeting moments when they might cross paths on separate jobs and frenzied, passionate nights in dirty motels when the adrenaline was coursing through both of them. It had been enough then to sustain them both, but after what happened, when the tables were turned on them, on her…

They both knew they always had to be prepared to die to do what they did, it was an inevitability and reality they confronted everywhere they went, but for her, it was not the fear of death, but a deep betrayal that had forced her to step away and after months and months of recovery, almost slipping into death’s arms so many times, she found that she would not - could not - return to that world, even after her arteries stitched themselves back together and wounds and scars faded to faint lines along her skin(Anton had counted and treated every one of them, with rapt attention).

He had stayed throughout her recovery, made sure she had everything should could ever need or want. He was the one who had saved her from bleeding out. He was the one who stitched her up. He was the one who relentlessly hunted down the ones who did this to her. He was the one who suggested marriage. He was the one who gave her the home he was currently laying in.

And yet despite it all.

He was the one who needed her.

So why did he stay away for so long?

It was something he continued to turn over in his head while she cleaned and tidied up her equipment. When she rose from her perch on the bed to leave, he attempted to sit up.

“Mi querida…”

“No.” She said, finally broken. She gently pushed him back down and picked up a tin tub that was filled with murky red water. “Ve a dormir.” He always enjoyed hearing her speak in his native tongue, but now she sounded so fragile, so heartbroken, so alone.

She left without looking back and closed the door behind her. She emptied the tub, put away the morphine, did the washing up. She did anything to keep herself busy, but the second she stopped a loud and horrible sob ripped it’s way out of her and she could do nothing but slide herself to the floor and try to silence her own cries.

And from his bed, Anton heard it all.

#fanfiction #anton chigurh #anton chigurh x reader #no country for old men

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mellowshipsu · 5 months

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Hello Mellow!

I was wondering if you could ship my Oc with a TWST Character!

Her name is Cynthia Widow and she is a Female TWST of Oogy Boogy from Nightmare Before Christmas.

She goes by She/Her and is in Ramshackle (She is Yuu).

She seems like the stereotypical good girl: kind, quiet, and fun-loving, but once she is comfortable around her, you see she is actually Cunning, sly, and very outgoing. She loves to play cards and luck/chance games with her friends (she starts an underground casino) and is a good cook. She is very elegant and graceful looking, but she is always listening and has a way of getting people to tell her their deepest, darkest secrets, desires, and truths to the point where she could blackmail anyone she wants too. She has perfected her mom glare and is fiercely loyal to her friends. She dosen't like potatoes and has a strange fondness for spiders and bats. Her live language is physical touch and quality time. She has a fear of snakes and is not the best athlete (though she does dance).

Lmk if you need any more information and thank you!!

One would think he would never take interest of you.

You're quite the opposite of him, it's true.

An outgoing gambling woman full of potential sin.

But that is what draws him in.

You're beautiful, covered in glitz and glam.

You gripped the heart of the righteous---

Rollo Flamm!

(image source: breezewiki)

Cynthia Widow instantly caught the eyes of the Noble Bell College's president, Rollo Flamm. Not only was she not invited to to this event, she was also a woman in a school full of boys. He eyed her closely at her stay with her demon talking cat. To his surprise, Miss. Widow was a kind woman. Politely talking to the citizens, parenting her little monster cat, and playing with the local children and goats.

Rollo walked with her and Grim around the city before spotting a group of men playing a shell game. Some men were complaining how they lost their money which made Rollo sneer in disgust. But Cynthia looked intrigued, a smirk creeping on her pretty purple lips. She watched intently as another gambled their money away.

"You're a cheat." She said simply, making everyone, including Rollo stare at her in shock at such a bold statement.

"Ma'am. I do not know what you're talking about." The dealer said nervously.

Cynthia walked up to the table, "You're quite good at acting about being humble. Losing some games to suspend suspicion - smart. But unfortunately for you I'm an avid gambler, who gambles to a various amount of magical students." She grabbed the shells and lifted them up to reveal they were all empty, "Non-magical people fall victim to these games against a magic user." She put the shells down and pointed at the dealer's arms, "You use your magic to slip the marble up your sleeve when you rearrange them."

The man looked baffled. Rollo took this opportunity to check himself. He stepped forward and used his magic to pull the marble out from the man's sleeve. Rollo looked angered, "And on our joyous holiday!"

The dealer shook and was drenched in sweat, while the people who were swindled got the authorities. The dealer was escorted away and Rollo made it his responsibility to distribute the money back to the gamblers, scolding them not to indulge in such dark temptations.

Cynthia and Grim pouted a bit, wishing they had some of that money. Rollo would scold them, but he couldn't stop looking at Cynthia's pouting lips and thinking how cute she was.

"You are quite an interesting person Cynthia Widow... Would you consider staying at Nobel Bell College instead? I would like you by my side. ...! As my captain of the guard of course."

#mellowshipsu #mellowshipsyou #mellowshipsyuu #twisted wonderland #twst #oc x canon #twisted oc #cyn-write #rollo flamm #twst rollo #twisted wonderland rollo #rollo x reader #cyn-write x Rollo

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cilil · 1 year

Text

Author's Note: After my beautiful friend @edensrose mentioned nightmare Irmo (thread here) I felt like writing a spontaneous little thing featuring my take on nightmare Irmo. Hope you enjoy!♡

⋆｡･ ☾ Drabble ⋆｡･ ✩

The Lord of Dreams and Nightmares

"You have gotten lost in my gardens, haven't you?"

☾ Synopsis: You find yourself bewitched by Irmo's beauty, yet something darker lurks behind his kind smile and sweet lullabies

☾ Featuring: Reader-insert, 2nd person POV, dark!Irmo, nightmare!Irmo, Ainur-typical use of singing and shapeshifting

☾ CW: Being put to sleep against your will, slight horror themes (eldritch Ainur)

☾ Drabble (~500 words), also available on AO3

His laughter is like a sweet melody, reminding you of chiming bells and glittering pearls of dew on a flower's petals, and it fills the air around you as if it was coming from all sides. You listen to the sound of his voice, enchanted and captivated, and follow when a lily-white hand beckons you. The water of the lake splashes gently as dainty feet dance across its surface, leading you to a shadowy island in the middle of it.

You make your way to its shore, drawn to him like a moth to a flame, and are rewarded with the breathtakingly beautiful sight of the Lord of Dreams himself, now fully revealed to your enraptured gaze as he waits for you. The fabric of his robes is thin and diaphanous, leaving his shoulders exposed and barely concealing his divine, elegant form underneath, and his hypnotic lavender eyes invite you to come closer. You nearly fall over your own feet when you finally reach the Vala and are drawn into his warm, soothing embrace.

Irmo picks you up and carries you to a nearby field of flowers, stroking your hair and kissing your parting. You melt in his arms, all worry gone from your heart for the moment, banished by his presence, and you look up at him with awe and adoration as he places you on the ground.

"My lord..." you try to speak, but your tongue starts to feel heavy and a delicate finger on your lips silences you.

"Hush, little one. You have gotten lost in my gardens, haven't you?"

Your slow, tired nod causes Irmo's eyes to light up, and he giggles before leaning down to plant another kiss on your forehead.

"You should rest then, my sweet little butterfly. I will watch over you and your dreams..."

His voice fades into a soft hum and he weaves a calming, lilting melody that you soon identify as a lullaby. Your eyelids start fluttering, and you are tempted to give in, yet something makes you want to stay awake–a vague feeling of unease. Something felt wrong.

"I don't... want to sleep..." you mumble, only for Irmo to shake his head with a smile. It is then that you notice a certain sharpness to his teeth, and his fána appears to start shifting.

"But of course you do, little one. I have so many wonderful dreams prepared for you..."

The Vala's lullaby echoes through your very being while he continues to sing, and drowsiness settles over you like a heavy blanket of tempting oblivion. You sink deeper into the flowers and can only watch Irmo leaning over you, still smiling, eyes shining with an eerie purple light that seems to grow brighter and brighter the more you succumb to his song.

From the corner of your eye, you see a flurry of ghostly moths flitting around his form as a pair of glittering, translucent wings emerges from his back and unfurls, alongside two additional pairs of arms sprouting from his shoulders. His fingers grow longer and claw-like, and you see his veins glowing under his pale skin, as if the power of his spirit was seeping into his blood, blurring the lines between the physical and spiritual realm. Strange patterns appear all over his fána, colourful, vibrant and ever shifting, bewitching and hypnotic.

These lights are the last thing you see before sleep finally claims you, shrouding you in its dark embrace, and you hear Irmo laughing again, his voice now sounding distant–

"Sleep well, little butterfly."

If you enjoyed, please consider liking and reblogging!♡

taglist: @a-contemplation-upon-flowers @asianbutnotjapanese @edensrose @eunoiaastralwings @floraroselaughter @singleteapot

masterlist | tag list form

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thestraggletag · 11 months

Text

The Caretaker, Chapter Two

AKA: A Rumbelle Sugar Daddy AU… kinda.

Rating: Explicit.

Summary: Belle French had never thought helping came with strings attached, confident that in a community people naturally tended to help each other, until the day she needed help to keep the library open and no one seemed to care. No one but Mr Gold, whose penchant for dealing could always be counted on, even if the price for his generosity was known to be steep.

At first Belle thought it was a power move, to have her about. The first time he called she was very apprehensive, but nowhere near regretting her deal with Mr Gold. Marco and his crew had been to the library just the day before, taking measurements and making a more thorough assessment of the work needed, going as far as to check the work done on the roof, determined not only to fix the damage the water had made on the building but to also ensure it would not happen again. He seemed to hold little esteem for the people the town had hired to do the original patching on the roof, but was too polite to say something about it. He had even gone above and beyond and done a general assessment of the building itself, commenting on the poor-quality glass installed on the windows of her apartment, letting her know it would be wise to replace them as soon as possible, as he doubted they would resist many more Maine storms in the state they were.

Mr Gold had delivered on his promise almost at once, so Belle felt a bit glad to finally be able to start paying him back. The first time he called her it was to his shop after hours. She clocked out promptly at six PM, which she usually did not do, preferring to organise some section or do some minor cleaning until right before dinner time, and went across the street towards the pawnshop. The inside was dimly lit, contrasting with the well-lit street outside and to Belle it felt a bit like stepping into a cave of wonders. She hadn’t been flattering Mr Gold when she complimented him on his shop. The place was fascinating, full of character and hidden gems, secrets to be discovered. The way the curios created a labyrinth, the clutter accentuated by the busy yet elegant pattern wallpaper, the myriad of old pieces of furniture that overflowed with items at the top, it all had its charm. Then there was the fact that no item that she could see was ordinary. Everything was antique or unusual, belonging to some sort of bygone era that made them foreign yet recognisable.

She told herself not to look, but it was so difficult. Everything seemed to catch her eye, from the dusty books on the shelves to the sparkles of the pieces of jewellery strewn about. But the most intriguing thing was the man standing beside the cash register. Mr Gold looked composed, almost indifferent to her presence yet acutely aware of it at the same time. He was dressed sharply, as always, but once more without his suit jacket, his shirt cuffs pulled back from his wrist by the golden sleeve garters he wore. He was very much like his shop, familiar and yet someone out of time, beyond the normalcy she knew.

After exchanging basic pleasantries he instructed her to take a seat on a nearby desk. It contained the only 21st century piece of technology: a sleek, shiny laptop.

“I need to do some work to get a couple of candelabras I’ve sold up to snuff before they’re delivered, and I don’t have the time to catch up on some basic paperwork. I wish for you to update the inventory. But please make a pot of tea first, you’ll find everything you need in the back room.”

His tone was not unkind, but it did not invite chatter and there was an air of authority in it that Belle noticed right away. She made her way to the back room of the shop, noticing that it was too littered with stuff, noticeably either broken pieces or things that had not been polished or cleaned yet. There was a small kitchenette in a corner, where she found small boxes of loose-leaf tea, meticulously labelled, a complete tea set and an electric kettle, along with sugar, honey and a small carton of milk in the nearby mini-fridge.

Determined to give him his money’s worth and prove her usefulness Belle set out to prepare the tea, finding a darjeeling that smelled ripe and fruity that she liked, taking care to warm the pot before putting the tea in and pouring the water. She found a lovely wooden tray big enough and piled on the honey, sugar, the milk in its little pitcher, a saucer, cup and silver spoon, along with the full pot, mindful Mr Gold would likely want more than one cup. When she brought it over, rather proud of how good it all looked- the tea set was rather lovely, bone china with a delicate blue and gold pattern- he barely glanced at it.

“Pour me a cup, please.”

The please seemed rather perfunctory, perhaps, but the librarian didn’t mind. She prepared the cup carefully, put a spoonful of sugar when he asked for it and held it out to him. Belatedly she remembered that she hadn’t offered him milk, and hurriedly did so.

“I prefer the blood of newborns, but milk is fine.”

The comment startled her into dropping the cup, her nerves finally getting the best of her. He frowned, for the first time showing an emotion that wasn’t mild interest, and clarified:

“It was a quip. Not serious.”

She knew that. Even if she thought the worst of Mr Gold, which she didn’t, she would not have assumed anything that shocking or garish to be true. It had simply caught her by surprise. Her grip on the cup loosened, sending it crashing to the floor. Panic immediately flooded her. The cup was clearly expensive and, as far as she had been able to tell, the tea set had been complete and intact a second ago. She picked it up, happy to see that it hadn’t shattered to pieces, but anxious about the sizable chip it had on a side. This would certainly draw Mr Gold’s anger. The man clearly had a passion for antiques, and even if half of the town rumours about his temper turned out to be false, it still didn’t look good for her.

“It’s-it’s chipped.” She paused, licking her lips and looking at it. “I mean… You can hardly see it.”

She didn’t know why she said that, given the size of the missing chip, but Mr Gold merely shrugged, unperturbed.

“It’s just a cup.” He went back to his work, instructing her to simply get another cup.

“Two, if you please. I do not like to drink tea alone if I have company. And bring some biscuits. They’re in the red tin next to the stove.”

Belle was too relieved to question his insistence on her taking tea. Besides the tea did smell rather lovely, and it had been ages since she had allowed herself the luxury of good honey. She brought back the two cups requested, along with the shortbread cookies she had found and served them both, trying to commit Mr Gold’s preferences when it came to tea to memory. Then she settled down to do the data entry he requested, enjoying the couple of cookies she had taken for herself, the salty-buttery taste of the shortbread complimenting the fruity flavour of the tea.

It was, she had to admit, less eventful than what she thought it would be. A bit awkward, with all the silence, but otherwise rather enjoyable. Data entry was something Belle could do with barely any need to concentrate, so she had been able to focus on the tea and the biscuits, on enjoying the warmth inside the shop and the cosiness of it.

The next few times were spent much in the same way, and Belle soon grew less anxious about the encounters and more bored with the stifling silence. Besides that she would actually say she enjoyed her time at the shop. Mr Gold would always have her prepare tea or heat up whatever lunch he had for the day, and there was always plenty to go around and an offhand comment for her to eat too, which more than suited Belle. Between tasks she’d be able to roam around the shop and explore and whenever she did have to do something, it was never too tasking, or unseemly. File some papers, do some data entry, ready an antique that was about to be shipped the way Mr Gold had shown her. She didn’t think any of it was worth the favour Mr Gold had done her in return, but she theorised it was perhaps a power thing, to have her about and give orders to.

Once she moved past her initial apprehension Belle felt determined to make conversation with the pawnbroker, which she knew from their previous encounters at the library was possible. Mr Gold, either on purpose or being true to his nature, responded first with monosyllables, but she would not give up, recalling the books he had taken out previously and enquiring about them, cajoling longer and longer responses from the pawnbroker till he felt compelled to ask her things in return, even if it was only to give himself a break from talking.

Once the conversation started flowing it was pleasant. More than. Mr Gold was witty, with a biting sense of humour that sometimes ran towards the macabre, but that was something they both had in common. He was also well-read, beyond just the books he had favoured in visits to the library, and rather well-travelled. They found they had a lot in common as expats adapting to American culture, and shared a love for history, theatre and period dramas. The more she talked with Mr Gold the more layers of him she uncovered, bits and pieces of the man behind the mask. None of it was personal at all, mostly superficial stuff, but still, Belle began to feel like she was the person in Storybrooke that knew Mr Gold best.

The first weekend he summoned her to his home the nervousness returned tenfold. It wasn’t just the change of venue but also the intimacy of it. What would he have her do in his home? She knew what Ruby would say and it was almost absurd, but the anxiety still lingered. The icy walk towards the edge of town, where Mr Gold lived seemed daunting, and even the eccentric colour scheme of the pawnbroker’s house could not shift her mood. Inside the house was warm, though, and beautiful to behold, a truly well-preserved Queen Anne with gorgeous ceilings, expensive Persian rugs and all sorts of interesting antiques that made it a natural extension of Mr Gold’s shop.

Once Mr Gold had helped her take off her coat, scarf and gloves- the later were dreadfully threadbare, but she did not have the money for a good quality replacement and she didn’t want to spend money on cheap gloves that would barely last her the winter- he directed her to the kitchen, which was a lovely combination of old and new, with ultra-modern appliances designed to fit into the decor instead of standing out like metallic eyesores. She saw that, on the counter, there were a myriad of supplies, including flour, fresh blueberries and sugar.

“What you do you want me to do, Mr Gold?”

He looked at her, a bit puzzled.

“I thought it rather obvious. I want you to bake. I greatly enjoyed the bakesale you organised, though in retrospect, knowing where the money ended up in, I regret purchasing so much. As I have understood you did all the baking.”

Belle did recall Mr Gold purchasing a lot of stuff, including several of her blueberry muffins, a special family recipe. Given what she now knew about his eating habits and what she had known for a while about his extreme dislike for the nuns- she sort of understood that one, after Mother Superior’s manipulative appropriation of the funds she had raised for the library- none of what he said surprised her and she gladly set out to bake. It was a vastly different experience from the rushed, anxious baking she had to do for the doomed sale. Mr Gold’s kitchen was bright and airy, with a lovely view of the backyard from the many windows that let sunlight in. She was also not pressed for time and did not have to make dozens of treats, so she could take her time with the muffins, making sure they came out perfect. Baking was something that reminded her of her mother, who had taught her when Belle was younger and Colette had yet to get sick.

At some point the faint sound of music- something by Clara Schumann, one of her piano concertos- reached her ears, adding to the pleasant feeling and also to her growing knowledge of Mr Gold. Soon enough the kitchen was full of the pleasant aroma of freshly-baked and cooling muffins, and she set out to make tea unprompted, knowing by then Mr Gold’s afternoon-time habits, deciding to serve it in the kitchen. The dining-room felt too cavernous.

When she called the man for tea, knocking on his study before entering, she was a bit happy to see she had surprised him, but he followed her easily enough, not even protesting at being made to take tea on the kitchen island, though he did inquire about the location.

“The dining-room looks fit for a state dinner. This is cosier.”

She enjoyed one of her muffins, but did not expect the rest to appear on their shop tea rotation the next week, thinking Mr Gold might want to keep them all to himself. It soon became a routine for her to go to his house on weekends, sometimes one day and sometimes both, to bake or simply hang around waiting for deliveries that he ‘could not be bothered with’. To Belle it meant lounging around gorgeous rooms full of amazing antiques and perusing Mr Gold’s collection of not-quite-collectible-but-still–very-old books, finding a treasure trove of interesting books about botany, a subject she had previously not known Mr Gold to favour. He also seemed to collect old cookbooks, some which looked rather well-worn, ranging from delicate French cuisine to more peasant fare dishes and Victorian cooking staples. There was always something in the fridge to warm up for lunch, and something yummy for tea, which meant Belle ate better those days than during the rest of the week.

It was a bit of a holiday, it felt like. When she stayed home invariably someone always seemed to come knocking in need of her time, either David with some emergency at the animal shelter or Leroy needing someone to help him with some convent initiative he- for some reason he refused to tell her- signed up for even though he lacked the skills or time for it.

But no one was looking for her at Mr Gold’s. She could relax knowing the sound of the doorbell did not bring with it some desperate friend in need of her time and attention. It did not mean people did not pester her for her time during weekdays, which left her having to improvise excuse after excuse, but though she didn’t like lying, what she had always found difficult about saying no to people was the feeling of guilt afterwards. She did not feel that now, with her time conveniently taken up by her deal with Mr Gold.

She began to be happy about the arrangement for something other than the visible improvements being done to the library, even though friends and acquaintances were growing a bit frosty with her, recriminating her for her lack of help, acting a like they were entitled to her time and leaving her wondering whether she had ever said no to people before.

She must have, surely, though she could not recall a specific example.

“What’s your first name?”

The question came out of nowhere, but once she said it she could not take it back. She was in Mr Gold’s shop, taking a pause from the task he had given her to drink her tea. It was ghastly outside, rainy and windy, and even the short walk between the library and the pawnshop had ruined her pristine appearance. Her hair, frizzy from the humidity, did not seem to want to cooperate with her and settled tucked behind her ears, which was irking her.

“My own business.”

The Scotsman’s response was caustic, but Belle had grown used to his dry tone. He was all bark and no bite when he was like that.

“I promise not to tell anyone.”

“Not knowing it will help you keep that promise.”

She could not help the unbecoming snort of laughter at that, but she had grown comfortable enough around the pawnbroker not to care about it. Instead she attempted to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear yet again, frustrated by how it refused to stay out of her face.

“What harm could there possibly be? This is not some folk tale where giving your name to the fairies has consequences or something.”

“You do look a bit fae-like. Bright eyes, delicate features.”

The unexpected compliment, in the midst of their banter, made her blush and look down, her hands grabbing the inkpot he had left for her, along with the pen he had instructed her to refill with ink. She delicately unscrewed the Montblanc, making sure the cartridge was empty and the spring lowered down before she dipped it into the pot, rotating the tip of the cartridge to fill it up. Her unruly lock of hair chose that moment to leave its perch behind her ear, flopping almost straight into the ink.

“Careful there.”

She hadn’t heard Mr Gold get closer, but suddenly he was right next to her, carefully lifting up the unruly lock of hair and fixing it in place with something he placed on her hair. Belle touched the thing carefully, feeling something that felt like small stones or maybe pearls. It was a beret. She removed it, noticing it was a beautiful piece, with small stones that seemed like diamonds and perfect little pearls, making up flowers and leaves. The style was very Art Nouveau, soft and romantic. Which meant it was likely very expensive, and her first instinct was to give it back. Or try to.

“Oh, Mr Gold, you shouldn’t bother. I can’t accept it, what if I break it or something? Like your cup?”

“It’s a trivial little trinket I’ve had lying around for ages. And it keeps me from fearing that lock might find its way into my tea later.”

“Nothing in this shop is a trinket. Take it back.”

She held out the beret again, frustrated when her hair decided to do her dirty and obscure her face again. Mr Gold rolled his eyes, studying her to gauge how determined she was about the topic before his gaze turned predatory and a dealer’s smile began to inch its way across his face.

“I’ll make you a deal, Miss French.” He paused, perhaps for effect, and Belle had to tell herself not to focus on the way his voice turned into a soft, beguiling purr when he was proposing a deal. Something to unsettle his potential victim, she supposed, and it did unsettle her, but not in the way she thought he intended. “I’ll give you my name if you accept the hair clip.”

She narrowed her eyes, trying to think about the catch. This deal did not seem to benefit Mr Gold at all, except the pawnbroker never made a deal he did not stand to gain from, so there had to be something there that she wasn’t seeing. Nothing materialised, but she did not spot a hidden trap either. She may not know why Mr Gold wanted her to have both the beret and his name, but she would benefit anyway.

“Deal.”

Carefully, trying to make her frizzy hair look artfully teased instead, she combed through it before placing the beret to both secure the hair and the style she had put it into.

“There, done. Now you.”

“My name’s Alexander Uilleam. A constant reminder of my dead father.”

“That was also his name?”

“No. He hated me.”

Belle did not have to ask what he meant by that. After all, she had always half-jokingly thought so. And it did not necessarily come as a shock that a man as abrasive and prickly as Mr Gold had not had a happy or easy childhood. She could tell that the reveal had left him a bit discomfited, vulnerable, so she thought to put him at ease.

“Alexander is a lovely name. Elegant. It suits you.” She paused, glad when she caught a hint of a pleased smile on the edge of his lips. “May I use it, when it’s just us?”

“If you must.”

It didn’t take long for Belle to realise her deal with Mr Gold-Alexander- was not about power. If anything, he strived to be discreet when it came to their arrangement, never requiring anything of her that would expose their interactions to the judgemental people of Storybrooke. So she began to theorise that Mr Gold was lonely, which is why he kept her around. He tried to pretend otherwise, sometimes ignoring her and other times acting like her attempts at conversing with him or her mere presence was an annoyance he bravely chose to bear, but it was a poor act, at least now that she could read him better.

Her theory seemed to confirm itself when he began to take her to auctions and estate sales. She had known before that Mr Gold sometimes made those trips- people tended to make a big deal out of him being out of Storybrooke and, therefore, not able to pop out of nowhere to ask for people’s rents or whatever else they thought he did- but she had never given it much thought until he had told her she would accompany him to an event in Lewiston, some sort of estate sale. He would take her of the clothing, since this was a business event and so it was his responsibility to provide her with appropriate attire, and gave her the details for a Bergdorf account, telling her to order whatever she pleased. Her polite but immediate refusal was met with an offhand comment about how their deal was for her time, and he could not take her to the auction unless she purchased suitable clothing. Therefore, her refusal to buy clothes would be a breach of contract.

Belle’s sense of wounded pride at the notion that she was lacking quality clothes to wear to a special occasion was somehow lessened by the fact that she had lost a good part of her wardrobe to the damp and rot inside her closet, and the fact that she had sold some of her best shoes and dresses just a few weeks before she had made her deal with Mr Gold, needing that extra bit of cash to push her over what she thought at the time was the finishing line of her funds for the library, before they had mostly gone to her father. She had been able to afford some of her more expensive pieces by restoring antique books in her spare time, but she didn’t have any at the moment, hadn’t had for a while. Her wardrobe was severely limited at the moment, and Mr Gold was so blindingly rich he probably wouldn’t notice the change in his bank account even if she bought half the clothing her size on the website.

“Just the one outfit.”

“And a coat, don’t forget.”

She ended up buying a Givenchy powder-blue knit mini-dress, which she could pair with a plum-coloured cardigan and black booties she already had, and after much fighting she added a Burbery cashmere trench coat, something that she could get a lot of use out of without ever looking out of place. A few days later he had called her over to his shop to hand her the packages, without a hint of reproach in his face at the expense of it all.

“I forgot to ask you to add gloves, so I took the liberty to order a pair for you. I apologise for the presumption.”

The dress fit like a dream, and the coat was incredibly warm. But the gloves were her favourite part: exactly to her taste, a pair of woven leather and cashmere gloves that fit her hands perfectly and were soft like butter. But above all, they let her know that Mr Gold had cared about her comfort and took the time to ensure she would be warm while on their outing.

The outing itself was more fun than she had expected. The ride was amenable enough, with Belle in charge of the thermos of tea and the conversation and Mr Gold in the mood to be conversational. He clearly had a passion for antiques and did not mind indulging her curiosity on the subject, coming across both as knowledgeable and engaging. As for the event itself, Belle never quite understood what the point was of her being there. Her only expertise were books, and she did feel rather proud when she could point out a few neglected but salvageable first and second editions amongst the things sold from the library of the estate. He didn’t seem to mind, though, seeming to need her only for chatter while he perused everything with a calculated eye, sometimes pausing over a particular lamp or a certain piece of furniture.

Once they had made two full tours of the place- with Mr Gold perhaps leaning a bit on her, to hide his more pronounced limp, given the amount of walking they had done-he seemed to have made up his mind, quickly arranging the purchase of two lamps, a clock and three Bohemian crystal pieces, a decanter, a jar and a vase. It was a thing of beauty to watch him haggle, inscrutable as he pointed out a flaw or minor cosmetic detail and argued about the sellability of some of the pieces in the market. In the end he got exactly what he wanted at a good price, judging from the satisfied turn of his lips, and he was even kind enough to invite her to a late tea in a charming little cottage-style inn on the road back to Storybrooke.

There was no mistaking her enthusiasm when he brought up another trip, this time to an auction, and she did not even put up much of a fuss when he insisted she get herself a new outfit. She would find a way to return the clothes to Mr Gold once their deal was done and he could not stop her, and in the meantime she had come to have a better grasp of his fortune, which was bigger than what she had previously imagined. He truly did mean it when he said her purchases were of little consequence to him. Soon she had amassed a modest array of dresses, blouses, skirts and a few accessories, which she tried to expand with a few tasteful pieces from her own wardrobe. It was the sort of clothing she has always dreamed of wearing every day but had never had the funds for. And her guilt at spending Alexander’s money lessened by the obvious pleasure in his face every time he saw her in a new outfit, especially when she made subtle efforts to match him. A few times he would present her with a scarf or a similar accessory, saying something about the weather or some other excuse in an offhand manner, knowing she did not believe him but would not comment on it. It was sweet, and his taste was impeccable.

And though dressing up was fun, and the antiques were fascinating, it was Alexander that made each trip worthwhile. He was a great companion, more than eager to share his knowledge and explain his decisions as they both studied each item on display. He would defer to her when it came to books, and she was happy when he made a few purchases explicitly because she had recommended them.

Once or twice he took her to gallery openings in Portland or formal dinner events, where obviously the underlying purpose was to network and socialise. She had been hesitant at first about looking for dresses, till she finally managed to snag a fourth thousand dollar Marchesa crepe gown in deep red at under half the price. She had told him so the next day, over the moon about the steal.

“But was that the dress you liked best?”

“It was for that price.”

The night in question, when she had shown up to the pawnshop with her hair artfully teased and swept up and her make-up impeccable, he had a box from Louboutin in his hands.

“What is this?”

“Well, you did save all that money with the dress, so I needed something to do with the leftovers.”

The shoes inside were stupidly gorgeous, shimmery strass fabric pumps with a 4-inch heel, more than easy for her to manage.

“This is not what I was hoping for when I bought the dress, you know.”

“No, you were hoping to get one over me. I hope you realise there is no doing that, Miss French.”

“Belle, please. I can’t have you buying me shoes and not using my given name, at least.”

Had she known Alexander less she would’ve thought this was a way to flex his power over her once more, but now she saw it as a kindness from a person unused to expressing positive feelings to other people. That night had been particularly pleasant. He required her to only look good and contribute to the conversation when appropriate, and they both delighted in people-watching whenever he did not need to socialise. Belle even got him to dance, just a little, even if he had to lean rather heavily on her. When he had driven her back to her home, the Cadillac barely gaining on the dawning morning sun, she had felt almost unwilling to leave.

“You know, you don’t have to get me things for me to enjoy spending time with you.”

“I don’t? That’s not usually my experience.”

In an act of what she would later categorise as temporary madness she reached over to kiss his cheek. He was warm, and smelt still of his sandalwood cologne.

“I mean it. I rather like spending time with you. More than with anyone else, really.”

Something, she wasn’t sure what, had changed between them after that innocent little kiss. On the one hand Alexander himself seemed… softer, more at ease, less likely to dodge personal questions using quips or non-answers. She found herself opening up to him about her mother, who had died when she was very young, and how that had conditioned her, she supposed, to hide her troubles.

“She was sick for so long that I didn’t want her or dad to worry about me. It was easy to push things aside and try to find ways to help. Mom would always know, though, when something was wrong with me. She wasn’t fooled, and wasn’t deterred. She would often tell me she was my mom and it was her job to worry over me and not mine to worry over her.”

“A rather exemplary mother, then. I’m glad.”

They were having tea, both deciding at the same time to abandon their respective tasks, given the late hour. They were sharing the last scone between them, huddled together near the radiator in the back of the shop. The weather had turned frightful, and it was forecasted to continue so.

“But when she died… dad was left alone. And he didn’t have mom’s sixth sense for these sorts of things, he was rather helpless. I enjoyed being useful, finding ways to contribute. I didn’t expect that to create a- a rift of sorts. I love him and I know he loves me but… I don’t think he knows me very much, or how to interact with me. And I don’t know how to interact with him on a more real basis. Tell him when something is bothering me or I have a problem.”

Alexander, Belle had quickly surmised, had an abysmal opinion of her father. She had also assumed correctly that his own had not been great either.

“It’s a father’s responsibility to care for their child. There’s no excuse for shirking parental responsibilities.”

“Is this about your own father?”

He had talked briefly about his childhood, mostly about the two old women who had brought him up till they had died when he had been around fourteen, and had only mentioned his mother had died in childbirth.

“No, but he certainly wasn’t father of the year. Would make your own look downright decent.” He paused, pouring himself another cup of tea slowly, as if trying to make time. “I had a son. He was the world to me. I cannot imagine a parent, any parent, not being willing to do whatever it took to ensure their child’s happiness.”

In spite of the myriad of rumours going around Storybrooke about Mr Gold, many centred around his past before he came to town, Belle had never heard any about a child.

“You have a son?”

“Had. Balfour. A lovely boy, bright and full of life. His mother left us soon after he was born, but I made sure he never once felt her absence.” Alexander’s voice sounded soft and affectionate, his accent more pronounced as he told the story. “He was full of plans. Wanted to be an architect, a lawyer, and a doctor. Like kids often do. I worked hard so he would have the choice to be whoever he wanted, to be the supportive father I had always wanted my own da to be.” He paused, hands tightening around the repaired cup he favoured- why he insisted on using the one she chipped she had no idea- to the point she feared he might shatter the delicate china and hurt himself. “But it didn’t matter in the end. There was a car accident- a driver fell asleep at the wheel, I was told. He didn’t make it, and neither did Bae. I got out of it intact. Well, mostly.”

She didn’t have to ask him to clarify with the way he glanced at his ever-present cane, propped up right next to his chair.

“Did it happen here, in Storybrooke?”

Surely not. Belle could not imagine people would hate the pawnbroker so unabashedly if they knew what had happened to him.

“Yes. Less than a year after we moved in. Bae is buried on the edge of the local cemetery. He wasn’t baptised and Mother Superior pitched a fit at the notion that he would be buried on consecrated ground. So I bought the land right next to the cemetery, and made it look like it was part of it. Commissioned a bench so I could sit with him from time to time, but it got harder and harder to do so over time.”

It was no wonder there was an all-out war between the convent and the pawnbroker. Belle was rather amazed the Scotsman hadn’t evicted them ages ago.

“Would you like to go there sometime?”

Alexander looked up at her, surprised, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that he did not need to visit the grave alone.

“I couldn’t possibly use our arrangement in that way. It would be too much of an imposition.”

“It would be outside the boundaries of our arrangement. Of my own free will.”

“Why?”

Had Belle now known Alexander better she would’ve been tempted to find the question insulting. But to the pawnbroker the idea that someone would do anything for him without getting something in return seemed an impossibility.

“Because I want to.”

He did not press her, but smiled sadly into his cup, determined to avoid eye contact, likely feeling rather vulnerable and raw.

“You’re too good a person. I’ve always thought so.”

He let the subject drop after, pointedly beginning to muse out loud about the upcoming weather, a clear message for her to move along.

She didn’t bring it up afterwards, and neither did he, but something seemed to loosen up about him, some invincible barrier he had struggled hard to maintain between them dissolving into nothing. He no longer felt the need to pretend he didn’t like it when she interrupted his work with a cup of tea, chiding him about his long hours, or pretend he did not buy strawberry jam for their scones because she preferred it to the blackberry one he usually kept.

Other things changed. She no longer waited for a summons, sometimes stopping by his shop simply to avoid having lunch alone or to share something she had recently baked- she seemed to have a lot of spare time now that people seemed to have stopped asking her to do things for them, and she felt a bit bad that she was rather enjoying it. He never turned her away or commented on her unexpected presence, and Belle theorised he was scared she would stop doing it. Alexander was a man used to loneliness, but he clearly craved social contact. And physical touch, which had rather surprised her. She was a very tactile person herself, but she had tried to refrain herself from touching the pawnbroker too much at first, convinced she was imposing herself on him, only for it soon to become clear to her that he welcomed the touch. It was easy to see in the way he seemed to subconsciously lean on it, sometimes chasing her hand as it retreated.

When she realised he was not adverse to her touch but rather the opposite she increased it, determined to bring some much-needed human contact back into Alexander’s life. She grew used to walking but his side leaning slightly against him, arms linked together, noticing he leaned right back, or to linger when she touched him to get his attention. With time she even grew comfortable straightening his tie and setting his hair to rights when the wind made a mess of his veritable mane. She enjoyed it too, the growing bits of intimacy that made her feel nervous in a way she hadn’t in years.

She didn’t allow herself to delve too deep into what it all meant.

“Hey, long time no see stranger.”

Belle looked up from her half-finished piece of French toast, smiling up at Ruby in what she hoped was a placating way. She had been too busy with Alexander and the crew at the library putting the finishing touches on their work, which sometimes meant letting them into her apartment, to visit the diner, which meant she had not seen Ruby in a while. She was hoping her friend wouldn’t read too much into it.

“Hey, Ruby, sorry about that. It’s been a bit crazy at the library with all the work going on.”

It was more than a passable excuse and she thought it would be more than enough to dispel the shadow of suspicion in Ruby’s eyes. But it seemed to merely give her an opening to plop down on the seat in front of hers and lean on the table, her hair perilously close to her food.

“Speaking of that I’ve been meaning to ask you… How on Earth did you get the money for the fix? I mean, you were really worried about it a while ago.”

It would’ve been easy to hide, to say that she had managed to squirrel the money together over time. She hadn’t told Ruby about her dad’s financial woes, after all, so it would be believable. But all Belle could think about was that she could not believe Ruby was interested about that now, after months of very obviously trying to avoid the subject and redirecting the conversation when it did come up. Belle had told herself that her friend wasn’t being insensitive, she just didn’t understand how much she was worrying over the matter. It seemed she had been wrong.

“Now you want to talk about that? Because I thought you didn’t care. You certainly acted like you didn’t all those times I tried to talk to you about it before.”

“Hey, hey, let’s not get defensive! I was just asking, trying to be a good friend. It’s just that I haven’t seen you in a while and wanted to know how things were going. Granny and I miss you.”

“I didn’t move to another town, Ruby. The library is right across the street, you could come in at any point to visit.”

“Well, I-I don’t get many breaks. You know how much of a hardass Granny is.”

“Have you seen the library’s working hours? I’m the only librarian, Ruby, if the library is open then I’m working. Yet I’ve always made the effort to come in here, to spend money I do not have on tea and a scone so we could chat a bit and you could complain about your grandmother, your job or your love-life, and conveniently avoid asking me about my own. So why the sudden interest?”

There was something in there, something in Ruby’s eyes. Something that wasn’t the genuine concern of a friend, and she hated that she was pretending to care about things Belle had wanted her to care for a long time to get it out of her.

“Because I think I know! I know you did something, something bad! You made a deal with Gold, didn’t you?”

The waitress hissed those last words quietly, and the diner was almost deserted, but Belle still found herself looking around, making sure that no one had heard. She was not embarrassed or ashamed about her deal with Alexander, didn’t mind that people would judge her if they knew. But whatever that deal had created, whatever the relationship between them was now, she knew she wanted to keep it private, like something precious that wasn’t meant for other people to see.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

It felt wrong to lie to Ruby more than to anyone else, but the surprising anger she felt towards her helped with that feeling. Belle had not known she had been accumulating so much resentment, small things piling on top of each other, anecdotes and slights weaving together, things she hadn’t thought about much at the time but that had clearly stayed with her, adding to the rift that she now saw growing between her and the person she thought of as her best friend. It wasn’t just that she hadn’t had the time to visit Ruby recently, it was that she hadn’t felt the urge to. Even before she had made the deal with Alexander, coming into Granny’s had felt more like a chore. Ruby would preemptively beg her not to talk about the library, remarking she was tired of hearing about it and dismissively assuring her it was a non-issue and the council would come around and pay for the repairs in time.

“Meanwhile you’re scaring the customers away every time they come. They’re tired of hearing about it Belle, and Granny cannot afford to lose her regulars.”

Belle had accepted it at the time as Ruby looking out for her Gran and trying to boost her confidence about the council funds reaching her in time. But it had meant she could not talk about anything going on in her life, all of it consumed with the situation. So she had kept quiet, and tried to ignore the sting when Ruby didn’t seem to notice or mind that Belle was not telling her anything about her life, or that she was growing thin and pale and seemed vaguely anxious all the time. It hadn’t seemed to matter at the time, but, suddenly, it did.

“I saw you! The other night, all dolled up and getting out of his monster of a car in front of the library, at almost five in the morning. I couldn't believe it, so I was trying to give you the opportunity to explain yourself!”

She knew exactly what Ruby had seen. There had been a party a few nights ago that Alexander had wanted to use as an excuse to show around a newly-restored a blue-glass scarab necklace by Lalique, hoping it would catch the interest of someone and he would be able to sell it directly instead of having to negotiate it being put up for auction in an upcoming catalogue of Christie’s. She had purchased a lovely De la Renta made out of gold lame for the occasion, strapless with a sweetheart neckline to let the necklace shine and had put up her hair in a rather fetching imitation of a Gibson Girl bouffant. It had been a lovely night, draped over Alexander’s arm, both of them people-watching to pass the time whenever it was not mandatory for them to mingle. By the end of the night she had been pleasantly tipsy and he had confided in her that he had an informal offer for the necklace. ‘A little south of six figures’ he had told her, smiling that predatory smile at her, a little bit softened by the obvious admiration in his eyes at what he saw as her accomplishment. It was the first time Belle had consciously thought she wanted to kiss him, wanted him to lean close enough that she could reach his hair to pull him close and press her lips against his.

And now Ruby was making it all sound something that wasn’t. Something unseemly.

“Whatever you think you saw it wasn’t what you’re trying to imply.”

She fished out her wallet from her purse, glad she did not have to scrounge up enough for the food and the tip amongst the loose change in her purse.

“And I don’t have to stay here and hear you imply I’m selling myself for the library or something. You know where to find me if you want to see me, but don’t feel rushed to do so.”

She waved at Granny on her way out, head held high and a weight off her chest.

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle #belle french #mr gold #rumplestiltskin #thestraggletag fanfiction #the caretaker

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