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fangirlsmood · 3 years

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Tomioka Giyuu x reader - inferiority complex

Summary : Noticing how Giyuu doesn't know his own worth, you try to remedy his inferiority complex.

Warnings : Spoilers about Giyuu’s past.

author notes : Seeing our little Giyuu blame and put himself down breaks my heart, it's time for someone to comfort him and tell him what an amazing person he is.

_ Tomioka-san !

Hearing your voice, Giyuu stopped in his walk and turned to you, nodding his head to greet you. You noticed that he was holding a bunch of papers, probably a mission report he had to return to Oyakata-sama.

_ You’re already back ! After filing your report, would you accept ...

_ No.

_ But...

You've been begging him for a while to train you. He had saved you a few months ago from a demon and since then you had only one wish: to become like him. You were infinitely grateful to him and you were so admiring. Not really knowing how to fight but wanting to be useful you had started to help at the Butturfly estate. However you wanted to do more, you wanted to save people before they could get hurt like Giyuu had done for you.

_ Ask another person.

_ Kocho-san is already taking care of Kanao, Rengoku of his little brother ... Everyone else is too busy to spend time with me. I want you to train me... please.

He looked you straight in the eye for a moment then sighed, unable to resist your perseverence :

_ Fine. I will train you but don't expect me to be a good teacher.

Since that day Giyuu trained you every time he return from a mission. You couldn't be happier. The training was difficult, tiring and sometimes painful but for you it was an honor. Even if he didn’t said it Giyuu was proud to see your progress. Besides, it was nice for him to have company.

•••••••••••

One day, at the end of a hashira meeting, Rengoku came to approach him.

_ Tomioka ! We don't see much anymore (Y/n) at the Butterfly estate. I heard that you train her.

He nodded, Rengoku let out one of his loud laughs :

_ It's surprising ! I had offered to train her but she had refused. Is she doing well?

_ She’s not bad.

It was surprising indeed. You told him that no one was available to train you and he learned it was a lie. Why had you been lying to him? He didn't understand what you could gain from it.

••••••••••

That night he found you serving dinner for both of you like you did almost every day since you had become his student.

_ Welcome home ! How was the meeting ?

_ Good.

His gaze immediately made you uncomfortable. Usually he always gave you a warm look, while now he was looking at you coldly, as if he had difficulty recognizing you. He took a seat in front of you and began to eat. After a heavy silence which weighed on him as well as on you, he decided to speak :

_ Why did you lie to me ?

You did not remember having committed such an act against him. Seeing your confused stare he developed his point :

_ Rengoku told me he offered to train you. Why did you tell me that no one has time for you ?

You didn't think he would find out someday. Nothing in his attitude or his voice let show anger but you knew he was necessarily upset. Giyuu was a man of his word and honor, for him a lie was a lack of respect. You were terribly ashamed, however, you manage to stammer an explanation :

_ Oh ! It’s not what you think ! In fact it is but... I mean I didn’t really thought about it... Believe me it was far from my intentions to disrespect you, I would have never offended you on purpose ! I just... I just wanted to be trained by you.

_ Rengoku is a really good and strong man. You should have accepted his proposal.

He marked a pause.

_ Go back to him, if you ask him I think his offer still stands.

Was Giyuu denying you? Did he no longer want you as a student? He got up and turned his back to you as if to end this discussion but you got up in turn, you wanted to stay by his side:

_ I don’t want anyone else to train me !

_ It would be better for you. He will be able to take care of you and make you evolve.

Suddenly you realized what was going on. Giyuu thought Rengoku was a better hashira than him. Didn't he know how strong he was too? You stood in front of him so you could look him in the eye, so he would know you weren't lying :

_ You’re strong too. And you’re a good professor.

_ You don’t know what you’re talking about. I am stronger than you that’s all.

_ You’re a hashira ! You’re one of the strongest !

He lowered his head you saw in his eyes, him who was usually so impassive, a hint of sadness.

_ I don't deserve this title. I shouldn't be there.

_ What do you mean ?

You noticed that his hands tightened on his haori.The words struggled out of his throat, as if part of him wanted to hold them back while another wanted to get them out :

_ Those who owned the two parts of this haorie should be there, they should be alive. Them, not me.

It was the first time Giyuu had talked about his past. You kept silent, you didn't want to rush him. You just wanted to understand him, reassure him, make him feel surrounded.

_ (Y/n)... I know you admire me and it's nice to have someone so dedicated by my side but you don't know everything. You idealize me. I am not a strong. I am not a good person.

One of his hand clenched the red part of his haorie :

_ I wasn’t strong enough to protect my sister...

His other hand clenched on the other part :

_ I shouldn't have passed the Demon Slayer exam ... Sabito should have, he was much stronger, much better in everything, but he protected me and it cost him his life.

You were speechless. Knowing that Giyuu, who was so generous, strong and usually impassive, had suffered so much broke your heart. You wanted to cry for him but you knew it would only cause drama. You will cry another day, now you needed to cheer up your beloved master.

_ Rengoku will know how to protect you, you will be safe with him.

••••••••••

The next morning Giyuu couldn't find you anywhere. He assumed you had chosen to join Rengoku. He was sure it was the best option and it suited him for the moment. He felt ridiculous for confiding in you last night, and was too embarrassed to see you again. Nevertheless he had become so used to your presence that he already missed you. Part of him regretted telling you to leave.

Fortunately you came back little less than a month after your departure and with a surprise. You ran to him yelling a "tomioka-san" as a greeting before handing him a package. A little taken aback he examined it for a moment. Impatient you pressed him a little :

_ It's a gift for you! Open it !

He followed your instructions and found a nice little bundle of papers taht were of different sizes and different colors. The writings and the ink used were also diverse. You started to explain nervously :

_ I wanted you to know how amazing you are, so I asked the hashira, your old master and a few of the people you saved to write down what they liked about you or what you had did good for them ... Oyakata-sama and Gyomei-san could’nt write but they dictated to me and I transcribed everything ... I didn't think it would take so long to contact everyone, sorry ...

He had already started to read. Everyone had written something even Obanai, Sanemi and Shinobu had found a few nice things to say. Shinobu had recounted a mission accomplished with Giyuu and admitted that without him it would have been a failure while Obanai and Sanemi were content to write a single sentence where they said that Giyuu was not "that bad" and that "some of these techniques were quite impressive". Urokodaki gently reprimand him so that he would stop always blaming himself and telling him that he was proud of him.

And finally there was your letter. It was the longest and as he read it he wanted to cry with joy. He wondered what he had done to deserve so much praise, he wanted to deny all these compliments but you had written a real reasoning full of examples to support your words that he was obliged to recognize his qualities.

He felt his heart melt. it must have taken so much effort from you to collect all these little words, it was a real treasure that you had just offered him. You watched him silently in his reading which lasted a long time and since he didn't say anything you wondered if it was really a good idea :

_ Erm... Do you like it ? It's okay if you don't, but keep them anyway. That way you could always reread them when you needed to ... you know ... know how amazing you are.

A smile covered his face and you noticed that his eyes were bright like a child who discovers the world. His smile was so faint you might not have noticed though it was the sweetest you've ever seen.

_ Thank you. It's the nicest thing anyone's done for me. It must have taken a lot of effort from you to convince Obanai, Sanemi and Kocho and put it all together.

_ You deserve all the effort in the world.

You gave him a huge smile and he believed you. He felt all the weight he had on his heart, all his guilt shut up in the face of all these kind words. For the first time Giyuu told himself not only that he was lucky to have you by his side but also that he deserved to be happy. Every time he read one of the letters he said to himself, although it was still hard for him not to doubt it, that he was worthy. More than feeling worthy, he felt loved.

••••••••••

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wizkiddx · 3 years

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unusable faces

i have exams hence why i needed to write something exceptionally cringe :)

PSA: this is completely inspired from one of my fave writers own blurb @blissfulparker --> completely recommend u go read hers its much better than anything i could ever write!!!! (and just her whole account) = link

Summary: pure exhaustion and mutual pining, Tom Holland x actress!reader

^(just thought this was cute, doesn't really fit aha but full credit to op!!)

A scheduling nightmare would be putting it lightly. Perhaps almost unavoidable but that didn’t make it any less of a hellish form a torture. Harry had very helpfully said it actually was a form of torture, that is sleep deprivation. Y/n loved her job - it was all she’d ever really wanted - yet that thought was quickly becoming not enough to get her through the day. Not when it felt like an interrogation tactic used by the CIA.

To give a quick timeline of the past few days may give a little context:

Thursday - filming the fight scene all day plus an evening-turned-half-the-night-shoot due to some technically difficulties delaying the process.

Friday - flying to New York while doing read throughs of scenes for the next few days; followed immediately by getting glammed and filming the tonight show with Fallon; then a dash across town to the late late show with James Corden; then straight back on a flight to Atlanta that landed at stupid o’clock in the morning

Saturday - a full day of shooting in a mock grand central station set

The press trip to NY had been unplanned… to say the least. But the star of their studios other new release had taken ill - meaning they had slots booked on some of the biggest talk shows in America that would just be abandoned (angering the shows bookers too). It was a waste of perfectly good promo time and since the studio had their two other stars together doing a block of reshoots - it wasn’t a conversation. Much more a call demanding the two of them to be on the plane.

Normally this wouldn’t be such an unmanageable ask either, except the reshoot block was really rather time pressured. You see, the promo tour wasn’t far from beginning meaning they really needed the final film in the can. So really it was a bit of a mess. Just to free up that single day the two were in New York the whole schedule had had to be rejigged - in doing so they’d lost a rare day off too. It was just typical.

The joys of success hey?

Well, that’s at least what Y/n was making herself think whilst her incredibly talented SFX artist was in the process of crafting a deep wound onto her upper arm. The reason why she would be ‘dripping with blood’ whilst at a train station was beyond Y/n to be honest - she hadn’t been allowed to read a lot of the script so even now as filming was drawing to a close, the story arc of the movie she was headlining was still a little ‘fuzzy’.

“So I watched your ‘spill your guts’ thing on YouTube” Ellie giggled whilst reaching over for more prosthetic putty- a technical term apparently

“I’m glad one of us enjoyed the experience” Y/n replied with a sigh, rolling her eyes at the mischievous smirk on her face - no doubt Ellie took great joy out of seeing her suffer through eating a thousand year old egg. Which Y/n swore the taste of was still in her mouth… and it seemed as though it’d never leave.

“Oh don’t worry darling I did too” Nelli called over from the next chair along, where she was doing Tom’s makeup for the day of shoots. “Between that and the animals on Fallon, you made a hell of a lot of people laugh last night” Tom’s artist was referencing the fact one of Jimmys other guests was a zookeeper, so at the end of the interview he had you and Tom join in trying not to scream at the snakes and spiders.

“You mean laugh at us?”

“Well of course darling!” Nelli exclaimed back in an overdramatic bronx accent making all three of the women burst out laughing, Ellie’s unceremonious snorts echoing through the trailer only egged them all on more.

Tom in response, who had otherwise been absent from conversation for the majority of the morning, exclaimed a curse and jumped up in his chair. While you and Ellie collected yourself, Nelli apologised to him.

“Oh sorry love, I’m interrupting your snooze with my uncontrollable comedic gift” She spoke sweetly, even if still taking the moment to flaunt to the other women, as she squeezed his shoulder compassionately.

“No no” Tom waved off her apology, attempting to rub his eye before Nelli swatted his arm away - a stern look for the risk of ruining all her hard work she’d put into making his face look half presentable.

“I’m impressed you can sleep while they poke you with all these er instruments” Y/n added in, having only just realised Tom had been in a light sleep for god knows how long they’d been in that chair. It did seem a bit unlikely, being able to fall asleep as you were dabbed, prodded and brushed.

“Maybe you should try though Y/n… your purple eye bags are proving a struggle even for me” Ellie quipped back, now it was Y/n’s turn to give the stern look. Tom took the explain though, shutting her off from whatever kindly meant insult she was about to throw back at her friend.

“No normally never, I just….” He was cut off by an ear splitting yawn, appearing almost powerful enough to crack his jaw - which would be a disaster, for no one should ruin such a beautiful and sharp jaw line. “…uh-sorry. I just think I ended up taking my NyQuil and DayQuil the wrong way round in the madness of yesterday.” Only Tom, the poor kid often seemed to lacking in any form of common sense - even if those closest to him knew just how intellectual and passionate he could be about the right topic. Affectionately, Nelli scalded his idiocy by jokingly swatting his head with a little tut.

“I can’t believe your still standing then! I’m barely alive and I don’t have any sedatives in my system.” It was true, Y/n was at that stage where every part of her body felt ridiculously heavy… eyes included … eyes especially.

“But I did sleep on the jet back while your stupid self was studying the script!” Tom replied with a pretty inarguable point - at the time he knew her actions were stupid; when their flight took off at 11 PM he was certain that the most valuable asset to his ability to act in the reshoots today would be sleep - rather than character development. And he’d tried to convince Y/n that briefly, but gave up. She was bloody stubborn when she wanted to be.

“Stop competing about who has it worse cos I think it’s me and Nell”Ellie announced - making Nelli agree empathically with her coworker, nodding her head as she looked first to Y/n in her chair then back at Tom.

“Yeh because we have to deal with your unusable faces!!”

After much sarcasm thrown back and fourth, the trailer slowly ebbed it’s way back into serenity and peace as both artists focused on their work. Once Nelli was done she excused herself, Tom staying in the chair in favour of studying (more like staring blankly) at the dialogue for this mornings scenes. His pretence didn’t last long though and while Ellie was busy adding the final touches of fake blood to the now almost completely believable gash that she’d crafted on Y/n’s arm - Y/n had her attention focused the opposite way.

At poor little Tom. He looked so childlike, his slightly puffy eyes looked as if they had weights tied to them - they way he was having fight against gravity to flutter his eyes open, before loosing the next second only for the process to repeat as they dragged downwards. The broad muscles of his neck occasionally seemed to occasionally let up a little, letting his head tilt slowly at first until it gathered enough momentum to throw him off balance. The then sudden movement of his head unconsciously pulling itself back in line caused his eyes to bolt open prior to the whole cycle repeating again. All Y/n wanted to do was let him lay down someone, her heart feeling a tug in her chest just seeing him like that.

Ellie proclaimed her completion of the wound, leaning back to admire her work before looking to get an affirming nod from Y/n. Yet instead, she was too preoccupied gazing at the boy slouched across from them. “Someone seems a little distracted.” Ellie smirked, finally garnering Y/n’s attention, only feeling more and more smug watching a light tint appear on the actors cheeks.

“I-well-no… we need to go.” Y/n ignored her words as though nothing had happened, instead rushing off the chair to get Tom out the chair and onto the awaiting set. They had places to be.

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||| (bcos im lazy)

Honestly when the director, Ed, called for lunch break, it was pretty apparent to be purely as a compassionate gesture to Y/n and Tom. Both of them had tried so hard this morning to fully commit, even so they’d both been almost completely useless. Y/n kept missing cues whilst all Tom’s actions and lines where slow, dragged out and at times completely prompted from someone behind the cameras.

So when the lunch break was called there was only one thing on Y/n’s mind and what sandwich was available in the mess tent was not it. Still standing on the set next to her fake holdall bag she looked toward Tom, who was pulling himself up to standing from the train station bench - the pace of his movement making him look more like an old man.

“You good?” His answer was predictable.

“I’m so fucking shattered”

Tom swore he’d never heard anything sweeter come out of Y/n’s pink lips than her next statement.

“C’mon I know somewhere we can lie down.”

Without any sort of thought Tom blindly agreed, nodding as he took her outstretched hand in his. The gesture in itself brought a fresh wave of comfort to his aching limbs and as his feet stumbled to catchup with her slight head start he leant the majority of his weight into their connected hands.

Neither would admit it but they were ‘a thing’… whatever the hell that meant. It was clear as day to everyone and anyone that worked closely to the two but neither of them had ever broached the topic with each other. They’d worked on a few films together over the years; each time they got closer and closer to the point any job without the other simply wasn’t as good. It was scary though, especially for two actors in the prime of their careers. If they weren’t working the same film they’d likely be the opposite side of the world to each other most of the time - quality time together would be few and far between, Really their jobs didn’t suit dating at all, yet it would be perhaps easier if one half of it worked a ‘normal’ job. Something with consistency, a regular structure. A level of dependability that neither Y/n nor Tom could offer to the other.

So it was terrifying, acknowledging the growth in their magnetic attraction to each other. Both were acutely aware that doing that, confronting their feelings, would most likely signal the beginning of the end.

Although none of this stoped Y/n from returning the gesture, tilting her shoulder into Tom’s left side as they took slow steps through and then out the set building. She steered the two past the hair and makeup trailer and round into a store and extra equipment trailer. Tom tilted his head as she climbed the stairs whilst beckoning for him to follow - it didn’t seem like the most obvious choice. Rolling her eyes, Y/n explained.

“It’s where all the blankets and coats and kept for the raining scenes plusssss no one will disturb us in here.” Again Tom was not in a position to disagree, eyes drooping as his shoulders sagged to the floor. Right now he’d take anything.

So he climbed up the stairs and shut the door behind him, just as Y/n flipped the light on. She was right, it was well equipped and with an almost mountainous supply of red blankets that normally the crew and extra would all be wrapped up in after the freezing rain scenes with all the ‘waterfall machines’ as Y/n called them. However it was also um…. It was cosy. “Oh I don’t think I realised how small it was” She chuckled lightly, since now the door was closed her back was pressed up against the far wall of cabinets and still her front was mere millimetres from Tom.

“I…I don’t mind… if-if you don’t?”

“I’m too tired to care” She giggled in response, and Tom , now with her seal of approval, immediately started ransacking the piled shelves for all their worth creating a floor carpeted in the pale red of the blankets, in an attempt to make it more cosy. Joining in, it was almost remarkable how quickly their bodies suddenly agreed to move, with the new promise of rest mere moments away.

Once the trailer was fully drowned, Tom kicked off his costume shoes and threw his jacket off - it haphazardly landing by the doorway. Y/n copied him, leaving her stood up whilst he had the advantaged of already settling down on the floor, her standing and looking down at him.

The space between the two opposing shelving units was not close spacious enough for two people to lie down whilst keeping a respectable level of personal space. Suddenly feeling a wave of awkwardness, Y/n stayed standing, wringing her hands slightly - whilst fairly certain Tom could hear her heart running at 100 mph.

“You er… gonna stay there or?” Tom, contrary to popular belief, wasn’t a complete idiot - he could see she was suddenly self conscious. He got it too - they’d never crossed this boundary of choosing to cuddle into each other. It had happened once of twice accidentally over there 2 years of knowing each other. Both of those times it was completely accidental, falling asleep watching a movie with a safe distance of space b between the two, only to find hours later their bodies almost completely intwined. Tom would be lying if he said that his heart didnt skip a beat when he had awoken to Y/n’s soft and gently breath fanning into his neck. He’d loved it, but understood that was unconsciously breaking down part of the wall they’d both been the constructors of.

For fear of getting hurt.

So now, as Y/n awkwardly bent down and lay on her side, he thought it was imperative to make her feel comfortable. Naturally then, his arm slid round her shoulders and pulled her down toward his chest, releasing a little breath as he felt her relax, her legs slowly wrapping round one of his.

“This okay?” He murmured, now into the crown of her head as she lay half on her side half on his chest. In reply she nodded into him and Tom couldn’t help but grin- unbeknownst to him but Y/n was doing the exact same thing.

The peace lasted all of 3 seconds until she groaned again.

“What?” Tom enquired as she wriggled out his hold and stood up. Instead of replying though she just leant over and flicked the one harsh light bulb off making Tom chuckle as she fumbled her way back onto the padded floor in the darkness, earning a few grunts from both as she accidentally kicked Tom’s thighs or banged her head on one of the now empty shelves. Fumbling her way back into a comfortable position, occasionally cursing when she stubbed her toe- or Tom did when she accidentally elbowed him in the ribs.

“Comfy?” Tom asked a little sarkily as he squeezed her a little more into his side.

“Mhmmmm… I’m gonna sleep for 100 years”

“Yeh me… me too”

And with that they both almost instantly and in complete unison sagged into each other and the blankets - the pent up stress and tension of the past few days ebbing away.

What the pair had neglected to remember was that sleeping for 100 years wasn’t really an option. The whole crew of 50 people, who wanted to restart filming after 45 minutes, had not been told about Y/n’s little hiding place. The pair were so completely safe in their own little cocoon of comfort they were completely oblivious to their teams calling there names more and more frantically. Completely oblivious to the game of hide and seek the situation had descended into, completely oblivious to Harrys natural annoyance as the director asked him for the whereabouts of the two stars - as though Harry was childminder to the pair of them.

It was Nelli who found them first. She’d and Ellie and Tom’s manager had all been recruited by Harry as part of the man hunt. Both girls, having seen first hand the state of the two this morning, were fairly certain they’d both crashed out somewhere. So Nelli, already with a sneaking suspicion, opened the door gently, her figure blocking the majority of the light from seeping through to the dimly lit inside. The sight she was met with had her actually pouting at the cuteness - and yes its a cringey word but also the only one appropriate.

Between bedding down and barely an hour later the two had managed to become impossibly tighter pressed to each other. Y/n’s face was pressed into the crook of Tom’s neck and his arms seemed to have pulled her on-top of him almost completely. Her left leg was hooked under his right, which was then sandwiched by his left too. They both looked so pure and innocent and god did Nelli know they both needed any extra time they could get.

Nelli cared a lot about Tom, she’d been working with him from the beginning, from the child star days to now. She cared about him like her very annoying surrogate son and she wanted to see him looked after. She also so completely wanted the two stars to stop pining after each other. Because frankly it was getting a little frustrating for everyone else.

So she chose to tactically forget about her discovery, sneaking a photo on the sly before silently pulling the door closed and leaving them to their sleep.

#tom holland #tom holland fluff #tom holland x reader #tom holland x famous!reader #tom holland x actress!reader #fluff

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babbushka · 3 years

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Beyond Reasonable Doubt (ch.1)

– A Lawyer AU –

You and Kylo Ren have hated one another for as long as you can remember. He, a criminal prosecutor, and you, a defense attorney should be natural-born enemies, and you are. But when Kylo comes to you seeking representation after being charged for a murder he didn’t commit, you both learn a thing or two about life, the law, and love…

[5k, no warnings for this first chapter!]

Available on AO3

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

In a world of ever-changing circumstances, where people do things that cause ripples and shocks through the very fabric of society that shake them to their core, where the sun shines and rain falls and snow blows cold through the streets of Manhattan, where there is life and death and a mess of bullshit in between, there was but one thing that you could ever comfortably rely on in life.

Only one thing remained constant in the grand scheme of it all: your alarm.

With a grunt and sigh, your arm extends out from underneath the covers to smack at the loud blaring jingle that sounds from your phone, hand desperately trying to hit the dismiss button without looking so that you don’t have to face the day just yet. It’s too early, you reason, to pull your whole self out from under the covers.

Eventually you give that thought up though, because dammit now you’re awake and it’s Monday morning and you have an office that’s waiting for you uptown. So, ever grudgingly, you throw the plush comforter off of your body and stretch to greet the day, saying good morning to the city that never sleeps.

You don’t usually dread waking up, but well, the last time you’d been in the office was Friday afternoon, after you lost your case.

After you lost your case, to him.

Glancing at the clock on your phone, you chew your lip for a moment or two, before finally turning off the do not disturb function, immediately going into the bathroom to shower and ready yourself for the day while damn near a hundred backlogged notifications make your phone buzz nearly onto the floor.

There’s a small mirror in the shower, a little compact to make sure there’s nothing left on your face after you scrub your skin clean, and you catch your own reflection in it. You’ve looked better, that was for damn sure – but by that same token, you’ve also looked worse. Mondays were shit, but today was gearing up to be an even worse one than normal.

No, you think as you shake your head adamantly, you have no desire to let him soak up any more of your good mood than he had already. So what if you had forgone your entire weekend, canceling plans and ignoring friends to nurse the sting to your pride that was losing? So what if instead of checking your email or your phone, you sat yourself on the couch and wasted two entire days doing nothing but watching shitty shows on Netflix?

What you did on your downtime was nobodies’ business, and since you live alone in your beautiful one-bedroom in SoHo, no one was there to spill your secrets. If anyone asked – not that anyone would, if they knew what was good for them – you would tell them that you absolutely did not spend the weekend wanting to throw darts onto a photo of his face. That wouldn’t be very professional, now would it?

Shutting off the water, you wrap yourself up in a big plush towel, and pad across the floor to your closet. Briefly, ever so briefly, you glance at your phone on your way, holding your breath, wondering, hoping that there might be something from him.

If there is, it’s buried under a pile of emails and text-threads from your firm, so he’ll have to wait.

Manhattan in January was chilly, so you bundle yourself up in your chicest coat overtop your most well-fitting skirt suit and a pair of heeled boots. Even if you felt like shit, you could look like million fuckin’ bucks, and no one would be the wiser.

And what a wonder the power of confidence was! Through the streets and down to the subway, you smiled at everyone, and they all smiled back. You offered your seat on the train to an elderly man who clearly needed it more than you, and he complimented your gloves. Everyone from the NYPD officer drinking his coffee to the mom scolding her three children brightened as you wished them a good morning, and somehow, along the way to work, your Monday blues disappears into something a little brighter.

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

Your good mood only continues to grow as you exit the elevator of the huge high-rise that you call your home away from home, your office on the twenty-third floor right in the heart of the Upper West Side. Sandwiched between the Hudson and Central Park, you have to admit that getting your ass out of bed was worth it, even if just for this view.

“Morning (Y/N).” The front desk security guard greets you, and you say hello back to him with a performative show of your badge.

HKS Law, so named after the founders and current partners Amilyn Holdo, Ben Kenobi, and Luke Skywalker, is a shining pinnacle of what defense attorneys and opposing counsel at trials should be. Not only had the firm made history time and time again with incredible wins and even more incredible ultimate losses, but it prided itself on being representation for the people no one else could represent.

Most of all, it had you.

If your alarm was a constant, than this was a universal truth: you are a damn good defense attorney. As you walk through the crisp and clean polished floors, you hold your head high, knowing that this loss against him still put you at the lowest loss rate of anyone in the history of HKS, lower than even the founders themselves.

That little reminder has you grinning to yourself. You’d been working with HKS for nearly six years now, and very quickly you saw your office climbing higher and higher up the skyscraper, saw it getting bigger and bigger. And now, you were nearly positive, that your meeting at eleven o’clock would be to discuss partnership with the firm as a reward for your continued hard work.

“Hey (Y/N)!” One of the associates, Rose Tico smiles at you from where she’s chatting with her sister Paige by their desks.

“Someone looks like they had a nice weekend.” Paige remarks, and you only wink at them, playing the game.

A game, which becomes instantly easier as your assistant, a bright-eyed intern fresh out of law school appears seemingly out of nowhere.

“(Y/N), good morning!” She is already offering you a cup of something nice and hot, her arm cradling a stack of manilla folders that have all sorts of sticky-note flags on them, that she shifts onto her hip ever so slightly to brush a few loose braids out of her face, speaking at what feels like a million miles a second, “I have your coffee ready and there’s a fresh breakfast buffet in the break room if you’d like, I can get you something – ”

“Good morning Neisha.” You accept the coffee gratefully, but interrupting her only to give her a chance to catch her breath. You check your watch, it’s only half-past seven, she’ll wear herself out if she exerts that much energy first thing. “A bagel with the usual would be perfect, thank you.”

“No problem – oh, Rick wanted you to look over those case files before your eleven-o’clock.” She breathes a sigh of relief, and gives you a smile.

Groaning, you accept the manilla folders too, balancing the coffee cup on top of them as Iman follows you into your own private office. Your assistant stands in front of your desk at the ready, looking sharp and put together, as ever.

One thing that you loved about Neisha – aside from the dozens of things that you admired and appreciated about her – was that you have never ever seen her in something other than a pantsuit. She did not wear dresses or skirts, she was almost never in heels, and she did not carry a purse. Instead, Neisha could almost always be found in a very smart trouser and blazer set, often complete with vests, and fun-colored socks in her loafers to coordinate with her ever-expanding collection of ties.

“Rick can go fuck himself.” You mutter under your breath, and she laughs.

“Should I tell him you said that?” With a playful glimmer in her eye, she crosses her arms over her broad chest.

“Yes.” You wink, before checking your watch once again and reminding her about that, “Bagel?”

“Bagel – right, on it.” Neisha snaps her fingers and leaves, closing the office door behind her.

You like your office, even if you’ve outgrown it. Much like the rest of the firm, it has stayed up to date with the contemporary interior design of the day. However where the open floor of the firm is mostly whites and silvers and glass, your office feels warmer with shades of coffee browns and creamy neutrals.

Remembering how you had been so excited for the promotion to your own office, you can’t help but chuckle to yourself now – it really was a small office. It consisted of a long dark brown desk situated in front of a wall-unit bookshelf/display area, and a seating arrangement of matching brown chairs situated around a free-edge wooden coffee-table. A soft rug covers the marble flooring, and cream gauzy curtains cover the windows, but that was about it.

You had been to the offices of the higher ups, you knew just what you could achieve if you made partner – even if you made junior partner.

And if all went well during this meeting at eleven, you knew you’d be moving into one of those offices soon.

For the first time all weekend, you sit down in the big leather chair behind your desk and finally check your phone. The case files remain on your desk, and you know you’ll get to them eventually, but until you’ve had some breakfast and that coffee can work its magic, no one could blame you for scrolling through the shit that you had put off since Friday.

It’s mostly work friends taking your side, which you appreciate. They knew losing a case was hard for you – you didn’t do it very often. And even though you never lost to anyone besides him, it still never got easier.

The case had been a simple one, or at least, you had thought so. Murders are so often simple, either the person did it, or they didn’t. If they did, there’s evidence, and if they didn’t, well, there’s evidence too. And when two parties come forward with their own evidence, compelling, strong fucking evidence – evidence of alibis and proof that your client couldn’t have been there, couldn’t have done it – it’s up to the jury to decide who to believe.

In this case, this jury decided to believe him, and there was nothing you could do about it. It was losses like this, losses like the knowledge than an innocent man was going to prison, that make you seriously question the legal system as a whole, frankly.

It’s then that you see it, and your hand freezes.

You have a missed message from him.

He’s saved in your contacts as the dick from VTH, and even though that could refer to any number of people, you know that it’s him. You have five missed messages from him, as a matter of fact, which sends both a rush of adrenaline through you, as well as a spike of anxiety.

The two of you…you’d never been friends, not really. In fact, the closest thing to a relationship that you might have is that of a rivalry, if not flat out enemies. You hated him, and he hated you, and he had hated you ever since the first day he set eyes on you, from the very first moment you walked into the courtroom as a last-minute addition to the defense counsel, and won the case in fifteen minutes.

Which was a shame, because you often find yourself thinking that if he weren’t such a…well, a dick, there could have been something there. Instead of a friendship, or even a civil acquaintanceship, you have over the years developed something of a hate-fucking-enemies-with-benefits arrangement. He was probably pissed that you ignored him all weekend, but that was okay – let him be pissed, you were pissed too.

You don’t open his messages, not yet. You’d need coffee in you and food in your stomach before you’re able to handle whatever mood he has to be in, now that you’ve got the energy to deal with him.

You’re so deep in thought that you nearly miss when Neisha returns with a plate for you, a big spread arranged on your desk for you to enjoy. You’re about to thank her and let her get on with whatever work she has to do, but she holds out a newsletter with a devious smile and curiosity gets the better of you.

“Have you seen?” She asks, and you raise a brow, a smile of your own creeping across your face.

The newsletter was something that circulated through the different firms in the area, keeping everyone up to date – or at least as up to date as legally possible – on the goings on in the sphere of influence that you all found yourselves in. Everything from congratulatory memos to case results, and even high profile celebrity gossip was fair game, but one of the more scandalous parts of the newsletter, was the publication of trouble that various lawyers found themselves in.

The Monday morning newsletter had quite a bit of this from over the weekend, and right there on page sixteen, is none other than his face looking as irritated as he possibly can, as he’s being given a hard time for a DUI on Friday night.

“Oh fuck.” Your eyes widen, wanting nothing more than to call him and yell at him for being a fucking idiot, “What the hell does he think he’s doing?”

“Whatever he wants, evidently.” Neisha shrugs, no doubt thinking the news would cheer you up in some sort of vengeful way that you appreciate. She reaches for a pumpernickel crisp from the spread on your desk and muses, “I bet the cops are thrilled, they hate that sonofabitch.”

“Yeah them and me both.” You mutter, already rubbing away a headache that’s starting to form across the expanse of your forehead. “He’s not going to be pleased about that photo, he looks rumpled.”

Sighing, you look down at the photo. He’s very clearly intoxicated, you’ve seen that look in his eyes more than once, the blurry out of focused glassy look that he gives you over smiles at dinner sometimes. You blink away the image of him in a nice suit on the other end of a table, reminding yourself that you’re angry with him.

“Doesn’t he have a driver? I wonder why he got behind the wheel himself.” Neisha continues, and bless her you think, for continually giving you a means to not be left alone with your thoughts.

“If there’s one thing I know about that man, it’s that when he sets him mind to something, no one is going to stop him from doing it.” You reply, not able to ignore a bit of gut-wrenching regret.

Maybe if you hadn’t been so mad at him, you could’ve gone with him to wherever he was coming back from, and maybe you could’ve --

“Should I have this framed?” Neisha asks, and you blink again.

You check your watch, it’s only a quarter ‘til eight. Have you really only been at work for fifteen minutes? That stack of folders sits on the edge of your desk, taunting you. You’re gearing up for an extra long day.

“No, that’s okay.” You shake your head, opening the bottom drawer of your desk and dropping the newsletter into it. “I will keep a hold onto it though. Just for fun.”

With a laugh, Neisha leaves and once again closes your office door.

“God dammit.” You grumble, pulling your phone out yet again.

The unread messages from him sit buried beneath thirty other messages that don’t warrant responses, and you hover your thumb over his name.

After all these years, something about getting a text from him made your heart jump. It felt stupid, you weren’t some teenager with a crush in high school, you were an adult, and this was just another adult, who you happened to have developed some sort of attachment to. Not a friendship, or a relationship even, but some kind of attachment.

Right now, you wanted to bitch at him for getting himself into trouble, for driving while he was so very clearly drunk, a whole argument prepared about how he could have seriously hurt or even killed someone, how even though he’s a rich asshole he can’t afford to be so reckless.

But first, in order to bitch at him, you have to read what he’s sent you over the weekend, and that’s where you keep tripping up. You don’t know why, but when you do finally open up his texts, you find that you’re holding your breath until you read them.

You try to ignore the way the thread starts out, try to ignore how if anyone were to squint, they might think something was going on between you two.

Incoming: [1/8 6:03am] just picking up croissants from that place u like. jam?

[1/8 6:10am] Yeah, raspberry if they have

Incoming: [1/8 6:11am] on it, go back 2 bed.

That had been just over a week ago, and you remember the day well, how you exchanged smiles over bites of fresh and flaky pastry, how you had dipped the croissants into hot chocolate in his bed, not giving a fuck about the crumbs that weren’t your problem because they weren’t your sheets.

How that was the last time you had seen him, before the conclusion of the case.

Now, now that you’d lost, the tone of the thread has very clearly shifted to something much colder. One thing you’re surprised to see though, is that they’re all from around Friday night, which was unusual.

Incoming: [1/15 7:43pm] going out 2 celebrate tonight, join me

Incoming: [1/15 8:57pm] u can’t ignore me forever u know

Incoming: [1/16 12:02am] i’m glad u didn’t come, ud fucking hate it here. theyre playing music 2 loud

Incoming: [1/16 12:15am] r u seriously still mad?

Incoming: [1/16 1:09am] Fuck you.

Rolling your eyes, you rub away more of that headache that starts to form. It was weird that he didn’t text you at all for the whole day of Saturday, or Sunday for that matter. If you didn’t spend the weekend together, he was very content to simply blow your phone up with links to random bullshit or long text conversations in broken grammar because his thumbs were too big for the buttons.

So for there to be radio silence after one o’clock in the morning was strange.

“For fucks sake.” You find yourself texting him back without even thinking about it, your fingers moving over the keyboard easily and quickly, sending off a slightly antagonizing reply after two days of nothing;

[1/18 7:55am] Looks like you had quite the night on Friday.

There, you think. That should get a response out of him. No doubt he would be quick to complain about how he had been pulled over and the whole nine yards. You wait for it to come through, the text. Or more accurately, the string of impassioned paragraphs that he tends to send you.

But a minute go by, and there’s nothing.

Five minutes, and nothing still.

You know you have to work, you have shit to do, you have that big meeting in a couple hours that you have to mentally prepare for, there’s no time to be worrying about him not texting you back. Still, you don’t like the silence. Sure that makes you a hypocrite, but he deserved your cold shoulder for beating you in court. At least, that’s how you justify it for yourself.

Getting up from your desk, you hover in the doorframe, where your assistant’s desk sits just outside to act as a buffer for anyone wanting to bother you.

“Hey Neisha?” You ask quietly, getting her attention, “I haven’t missed any calls, have I?”

A crease of confusion dips between her brows as she frowns, and immediately she checks the call logs on the conference phone that sits on her desk next to the big computer that takes up most of her space.

“No not that I can think of, are you expecting someone – ?”

Just as she’s asking, the phone rings. You lean over and see the number is one you don’t recognize, and you frown too.

“Better get that.” Neisha says awkwardly, so you just nod and retreat back into your own office from where you came.

It’s been seven minutes now, and there’s still nothing from him.

“Fine, fuck you too.” You mutter at the phone, locking it and putting it in the shallow drawer of your desk so you can focus on the folders in front of you finally.

The stack is pretty normal, all the weekend material finally coming in now that it’s the start of a new week. There’s new case files to look through to decide if you’re doing to accept the client, supplementary material from old case files that you’ve asked for to review, notes and evidence belonging to associates’ cases that you said you’d give your opinion on – all mixed into one big pile.

You liked it though, liked staying busy. It was a good distraction from a loss, the ability to win, the ability to prove to yourself and to the world that you’re good at what you do. There are all sorts of awards and pieces of paper displayed on the walls of your office that show that you’re good, but still, there’s nothing like a strong win after a frustrating loss.

But you’re not even halfway through reading the first folder, when Neisha knocks on your door and opens it slowly, a look of preemptive apology on her face.

“I’m afraid you’re going to need to cancel your eleven o’clock.” She says, and you can tell by the tone of her voice that there’s no use in trying to argue with her.

You let the folder fall down onto the desk, and brace yourself for whatever bombshell she’s about to drop on you, what could possibly be so important for you to have to reschedule one of the biggest meetings of your career. They would understand, you’re sure.

You hope, anyway.

“Who is it?” Your tone is already filled with dread, but a resigned kind of dread, knowing that whatever it must be, it has to be big, and you’re the only one in this entire fucking firm who can handle big things like this – it was the reason they wanted you for partner in the first place.

But Neisha hesitates with this response, scratches the back of her neck in a way that makes you instantly curious.

“I…I was instructed not to say, just that you’ve been requested to meet with them regarding representation.” She tells you, and now your headache pounds even harder.

Clients didn’t withhold their identity from you; some used an alias of course, but you can’t say that so far in your career you’ve had a completely anonymous client. Whoever this person was, had to either be royalty, or something very very close.

And though that meant there was going to be a nightmare of a trial – because these high profile people almost never got to simple settle, not when the prosecutor wants to make a show of prosecuting them – you can’t help but think that would be a pretty good notch in your beltloop, as it were.

“Alright, where are they?” You’re already up and away from your desk, shuffling the case files into a locked cabinet.

“Rikers.” She says straight away, and you let out a groan.

“Of course they are.”

You had almost hoped that whoever this mystery client was, they had posted bail and could meet at a nice neutral location. You didn’t have anything against Rikers personally, but rather the entire prison industrial complex as a whole, and as far as New York prisons went, there were few more infamous for being unnecessarily brutal than Rikers Island.

“I can call them back and tell them you’re busy…but they sounded adamant about wanting you in particular.” Neisha nudges gently, and really there’s no need to butter you up, you’ve already made up your mind.

“I’m guessing they didn’t tell you why?” You ask, even though you know the answer.

“Correct.” She replies with a sheepish shrug.

You look at her, at your watch, at your phone screen which shows no new notifications from the last time that you checked it, and you square your shoulders.

“Alright, reschedule the eleven o’clock, and let’s get out of here before Holdo freaks the fuck out on me for that.” You say, grabbing your coffee and a few more of the pastries to take in the car with you for the drive.

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

Most times, you have no problem taking the subway wherever you need to get, but visiting Rikers wasn’t as easy as hopping off the train and walking a couple blocks. For times like these, you and Neisha take one of the company cars, a sleek and shiny black thing with dark tinted windows. Cars really aren’t practical in the city, which is why you don’t have one of your own, but it was nice to be driven around from time to time in the peace and quiet of a car like this.

Normally, visitors are not allowed on Mondays or Tuesdays, but you’re not a normal person, and you’re not here for a normal visit, so once you pass through the security gate, the K-9 unit and the metal detector security tests with ease, you find it a pretty quiet lobby.

“Good afternoon Ms. (L/N), here on official duty?” One of the correctional officers that sits up by the front visitation desk beams at you.

“No, I just missed you Jake.” You reply, fishing out your identification for him even though he really doesn’t need it. Jake has worked there only a year or so, and every time you see him you can’t help but think he’s young, too young for this job, you think, too young to become desensitized to the humanity of incarcerated individuals. But that’s not a conversation that you’re here to have today, so instead you keep up the chitchat with, “How’s Lottie and the kids?”

“They’re good, who are you here for?” Jake asks as a matter of protocol, and you give Neisha a look, before looking back at him.

“That’s just the thing, I don’t know. I wasn’t informed for confidentiality reasons.” You try to explain, before leaning forward and mock-whispering to him, “Please tell me someone has me on the list and I didn’t drive all this way for nothing.”

Jake laughs, a sound that feels out of place in a place like this, and pulls something up on his computer. You can’t really see it, the list, and that’s okay. Whoever this mysterious person is, you’ll find out within just a few minutes.

“You know the drill, they’re waiting for you in the back.” Jake waves you off, and you’re glad to go.

“Wait out here.” You tell Neisha, who clearly looks uncomfortable even being in the lobby, and with good reason. She doesn’t argue you on that, instead takes a seat on a bench near Jake’s table, and the two of them get to chatting while your boots click on the floors as you walk away.

There’s a couple different visitation areas in the jail, and the deeper into the building you go, the more that you’re glad that visitation isn’t allowed on Mondays. You don’t want the chance of running into someone that you had failed. Granted there had only been a handful of those instances, but the thought of any one of them being here is not outside the realm of possibility.

Through the sea of empty tables and chairs that are reserved for long term inmates who happen to have visitation privileges for good behavior, you find yourself moving deeper and deeper, until you’re at the door of another room, a closed off one more typical to that seen in movies and television shows.

Opening the door, you hang in the hallway to confirm that there’s no one else there, as there shouldn’t be. There’s eight stations, four on each side of the small room, with a phone and a pane of bulletproof glass. Right away, you have a feeling this is going to be a murder trial, if they’re not even letting you meet with the client out in the open, if they’re monitoring the phone conversation that you’re about to have.

You see a shuffle of movement out of the corner of your eye, and assume that that’s who you’re here to meet, so with your chin held high, you step into the room, and make your way to the visitation booth where a man in a bright orange jumpsuit is waiting on the other side of the glass.

Stopping as quickly as you’ve started, you stand frozen in the middle of the room, blinking away and desperately shoving aside a wave of feelings that have crashed over you at the familiar face behind the glass.

The dark hair, the deep eyes, that proud nose, those full lips, you take it all in with some strange sense of disbelief – surely this must be a dream? It has to be, even as you sit on the little stool and yank the phone off the wall, shoving it against your ear, not even knowing where to start as you try to wrap your mind around the fact that the man, this mystery client…

“Hey sweetheart.” He says, and you could smack him upside the head if only there weren’t this glass between you and Kylo Ren.

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

Tagging some pals, please let me know if you’d like to be added to or taken off the taglist! @safarigirlsp @steeevienicks @mochabucky @sacklerscumrag @artsymaddie @bitchydecisions @direnightshade @reyloaddict55 @kylorenswhxre @sunflowersinthesnow @mousemakingjam @the-unmanaged-mischief @drake-bells-waxed-penis @littleevilme13 @rennaissance-mama @materialisthicc

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren/reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren/you #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren imagine #reader insert #slowburn #modern au #lawyer au #my writing #beyond reasonable doubt #adam driver fanfiction #adcu

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stuckinapatriarchalbullshitland · 3 years

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Award shows - ɟ

Heeeelloo, my fellow CS 👋🏼

The idea for this post came to me because I recently saw again that some fans still can’t explain some things about the awards, therefore, I’m going to briefly explain the things I’ve read on which they’re still confused about so that maybe I’ll automatically answer some questions you guys have too.

First of all, celebrities, whether they’re actors, singers, models, heirs, fashion mavens, aristocrats, etc., are notified months before they’ve been invited. Usually, the reason why they were invited is written along with the invitation. The reasons obviously vary. They may have been invited because they were nominated for an award, or because, and they may accept or decline, they were asked to present a category or a performance, or to interview someone on the red-carpet or backstage, or to perform, etc., etc. They can also be added as I like to say ‘+1’. But be aware, there’s a difference between being invited as a ‘+1’ and as a guest.

‘Are they not the same thing?’ you’re probably wondering. No, they are not. Being invited as a guest is simply that. A celebrity who invites their partner, or their kid, or one of their parents, or a friend, as indeed their guest. The +1, on the other hand, is a term that I’m using because I don’t think there’s one to describe when a person who is also a celebrity is invited by another one. You know the seats they show us with pictures of celebrities and how some seats next to it lack these pictures? Those seats without pictures belong to the celebrity guests or their team members. If a celebrity invites another one, then next to their picture there will also be that of the celebrity they invited. Aka, the term I’m using in this case: the +1.

I’ll give you an example:

I’m a singer and my fake PR boyfriend has to perform that night, but I don’t, and neither have I been nominated for any awards and therefore not even invited. Also to keep up appearances of our relationship, I get invited as his +1. This means that you’re gonna see my picture next to his in the seats and the cameras will film me for literally two seconds counted during his performance. It also means that my fake boyfriend and I will be wearing matching outfits, that we’ll arrive on the red carpet together, that I’ll have to show unnecessary PDA out of the blue while one of our managers films us to make us more believable and real, and that I’ll have to pretend to be happy to be his arm candy. Do I accept or do I not accept the invitation?

Yeah, of course I do. It’s a great idea actually, both to show people my support as a cheerleader for him, and as publicity. Publicity not only for us as a couple, but also for myself. Our management, and yes, we have the same management, has arranged interviews for me too on the red carpet, so why shouldn’t I accept that? Plus, I want to go. Helloo? We’re talking about an important award show. Not to mention that my girlfriend performs too the same night and has also been nominated for several awards, so it’s just an extra incentive to want to go and be able to support her. Oohh, how foolish of me. I apologize for my forgetfulness. My name is Lauren Jauregui and I’m talking about the American Music Awards 2018.

See what I did there? 😏😏😏

These events are very exclusive and have an invitation list. If you’re a celebrity and you’re not on the list, then it’s very hard for you to be able to attend. But there’s a way, and no, I’m not talking about finding a way to sneak in. The only other way to get there is by taking the place of someone who had been invited and couldn’t attend.

Let’s say you’re a celebrity and you want to go there. Let’s say you want to go because you’ve been out of the spotlight for a long time and want to make a big comeback with a beautiful dress to show yourself off. The first thing you do is call your publicist and see if there are still seats available. Not all celebrities can attend those events despite being invited because they may have other commitments, or they’re out of town, or I don’t know, they’re on tour or something like that. So there’s the possibility that you can have their seat. If there aren’t any, then your publicist themselves may be looking for another way to get you in. Again, for an X reason, the celebrity who was supposed to present an award cannot go, and therefore your publicist manages to get you the invitation as one of the presenters. If none of these options are possible, then.. well, I hope you enjoy the show watched in the living room of your home.

You want another practical example? Okay, okay, babies, I’ll content you 😏

Latin Grammy Awards 2019. Still me, Lauren Jauregui, hi 🙋🏻 🙈 I wasn’t invited. I had no reason to actually be there, except for one…

I didn’t even publicize and say on my social media that I’d have been there. It was so unexpected and awesome for you nuggets, wasn’t it? Well, my girlfriend was invited but she unfortunately couldn’t go due to other commitments. You can imagine how sad she was not only to not being able to attend, but also to not being able to perform with Alejandro who is one of the people in the industry that she loves and admires the most, right? You can imagine her pout and her kicked puppy face for not being able to sing the song she wrote and dedicated to her little sister, can’t you? Well, I couldn’t bear to see her that way, so I told her: ‘Don’t worry, babe. I gotcha. I’ll go for you. I’ll go to represent you’. Also because her team didn’t need to be there, not even to collect the award which I later discovered she won the same evening. Awards, my beautiful chickens, are shipped months after the night they are received.

And so it was. I went with Brenda (my manager). I got dolled up. I did my interviews, even teasing my fans about my new project with Tainy. I sat in my baby’s seat in the front row. THE FRONT ROW. Front rows are reserved for the evening’s award winners. They NEVER put the winners in the back rows because it would take them too long to get to the stage when their name is called otherwise. And I was there, for her. And in addition to enjoying the show, I tried to hold back my happiness, especially since there were cameras everywhere, both during Alejandro’s performance as soon as my love appeared on the screens, and when they won the Record of the Year. I swear I had to get a hold of myself. I had to restrain myself and concentrate on clapping my hands like a normal person and not smiling too big.

*end of the sketch*

As you may have noticed so far, these are the only ways to attend award shows if you are a celebrity. But, just because you’re a celebrity, there’s no guarantee that you get invited. And you certainly cannot show up there with the hope that they’ll let you in without being invited, or nominated, or without a ticket just because you’re ‘someone’. Security kicks your ass out no matter who you are.

Every year, hundreds of celebrities don’t make it onto the invitation list. Keep in mind that the ‘exclusivity’ of these events is also due to the seats. Take as an example precisely the Microsoft Theater in Los Angeles where the AMAs 2018 took place. It has 7,100 seats. These seats are reserved for people in the show’s broadcast network, the telecast’s sponsors, the production team, the accountants, the legal team, the donors, the representatives, the press and media in general, etc., and THEN for the invited celebrities including singers and their teams, so also their publicists, agents, managers, [and not even all of them have a reserved seat; maybe only one of them has it and the rest are backstage or in the dressing room or not really there], etc., actors, and as with singers, their teams, the team of people who worked on the film with them, etc. See how many people and how few seats?

I’m still not 100% sure about this but, Emmy’s, Oscars, Golden Globes, Tony’s, and Grammy’s are the only award shows where the names of the winners aren’t revealed until the envelope is opened live on stage. All the remaining shows? Pfft, it’s all an organized thing. What you see on TV, the reactions ‘Oh my God, did I win? I can’t believe it!’, ‘I really wasn’t expecting that’, they’re all fake. Yes, the emotion for the win is true, but everything else? It’s all bullshit. Winners are notified long, but very long time before that. Indeed, many award shows only invite winners to attend. Haven’t you ever noticed how in some of them the other artists nominated in that same category aren’t even there? If they happened to be there, it’s because it’s very likely that they had won another category, or were there for other reasons, like presenting a performance or whatever.

Aaaand I’m done 😎😝 I think I’ve answered pretty much all the questions I’ve seen on the subject, even though I haven’t seen them here. If you yourselves have questions about this or anything else (even if you want advice on a personal level), as I’ve already said other times, feel free to ask. I’m at your disposal 😊

And thank you, Mari. It has been a while since I’ve done this, but I hope you know that I’m serious every time I thank you. Therefore, thank you once again for virtually letting me into your world and thank you for letting me continue to have little spaces in your blog 🤗🤗🤗

Thanks also to you babies for reading, liking, and re-blogging my occasional posts. But thanks mostly for her. Thanks to those who follow my friend’s blog with the right intentions. That is, with respect and without attacking her. Thanks to those who follow her because you actually like her and the content she posts, and thanks to those who use their brains before asking or submitting something to her. Thanks for real ��🏼

I hope you’re all well and that your holidays are continuing with peace and serenity. Stay safe, please. Stay patient. Keep the boat afloat. As usual, always with love, F ❤️

P.S. since I’m currently on vacation for a few more days before having to go back to work, and since I have a little bit more free time, I’m preparing something else for you based on some information that I was able to found out. Stay tuned for the next post 😉 The initials of the title are U and S, so you’ll know when you see it. Byee 😘

___

I was smiling with every word of this submit. Thanks for this clarification, F. It was awesome as usual

#submission #f anon #awards shows

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mldrgrl · 3 years

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Broken Things 4/24

by: mldrgrl Rating: varies by chapter, rated R overall See Chapter 1 for summary and notes

John Byers steps out onto the porch of the mercantile as Mulder sets the brake in place on the carriage. “Twice in one day, Mulder, is anything the matter?” he asks.

“Nothing at all,” Mulder answers. “Is Susannah about?”

“She’s just inside.”

Mulder steps down from the carriage as John calls to his wife. Susannah appears as Mulder is assisting Katherine down from her seat. The first time Mulder met the Byers he wondered how they ever came to be married. John is small and meek, dark-haired, keeps a well-trimmed beard and is fastidious about his person and his store. Susannah is fair-haired and fair-skinned, taller than her husband and broader in the shoulders. She is boisterous and jovial and, Mulder knows, hungry for friendships.

“Please allow me to introduce my neighbor, Katherine Wilis,” Mulder says. “You may have heard that her husband met an unfortunate end just a few days ago.”

John looks at Mulder quizzically and Susannah practically leaps from the porch to take Katherine’s arm and embrace her. “So lovely to meet you,” she says. “I’m Susannah, and this is my husband John. We run the mercantile here and if there’s ever anything we can do for you, you just let us know.”

“Actually,” Mulder says. “Mrs. Willis is going to have to see to some affairs regarding her homestead and I thought, well, since Franklin is away at school, it may not be too much trouble for you if she could stay here for a night or two to sort things out.”

“Oh, yes!” Susannah says. “Yes, please come right in and we’ll get you settled.”

Unsurprisingly, Susannah whisks Katherine away. Mulder meets John’s eyes for a brief moment and then turns away to untie the valise from the hold under the seat.

“It seems you’ve taken responsibility for the Willis widow,” John says.

“I suppose you can say that,” Mulder answers. “I’ve asked her to marry me.”

“Marry you! And she’s taken you up on this lunatic proposal?”

“She said she’d like to think about it.”

“This is the most astonishingly foolish thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Maybe it’s foolish or I’m just soft. You were right about the forthcoming eviction. She’s got no claim on the homestead and you should have seen the place, John. The old sod house is barely standing. I think she’s putting on a brave front, but she has less than nothing. If you could have seen her face when I showed up there, I’m almost certain she thought I had come to collect her for debtor’s prison.”

“Why not just send her back to her people, if you want to help?”

“She says she has none.”

“You’re talking about a lifelong commitment here, Mulder. Do you really want to put yourself in that position? Or her?”

“I would escort her to Fort Worth myself if I thought she’d be safe or do well there on her own, but she’s in unfamiliar territory amongst strangers. Anyone could take advantage.”

“And that’s not what you’re doing?”

”Is that what it seems to you I’m doing?”

“I don’t know, but proposing to a woman you’ve only known for a handful of hours? Couldn’t you at least do a little courting first?”

“Actually, I proposed to her within ten minutes of knowing her.” Mulder takes the valise out of the hold and then puts a hand on John’s shoulder. “I appreciate that you’re looking out for me, and I know it seems rash, but I did think things through. You know I can’t hire her on as a cook or housemaid, which is what I’d do if I was back east. Bringing a young, single woman, widowed or not, onto a ranch with six bachelors? You know what that would look like, out here. Bringing a bride onto a ranch, now that’s a different story and no one would bat an eyelash.”

“I can tell you’re intent on looking out for her and I think it’s admirable, but to yoke yourself to her just because she’s run into trouble?.”

“There’s another reason too.”

“Oh?”

“I happen to like her. Now, I’m going to bring this bag in for her and then I’m going to head over to see Skinner before he closes for the day. Please, don’t mention to Katherine that I’ve gone on to the bank.”

John sniffs lightly and smooths down his shirtfront. “You know I’m not one to meddle in people’s affairs.”

Mulder laughs and claps John on the shoulder. It is well known that John Byers is the town gossip and is very rarely able to keep his opinions to himself, if their conversation just now is any indication. He heads into the store to find Katherine and discovers her in the back room with Susannah, who’s making what appears to be tea and cookies. He holds the valise up to her as a greeting.

“Ladies, I’ll be going now. Katherine, I’ll be by tomorrow morning to bring you over to Mr. Skinner.”

“I appreciate that, thank you.”

“Susannah, I’m going to trust you to outfit Katherine with whatever she might need and put it on the account.”

“Oh no,” Katherine protests. “I don’t need anything.”

“Sure you do. Boots, stockings, material, and I’m sure there are lady soaps or tinctures or baubles of some kind you could make use of.”

“That’s really unnecessary, I don’t-”

“Susannah, excuse us for just a moment.” Mulder gently cups Katherine’s elbow and leads her away out of earshot. He speaks low and close to her to make sure the conversation stays private. “If you accept my proposal, or you do not, either way there are things you’re going to need to get yourself started. You would do me an honor if you would allow me to ease that burden for you.”

“Then I should like to pay you back.”

“You can pay me back by making sure you put good use to the things you buy.”

“It won’t be anything frivolous, I promise that.”

“It could be as frivolous as you like, as long as you enjoy it.”

“I don’t understand why you’re helping me with so much and I can’t even do anything for you in return.”

“I’ve enjoyed your company thus far, and that’s more than enough.” He hands her the valise and finds that he has to restrain himself from leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Alright.”

He’s feeling pretty sure of himself until he leaves the mercantile and then he gets to thinking about what Byers had said and suddenly he’s less confident. He does want to marry her, he’s resolved on that, but what if what’s best for her is that he can offer her other options, not just one of marriage? She should have as many choices as she can, not just one.

He’s brooding a bit when he walks into the bank and waves his hat at Walter Skinner in greeting, trying not to scowl as he does. The bespectacled bank manager frowns a little, but he’s always frowning, in Mulder’s estimation.

“Mr. Mulder,” Skinner says, ushering him towards the side office and to his desk to sit. “What can I do for you today?”

“I’m sure you’re aware that my neighbor, Jack Willis, passed on rather abruptly a few days ago.”

“Yes, I am well aware of that.” Skinner pushes his spectacles up his nose and then clasps his hands together and sits tall in his chair across from Mulder.

“What kind of trouble is Mrs. Willis looking at with the land?”

“You know I can’t discuss the accounts of other landholders with you.”

“Well, I’ll be bringing Katherine Willis by tomorrow morning to discuss the terms of the lease with you, but I’d like to know exactly how much is owed before I transfer the money.”

“You’re going to settle her account? What exactly are your intentions?”

“Only to bring the account to good standing so that Mrs. Willis may receive a fair price for transferring ownership.”

“There hasn’t been a single payment made on that lease.”

“And if I were to take it over, would the option to purchase be readily available or do I need to wait the five years to put in for it?”

Skinner gets up from his desk and moves to a filing cabinet. He rifles through it for a few moments and then pulls out a folder and sits down again. He takes a blank piece of paper from his desk drawer, wets the tip of a graphite pencil with his tongue, and then sets to work on some figures.

“You’re looking at 320 acres, last valuation at two dollars an acre. The amount owed is currently 64 dollars, plus taxes and penalties. It’ll be roughly 85 dollars to take over the lease and 736 dollars to take the option.”

“Good. Transfer the 85 now to the account. Tomorrow, I’d like you to please inform Mrs. Willis that the lease was paid timely, and in full by her late husband. How long will it take to transfer the title as beneficiary?”

“A few weeks.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know what’s become of Jack Willis’ remains, would you?”

“I hear they’re keeping him in the icehouse until the undertaker comes through.”

“I guess that means Mr. Carter is handling the arrangements. You see him, you tell him he can send the bill on to me.”

“I’ve known you to do some strange things over the years, Mulder, but you’re going to extraordinary lengths to get a piece of land you could probably purchase at half the price at auction.”

“It’s not about the money. Right now I’m going to do everything I can to make sure Katherine Willis is taken care of.”

Skinner sits back in his chair and crosses his arms. “This woman have something over you?”

“Not at all. I only met her this morning.”

Skinner raises his brows and then shakes his head. He puts the paper with the figures he’s written into the folder from the filing cabinet and then clasps his hands together again and rests them on top of the folder.

“It’s your money,” Skinner says.

“Just be sure to tell Mrs. Willis that her husband kept the account in good standing tomorrow.” Mulder stands and puts his hat back on. “Pleasure doing business with you, Skinner.”

“Mr. Mulder.”

↭

Susannah is a chatty one, Katherine thinks. Through two cups of tea, she’s heard about how her new friend met her husband, how they moved from Philadelphia to Texas ten years ago, how her eldest son is studying journalism at a college in Missouri and dreams of operating his own newspaper, and how her youngest son intends to take on the family business one day. It’s a relief that Susannah likes to talk and doesn’t pry. Mulder was right when he said that Susannah would be delighted for a lady friend.

“What can you tell me about Mr. Mulder?” Katherine asks.

“I think he’s been out here about four or five years now,” Susannah says, resting her teacup on her saucer to answer. “He’s built up a nice little ranch. Our John Jr. had riding lessons from him a few years back when he got old enough to start making deliveries with the wagon.”

“He’s been very kind to me. I wonder if it’s not...put on somehow?”

“Mulder? No, what you see is what you get with Mulder.”

“He asked me to marry him.”

Susannah freezes with her teacup almost to her lips and her eyes grow wide. She lowers her cup once again and it rattles against the saucer. “Well, my goodness,” she says. “I didn’t even know the two of you were friendly.”

“We actually just met earlier today.”

“Gracious.” Susannah cocks her head as though considering the offer. “That does seem quite in character for Mulder, though.”

“How so?”

“I think he’s the kind of man who gives in to impulse.”

“Hm.” Katherine frowns just a little and ponders on that over her tea.

“Oh no, dear, not in a silly or reckless way. Well, let me see. I was thinking about a time we used to receive deliveries from a company in Fort Worth. The delivery man, Alex was his name, we’d only had him come in a handful of times, but there was one time that Mulder happened to be in the store and he told Alex something about his horse. I think it was that it was the wrong horse for the job, or something to that effect. Alex didn’t seem to acknowledge the advice one way or the other, but the next time he came through, we all heard this fuss outside and naturally, I assumed it was probably just a ruckus spilled out of the saloon, but Mulder had Alex off his wagon in the dirt, had a switch that he was busting up over his knee, and yelling at the man that if he ever saw him beating a horse again he would take the switch to him instead of busting it up the next time.”

Katherine feels herself shrinking just a little. She has had far too much of irrational, temperamental men in her life and she won’t take on another. “Is he often violent?” she asks.

“Not at all! I’m only trying to explain that Mulder is not a passive man. He wouldn’t stand by and let an animal be mistreated and most folks will. He took that horse from Alex, paid him money for it too, I believe, and then bought him a ticket back to Fort Worth on the stagecoach. And I think he sent one of the boys from out on the ranch to make sure the rest of his deliveries were made.”

“I met the men today before we came here. They seem awfully devoted to him.”

“Yes, I would say that’s true. From what I can tell he treats them very well. Whenever he happens to be in the store he seems to find something he thinks they need.”

“He’s obviously very generous.”

“Oh, don’t let him come in on a day when some of the local children might be here. They walk away with bags of penny candy. Speaking of generosity, he told me to make sure I outfit you and you know I just remembered we got in some new calico I think would suit you fine. Let’s go and have a look at it.”

“Susannah,” Katherine says, putting her hand lightly on Susannah’s arm to hold her off from getting up just yet. “With all that you know about Mr. Mulder, do you think I should accept his proposal?”

“I don’t know. I can’t imagine marrying a man I just met, but I will tell you that I think Mulder is a decent man. I don’t know of any vices he has. Definitely doesn’t partake of alcohol, he’s never purchased tobacco, and I don’t even think he’s set foot in the saloon. And it’s unlikely to be for religious purposes as he’s never been to service. Will any of that make him a good husband? I can’t say.”

Katherine nods. She isn’t looking for a good husband, or any husband at all, really, she just doesn’t want another bad one.

#i wrote this #broken things #chapter 4 #au #msr

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yandere-daze · 4 years

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Yan 66 for Giorno please. Thank you ^^

Of course!! Thank you for your request ^^

66. “You want to go home? You’re already home.”

Yandere! Giorno with prompt 66

“You want me to move in with you?”

You were currently having dinner with your boyfriend, Giorno, in your favorite restaurant when he made the proposal. You had to admit, Giorno´s request for you to move in with him caught you a bit off guard. You had been together for about two months now after randomly bumping into each other on the street. It was pure coincidence and afterwards Giorno invited you to a coffee to make it up to you. Talking with him actually ended up being super fun so when he asked for your number, you gave it to him without hesitancy. You´re really glad you did, look how you ended up! You´re in a healthy relationship with Giorno and you couldn´t be any happier.

“Indeed. We´ve been together for two months already and I think it would be lovely for us to spend even more time together. Moving in is the best idea. Wouldn´t you agree, y/n?”, Giorno said while making direct eye contact with you. His turquoise eyes looked at you expectantly while resting his head on his propped-up arm. His golden hair was kept in it´s usual unique style with a few of the strands in his braid slowly becoming loose. Giorno absentmindedly twirled a few of the loose strands around his finger as he calmly waited for your response.

You know he probably didn´t mean it like that, but the way he worded his proposal didn´t sound like a question at all. More like a suggestion you were supposed to agree with. It made you a bit uneasy. You weren´t sure what to do in this situation. Of course you loved Giorno a whole lot but you weren´t sure if you already wanted to move in with him, you two have only been together for two months. He made it sound like it had already been a long time since you started your relationship, but to you it still seemed pretty new. You would love to spend more time with your boyfriend, he was lovely and brought you a lot of joy but leaving everything behind and moving in with him? It seemed a bit too soon to you. You decided to tell him just that, Giorno was always super considerate of your feelings so you were sure he would understand.

Lifting your gaze from your plate you looked directly at your boyfriend and finally decided to speak up. “Giorno I don´t know about that… it just seems so sudden. I would love to move in with you eventually but I don´t think I´m ready for that just yet.”

After hearing your response, Giorno lifted his head a bit and let out a small laugh as if what you just said amused him in some way. “What do you mean, tesoro? Too soon? I don´t think you know what you´re saying. We have already been together for two months, how is that too soon? Don´t you want to be with me?”

“Giorno, I…”, you began after a short pause. Did he not understand you? Of course you wanted to be with him, you just weren´t ready yet for that kind of commitment. You needed more time!

“I don´t think you´re listening to me. I love you; I really do and maybe I could move in with you later on in the future but I just don´t feel ready yet. I´m sorry but I still think it´s too early for us to take that step.”. You had temporarily closed your eyes while talking as a reflex so as you opened them you were surprised to see the corners of Giorno´s gentle smile slowly straining. To anyone else watching, he would give the illusion of a very collected and calm person in this moment but you were able to see through his disguise. You were sad to admit that you had seen this particular look on his face far too often recently. The way his eyebrows furrowed almost unnoticeably and his eyes grew a slightly darker look. It happened whenever you would have to leave him to go home or you were talking to someone else while in his presence. It was a bit unnerving but you always reasoned that he was just a bit jealous. A little jealousy was normal and didn´t hurt anyone, did it? You thought it was kind of cute actually. But now? For some reason you couldn´t force your mind to perceive his behavior as endearing. Something felt off. His gaze was very intense as he reached out his arm to clasp your hand in his under the table. You reluctantly laid your hand in his. You couldn´t help but notice that your palm was getting a bit sweaty. Why were you nervous? Giorno was your boyfriend, there was absolutely nothing to fear! So why couldn´t you help but slightly shiver as he leaned further in?

You almost jumped out of your seat when you suddenly felt his grip on your hand tighten. Shocked you looked down to see his hand grabbing yours like a vice. You didn´t think you could let go now, even if you wanted to.

“Y/n. Please look at me.”, Giorno softly spoke up as he used his other hand to gently lift your head to make direct eye contact with him. You gulped and did as he said.

“Now that´s better, amore. Just focus on me and let every other thought vanish. Understood?”

A quick nod.

“Good. Now listen to me, please. I think you moving in with me would be best for the both of us. I would feel way more at peace knowing that you are safe and sound. You know how dangerous my work is, who knows what could happen to you? Having you close at all times would allow me to ensure your safety. And not just that. Just the thought of me waking up next to you every morning sends butterflies into my stomach. I´ve never felt this way about someone else before, you´re so special to me. I would do absolutely anything for you. Just say the word and you could have anything you could ever want.” His gaze softened a bit at this.

“So WHY”, a sharp pain directed to your hand; “why don´t you see? Why do you reject me? Haven´t I given you everything? I love you so much, I can´t bear the thought of you being with someone else. I need you with me at all times. I-“, he stopped for a second, seemingly lost in thought before snapping out of it. He promptly stood up from his chair, pulling you up with him.

“Giorno, what-“, you were shocked, you didn´t know what to think. Were did this side of him come from? But before you had any time to speak up again, Giorno kept insistently pulling at your hand, practically forcing you to go with him as he left the restaurant you two were having dinner at. No one dared to look in your direction, even though you surely must have made quite a ruckus. No one wanted to mess with the Don of Passione after all.

“Giorno where are we going?”, you finally asked one of many questions swarming your head. The man in question looked down for a moment, seemingly contemplating before finally uttering an answer he seemed satisfied with.

“Home.”, he said with a smile on his face that you would have once found comforting. Now his façade of calmness terrified you. Who knows what lures under his seemingly innocent gaze? You didn´t have any time to further contemplate his response, as he suddenly reached for something in his pocket. You only remember the feeling of something soft pressing against your face before slowly losing consciousness.

You woke up a few hours later, completely disoriented to a foreign surrounding. You felt like you slept for days, trying to regain your bearings in a slight daze. Looking around a bit, you saw you were in what you assumed a bedroom of sorts. You were laying on top of a very soft double bed, almost drowning in all the cushions provided for you. You have never slept in a bed this fancy your entire life! But this wasn´t the time to admire a stranger´s taste in furniture, where ARE you? The last thing you were able to remember was eating dinner at a restaurant with Giorno, some kind of argument and then…..

Giorno! Your eyes widened. Was this his house? Did your own boyfriend really kidnap you? Was any of this even real? It all felt like a dream to you, or a nightmare to be more exact. Looking around a bit more, you saw several photographs plastered onto the walls. Under closer inspection, you found them to be pictures of….you? Pictures you didn´t remember being taking. Maybe they were taking while you weren´t looking? Pictures of you just going along with your day and even some photos featuring Giorno! He looked so happy in every picture with you, it almost looked unnatural how wide his smile was stretching.

And wait! You recognized that picture! That was from when you went to that job interview you almost forgot about! But that was five months ago! You didn´t even know Giorno back then! So how could he possibly have gotten this picture of you??

Just as you were contemplating how this was possible, you heard the lock of the door click loudly and soon after, the door opened, revealing Giorno´s form. Seeing that you were awake, he immediately rushed over to you and gently caressed your cheek with his hand.

“Amore, I´m so glad to have you here with me now. See this isn´t so bad, right? I made sure to choose furniture to your liking so you can feel at peace here. Isn´t this wonderful? Now we´ll never have to be apart! This could have been way easier on us both if you hadn´t struggled so much. But now all is well and I forgive you.” Apparently he desired what he said to be seen as romantic but you couldn’t help but be terrified. How could Giorno do this? Was he out of his mind?!

“Giorno, no, please. I don´t want this. Not like this. What happened to you? How could you kidnap me just like that?! I want to go home! I´m leaving!”

You felt a sudden surge of resolve within you, so you decided to take action and get up. But before you could set even a foot forward, Giorno stopped you by grabbing onto your wrist again.

“Kidnapping? No darling, I think you´re confused. This was meant to be! I know what´s best for you, trust me! This is for the best.”

“I´m going home. Now!!”, you screamed as you trashed around in his grasp, desperately trying to get away from him, to no avail.

“You want to go home? You’re already home.”

His tone was deadly calm as he spoke , his gaze looking twisted beyond belief to you. His grip on your hand was as firm as ever. He wasn´t going to let go anytime soon.

After all, this hand would soon carry the same ring as his.

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amphtaminedreams · 3 years

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Spring/Summer & Haute Couture Week 2021: Whoops, I’ve Missed a Loooot (Part 2)

Hey to anyone reading,

I’m so sorry for the gap between the last fashion week review post and this one! Argh. I had no idea I posted it as long ago as the beginning of March but I think we can all agree that lockdown has fucked with our perceptions of time completely. I wish I could say the delay in posting was as simple as me being busy but I’ve also started to reflect on whether or not I want to carry on this format of posts for the time being; on the scale of problems, this one is wayyy down there in the very lower quartile of the first world region, but my motivation to carry on this kind of content in the form of long-winded text posts is...meh...not so much there anymore. At first I was thinking the issue was that working on these was my last priority on my daily to-do lists but as I’ve got back into writing fiction, it’s kind of occurred to me that the fact I was putting these posts on my to-do lists in the first place along with things like doing the ironing and contacting student finance speaks volumes. When I’m back from work or winding down, opening up Tumblr and coming back to this draft isn’t something that I think of as a fun stress reliever in the way drafting stories is. It doesn’t feel like I’m using my imagination or my creativity or expressing myself in any way and it’s not much of an escape from day to day life in the way that writing dialogue or exploring characters is. Maybe it’s because I’ve done quite a few of these posts now but I just tend to feel like I’m repeating myself, you know kinda like when you’re writing an essay and trying to fill up a word count; of course there are collections that I do have a lot of opinions on but by and large, sometimes it boils down to THESE CLOTHES ARE JUST FUCKING PRETTY, OKAY?! There’s only so many things you can say about a tulle skirt or an exaggerated collar before you want to strangle yourself with said tulle. I used to think iF VoGUe RuNwaY wRitErs CaN dO iT WhAT's MY exCusE until I realised that 1). Vogue Runway writers actually get paid and 2). for the most part all they do is explain the designer's intentions behind the collections verbatim without giving a critical opinion anyway.

I think a lot of the pressure I feel to justify what are in reality quite simple observations and opinions goes back to some of the feelings I explained in my first ever fashion week review where people who know more about fashion and have a formal education in the subject tend to be kind of gatekeep-y and elitist. It can never be that you appreciate different things about a collection but rather than one of you has taste and the other doesn’t and if it wasn’t obvious, the taste level assigned to you by the powers that be tend to positively correlate with the amount of money you have available to spend on a degree that has a reputation for failing to provide a steady income, which for most makes it an unrealistic avenue to pursue. I know, I know, the pressure is totally self-inflicted and wholly imagined seeing as I have under 500 followers on here and those who do interact with these posts most likely do so for the pictures but I still feel it, and given that I’m going to have enough external pressure to write essays when I return to uni in September, why on earth am I wasting time putting it on myself? When just posting photosets of my favourite looks is not only actually enjoyable for me but is also what other people WANT to see too? Nobody wants to read a self-indulgent paragraph like this when they’re here for the clothes and to be honest, for the most part I don’t want to write them anyway unless it’s something I have strong feelings about or if a collection can only be properly appreciated with analysis. I think I’ve made pretty clear which designers I’m a fan of, do you really need to hear me raving about Gucci or Zimmerman or Miu Miu or Balenciaga again? Is there gonna be anything revolutionary in yet another rant about Maria Grazia? Course not. I mean, if you are reading, you might have to witness those things one last time because I do intend to finish off this season’s review in this format for consistency purposes and because I’ve already got all the notes now but on the whole, I doubt anyone will miss my rambles.

So, with all that in mind, I think after I finish my S/S21 posts I am gonna start just uploading these posts without the written part. I mean, for one, the simplicity of doing this means I’m much less likely to procrastinate making them which in turn means I’ll be able to get them out right after the shows as a kind of summary as opposed to months later when they’re no longer as relevant. This will also give me more time to work on the writing I actually enjoy. Right now I’m going through and editing my 17 year old self’s “grown-up” take on the Pretty Little Liars blackmail murder mystery style plot line which I wrote back when I was completely and utterly obsessed with the show and bitterly disappointed by the last couple of seasons. The writing is pretty mediocre and often hugely cringey to read back now but I am still a fan of the basic plot and I’m genuinely motivated to see if I can make it something actually worth reading, and to get onto that ASAP; this feels especially important right now given that the HBO version of the series’ apparent upcoming release has sent that ever-present writer’s fear of seeing-your-same-storyline-done-better-by-somebody-else-thus-forever-relegating-your-version-to-being-the-poor-imitation-so-you-gotta-get-there-first into overdrive (or maybe that’s just me and my neuroses). Again, it’s a totally unfounded fear based on the fact that the HBO show will probs get millions of viewers whilst I will be doing little more than shouting into the void but anybody who’s used Turnitin to submit an essay that ultimately counts for little more than like 1% of your grade or degree will know that no matter how irrelevant your work is, the concept of failing a plagiarism check, be it via a computer algorithm or one random stranger on the internet’s assessment, is enough to conjure visions of the 4 horsemen of the apocalypse galloping towards you screaming “START THE WHOLE THING AGAIN” before releasing a hoarde of 2015 Chanel vs. Walmart style comparison memes.

Now, speaking of Chanel, I should probably get back into the reviewing.

So for the last time for a little while, here’s Christian Siriano:

Siriano’s designs are a great example of work I feel guilty enjoying. I know that when it comes to quality, the high fashion community have a lot of (negative) things to say and I really can’t speak to that because quite honestly, I know very little about textile manufacturing. Solely from my own point of view though, I do like his work a lot. I wouldn’t claim for a minute that he’s a pioneer in terms of his creations but I would 100% love to wear them and I DO hugely admire his commitment to putting women of all sizes on the runway and designing pieces that don’t simply cater to straight up and down types which is more than can be said for most brands. I get that his collections are pretty formulaic, taking what has worked for the likes of Chanel and Alessandra Rich, De La Renta and Carolina Herrera, Michael Kors too (who is kind of guilty of the same thing himself), but that’s not to say his work is bad. Let’s be real, we’ve been on this planet thousands of years, we’re all taking inspiration from someone, and maybe figures like Kors and Siriano could wait a *little* longer before taking said inspiration but their aim at the end of the day is to sell clothes, not break barriers, a task which although often left to the big name brands, they too often fail at. I’m not going to lie, I’m feeling this whimsical mid-century tea party vibe, it’s elegant and it’s cutesy and My Fair Lady-esque, and you bet your arse I would be absolutely thrilled to wear one of these looks on a summer red carpet. I just can’t say no to anything tulle-maybe it’s that I was on Toddlers & Tiaras in a past life or maybe it’s that I watched too many Barbie Princess films growing up, but I like pretty much everything going on here, especially Siriano is giving us matching fedoras too. Plus, can we take a moment to praise Siriano for his COVID relief efforts? Near the beginning of the pandemic, he turned his studio into a mask manufacturing factory in order to send them out as donations, and I think that is very cool.

Then there’s Christopher Kane who once again came through with the most insanely gorgeous prints:

I mean, paint splattering is hardly a new technique but I haven’t seen it done as a print so tastefully before-it eats the Moschino biro scribble print (which apparently was copied too speaking of the tendencies of designers to “borrow” inspiration) for breakfast. It’s shit because there weren’t many looks in this collection and they weren’t really shot in a way that does them any justice but I thought I’d include the few I saved.

Comme Des Garcons is a fave of the high fashion community and one I look forward to seeing at fashion week but can never quite get behind. I appreciate the what-the-fuckery of it all with this show totally being able to pass as a run-through of some kind of nuclear waste themed scare house at one of Thorpe Park’s fright nights. I assume given that and the plastic Mickey Mouse print it’s supposed to be some kind of reference to the part late-stage capitalism has played in the hellish landscape we find ourselves in today? Or something all intellectual? In which case I made my interpretation with farrrr too much confidence. But Anyway! Who knows! I’ll leave the analysis to the fashion students, and give it one word: trippy.

Onto Dion Lee, a brand I truly do get excited to talk about because it’s rare that I don’t LOVE his work.

Without fail, Lee manages to be confidently ahead of the curve without going out of his way to announce it and his genius to everyone with flamboyant shows and exaggerated designs and extortionate prices. He is very much an underdog in the fashion world in terms of big names but you’ll be hard pressed to find anyone who doesn’t love his collections. His S/S21 collection is one of my favourites of the bunch. I love seeing something I’ve never seen before and the palm leaf breast plate is so odd but so cool and so perfectly Dion Lee at the same time; we’ve seen jungle/tropical inspired collections sooo many times *cough cough D&G cough cough* and THIS is how you make them fresh and unique. I mean, never in a million years did I think I’d get behind the resurgence of the gladiator sandal trend but Lee has me changing my mind. This is one of the very rare times you will ever see me using this meme to praise a man but:

I mean, he has Fernanda Ly modelling for him, that the man has taste goes without saying.

Now for a bit of a full circle moment, given that I did actually praise Dior’s haute couture collection in my first ever post; Maria Grazia did GOOD. Well, with haute couture at least.

She’s always pretty hamfisted with her references, there’s no denying, with that Grecian Goddess style RTW collection typifying that statement completely, but luckily she struck gold this time round; as someone who studied the Tudors for A-level history, seeing a modern take on the exaggeratedly feminine renaissance silhouettes with the baroque prints and the deep jewell tones got me super excited especially when you throw in the dreamy tarot theming and the nods to the mystical and arcane. Seeing as the Heavenly Bodies Met Gala (I know, I know, I need to move on) was some time ago now and Cersei Lannister’s *SPOILER* been crushed by a rock (could also be seen as a metaphor for the irrelevancy David Benioff and D.B Wise condemned GoT to when they aired that shitty ending tehe) and so probably won’t be getting a collection based on her costumes any time soon, this is the only fashion take on this kind of period dress I’m going to get…and you know what? I’m okay with that. Thanks Maria, I guess?

Her RTW collection wasn’t absolutely awful either, and slightly better than the past few collections at least. Put a monkey in a room with a typewriter (or show it enough similar well-received collections) and it will eventually write something that makes sense, don’t they say? I like the nomadic feel of a lot of the looks and there’s beautiful layering going on but the aura of exotic opulence unsurprisingly didn’t stick around for long and I found that there was a decline in quality in the midsection of the show that landed a lot of the outfits in either awkward mother of the bride at a beach wedding or The Only Way is Essex Ocean Beach PLT sponsored poolside party territory. The looks picked back up a bit towards the end stretch of the show but I wasn’t a fan of the Gucci style oversized glasses which were so out of place with the rest of the theming that if anything they seemed like a cheap grab at relevancy. So yeah, a middling, subpar Etro-esque collection which is better than usual for Dior I suppose.

Next, Elie Saab, whose S/S21 collection was kinda disappointing, tbh. Oh how the turns have tabled given that positive Dior review and my usual love of Saab’s collections.

I know his dresses lose some of their appeal when we can’t see them in motion but even ON the runway I can’t see myself being dazzled by any of these pieces the way I usually am. They’re lacking the level of detail and craftsmanship I associate with the brand seemingly in favour of block colours and suits and the issue is that the whole Disney Princess fantasy has always been the appeal for me because the silhouettes aren’t interesting enough on their own. They’re not ugly pieces, they’re nice, but does nice really have a place in high fashion when the pieces are so basic in both their design and presentation that the shots could pass as ripped from a catalogue? The strongest parts of the collection were when it did go down the more delicate route with the muted blue suits and the white feather trimmed dresses, the small, ornamental gold details reminding me of a very toned down nod to Schiaparelli’s hardware, but with regards to the bright coloured pieces, I can’t lie-they did look like something you could find in the M&S Per Una holiday section. Then you’ve got the weakest parts, which were just flat out ugly: sheer giraffe print, sweat band style elasticated waits, and long chiffon shirts that I hate to admit read as frumpy. There are times where I’ve not been particularly excited by an Elie Saab collection in the past, but I do think this is the first time I’ve actively disliked parts of it.

Conversely, Erdem’s S/S21 collection was super strong, and solidified the brand’s place in my mind as a dependable source of kooky maximalism, this time round giving us Anya Taylor Joy’s Emma wardrobe on speed. You could tell me Erdem Moralıoğlu had just raided the Bridgerton set’s fitting rooms and put it on a runway and I would 100% believe you and I mean that in a positive way because to give my unpopular opinion, the clothes were the only good thing about that show. The endearingly florid details of exaggerated bows and clashing florals were still there but this time in a way that felt more subtle and self-assured, as if the calming influence of the wooded set’d had a direct hand in the designs, giving the rugged, ethereal feel to the collection I associate with brands like Brock and Simone Rocha, all whilst keeping the parts of Erdem I’m so fond of.

Is it really much of a shock that I included pretty much every look from the Etro S/S21 show? Like, you know that Christian idea of God, like, (the voice in my head is very much taking on the dumb valley girl voice that anybody who reads this is most probably getting too) knowing our souls? I think Veronica Etro knows mine. So no, no surprise. Though there were a few unconventional touches thrown into these looks (the campier prints and nautical theming we see with the 80s beach towel print, for example, reminded me a bit of Versace) the mystical bohemian it girl that Etro designs for would still be highly satisfied. Sure, it might be a wardrobe fit for a holiday less adventurous than backpacking but if she wanted a tropical poolside holiday, this collection is the one, the paisley print chiffon mini and maxi dresses especially. I’m just gonna pretend I don’t see the monstrosity that is leggings worn as trousers-it’s a fashion rule I refuse to abandon-because they are the only stain on an otherwise expectedly gorgeous collection.

Next, an unusually reserved RTW collection from Fendi:

More in line with the wardrobe of a European fashion editor than the glamorous trophy wife (who let’s say uses that facade as a guise to ruthlessly run her husband’s whole business empire from behind the scenes because in this house we do complex female characters only), these pieces are lot “smarter” and more professional looking than Fendi’s typical offerings; where I feel Fendi usually designs for the society girl who wouldn’t mind a front page scandal, these are the kind of outfits a young member of Monaco’s royal family would wear for a positively received but business-as-usual press tour. I know, Fendi is an Italian brand, but this is more Southern France to me. We’re talking some 2nd page shots of a Kate Middleton type on a yacht on the Riviera smiling and waving as her PR team’s ideal scenario. Still, whilst fewer exaggerated silhouettes, animal prints and overtly luxurious fabrics (real leathers, silks and furs for example) mean that the drama’s a little toned down, it’s all still very expensive looking and combines the classically feminine glamour of the past and the minimalism of modernity in the artful manner that we’re used to. Maybe it’s me being a basic bitch but I always love seeing Ashley Graham on the runway too, even if brands to tend to use her as their single token plus size model.

Kim Jones’ debut haute couture collection for Fendi, however, wasn’t a very well received one. I don’t hate it personally but I can see where the criticisms are coming from. Whilst it’s closer to the version of Fendi I’ve come to expect and there were some stunning pieces which completely encapsulated that distinctive aura of luxe and glamour, there were quite a few lazy pieces which could’ve been from any designer. I also felt the collection was a bit upstaged by what seemed to be a who’s who of the modelling world; having Bella, Cara, Kate and Naomi ALL walk in one show was a bit distracting and took the focus off the clothes completely.

Giambattista Valli’s RTW collection was gorgeous as ever; the man has undeniably mastered the art of delivering classic, objective elegance, the kind of designs I feel would make you light on your feet and smell like strawberries and cream the minute you put one on. Whilst as a brand his RTW shows are rarely trendsetting, they reliably produce a plethora of unfailingly graceful and demure pieces, as appealing to your mum and your grandma as they are to young women and little girls, and this collection is another victory lap for Valli when it comes to upholding his signature tea party and artisan cupcake making and rose garden strolling and bottomless rosé brunch appropriate aesthetic. There were a lot of outfits that were bordering on overly juvenile, with structures a little too basic to justify the amount of sequins thrown on, but when it’s good, it’s so sweet that regardless of how to formula it is, I can’t help but fall in love.

Valli’s haute couture collection was stunning too and for sure a more exciting offering than the RTW. There was of course a lot of the signature tulle but it was head-turning, over the top in a way that leant far more towards the experimental than I expected. The photos themselves are 100% believable as a some kind of Vogue behind the scenes editorial shoot on the set of live action Disney princess movie (in between takes of the climactic ball scene if you wanna get specific with the vision); if you are looking for a prettier alternative to the primary colours and disruptive shapes of a Molly Goddard collection, this is the one. It’s giving the themes of excess and abundance I associate with that of the Hunger Games Capitol but through the softer lens of a Sofia Coppola movie, and being the typical cinema loving white girl I am, I’m obviously on board with that vibe.

I did SUCH a 180 on Givency’s S/S21 collection from when I first saw it to writing a review. My initial reaction was one of disappointment, I guess simply because Givenchy has given us so many bold pieces and presentations over the last few years whereas this is more low-key. After properly considering it though as I would any other brand, I came to the conclusion that I do actually really like it. It’s still got the strange, androgynous silhouettes popping up throughout and the futuristic space-age details but with a more down-to-earth, streetwear feel, albeit a very slick, glossy spin on the trends of the rabble (that’s us guys) of course before we go believing it’s achievable. On the one hand, the devil horn accents are a touch Claire’s accessories halloween range but at the same time, done with confidence they’re kind of cool and bring something new and fun to the table in line with the dark theatre of Givenchy’s last few shows.

Now for Gucci, which for the first time I have to say, if I'm attempting objectivity, is not a standout.

Like, can I just start by saying though the format it’s presented in is cute, it’s not ideal as a way of actually showing the collection. I get that the vintage shop bin vibe is a huge part of Gucci’s brand but polaroids make it SO hard to actually see the clothes, and that’s what we’re here for right? I don’t want to give the impression that I don’t like what I see here-the clothes are gorgeous, an idyllic ode to the off-duty wardrobes of Studio 54-ers, bohemian style icons like Charlotte Rampling and young Olivia Newton-John, psychedelic rock guitarists and the inhabitants of San Fransisco’s Haight during the late 60s and early 70s, Alessandro Michele’s favourite period of reference. I can’t pretend otherwise, or act like I wouldn’t want to wear the shit out of this collection. Buut, for Gucci? It’s a little underwhelming. These are the kind of filler looks we get in a typical Gucci show to go alongside the more statement pieces, which this collection is lacking. It’s just that these are designs which usually gets people talking and these pieces don’t do that. It sucks because for most other brands this would be a stand out collection, an immersive, luscious vignette of what people tend to think of as a cultural golden era, but when you’ve had a show that involved models carrying replicas of their own decapitated heads down the runway in the last 5 years, of course something more toned down like this is gonna generate a lot of “is that it?”s.

I owe Hermes an apology. Looking back, I have disliked all their previous collections for the same reason that I now really like this one; maybe it’s in part down to the frustration of still having to whack out the winter coat on occasion in May (fuck British weather and climate change), but suddenly I really appreciate the value of some good quality, versatile outerwear. Hermes is giving us that in spades here and for that, I bow down to them. The pieces on offer are clearly well-made and genuinely practical, and through the minimalist approach manage to retain both an air of timeless sophistication whilst also being youthful and on trend. The leather tactical vest co-ord I can easily see edged up and taking centre stage on one of those insane Seoul street style slow-mo TikToks that were big a couple of months ago and there are several pieces that could tie together a grunge influenced k-style look just as well as they could exist for years on end as the wardrobe staple of a high-powered businesswoman. Designer Nadège Vanhee-Cybulski’s strengths really come through with the simpler looks and it’s the patterned pieces that drag down an otherwise flawless collection; I guess because the aesthetic is very minimalist, the patterns can’t be anything overly decorative but unfortunately this has a bit of a dowdy effect when you pair it with such modest silhouettes. Disregarding those elements of the collection though, it was super good.

It goes without saying that Iris Van Herpen’s haute couture collection was breathtaking; if the fashion community can agree on anything, it’s that this woman’s work is consistently awe-inspiring. She captures the wonder of the universe, the biological structures and kaleidoscopic colours we don’t even register, through fashion in a way that others can only imitate, to mesmerising, truly transcendent effect; I can only assume Van Herpen has mother nature whispering into her ear because how the hell else do you explain her ability to take the kind of microscopic organisms they show you images of in an outdated GCSE science powerpoint and make a dress that resembles one so stunning? Care to explain, Iris? Because if there is some kind of line of communication between the two of you can you please tell the bitch I’m over this weather and that I have cute summer outfits I’m waiting to wear so can she pack this torrential rain shit in? K, thanks xoxo

See it seems shady as fuck to go from IVH to Isabel Marant like this because we are talking 2 designers with totallyyyy different approaches to fashion; Iris Van Herpen is haute couture for starters whereas Marant is commercial, and that’s her thing, but unfair comparisons aside this collection is still a bit of a let down. This is considering I do usually really like Isabel Marant collections based on whether or not I’d wear the pieces, which seems a more appropriate barometer to use to come to a quality verdict. Whilst there were a few of the elegant bohemian pieces my mind goes to when it comes to her brand, the steps outside of that comfort zone didn’t pay off; graffiti print (can be cool if done with some subtlety which apart from a few exceptions was not the case here), cheap looking reflective fabric, and MC Hammer style dungarees, it seems to be an attempt to merge 80s trends with modern urban culture, and an attempt that at times verged on the disastrous. It’s good for a brand to experiment, of course, and appeal to a wider client base than usual, but when it’s bad the unfortunate take away is that the design team don’t have the chops to pull off straying from familiar territory; designers wouldn’t be showing at fashion week if this was truly the case because disregarding the influence of nepotism, fashion is an area you need real talent, perseverance and business smarts to excel in, and so it doesn’t do a team justice when they do fail.

J.W Anderson, on the other hand, really put his best foot forward this season and presented this work in a really cool way too which only added to the positives; whilst the way the shots were edited was funky af, it didn’t detract from the actual outfits, and if we are to see the same limitations when it comes to the F/W collections being released, this is something a lot of designers and editing teams should take note of. The idiosyncratic exaggerated shapes that we see as a recurring feature of Anderon’s collections were still on show but this time round with added femininity, billowing skirts and trailing jewellery that channel the stage looks of Stevie Nicks in a way that’s modern and functional and maybe even fit for the office if you were to work in a more creative industry with a chill boss. Could also work for a coven of witches who practice meditation by bonfires in the moonlight and burn the letters of men who wronged them in some Arizonian desert, so like I said, functional! Who doesn’t like versatility? The only thing I’m not too keen on is the shoes but they’re not so bad that it affects my opinion of the collection and they look comfy I guess.

Lastly, we’ve got to talk about Jacquemus, one of the most influential names in fashion at the moment. And yes, this time round, I’m doing it: I’m buying into the hype.

This collection is gorgeousss! I can see already that a lot of the recurring elements of the show are going to be big summer trends for this year (the cut outs and strappy details on the blouses are everywhere already) even though it isn’t hot enough to have collectively decided the time to start dressing for heat is upon us yet, and that’s always a good indicator of how successful the designer was in their vision and attempts to assess the needs and wants of fashion enthusiasts; whether I’m as big a fan of his work as everyone else seems to be, there’s no denying Simon Porte Jacquemus has always excelled at this practice if the buzz around him is anything to go by. It makes sense given the last year of us all being stuck in and suppressed that a lot of us are already romanticising the summer ahead, anticipating picnics and beach days and general Theresa May running through wheat fields type shenanigans galore, in spite of how dubious an assumption it is to make that British weather will allow for this; Porte Jacquemus has very much catered to this wishful thinking and the popularity of the whole escapist “cottage core” aesthetic, sexing it up a little bit with pieces that hug the body in ways only Mugler knows how whilst being lightweight and relaxed enough to look good with windswept, sandy hair and a little dose of sunburn. I’m talking enough to give you some cutesy freckles and rosy cheeks not PSA on the importance of suncream territory, guys, what is it with those of us on the gen Z/millennial cusp not taking sun damage seriously!? Why do I have to beg so many of my friends to wear it!? Does nobody else remember those photos they’d show you in PSHE in English primary schools of burnt people’s skin under UV lights? Or is that just me being weird and only having such a vivid memory of the images because teachers told us we had to wait until year 6 to see them due they to their “graphic” nature only for my gore-loving self to be extremely underwhelmed when we finally did get that lesson? They showed us a woman giving birth in year 4 for fuck’s sake. THAT was traumatising.

Back to the actual point anyway, with just a couple of negatives, the first of which being that the pieces are very similar to those feminine looks we saw dotted about the Jacquemus menswear collection from last year that were all over fashion Twitter. In Simon Porte Jacquemus’ defence though, it makes sense that those tones and silhouettes would be revisited in a full womenswear collection for that very reason; considering they went down so well and that lockdown gave us a bit of a half-baked summer in 2020, expanding on those elements enough for a whole new collection makes good business sense. We did get some cool additions too, mainly in the form of accessories, with the hardware details on the belts similar to those included in the Givenchy collection and the abstract hair slides being standouts for me. It was all exquisite-the shoes, the jewellery, the styling, everything 10/10. My other nitpick, and I say nitpick not because it’s not important but because it’s an issue that’s hardly restricted to Jacquemus (this casting team are far from the worst offenders, Saint Laurent I’m looking at you), is that I WISH we’d see more diversity with the models. Despite what my body dysmorphia yells at me, I am small, and yet seeing all those fucking minuscule waists made me die a little inside; it’s crazy to me that in 2020 the lack of variety in body types on the runway is still such a problem.

I must have said this a million times but I don’t want to end on a negative note so let me reiterate: this collection was STUN. NING. Plus there were some others I’ve talked about in this post that I’m sure will make it into my top 20 in the final part, Jacquemus, Dion Lee and Etro for sure; we even got some gorgeous pieces from Maria Grazia which I thought was a sentence I’d never type out. Have I said enough to not leave a bad taste in the mouth of anyone who read to the end of this post? I hope so, lol! TBH, it’s impressive given everything that’s going on that the majority of designers did roll out collections in September as usual so serious respect to them and their design teams for that.

In the next post, I’ll fingers crossed be able to include everything from Kim Shui (exciting!) through to at least Off-White (actually pretty good this time?!) and make this whole thing a 4 parter before getting straight on top of the photo posts I’m thinking about doing for the time being for the F/W21 shows. So as usual, if you did read to the end thank you so much and I respect the perseverance you must have to get through all my rambling, lmao. Hope everyone is well and coping okay and again, my inbox is always open for any post suggestions, constructive criticism, or just a chat for anyone who needs a listening ear.

Big love and thank you again!

Lauren x

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brooklynislandgirl · 3 years

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@tangleweave {{xx}}

Over the years since the apartment went from a home full of love and joy when Andy’s rescue-wing were stationed here in Brooklyn at Floyd Bennett Field to the expanse of emptiness that Stephen can see it is now; a museum of relics to the life Beth doesn’t live any more, she’s grown into it like a shell. Once through its doors, it is her fairy-tale tower where nothing is supposed to be able to touch her. Where she can lick her proverbial wounds that never seem to close fully on their own. Where she can stay frozen in stasis, wandering around inured to dreams that have all gone dark. And while she was far from where she believed she’d be by now, while she wasn’t even merely content, it was enough. She was doing good works. She was holding to the vow of first doing no harm. An ordinary life with ordinary things in them. Cutting herself off from almost everything she’d lost.

She doesn’t need to look around. She can see the massive loft apartment in her mind’s eye with an intimacy that most people never achieve. She should have taken down the guitars in their acrylic cases. She should have packed up the photographs. The ones showing what had been. None of them having been taken since after the funeral. She should have put her brother’s massive vinyl record collection into crates and from there into storage. They take up more room on the exposed brick than her various plants and surfboards do. Try as much as she might, she just can’t bring herself to do it. It might mean that she was ready to move on, and that is far from the truth. She holds onto things, the fragmented, the broken, the lost. With that same stalwart dedication, she tries to hold onto herself.

Dinner had begun half an hour before, precisely at 7:30 pm, just as it did every Sunday. Two courses down, two more to go. Not a single word had broken the terse silence at the large mahogany table where the Admiral sat at the head in his customary place and she’d been seated three feet away and to his right. She did not cringe a single time as forks and knives moved across porcelain dishes. The muscle in his jaw worked as he chewed and it felt like wordless castigation somehow even if she couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. One hand lay limply in her lap, the other holds her fork poised over a mix of greens, but she has no appetite. All she really wants to do is drain her wine glass, daub at her lips with her linen napkin and beg to be excused. Just as she did every Sunday. And like all the rest of these interminable repasts, she isn’t able to effect her escape. The Admiral sets down his silverware ~actual silver, brought over from County Antrim~ and washes down his salade Niscois with chilled ice water. He reaches up and smooths down his carefully groomed moustache. Then he fixes her with his steely gaze, the same green eyes that her brother had had, the ones that rest in her own face, only his lack even the remotest speck of warmth. “You received your letter for your summer rotation. Were you going to tell me about it, Elizabeth, or was I supposed to find out when the papers reported on it?” Both hands are in her lap now, fingers twisted together, nails biting half-moon shapes into her palms. “No, Sir. I’m sorry, sir.” “I don’t want your apology, I want to know who they paired you with. I put in a word with Nicodemus West, on your behalf. He’s not in our orbit, but he’s patient enough and you’d be lucky to have him.” Her stomach becomes encased with ice. She’s never going to live this down in his eyes. Personal recommendation notwithstanding… “Thank you, sir. I’ve been...I've been assigned to Doctor Strange, actually.”

She might as well have told the Admiral that she’d committed war crimes while setting the American flag on fire. Oh how he’d raged at her. He called the man arrogant, an egotist of the first water, a New Money libertine that would only stain her already precarious reputation. He demanded that she speak to the board president or that he would make the call for her. Beth had then set her napkin aside and asked sincerely and politely if she might powder her nose. The Admiral understood what she meant, but couldn’t help himself with a parting shot saying that her complexion did look mottled. Once the door closed behind her, she immediately sat on the only space available, opened her purse and bypassed her compact completely. Instead, she grabbed her phone and fired off two very discreet emails. One to the rotation administrator accepting her three month work along, and the second to Stephen himself, thanking him for the opportunity, that she looked forward to working under his supervision. That would be the first of many personal emails between them. The first time she’d directly fought for Stephen, or more correctly, the first time she realised it. Beth had always had a competitive streak a mile wide. And with a class size of over six hundred students that year, she might have been one of the youngest students but by no means the only talented one. But the moment she’d stepped into the lecture hall, precisely three minutes and forty two seconds late, illuminated by the bright glow of the smart board because the only place to sit was at the very front row.

His stare could have impaled a rogue comet, and the lines around his mouth felt like chasms ready to swallow her whole. “Miss Riley, how very fortunate we are to be graced with your presence. I’m going to assume for the sake of argument that you felt your coffee order was much more important than this class, because you already know all there is to know about this particular case.”

When the earth was not kind enough to open up beneath her feet and swallow her before she’d had to admit her watch had stopped, she managed to glance at the words on the screen: Partially Thrombosed Giant Posterior Inferior Cerebellar Artery Aneurysm Mimicking A Fourth Ventricular Tumour. She fixed a demure smile to her lips and returned her gaze to meet his unflinchingly. “Depends, Doctor, on what you mean by that exactly. Posterior circulation aneurysms are less common compared to the anterior circulation aneurysm. Dissection distal Posterior Inferior Cerebellar Artery, better known as PICA, aneurysm is almost unheard of. In this case report, the surgeon assigned to this patient manages to diagnose her within six minutes of being presented to him. The woman had been investigated for gastritis, had undergone CT of the chest, abdomen, and pelvis because of reported symptoms and treated with anti-emetics before being discharged. She’d been treated and streeted three times over the course of ten months. Course of treatment prescribed for her by the diagnosing surgeon was for her to undergo endovascular drainage and removal of the Distal PICA aneurysm, and she made full recovery with resolution of symptoms.” The corner of his mouth twitched. Mirrored against her own. Beth happened to know this case specifically as he’d been the diagnosing physician. It had been his first year of residency on staff, and he’d saved a life that even his attendings would have squandered with their myopic views. She never admitted afterwards that he’d terrified her in those first few moments, even that one time they’d ended up doing sake bombs at Kura’s on St Mark’s Place, having successfully sneaked out of what happened to be the most boring retirement dinner the department had ever perpetrated. Nor had she ever forgotten the feel of his arm around her waist or the scent of his pressed silk shirt and the heat radiating off of him when he wrapped her in one side of his coat on the way back to his car because neither one had remembered to bring an umbrella. If she had to choose a moment when the first seed had been planted, when it had taken root and bloomed into the mess that came after, she would have had to say that was it. She would have been hard pressed to say what *it* even was.

Not that it ever mattered, it was all water under a very troubled bridge, and the paths of their destinies had been markedly different. That they entwined now after so long wasn’t something she could overlook but she didn’t want to because then she would then have to step beyond the shelter of ignorance and things would go on change.

Again.

Beth doesn’t hear him move. Everything is too loud. The water in the sink sounds like the rush of Manoa Falls, a place she hasn’t been for almost fifteen years but that she knows like the back of her own hand. The clock ticks with each beat of her heart, the hum of the refrigerator sounds like a roar, the traffic outside, the neighbours two floors down and their television. Her own pulse by itself is enough to deafen her and she can feel it starting to throb behind her eyes. But despite that, she can feel him. Each step, each compact flex of muscle, each breath comes ahead of his proximity and heralds the fact that he comes to a halt behind her and a little to her side. It’s everything she can do to hold back the feelings running amok through her but never once does she even think of flinching, not even when those fingertips graze her skin and it feels like sparks from flint and steel. Something stirs unnoticeably within her and greets the contact with a wave of slow vital energy almost as warm as faint morning sunlight. The same energy that not only sustains her plants but encourages them to thrive and grow. The same energy that often envelopes patients in her care and fosters quicker, greater healing even if she does nothing else but simply sit with them and converse. Beth isn’t even aware of it, it’s simply an act of being.

What she does know, however, is that she’s never really been able to keep even an ounce of what she feels out of her eyes and when he caresses her cheek and tilts her jaw, she has to close them. There’s too much of her there. Raw. Naked in a way that even if she stripped down to her skin she couldn’t be as exposed. And still the idea of shying away from him never occurs to Beth. If anything she has to stop herself from sighing. From turning and pressing all of herself against him, her face would come to the midpoint of his chest, right where his heart ought to be. If she did her hands would follow and bunch in the back of his shirt. Trembling in an embrace like that she would be able to hold onto exactly nothing and he doesn’t need or want those emotions, he’d said so himself in dozens of ways.

Just as skilfully as he wields a scalpel, he cuts through her with a few mumbled words ~Luke, 4: 23~ and her lashes flutter, her mouth starts to move but the words flee in the light of his gaze. Her nostrils flare as she tries to take a breath, as she tries to beat back the fires of miserable embarrassment like a seasoned smoke-jumper that she isn’t. The colour and sudden heat that floods her face is an answer in and of itself, perhaps a less than eloquent tale that demands explanation for which she has very little. But she sees the dawning of that understanding creep over him in shadow. She’s only distantly surprised that it’s taken him this long to put it all together, to examine it critically but with a professional detachment that was the one thing she had never been able to learn from him, try as hard as she might. And maybe it’s a glitch of language that his next words strike as hard as they do deep. That strangles something soft inside her and lets it lie broken between them.

She knows now, for certain, that he thinks her irrevocably damaged.

Five small, gentle fingers come up to his arms and rest lightly against his forearm where most of the damage resides. Beyond nerves and bones nearly ground to powder, beyond poorly sequestered tension running through them both, that touch begs his patience. It is also necessary to find some kind of stability that she doesn’t feel any more. She looks down, looks away.

“F-for what is worth,” she begins.

“Don’t laugh, it was highly traumatising for myself *and* the cat!” She does laugh though and covers her mouth to do so, fingers curling against her lips, little crinkles appearing at the corners of her nose where they meet her eyes. Stephen himself is so animated in the telling of the story that he shimmers in front of her like a heat haze rising up off summer-kissed pavement, and everything around them ~other patrons, the Samoan restaurant that’s closest to home-cooked food as she can find in all of New York, the ridiculously large ‘tiki’ cocktail for two they mistakenly ordered~ blurs out of clarity from her mind’s eye.

“Ho, Doctah, mebbe broke da….” she stops. “I mean to say, maybe we should put the breaks on-” “Why do you do that?” “Sir?” That slips out, unbidden. “When you’re relaxed, you have a distinctive Polynesian accent and then all of a sudden you clam up. You change it. I want to know why.” “It’s...it’s nothing.” She brushes him off and plucks a slice of pineapple from the rim of the fishbowl-sized glass. Reaches across the small space and teases his lips with it. His teeth flash as he snaps at it, gives it a couple chews before shunting it over to the side of his mouth. “You will answer me some day.”

She winks. “If can, can. If no can….HOT WINGS!” The waiter brings their pupu platter at just the right time.~

“It wasn’t..it was never…Other girls…it didn’t matter what you had to say, what you had to teach us. They wanted your body. I...I wanted your respect. I wanted you to see how much I learned from you. How much I admired and maybe even envied your talent. Your skill. Your brilliance. I lived for every moment we shared and with you...this.. This empty place in me didn’t feel so lonely. I never felt like I had to hold myself back, never that I was too weird. I...I thought you just understood because we were so much alike.” There was nothing that salt water couldn’t cure; tears, sweat, ocean tides. And for Beth, standing there so close to him, she can’t help herself and the gathered wet in her eyes start to slide down her face unchecked. “And then… then… when I realised that I’d messed up so hard…”

Beth feels her heart misfire in her chest, the off-beat a painful thing. “All I wanted to do was to protect you. And by leaving they couldn’t accuse you of anything. Even if you had no fault in what amounts to a stupidly impossible fantasy that, at the time, I thought was harmless. Only, it wasn’t. It was...stupid. It was… It was a mistake but one I couldn’t really take back, you know?” She laughs a little even if her face doesn’t hold any levity and the sound is a little too brittle. Despite all of her admittedly ignorant actions, she hadn’t even managed to reach completion. While she could visualise his long, slender fingers and imagine the calloused warmth of them trailing down her skin, the sensations were not the same. Not how she remembered it when he was fixing the gash in her chin and had at one point held her steady with his thumb all but caressing her lower lip. Or when he’d physically take hold of her hands to manoeuvre them in just the right way with tools that demanded unfathomable precision because one day a single atom one way or the other would make the difference between saving a patient or letting them die on the table. She couldn’t reproduce the warmth of his breath in her ear. The lean of his lithe frame bent over hers over a pool table where he taught her that not every game was eight-ball, the curve of his hand making a bridge with his much longer reach. The easy comfort of his arm around her waist and a slow shuffling waltz on a gala dance floor, the whole time listening to his diatribes about West that were so scathing she might have earned second-hand burns from them, and trying not to laugh. Her imaginary Stephen could never live up to the living, breathing man.

She risks looking up at him, afraid to see what might be written on his face.

“But no one can turn back time, an’ certainly not me. And I’m sorry...so sorry...that I left the way I did, with no explanation even if you deserved one. But at the time I couldn’t stand the idea of you ever being disappointed in me. Anyone else, Stephen, but not you. Never you.”

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cakelanguage · 3 years

Text

At long last, I bring an update for my “Dorian as a young boy” fic! This fic is the most intimidating to write because I want to do justice to the characters, but that makes me less excited to write which isn’t fantastic lol

I hope you enjoy this update!

First//Previous//Next

You can also read it on AO3 ----

For his time here, Dorian was supposed to be under the watchful eye of the Iron Bull and his Chargers. Despite this, the Iron Bull had given him a long look before slapping him on the back.

“Listen, Dorian,” the Iron Bull said, “I’m going to be making sure you don’t get into trouble, but I’m not going to prevent you from a bit of exploring.” He paused. “Actually, stay away from the advisors if you can, I doubt they’ve gotten over your eavesdropping.”

“In my defense, I needed to get them to understand,” Dorian replied.

Bull shook his head, a grin fighting to spread. “Don’t think they’ll care about that so much as it was a kid they don’t know they can trust yet.”

Well, Dorian supposed that was wise to consider before he upset the wrong person.

“Fine,” Dorian conceded, “I guess I’ll try to find this ‘chuckles’ Varric mentioned.”

“Solas? you’ll find him near the houses to the right of the Chantry. We don’t have a lot of elves around here so he should be pretty easy to find.”

He nodded. “Right, well I’ll be seeing you-”

“Wait, before you go bothering him, a word of advice,” the Iron Bull poked him in the center of his forehead, ignoring Dorian’s disgruntled huff. “Solas doesn’t like Tevinter. Actually, that’s an understatement; he hates Tevinter and their view on the slavery of the elves. Be prepared for him to question you.”

“About slavery?”

“Check if you have any ingrained prejudices, problematic thinking, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, so an interrogation?” Dorian’s face fell. “Lovely.”

The Iron Bull shrugged. “He’ll either like you or he won’t, it’s not more complicated than that.”

Dorian reluctantly nodded. “Well, thank you for warning me, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Just be back when the sun starts to set, alright?”

“Yes I hear you, can I go now?” He knew he was being impatient but he couldn’t bring himself to disguise the frustration in his voice.

Bull crossed his arms and gave him a sharp smile. “Stay out of trouble, Dorian.”

That was Dorian’s idea but he nodded along anyway. “See you by sunset.”

Trudging through the snow to the collection of homely cottages he started gathering the questions he wanted to ask Solas. What stories did he have from the Fade? Was he part of a clan? Why did he join the Inquisition?

Except he couldn’t see the elf anywhere amongst the cottages. There was just a woman carrying out linens to be washed, and a slightly cross looking man. The others had been so sure that Solas would be here but it was just Dorian’s luck that the elf had vanished.

“Have you seen an elf around here?” Dorian asked.

The man shrugged. “Solas sometimes takes a stroll to the pond outside of Haven,” the man informed, leaning back against his door. “Keeps to himself mostly, but if you get him started he’ll talk your ear off.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“I’m a healer, mostly I just tend to whoever comes back from a mission and make potions and elixirs for the Herald’s party.” A grin adds youth to his face. “It’s nice to have something to break up the monotony.”

“Well, I guess I’ll try the pond.”

“Good luck, you’ll know him when you see him,”: the healer sniggered and Dorian was reminded of Sera’s laughter at pointing out the other elf’s hair situation.

The walk to the pond was quiet and he easily dodged busy men and women whose faces were drawn and shoulders heavy. Dorian tried not to make eye contact with any of them lest he wanted to enter a conversation with him. He just needed to find Solas and then go about the rest of his day.

Just like the healer had said, he spotted Solas walking along the edge of the pond. His shoulders were broad and led to a tapered waist and Dorian couldn’t help but admire the elf’s silhouette.

He trotted up beside the elf with a hint of trepidation. “Solas?” Dorian called out as he reached him.

The man turned his attention towards him with a curious expression. “How can I help you?” Solas asked calmly.

“Aeren- The Herald told me you’re a mage.”

“I am.”

“And I was wondering if you could tell me about the Breach.”

“I can.”

The short answers had Dorian’s enthusiasm wilting. “What if I said please?”

Solas’ lips quirked upwards at that. “I’d say you have manners, at least when it comes to asking questions.” He examined him and Dorian fought the urge to squirm under the accessing gaze. “But you have not introduced yourself as of yet.”

He felt his cheeks pink. “Dorian of House Pavus, how do you do?” Dorian introduced with a bob of his head.

The quirk to the man’s lips disappeared. “You’re the one from Tevinter that everyone is up in arms about.”

“Surely not everyone.” Please let it not be everyone.

“Those of Tevinter rarely travel south of the Free Marches if they can help it, it is no surprise that people would be wary especially given that Tevinter mages have managed to ensnare the Rebel mages into indentured servitude.”

“Not officially, just yet.” It’s a weak protest and he knows it all too well.

Solas tilts his head in acknowledgment. “No, but Tevinter’s idea of indentured servitude is only a hair’s breadth away from slavery.” There’s a bitter tilt to his mouth now. “But I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

The silence stretches between them and for once Dorian is in no rush to fill the silence. Solas’ words echo heavily in his chest, an unfortunately familiar ache settling beneath his sternum.

Guilt.

Felix had told him many times that Dorian had a guilt complex that encompassed the stretch of Tevinter; convinced that he had somehow failed or neglected to do more to help in some way. Carrying the weight of his country’s wrongdoings on his shoulders like a mantle of culpability.

But maybe he could be doing more in some way. Been more outspoken, started the foundations of a revolution to put an end to slavery, aided in an exodus of elves to flee his homeland. Something. But he’s also still just a child no matter how much he wants to proclaim otherwise.

Despite his magical prowess, he has no power when it comes to his people just yet.

“Do not mistake my words as an attack on your character, da’len,” Solas said, letting his gaze refocus on Dorian. “I’m simply lamenting a world that was.” Solas’ voice is considerably softer, if not melancholic than it was moments prior.

Dorian gave him a shallow nod of acknowledgment. “For what it’s worth,” Dorian said, turning his gaze back to the pond. “I’m sorry for what my people have done to yours.”

Solas gave him a mirthless laugh. “Elves have hurt their own plenty all on our own.” Dorian wants to ask him what he means by that but the elf continued with nary a pause. “And although an apology can’t fix all that has been done by your people, I can say that you have a good heart, Dorian of House Pavus.”

He flushed at the comment and shook his head. “I’m just saying what’s right.”

“It’s sometimes easier to agree with a wrong than it is to stand up for a right.” Solas looked once more at the Breach before turning around. “I think it’d be best if I answered your questions at another time. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to be alone now.”

Dorian nodded, thanking his lucky stars for an excuse to leave the situation. “Of course, another time then.”

Another small smile was given to him before Solas continued his methodical stroll around the parameter. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Solas, but he’d seen something in the man’s eyes - a longing and melancholia that he’d only seen in the oldest of elves at his own home. What that longing was for he did not know.

For a moment he just stood there, taking in the sight of the snowy peaks and frozen surface of the pond. It was oddly peaceful, even with the Breach tinting everything an odd green that might’ve reminded him of a particularly early spring if he hadn’t been shivering as the bitter cold seeped through his clothes.

Distantly he could hear the soldiers training, the clang of their swords and grunts of exertion. He could hear the crackle of energy from the Breach from where he was standing, but he half thought that he was imagining the noise. It sounded just like the rifts from inside the Chantry, ripping the fabric of reality to pour forth demons.

But what bothered him the most is that he couldn’t hear the birds. Not a sweet song settled on the wind or the flap of wings fluttering amongst the trees. It was as if they had no sound like the Breach had swallowed them whole.

He turned away from the pond, quickly burying his train of thought with a renewed energy to find something to preoccupy himself with. He considered finding Aeren, but he knew the Herald would be pressed for time by his advisors and his other commitments to have time for Dorian’s brand of pestering.

Varric was a good choice as well but he still hadn’t apologized for giving him the slip and though he wouldn’t mean it, he should still apologize. And he wasn’t quite ready for that - being forgiven so easily when it’d been a breach of trust. The others were still strangers and he wasn’t sure where he stood with the group all things considered.

So really he only had one option left: The Iron Bull.

Dorian turned to look at the qunari that appeared to be lazily taking in his surroundings while talking to a man dressed in armor. One of his company perhaps, Dorian mused as he tentatively made his way over. It would probably help him get over his bloody paranoia about the qunari which he was determined to get over as soon as possible.

The Iron Bull noticed him first and tossed him a lazy wave. “Back already, Dorian?” The Iron Bull asked.

He threw up his hands in exasperation before letting them fold petulantly against his chest. “Solas wasn’t available for talking at the moment, predisposed to his own thoughts for the time being and I figured Aeren has things to do besides entertaining me.”

“I’m surprised I was your next choice.”

You weren’t, Dorian bit his tongue to hold back his comments. “Well,” Dorian paused to sort his thoughts as quickly as he could. “You didn’t seem to be preoccupied so I figured I’d just stay with you.”

The other man snorted and nudged his elbow against the Iron Bull’s side. “You gonna introduce me to the tiny ‘vint?” he asked, turning fully to look at Dorian.

It’s then that Dorian noticed the details of the man. The earthy, brown-gold complexion, sharp cheekbones, and strong jaw. The stitching of his clothes were the same ones in his own leathers. A stitching technique that Dorian knew was only used in one place as Maevaris was adamant he knew the nuances of fashion.

“You’re from Tevinter,” Dorian gasped. He never expected to see another of his people in Fereldan, let alone one who appeared to be part of a company led by a qunari.

The man nodded with a grimace. “I was,” he conceded. “But Tevinter is no home to me.”

Dorian’s shoulders drooped. “Oh." He couldn't hide how he felt like the wind was knocked from his sails nor the disappointment edging at the single word.

He shouldn’t have hoped. It was foolish. People didn’t like Tevinter, not most people that is. Tevinter wasn’t kind. It wasn’t full of happiness or pleasantry for the lower class. It was a constant game of masks and prejudice. He didn't blame anyone for fleeing its borders nor who resented the place.

Dorian never looked at his home through a rose-wine filter, but it was still his home. And he wished he had someone who understood a longing for that.

Not for the first time, he wished Felix was here.

“None of that,” the man nudged him with the back of his wrist. “Tevinter showed my family no kindness, but that doesn’t mean you can’t miss it.” The man shrugged and gave him a cursory look. "What gave me away? Most people don't notice if I don't mention it."

Dorian's cheeks heated at the question and he focused back on the man's armor. "The stitching in your leather," he said with a gesture, "I've only seen it in Tevinter."

The Iron Bull let out a low whistle. "Very observant of you," he praised offhandedly.

Dorian shuffled darting his eyes between the two before gesturing to his clothes. "Mine have the same stitching."

The man laughed and picked at a piece of his leather. "You'd think you were a tailor's son with that kind of observation," the statement was rhetorical as he kept talking. "The name's Krem."

No last name or title, just a name, and Dorian wasn't even sure if it was Krem's full name or not. "Dorian of House Pavus," he introduced.

"Didn't think pedigree 'Vints ventured this far south."

"Not usually," Dorian conceded, "But Felix asked for my help and I couldn’t let him down.”

“Felix is the other ‘Vint helping us in Redcliffe,” the Iron Bull explained.

Krem nodded his head with a smile. “Certainly loyal to this Felix.”

“Felix is my brother,” Dorian explained with a smile of his own. He didn’t explain himself further than that.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” the Iron Bull asked.

Dorian shrugged and kicked a bit of snow with his boot. “Whatever you’re doing I suppose.”

The grin that spread across the qunari’s face was positively excited. “Wanna meet my crew?”

The Chargers, with all their lack of manners and crude humor, were probably up there with Aeren and Varric as far as his favorite people he’d met so far. They took no shit and were unashamedly loud, boisterous in their tavern songs and stories. Dorian found himself listening intently too afraid he’d miss what would happen next to pay attention to Rocky sneaking bits from his plate.

“I think we were still finding feathers in our things after a week,” Krem finished with a laugh and a swig from his tankard.

Dalish shook her head, a sparkling of mischief dancing across her features. “Never really figured out how the feathers got into our supplies in the first place,” she mused.

“But it definitely worked in distracting those men in the woods near that one guy’s house,” Rocky said, tearing through his third roll.

The others nodded and Dorian couldn’t help but laugh at their attempt at serious faces. This was perhaps the most fun he’d had in a long while - since before Felix had gotten sick and things had started to unravel and chip around him.

And not once had he flinched away from the Iron Bull.

While he still wanted to ask Solas all the questions he could think of before he was inevitably ushered away, meeting the Bull’s Chargers was just as nice. And provided a wonderful distraction from the nerves that lit up his mind as he thought about the mission tomorrow.

Heading back to Redcliffe was both undeniably tense and laid back in a way Dorian wasn't expecting. For the first quarter of the journey, they traveled with a hoard of the Inquisition's soldiers. They were disciplined and traveled with a one-track mind as they eventually all passed their group. He wondered if all the soldiers had experience before this or if Cullen had managed to train them to be that way.

"They're going on ahead of us?" Dorian asked as the last soldier passed them.

Aeren nodded as he twirled one of his axes around. "They have to sneak into the castle after all," Aeren said. "Besides traveling with such a big group would only cause us trouble. Imagine what the Templars and Rebel mages would do if they saw such a gathering."

Dorian hadn't even thought about the warring groups that were still avidly fighting around the Hinterlands. "Makes sense."

"Course it does, the advisors came up with that one." Aeren grinned, tilting his head like some overgrown Mabari pup.

Varric snorted beside him. "You sure are proud about those advisors of yours having used their common knowledge."

"Varric, we all know that I'm not the brains in any of this." He pressed his lips together like he was holding back a laugh. "I'm just the man with the glowing hand."

Cassandra let out a disgruntled huff. “You could try to pick up on some of our tactics,” she said.

“And deprive you all of your advisings?” Aeren put a hand to his chest. “I wouldn’t dare.”

A large, meaty hand clapped Aeren on the back. “Don’t worry, you’ll pick up on things the more you work with them,” Bull reassured.

“There is one bit of advice I can offer,” Aeren turned his attention back to Dorian, “You’re going to have to remain hidden at least a little when we get there.” He pointed at Dorian’s robes and made a slouching motion. “Maybe fashion some of that drapey fabric to make a hood or something.”

Dorian tugged at his robes self-consciously. “I can, but…” And then it occurred to him: Alexius would recognize him instantly without something to shadow his face. The man had known Dorian for years and could easily pick him out in a crowd even if he wasn’t currently “peacock-ing” as his mentor liked to put it.

He shrugged his bag to one shoulder and pulled some of the extra fabric to the side and then maneuvered it to drape over the top of his head. With the hood as situated as it would get without taking off his bag, he repositioned his pack to its usual position.

“Now you look like chuckles,” Varric laughed.

Tilting his head and squinting for a moment at Dorian, Aeren too let out a snort. “I see it.”

Dorian frowned and crossed his arms. “‘Chuckles’ and I still haven’t really talked,” he said tartly. His conversation with Solas had yet to leave him alone.

Aeren gave him a wolfish grin. “Please call him chuckles to his face when I’m with you, I want to see that dread enter his eyes.”

“I thought you liked Solas,” the Iron Bull admitted, raising a scarred brow.

The Herald shrugged. “He’s a knowledgeable man and I’ve never met an elf that has such tales about our culture.” Aeren’s eyes had a far-off look to them before that gleam of mischief returned. “But that repressed look of disdainful horror that he gets if you say something stupid is more precious than all the Silverite in the Frostback Basin.”

The comment made them all laugh, not even Casandra was immune to Aeren’s statement even if she was desperately suppressing it to a simple quirk of her lips.

He could fulfill Aeren's one wish. "When we get back, set up a meeting with Solas and I'll make it happen," Dorian reassured.

"You're one of the good ones, Dorian," Aeren said with a smile.

If only he felt like one of the good ones.

Redcliffe was just as unnerving as it had been when he'd been here last, but now there was a quiet anxiety that permeated the air. The people stared at their small group, turning away to talk to each other in hushed words when they passed by.

It made the hairs on Dorian's neck stand on end and he gravitated closer towards Varric. He didn't know if the others had picked up on the stifling atmosphere, but Dorian felt like the air was getting thicker the closer they got to the castle.

The dwarf nudged him with his elbow. "Don't pay them any mind," Varric said. The frown Dorian made was only visible to Varric because of their height difference. "Pretty sure these folks just want something to talk about that isn't about the Rebel Mages and the Templars fighting on their doorstep."

It was by no means the first time Dorian was being watched with whispered slander falling from his "audience's" mouths, but this was different. Perhaps it was because Dorian knew that he was walking towards Alexius, who’d been not only his teacher but a pseudo-father to him as well. But he had to do this, especially since Alexius had allied himself with these Venatori.

Despite knowing that, it didn’t provide much comfort to his conscience.

Aeren didn’t seem to mind the stares at all, his gate sure and his face placid. “A warm welcome for us once again,” he said amiably. “With such hospitality, I really should’ve brought Alexius a fruit basket.”

“Herald, will you focus?” Cassandra huffed.

“I am focused,” Aeren turned to look at them as he kept walking. “But if I go in with a dour look everything will seem suspicious.”

The Iron Bull grinned and made a thoughtful hum. “He was jovial when we spoke with Alexius before, and to maintain the cover that the Inquisition is agreeing to ally themselves with Alexius’ goals, a pleasant demeanour seems to be the best idea,” Bull said.

The Herald gestured his hand at Bull. “Thank you, Bull, glad you realized what I’m doing.”

Dorian bobbed his head from side-to-side. “So keep up appearances?” Dorian mused aloud. “Yes, Alexius probably won’t even notice at first since people in Tevinter wear masks like that almost every day.”

Cassandra still didn’t look convinced. “It would still do some good to act a little more serious as we’re acting as diplomats and not just hearing an offer,” she said as they approached the hill that led to the castle entrance.

“You’re plenty serious for the rest of us, Seeker,” Varric remarked as they approached the guards at the door.

“For good reason.”

The guards squared their shoulders and gave them a once over. “State your business,” he said.

Aeren stepped forward with his arms spread. “Surely Alexius is expecting us, is he not?” Aeren asked.

The answer wasn’t sufficient as the guards didn’t move. “Is that your business?”

With a huff, Aeren nodded his head. “Yes, our business is to talk with Alexius about his offer.”

With synchronicity, the guards grabbed the door handles and pulled the heavy doors open. A guard stood waiting for them in the now open doorway.

“Follow me, I’ll take you to Alexius,” the guard said, pivoting on the spot as she began leading them down a series of corridors.

The architecture in Redcliffe Castle was beautiful in its simplicity. Whereas the majestic buildings in Tevinter had vaulted ceilings inscribed with detailed paintings of myths and their heritage, Redcliffe Castle seemed to have preserved much of its decorum to the church.

The castle wasn’t ugly, but there was a utilitarianism to its overall design. The walls were thick and the ceiling was high, and the sparse torches cast an ominous glow about the hallway making their shadows look like looming figures trailing behind them.

The castle was somehow more of an unnerving setting than those he’d been in when he’d studied with the Mortalitasi for a time.

They walked past a multitude of doors and side hallways and Dorian’s mental map of the place was practically nonexistent. Just how far was the throne room from the entrance?

His question became obsolete as they took a final set of stairs up to another grand set of double doors that were opened on their arrival to let them into the throne room.

Aeren strutted forward with his shoulders squared sparing their guard a look. “Announce us,” he said.

Another guard approached them. “The invitation was for Master Lavellan only,” he clarified as if they’d brought a whole group by mistake. “The rest of you must wait here.”

But Aeren didn’t pause. “They have to accompany me.” He sent the man a lazy grin. “I tend to fall into mischief as it were, and you wouldn’t deprive me of my attaché, would you?”

The man looked like he swallowed a lemon as he looked at their little group, finally nodding his head and turning back around to face Alexius, walking further into the room.

Anxiety clawed at Dorian’s stomach as he felt more mages follow up behind them to flank the group. He hoped that the soldiers got in okay and they’d have back up soon.

Dorian took a cursory peak from behind the Iron Bull to take it in his mentor and Felix. Felix looked about the same, but he was leaning himself against the stone pillar behind him that came off as relaxed as opposed to weak.

Alexius on the other hand looked terrible. Purpled bruises highlighted the folds underneath his eyes and there was a tightness to his mouth that almost had his lips pressed into a white line on his face. He could even spot a smattering of gray that now decorated the patch of hair underneath his bottom lip.

He shook his head and focused back on the conversation at hand.

“-I’m sure we can work out some arrangement that is equitable to all parties,” Alexius said.

A woman all but marched up to their group, a frown hardening her features, her attention directed solely at Alexius.

“Are we mages to have no voice in deciding our fate?” a heavily accented voice asked.

Alexius gave her a patronizing smile that Dorian hated. “Fiona, you would not have turned your followers over to my care if you did not trust me with their lives.”

Aeren gestured to the woman. “If the Grand Enchanter wants to be part of these talks, then I welcome her as a guest of the Inquisition,” he explained with that same easygoing smile.

The woman in question seemed surprised at his answer but nodded her head. “Thank you,” she replied.

“Well I wouldn’t stop you from having a say in your own lives, you mages aren’t bargaining chips.”

Except they were, at least to Alexius.

His mentor turned away from them to make his way back to the throne where he lounged confidently back into. “The Inquisition needs mages to close the Breach, and I have them,” Alexius explained. “So, what shall you offer in exchange?”

Dorian had seen plenty of these sorts of exchanges from his countrymen, his parents included, but this was the first time he’d seen Alexius handle a situation like this. He stated what the Inquisition wanted and then asked them to offer whatever they thought would be enough for the mages. Not only did Alexius have the power here to simply deny them the mages until he got exactly what he wanted, but it’d also tell Grand Enchanter Fiona how much the Inquisition valued her people.

“Actually, I hoped you could tell me about these ‘Venatori’ I’m hearing so much about,” Aeren countered, brushing aside Alexius’ question.

Alexius stiffened in his chair momentarily before he seemed to force himself to relax. “Now, where could you have heard that name?” He mused, tapping his fingers against the arm of the throne.

Felix stepped forward. “I told him,” he claimed proudly. For a moment, Felix was once more larger than life and Dorian was calmed by his interjection.

The other man sent Felix a disapproving glare. “Felix, what have you done?” He asked reproachfully. Felix didn’t falter under his stare instead looking all the more determined.

The standoff was broken by Aeren clearing his throat. “Your son is concerned that you’re involved in something terrible,” he said.

Alexius’ lips curled back into a snarl. “So speaks the thief.” A disdainful smile settled his features. “Do you think you can turn my own son against me?”

He already is against you, Dorian thought as his mentor pushed himself up from the throne with the energy of a predator.

“You walk into my stronghold with your stolen mark—a gift you don’t even understand—and think you’re in control?”

The Herald didn’t react to the Magister’s words. “And you walk into Fereldan with the iniquitous goal of practically enslaving an already ailing group of mages that had nowhere safe to turn,” Aeren argued.

“You’re nothing but a mistake,” Alexius hissed.

A scowl of his own finally graced Aeren’s face. “If I’m a mistake, what exactly was the Breach supposed to accomplish?”

“It was to be a triumphant moment for the Elder One, for the world.”

Fanaticism tinges his words but also a wariness like Alexius couldn’t pick whether to be awed or worried about what could have been.

Felix shook his head and took another step towards his father. “Father, listen to yourself!” Felix urged. “Do you know what you sound like?”

Dorian’s heart clenched at the searching look Felix gave Alexius as if he could no longer see his father when he looked at the man. It was time to step in. He took a steadying breath before stepping out from behind the Iron Bull.

“He sounds exactly like the villainous cliché everyone expects us to be,” Dorian replied.

Alexius’ head whipped around to stare at him, his eyes narrowing imperceptibly. “Dorian,” Alexius acknowledged. He looked less surprised than Dorian thought he’d be. “I gave you a chance to be a part of this. You turned me down.”

“As if this is the right choice to make at all,” Dorian snipped. The matter-of-fact way that Alexius explained his offer like it wasn’t the ravings of a desperate father when he’d first approached Dorian about using time magic in a real application.

The man shook his head. “The Elder One has power you would not believe. He will raise the Imperium from its own ashes.”

He wasn’t sure who Alexius was trying to convince, Dorian or himself.

“That’s who you serve?” Aeren cut-in. “The one who killed the Divine? Is he a mage?”

Alexius’ steps echoed through the hall as he took another few steps closer. “Soon he will become a god.” He raised his arms, gazing at all of them with bright eyes. “He will make the world bow to mages once more. We will rule from the Boeric Ocean to the Frozen Seas.”

For a moment Dorian wondered if perhaps Alexius had officially lost it or come into some sort of mind-altering spell. His mentor hadn’t mentioned wanting Tevinter to change or for mages to rule.

“You can’t involve my people in this!” Fiona yelled.

Dorian shook his head and took a small step forward. “Alexius, this is exactly what you and I talked about never wanting to happen!” Dorian reminded and gave his mentor a pleading look. Alexius turned away from him, but Dorian wasn’t deterred. “Why would you support this?”

“Stop it, Father,” Felix commanded. “Give up the Venatori. Let the southern mages fight the Breach,” he took a steadying breath, “and let’s go home.”

Alexius turns back around at that denial on his tongue before he can recenter himself. “No! It’s the only way, Felix.” He grabbed hold of one of Felix’s hands with two of his own. “He can save you.”

Felix gave him an incredulous look and took his hand back from his father’s grasp. “Save me?”

Alexius turned away again from prying eyes to stare into the fire. “There is a way.” He sounded relieved in a way that Dorian had only heard the cusp of when Alexius had first mentioned time magic. “The Elder One promised. If I undo the mistake at the Temple…”

“I’m going to die,” Felix stated, his face a resigned acceptance. “You need to accept that.”

The blunt response has a nail piercing Dorian’s heart because of course, he knows that Felix is dying but sometimes he just wants to push that reality away.

His son’s words fell on deaf ears as Alexius raised a hand towards their group. “Seize them, Venatori! The Elder One demands this man’s life.”

But then choking gasps and the wet sound of blades piercing flesh echo throughout the hall and Dorian knows that the Inquisition’s soldiers have arrived. They’re safe now. It’s over.

Aeren stepped up to stand beside Dorian, that cocky smile more serious than it usually is but no less smug. “Your men are dead, Alexius,” Aeren informed him.

An angry flush brightens Alexius’ face. “You…” the animosity in the hissed word is more obvious than Dorian has ever heard, “are a mistake! You never should have existed.”

A dark green static began to emanate from Alexius’ hand and an amulet rose from his palm to hang within the center of the aura of magic. The crackling of magic flickers ominously as they stare at what’s unfolding.

It took Dorian only a moment to realize what exactly was going on: time magic. He doesn’t even think when he casts a spell to knock the amulet from Alexius’ hand, trying to stop the man from casting. “No!” Dorian yelled.

As he predicted, the spell fizzled out when Alexius dropped the amulet. What he didn't expect was a swirling rift to open up in front of him and Aeren. He turned panicked eyes to Felix, who looked just as panicked.

He heard a cry of his name before darkness overtook him as he and Aeren were sucked into the rift.

#dragon age fic #dragon age inquisition #dragon age inquisition fic #fanfic #my fic #dorian pavus #BAMF!Dorian #solas #the iron bull #varric #krem #cremisius aclassi #male lavellan #in hushed whispers #dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #da:i #da:i fic #dragon age kink meme

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mintseesaw · 5 years

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Matched

Pairing: yoongi x reader Genre: FLUFF, idol au, boyfriend au, drabble Word count: 2k Warnings: none Summary: ⇀ When you tried to offer Yoongi a small present, the anticipated disinterest or rejection to your offer was downplayed by his unexpected proposition.

Sat comfortably and alone in the artists’ lounge, your attention has been occupied by your phone while your thumb restlessly drag its screen upward. You’ve been searching on the internet since you went on a break half an hour ago. Your desire to acquire an answer to your little dilemma is going downhill as you consider thinking literally instead of relying on your phone.

Too consumed with your own little crisis, three members of BTS approaching on your direction specifically to the sofa where you‘re sitting, slipped passed your attention.

While the three occupied the spaces beside, you were too deep in your own thoughts, struggling to come up with a concrete idea. And almost laughing out to yourself for almost typing up ‘Presents for a rich boyfriend’ in Google. Heaving a long sigh, you decided to seek in mind for an answer. You may sound like a spoiled, rich kid who can just buy whatever you desire for giving your boyfriend a present when it isn't even his birthday. You want to congratulate Yoongi for all the milestones BTS have received so far, especially that his wish of attending the Grammy awards became real. However, you want to make it a little more special with the accompaniment of a present? That doesn't sound too much, right? You tried to convince yourself.

What else should you give to someone who already has everything? The thought that you struggle to have an answer with.

You gave him an expensive watch once which he can, as a matter of act, buy on his own money if you didn’t so it goes out of the list. A pair of shoes is not even an option. He owned a whole closet filled with them. What about clothes? Actually, he needs another empty closet to fill it with the remaining clothes he has placed outside his closet. Maybe...car-- hold on, that's too much. You would pathetically look like you’re his sugar mommy even though he’s older than you. You pondered further. What about another set of rings or earrings? You swear to God he keeps collecting accessories. It even got to the point where you’re afraid to admit he’s got more of them than the amount you actually have.

Suddenly, you felt something soft came in contact against your forehead making you jumped a little off your seat. The self-deliberation you're silently having was halted when you saw who your intruder is. Yoongi. It was only then that you noticed you have company in the room. Jungkook was sprawled at the opposite end of the sofa next to Yoongi. Jimin is sitting on the floor, his head resting on Jungkook’s knees.

"Hey," you greeted, scooting your body closer to his.

“You seemed pretty occupied.” He said with his lips pushed forward like he's pouting but that isn't the case. It's just the way he talks. Are they on a break as well? They were practicing for their concert, he texted you that earlier in the morning. So they must have been gone from the practice room. Nevertheless, their physical state would give away what they did prior to coming in the cozy room.

“Not really. Uh--Babe, can I ask you something?”

“Aren’t you asking already?” He retorted.

A sound of protest came out of you, “Yoongi--”, and he was quick to divert the subject before you even had the chance to scold him for his sarcastic reply.

“What is it?”

The demand on his question suddenly making your cheeks heat up even before you worded out your inquiry. The faint but noticeable crimson tinting your pale cheeks earn a curious look from Yoongi wondering what would your question be to make you blush. “Maybe...uhm--do you mind if I buy you a bracelet?”

From the questions he had quickly formulated on his mind in mere assumption, this was not one of them. Bracelet? “What for?” His eyebrows met in deep curiosity. Lips pursed as he continued to stare at you, who’s in fact falling in a slight embarrassment.

Shrugging your shoulders, your gaze shifting from his peering eyes to your phone mindlessly scrolling through the search results, then mumbles, “For a congratulatory gift?" You asked, more significantly to yourself than a form of reply to him.

If there’s one thing Yoongi admires the most from you, it’s your thoughtfulness. It was not only because you buy him stuff he never asked to you to, or order him takeout when he’s too busy to do it himself, or bring him his favorite iced coffee out of nowhere. It was the fact that you spoil him rotten which he never had the chance to experience by someone else until you came and conquer his world, defenselessly. Your simple gestures of affection towards him warms his heart out of overwhelming appreaction.

Unlike you, he was never one to show affection. It was the main reason why his first relationship failed back in high school.The same reason why he avoided any type of commitment during his trainee days as he wanted to focus on debuting first. When the two of you formally met, Yoongi believed it may not be the perfect time to have attraction towards you because he was still at the peak of his career. But it wasn’t a bad timing either. And when he had seen an opportunity to give his feelings a chance, he grabbed it. He pursued his feelings for you.

When he did, he’s had a hard time showing it to you. Fortunately for him, more than a year of being in a romantic relationship with you, he slowly learned. From you, of course. His greetings of kisses, side hugs, his hand resting on your waist or shoulders when you two sit together, or even entwining his fingers with yours for others to see proved that he’s soft all along. The facade he created for others to perceive of has dissolved in time with your affection for him.

Now that he’s learned enough, he does not back down even an impending fight if it means the good in you. Between you two, he mostly does the scolding because you’re too sweet to take care of everyone else but yourself that sometimes, it cost your health in the process. While he always scolds you like a parent does to his child, he makes sure you’re also spoiled rotten. Not only the expensive gifts he bought for you could attest to that, or the fact that he takes charge of purchasing new producing equipment for you, or the coffee he lets you consume because you love it despite you complaining to hyperacidity sometimes which he would always have a spare of antacid for remedial.

It was the fact that he lets you take away little or all his precious alone time from himself to make sure you're well taken care of. And the exclusive access to Genius lab only available for your convenience that not even the members have the privilege of. And most of all, it’s the fact that he doesnt let you do all the sweet things in this relationship.

As you asked permission to give him a little gift, an idea crossed his mind and he almost cringes while he contemplates of doing it. Letting it materialize based on his own suggestion which he has never thought of doing.

“On one condition,”

Your head snapped back at him in question.

“What is it?”

“I’m going to get you one, too.” The moment you had comprehended what he said, your eyes widened, not expecting a negotiation coming from him. It was either no or yes, the answer you were anticipating from him.

“Why? You dont have to.”

“Well, forget about your idea then.”

“Yoongi!”

“What? You’re spoiling me rotten and you dont want me to return the favor?”

“I’m not telling you to return everything I do to.”

“Still no.”

“Why is it so hard to please you...” You sulked, leaning your back further in the sofa and increasing the distance between your bodies giving it as a silent cue that your unhappy with his proposition.

“I’m not. It’s you who doesn’t like accepting anything from me.”

The other pair who has been watching your interaction in amusement finally let a loud snicker making you snapped your head in their direction.

“Stop laughing. It’s not even funny.” Yoongi joined them, showing his teeth and his gums in the process, and allowing you to see his eyes shrinking from his cute little laugh.

You shifted your glare at him, but it in a matter of seconds, it was slowly turning into a sulky one.

Yoongi, whose laughter has died down, smirked at you, “If you consider it, we can even match, you know?” This time, still dazed with his adorable, and gummy showing laugh, you didnt quite understand what he meant.

“Match?” You echoed.

“Yes, like the couple thing?"

It took you a few seconds to mentally processed the words in your brain and made sense to you. When you did, your eyes widened not ever expecting the response you just got from him.

You’re not even sure if it was an embarrassment that you caught on his face right after he stated it and you didn’t bother teasing him about it because you were too consumed with shock. He’s never the cheesy person and never the one to initiate things like this.

“Really?!” A bubble of excitement slowly fills you up that is obvious through the tone of your voice.

“Yeah.” Shrugging his shoulders as he tried so hard to make it seemed like it’s not a big deal. Unlike you, who’s very transparent in showing your elated expression from his proposition.

“Can we just buy the same thing?” Yoongi asked, growing more irritated as he still couldn’t find a piece for you and considering that he needs to match it with yours. Have you even chosen one, yet? He needs to see your pick, first.

“No, these are for men. Choose one for me from the women's collections.” You instructed, while Yoongi lets you tap through his phone in his hand to get to the right page of a certain brand's online store.

“Fine.” Groaning out of impatience. He should have not given it up a thought if the objective was this hard to fulfill. To be quite honest, scrolling through the page, he realized that the pieces of jewelry he’s selecting from right now look all the same and it was frustrating him even more.

Yoongi has not even made up his mind when he heard you asked, your phone shoved closer to him so he could see.

“Which one do you like the most?” And here you are, not even 10 minutes after he disclosed his idea to you and you have already picked three bracelets. Showing your selections to him as you tried to seek his help in choosing the only you’ll buy for him.

“They’re all fine.” Are you even serious? He couldn’t even pinpoint the difference among the pieces.

“That’s not helpful at all.” Frowning as you were left unsatisfied with his answer.

“Baby, just choose one. It does not matter what you get for me. I’ll like it anyway because it came from you.”

You couldn't help but to smile. Mesmerized by the sincerity of his response. Leaning forward, your lips briefly touched his cheek, a sudden need to show your affection.

Despite his effort of indifference towards your sudden act, a shade of pink involuntarily painted his cheeks which earned another peck on his tinted cheek from you.

You proceeded on selecting the item that you think will suit Yoongi the best and as you pondered over while examining each bracelet, his eyes lingered on your phone as your thumb hovered over a specific bracelet. Few seconds later, you pressed the purchase button below the bracelet you have chosen for him.

You turned your attention to his phone. “Can I see what you got for me? We have to match, Yoongi.” You reminded him, as if he will forget. It’s his idea, after all.

“They look all the same...” he trailed. Yet, selected the one which resembles your option the most.

“No, they don’t,” as you examined his chosen item for you. “Oh that’s beautiful. It does look similar--oh Yoongi, that’s $11,000!”

The two younger members who are busy playing games with their phones, turned their heads towards your direction, unintentionally mimicking your expression. Shock.

Scoffing, they could’ve fooled you. The younger members are notorious when it comes to shopping, even more than Yoongi. They shouldn't be that surprise to hear you say a five digit price of a jewelry. For all you know, they own pretty much designer brands of articles of clothing from head-worn down to their socks.

“So? You chose a 10 grand one.”

You stared at him in question and back to your phone screen. Blinking a few times as if to make your eyes see much clearer than it should. It’s true. “Oh. I didn’t notice.”

Yoongi shrugged, like he was silently telling you he doesn’t care about spending so extravagantly to a single piece of item which in your case is a bit too much despite having the means to afford it. Well, in fact, he really doesn’t. His watches were more expensive than this bracelet.

“That was unintentional— “Did he choose that bracelet because it resembles the one you selected or is it because it’s more expensive than the bracelet you got for him? “Wait, are you competing with me?”

Turning his head away from you, avoiding your accusing eyes. He shrugged, “They’re matched, anyway.”

(photo © CelestialYM9395)

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alitheamateur · 5 years

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The Grind- Chapter 22

(gif by @vanessacarlysle)

All my perpetual fretting over Tia’s reaction to the news of my reconciliation with Colton was all for…well…. It was all 100% necessary. She yelled phrases such as “if you wanna let the asshole back in your bed, you can clean up the mess he’s gonna make,” and “what did the dickhead do to convince you?” Both valid, however brutally honest they may have seemed. I made up my mind not to push it on her just yet, but to tip-toe through the tulips, if you will, until she warmed up to him. The two of them were quite similar in more ways than one, so they were bound to fall into at least a civil relationship sooner or later. Or, there unpredictable, combusting similarities would eventually just explode like the boom of a nuke.

As for progression on the Ritter/Elliott home front, things were moving along nicely. We were back to our morning coffee routine at The Grind, and our running schedule had been carefully decided for Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. One of those particular Sunday workouts had navigated us to the new home Colton had purchased as of late, so he could give me the tour. He’d met me at my apartment that morning, carless, but I hadn’t considered where he’d began his run from.

He’d moved in a little over 5 months ago, and judging at first glances the deposit was heavy for a place like this. The brick front, two story structure must have been newly built on the street because the miniscule grassy path he did have in his side yard, was just ever so slightly sprouting from the clumpy, muddy surface. He led me up a black painted front porch through the front door, seemingly eager to show off his purchase from a successful years earnings.

“Home sweet home. Here we are!” He remarked before breaking the plain into his den. “Whatddya think?”

I thought it wasn’t the place I pictured him in, for starters. Not in pessimistic manner or anything, the space was merely more modern, and suburban for what I imagined his quarters to be like. The cabinets of a kitchen just to the right of the main entrance, were bright white, and stealthy black appliances accentuated more bleach white on the walls. Upon trailing deeper into the area, we entered a hardwood floor living room, where the navy of his leather couch shined under the natural light blazing in from a large window.

“It’s super nice, Colt! You keep it so… clean.” Seriously, there wasn’t a stich of the rug out of place. No molding take-out boxes on his countertops, or discarded shoes strung wildly about.

“Give it time,” he pointed at me with a wide smile. “I ain’t been here long enough to destroy it yet.”

“Don’t expect me to come over and clean the place, mister. This girl is no maid,” I said overlapping my arms in a forewarning.

“You could be. Hey, we could get you one of those little outfits and everything,” Colton said wagging his eyebrows in suggestion. “I’m gonna go shower real quick, then we’ll take the bike back to your apartment. Just hang out here, and give me 20. Unless of course, you’d like the tour of my shower too..”

Okay, yes please! I need to get a good luck at the tub. Inspect the plumbing, and the drains or whatever..

“I don’t have a change of clean clothes, silly. But, you get all squeaky clean, then I’ll take you on the tour of my new place. The bedroom is to die for...” He dropped his head back in a cantankerous huff as if I was torturing him for my own pleasure.

While he left me unsupervised, fidgeting on the couch, I decided some friendly, not at all psychotic girlfriend snooping would be harmless. Wandering aimlessly in my sock feet about the sitting area and kitchenette, something in particular sparked my interest plastered on the double doors of his refrigerator. In carefully executed newspaper snippets, were all of my published works from the last three years held up on display by small, coinlike magnets. One piece I’d written on an injured All-American local boy who had withdrawn his commitment to Pitt due to apparent substance issues. Various tidbits from the usual Steelers coverage, and my article from his fight with Mendez.

Thin, chalky newspaper nearly covered the entire spread of the left side freezer door. He appeared to have saved nearly every published work that had my name attached to it. What made the gesture even more monumentally romantic, was that The Pilot wasn’t available for subscription, nor a newsprint you could grab at any local convenient store on your morning milk run. It was only available for purchase at two outdoor newsstands in the city, one being a small cart on the sidewalk at the front entrance of our main office. The other was easily a 20-minute commute from any of the local businesses he frequented. Neither spot being one he’d cross by coincidence on his morning jog through downtown, or even the closest grocery store, or Mac’s. Meaning the man had made a specific trip, every Thursday morning to spend $3.75 on a paper that he could’ve searched the internet for. I sketched a feathery finger over the printed words, hearing a single dolloped tear drip below at my feet to the crisp tile of his kitchen floor. He really had never sincerely left me, just like he said only a handful of days ago.

“There’s more in an old cardboard box on the rack under the coffee table.” His stealthy, barefoot approach behind me was completely undetected, or I had just been so preoccupied with my discovery that any background noise was hushed.

I faced him, startled, carelessly forgetting to wipe the still running stream of tears, and hiccupped to repress audibly weeping.

“Oh, woah. Woah, baby. Hey, what’s wrong?” Colt stepped once to reach me, and cloaked me into the embrace of his grey tee, blotched with undried remnants of his shower. He placed both hands to my cheeks, leaving my face trapped between his scuffed, worked palms. Eyes searching over my face, like he was looking for the reason of my tears written somewhere across my forehead.

“I’m fine, seriously. It’s nothing.” I nearly snorted to sniff the running of my nose. Yeah, that was convincing. He’ll be right off your back now.

“Talk to me, Livvy. What’s goin’ on, huh? I know tears when I see ‘em. Especially yours.”

“You did this? You kept them? All, of them?”

A hesitant, “U” shape danced over his lips at my question. “Of course I did, babe. Well, I almost missed one week, but I told the guy at the stand I’d give him 20 bucks if he could get me a copy.”

It drew a laugh from both of us, mine still mixed with some joyful tears.

“It’s got your name on it, Liv. Hell, I woulda paid all the money in my wallet if you had written the alphabet down and had it published. I told you once I was proud a’ ya’, and I meant it.”

“I just didn’t… I never thought… I didn’t know you cared this much. I’m surprised you went through that trouble, especially since we weren’t even together for over half of these.” I looked back for the tenth time over the collection marked with my signature.

“I think that’s when I started to care so much. When we weren’t together, I mean. Because y’know, that’s the weird, twisted fucker I am,” he said rolling his eyes.

His hands departed from my face, and one was now pinching the bridge of his masculine nose in frustrated contemplation. I didn’t see the normal abundance of equanimity in his eyes now that normally dwelled there, and I was well aware that he was struggling for the words he sought. “I’m a head case, Liv. I find the love of my life, and talk to her like dog shit, because that’s obviously what a sensible man would do? God… What fuckin’ sense does that make?”

“Honest? It makes perfect sense, actually.” I comforted him, trying to distinguish the fires of aggravation, and self-loathing I could see kindling behind his eyes. “It’s the typical reaction of a man who’s never been in love before, and doesn’t have a damn clue how to handle all the things his feeling all of a sudden.”

“I know exactly how t’ handle it now though.” Colton said snatching me like a flimsy sack of potatoes into his grips, and reaching for a sly kiss.

When his arms outreached though, one of the tattoo additions I had been suspicious of when we bumped into each other at the Temple that fateful day, revealed itself like a shiny penny catching the beams of the sun. Carefully placed on the tender, hairless skin of the underside of his bicep amongst his dedication to the Andy Warhol bridge, and a Latin phrase “Fortis Passioni deditus” translating to “strong willed”, was a small 21 needled in varsity print.

I immediately locked a grip around the evidence in question, raising it further into the light to investigate whether my eyes had been viciously deceiving me. He didn’t dispute, either from downright perplexity, or for the simple fact that he knew exactly what had won my attention and wanted me to snoop it out a little more closely.

Once I had wiped sternly over the numbers with a thumb, seeing they were indeed permanently etched onto his smooth skin, I looked intently upward to his waiting face. I wanted to smile in cheesy satisfaction, I wanted to cry in earnest adoration, and I wanted to claw the very ink out of his skin as backlash for his silly, erratic decision. But no, not really. The sensible, rational Liv rallied admirably to find a way to veto what he had done and hammer him with venomous disapproval. Thankfully, my fanatical love for the man eclipsed the once “safe” nature I carried, and all I wanted to do was fall at his feet.

“Took ya’ long enough, 2-1.” He smiled barely showing a top row of teeth.

“Wh..when?” I tripped over my tongue.

“Few months after the Mendez fight, I think. Was gonna put it on my chest, next to ma’s date of remission. But my guy down at the parlor said here looked better.” The man explained so coolly as if a shrine to my basketball number, and his pet name for me drawn onto his flesh was just something people did so commonly. Seriously, it sounded as if he was just reading off the lottery numbers in the Sunday paper.

“A few months? So, you did this after you dumped me? We weren’t even together and you got this tattoo?”

“Are you mad? Like…seriously upset with me, Liv? I mean, yeah, it was a little reckless, but that shoudn’t surprise you, baby,” he snickered. “But I knew I’d get you back, Livvy. Or I was gonna damn die tryin’. The way I saw it, it would either end up being something meaningful to our story that we could tell our babies in 10 years. Or, if I didn’t win you back, I’d have to look at it every fuckin’ day and think of the colossal mistake I made.”

10 years? Babies? DON’T FAINT. DO NOT.

“Lucky for you then, huh? Your plan played out for the better, I suppose.” I stretched on my small toes to pat my nose to his.

“So, you like it then?”

I didn’t bother to reward him with praise, instead just sucked a hearty kiss from the thin part in his opened mouth, humming sensually.

“Colton?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“Take me to bed. Now.”

TAGS: @torialeysha @eap1935 @littleluna98 @mollybegger-blog

#Tom Hardy #tomhardy #tomhardyfanfic #tom hardy fanfiction #tomhardyfanfiction #tommy conlon #elizabeth olsen #thegrind

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smolstrawberrychara · 5 years

Text

Klance Au Month - Day 11 - Historical

18th century love letters.

Penny For Your Thoughts

At a London Coffeehouse in the 18th century, Keith is a writer for the local newspaper. He takes tip-offs from the public in the form of scrolled up paper in a lion's jaw. Only, today, he gets more than he's bargained for.

Getting to his feet, Keith cleared his throat, ready to read their latest tip-off. Then his breath fell short.

This wasn’t? He couldn’t? Keith’s cheeks flamed. The quiet around him suddenly became achingly so as he processed what he was supposed to be reading aloud.

Dearest Keith, your words are as fine as that behind you so gracefully hide beneath the tail of your handsome silken coat. From afar, my admiration will eternally shine. X

“So?” Shiro urged, leaning closer, “what does it say?”

Read here, or on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17745950

Keith’s head felt like a balloon, vision swirly and messing completely if he moved too fast. The floor also seemed to be moving, avoiding him like the deck of a ship. He stumbled forward, stomach slamming into the bench. He grinned, congratulating himself on getting exactly were he wanted to be. Climbing over the seat, he wiggled into a comfy position on the stark wood. In front of him, the server was collecting cups, snuffing out the candles balanced on the empty tables as he went.

The server. He was a tall man, with tanned skin and unruly brown hair. He swept through the coffeehouse with practiced ease, even when the walls were bowing outwards with the number of patrons. He laughed it off, yelling out opinions and adding titbits to the conversation. He always seemed to know the right thing to say.

“You,” Keith began, throwing an arm across the table to grab his attention. The server jumped, turning to face Keith with the barest hint of amusement. “You m’st be, like. THE most nintelli- inetla-SMARTEST person in this roooom.”

Keith grinned to himself, satisfied with turning out that perfect sentence. The server raised the slightest eyebrow, making a point of shining his gaze across the entire shop before sending it back to Keith. He couldn’t help preening when it did, sitting a little taller.

“Well, there is only you and I here, so I would hasten to agree.”

Keith felt his cheeks warm, and he curled his elbow in to rest his head against it.

“Mnnhow come,” Keith said, stretching in place. He was so very tired today but the reason why seemed to be evading him. “How come, d’you never join in?”

The server shrugged, “I join in plenty.”

Keith frowned, poking at a dip in the wood. “Not mines, you don’t.”

The server smiled, crossing his elbows against the table top and leaning forward. His lips were crooked, eyes sparkling above them. Keith’s heart raced.

“Okay, here’s an idea.” He said, smirk unwavering, “I’ll leave a message in the lion’s head for you to read tomorrow.”

Keith sprang up, nodding eagerly.

“But it’ll be just for you, so no sharing.” He continued with a wink. It made Keith’s stomach swoop. He watched as the server swayed back through the house, grabbing paper and a quill at the desk. His tongue poked between his lips as he wrote, eye flickering back to Keith’s before an undeniable grin pulled onto his cheeks.

Then he was passing Keith once again and tucking the paper under the sharp fangs of the golden lion bust. Keith lunged forward, knee smacking into the bench and stopping him in his tracks.

The server tutted, shaking his head.

“Tomorrow.” He said, wagging a finger at Keith, “it’ll come quicker if you go home and sleep now.”

Keith bit his lip. On the one hand, the letter was here now. On the other, he’d given his word. And Keith was a man of words. So, straightening the thick fabric of his jackets, he got to his feet, standing tall.

“Then I’shall go.” He announced with a nod. The walk across the shop seemed to take longer than usual and someone had clearly moved the tables from their rightful positions as Keith found himself knocking heads with a fair few. But somehow, he’d managed. And the twinkling laughter behind him was a good source of motivation to keep walking.

~*~

Squeezing through the crowd, Keith dodged elbows and narrowly missed smacking his hip into the thick corner or one of the wooden tables. The coffeehouse was always buzzing but mid-morning was when conversation really seemed most rampant. Cups slammed against benches, voices roared. Men threw themselves over tables, so caught up in passionate debate they were. Blacksmiths fresh from the forge, cheeks still red and clothes ashen sat side by side with seasoned travellers, fresh from the oceans, cheeks burned red and clothes adorned with the many jewels of their labour.

Keith felt the familiar buzz in his veins. It was just like that first day. With just one penny he’d found in the gutter he had bought himself into a whole new world. He wasn’t ignored - kicked to the kerb and treated like a dog. He was someone. With an opinion. A view. He could tell people the injustices of their city, the toils of its people and the crimes committed under their very noses. And people listened. And they spoke back. Keith had gained a power that day. And with his long-learned ability to blend into the background, it became legendary. He used his skill to learn more of the world and spread that knowledge like wild fire.

Soon he was not only spreading gossip, but news and political debate. He’d pointed out the number of orphans on the roads and suddenly there were food packages delivered to the children. And not long later, Shiro recruited him to his newspaper team. The man took a young Keith under his wing, taught him to read and write and stake his point so that no-one could ignore it. Now, Keith afforded a small apartment down the back roads of London and a steady income, working alongside Shiro to write the coffeehouse newspaper.

Keith shuffled along the bench, down to his seat alongside the golden lion bust. This was his favourite part of his job. The lion’s mouth was carved open, teeth forming a cage for paper to be slipped in. Anyone in the coffeehouse could give them their stories, could share their thoughts, their news. It was exhilarating.

Grabbing the latest instalment, Keith threw his coat tail out before landing in the seat next to Shiro.

“Alright Keith!” Matthew Holt whooped, rubbing his hands together and leaning in. He was a frequent at the coffee house - a well to-do young man studying at Oxford. Keith thought he wouldn’t like him much - with that kind of background he was destined to live a life of luxury, abusing any common street urchin he saw. But then Keith discovered him sneaking his sister into the male dominated world and he instantly changed his mind. Matt’s intentions were pure, his desire to level the playing field, make knowledge available to anyone who wanted it, was a plight Keith admired. Matt had Keith calling endless defences, angling his shoulders in defiance as he stared down pompous professors who believed knowledge was only for the elite.

“How’s the head?”

Keith rolled his eyes. The whole reason he’d had all that ale was that he was too busy investigating their latest pocket connoisseur to come in for coffee. It was a sore-head or incurable disease from contaminated water.

“Fine.” He said firmly.

“That must mean he’s still drunk!” Matt hooted, falling over the man next to him. Laughter burst out around him and Keith couldn’t help the twinge of a smirk against his lips.

“Let’s hear the latest then.” Shiro said, nudging his ribs with an elbow. He took a swig of his coffee before wincing at the bitter taste. Another secret Keith had learned: Shiro was not a fan of the stuff his life was built around.

Keith unrolled the scroll as Shiro hushed the table. Getting to his feet, Keith cleared his throat, ready to read their latest tip-off. Then his breath fell short.

This wasn’t? He couldn’t? Keith’s cheeks flamed. The quiet around him suddenly became achingly so as he processed what he was supposed to be reading aloud.

Dearest Keith, your words are as fine as that behind you so gracefully hide beneath the tail of your handsome silken coat. From afar, my admiration will eternally shine.

“So?” Shiro urged, leaning closer, “what does it say?”

Keith blinked at him. Then around at the entire table. Everyone was staring, fingers squeezing around their full cups. Familiar faces. Unfamiliar ones. Eyes boring into Keith. Matt tilted his head ever so slightly. He stretched, eyes turning down and Keith quickly squished the paper to his chest.

“It’s the Shipping Report.”

A groan erupted. Across the table, people were quick to voice their grievances until the buzz was effervescent once again. Keith quickly sat down hurting his ‘fine behind’ in the process. Blood rushed to his face. What was happening? Was it a mistake? A love letter mis-delivered? But then he was mentioned by name. He quickly drank his coffee, swallowing down the jittering in his stomach.

“Well that was disappointing.” Shiro sighed. All Keith could manage was a nod, gulping more coffee. It slid down a little too fast and then he was choking.

Shiro slammed a hand over his back, probably doing more damage than any good with his brute strength.

“Are you okay?” Matt asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Yep!” Keith squeaked. It was probably just a one-off joke to spite Keith.

~*~

It was not a one off.

The next day, as Keith read off their news clippings there was another stuffing between the mess of paper and ink.

Shipping Report? How romantic. Pray tell me the details of those ships that made your face light up like a lamp. Were their sails at half mast, or dare I say, full? I could return your kindness with a secret of my own.

Keith’s face exploded once again, lucky enough to have returned his drink to its place before his choke spilt the coffee everywhere.

“Something funny, my friend?” Shiro asked. Keith fought for words. He couldn’t show him the very personal albeit crass, note. But what could he say? All words were evading him.

“Just, uhh…”

“Top up, anyone?”

Keith jumped at the voice, the server ducking between them to pour drinks. Keith’s whole body sighed in relied. Thank goodness for that interruption. He fell into his seat, nearly panting with the effort of hiding his emotions. Quickly, he slipped the note into his pocket, and moved on with his reports.

~*~

The notes didn’t stop there. They kept coming, thick and fast, and Keith was beginning to get concerned he was being silently mocked.

You are a disaster waiting to occur, sweetest Keith. I shall have to end my letters with a tip-off or I fear you shall combust! O, how I long to caress one of those flaming cheeks in the warmth of my palm.

Mr Avery has been smuggling rum on the Thames

My dear Keith, I admire the confidence in which you hold yourself. You accuse with such conviction I fear if I told you a lie it would come true. I could watch you debate for eternity.

Mrs Spry sews flowers into the seams of her husband’s coat

O Keith! Your story on the wolves of London made me swoon. It is a wonder how those sharp features of yours can hide such blinding kindness. Run away with me. We’ll take the dogs from the streets and run down the sands of Scarborough, hand in hand. Lead a revolution with me.

The Apothecary forgets which herbs are for which treatment

Keith shuddered. Because, as much as he told himself these notes were all a harmless joke, his heart skipped at the words. His very own article mentioned. His stomach spiked with joy. He prided himself in his work, uncovering the down trodden and bringing light to their lives. If another person felt the same as him for those poor abandoned dogs, he wanted to meet them with all his heart. But Keith quickly stamped the thought down with fear. If this really was a joke, then Keith wanted no more part in it. His stomach was doing twists all over the place and he felt as if on a very thin ledge, one breath of wind away from falling. Falling where, he wasn’t sure. And if there was going to be no-one there to catch him, he wanted to know now. So, once his friends had left the shop, Keith ripped off a notelet and scrawled a reply.

Do you mock me, sir?

It was simple and unimaginative. But if this indeed was a joke, he wasn’t about to waste his time on sonnets. Keith’s heart raced. Maybe he could write sonnets? Taking a deep breath Keith shoved the paper under the lion before he could let the floodgates open. He could only hope it would meet its intended recipient.

~*~

Keith felt nervous as he re-entered the coffee house the next day. What if he never received another word again? Obviously, he would be thankful the joke was over. Or at least, should be. So why was his stomach doing turns like a fish slowly being encased by a net?

He lifted out the day’s letters, noticing his own had gone. He flicked through the tips offs, eyes only for that familiar script. His heart soared when he found it.

Heavens no, my Keith! The only desire I harbour is to connect to your heart with the words I dare not speak. My dearest, if uncomfortable my love makes you, burn my quill and spill my ink, for I only write to please you.

Mr Lampert carries a knife around town

Keith’s stomach fizzed warmly. And the feeling travelled all the way up his body and into his cheeks. They tightened under his eyes.

“What’s got you so happy?”

Keith jumped at Matt’s words. He quickly angled the paper away from his prying eyes. These were his words now. And he wasn’t about to share them.

“Mr Lampert carries knife.” He said bluntly.

Matt narrowed his eyes, brows tilting in confusion. “And that makes you laugh?”

Keith’s stomach fell into his feet. Maybe he should do more thinking instead of talking? He really always had preferred writing.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said quickly, before redirecting their conversation. “What are your thoughts on the new market stall?”

“The one selling foreign books?” Matt asked, before sighing to himself, “I only wish I could read them.”

The buzz was back and soon the team were all scrawling out their articles with the same reckless abandon as always. Shiro was sent running to the print press and it was quiet once again. So, Keith peeled away another scrap of paper and wrote a letter.

Stranger, tho stranger only to my form, I cherish your words. Burn not your quill, unless your intention is to carve our names into the wood of this very table, for I wish to learn yours.

Your most gracious, Keith

Mr Shirogane has no taste for coffee

~*~

Waiting for reply was like waiting for a storm. It could not be predicted and certainly not prescribed. It was as mysterious as the stranger Keith had found himself unwittingly yearning for. He squeezed through the shop although it seemed easier these days. He was arriving earlier and earlier, too eager to wait for his letters. Sliding into his seat, Keith slipped his fingers into the lion’s mouth and fished out the paper. Leaning into the wall, he was relieved to find one for him.

O my, Keith, a kindly reply after so long! I shall have to keep this paper tucked close to my heart. Your request is noble, tho I shall have to deny. For when you discover who I am, I fear you will cease to write.

The daughter of Mrs Cortez is planning a trip to Gretna Green

Keith frowned, rereading the words. Why on Earth would a name put him off? He thought he should write as much. And so, began a back and forth that only made his heart squeeze tighter. Written words simply were not enough anymore. He wanted to meet this ridiculous man.

Keith started spending longer in the Coffeehouse, watching the passers-by as he dreamed of his golden-quilled admirer. Even after their paper was published and Shiro was long gone, Keith remained. Who was he? The stranger behind the letters. Did he frequent this very table? He certainly knew of Keith’s work. And he was well-learned of the gossip crossing the streets.

“Oi! Server!”

Keith jolted. Behind him a patron was standing on his table. Pot-bellied and pig-faced, his words sent spit flying across the shop.

“My drink is empty!”

“Good sir,” The server called back, calm as ever, even as his eyes shot danger to the man, “I’ll be right with you!”

The man groaned loudly, landing back in his chair with a huff. Keith glared at him.

“Do you have reason as to being so rude?”

The man scoffed. “He’s just a server.”

“A human none the less.” Keith corrected with venom.

“A human with a job-”

“Is still a human.” Keith corrected, swinging his feet around the bench.

“Quit starting arguments, street urchin.” The man sneered with satisfaction. Clearly, he believed it to be the last word. Keith had other ideas.

“If you didn’t want an argument, you shouldn’t have come to a coffeehouse.”

The man growled. “Know your place boy.”

“My place is wherever I put myself.” Keith said with defiance, raising to his feet. The man followed suit, throwing his chest at Keith’s.

“You wanna put your face under my fist.”

“Sirs,” came a level next to them, ice cold. “This is a coffeehouse not an inn.”

The server stood beside them, full jug of coffee in his hands and head raised high. “Keep your debate civilised or take it elsewhere.”

Keith nodded, but the server wasn’t watching. His glare was holding the other man down until he slunk back into his seat. Then he curtly poured his drink before leaning over Keith.

“Thank you.” He whispered, before leaning back and sending him a wink. It burned through Keith like a torch being lit. And there was something about it. It was almost as if the expression was familiar. But that would be impossible. Keith had never spoken to the server before. No matter how many times he saw the man speak with the rest of their patrons, he avoided Keith like he was diseased. Keith had given up catching his eye long ago. But now his heart was galloping against his will. And as quickly as the server had appeared, he was waltzing away. Keith helpless to just watch.

~*~

Keith had mastered the art of blending into the background and thus had learned that once someone noticed, they didn't stop noticing. And now, he'd broken the spell, Keith couldn't stop noticing the man serving the drinks.

The feeling was only amplified as he read his daily letter.

My only Keith, your passion is a burning fire that ignites me. But I am unafraid. Any fire you set is one I wish to join, courageous and determined. You light the way to a life I long to be a part of. And perhaps, I may. See, I have caught one of your sparks and I am fostering it to become my very own.

The server’s name is Lance

The information. It was so different. Not a piece of gossip from the corner of a napkin but a solid fact. It felt like a clue. The flickering orange light beckoning one towards the last candle in a dark home. It made Keith’s nerves stand on end.

“You seem distracted.” Shiro stated. Keith hadn’t meant to drift off again. His articles were usually written in half this time. But he just couldn’t stop thinking about the letter. And the clue. Eyes continually wondering to the tanned skin server.

“Something on your mind?” Shiro asked, nudging his arm.

Keith stopped himself before he could nod. How much could he reveal without ruining their whole secret exchange? He didn’t want to share the letter. It was too personal. But he was so stuck. Keith feared he was missing something important. That the letter contained an intended cue that could lead him down a diamond encrusted path, but without it he’d just end up at a dead-end. Keith decided on a roundabout question to satisfy both problems. “If someone tells you somebody else’s name, what do they mean?”

Shiro frowned, looking at Keith a second longer. Keith said no more and Shiro sighed, before mulling over the question.

“I’d say they’d want you to talk to them.”

Keith nodded, eyes flickering over to the server. He was dodging stray elbows, effortlessly hopping over legs kicked out between benches and laughing along to another conversation. He was so at home here. Part of the furnishings. Maybe Keith could give talking to him a go? He frequented the coffeehouse so often, it really seemed strange that they hadn’t spoken before.

~*~

As the coffeehouse filtered out, Keith stayed put. And soon, the streetlamps were lit, and the bustle of the street markets was giving way to coats pulled tight and heads ducked low.

“Lance!” Keith called before he could chicken out. The server jolted, eyes wide as he turned around. Keith hadn’t meant to scare him and guilt immediately tumbled through his stomach. He bowed his head shyly. “Sorry. It’s just, you must gain a lot of knowledge here right?”

The man nodded, unwrapping his cleaning cloth and twisting the fabric between his fingers.

“And you see lots of people.”

Again, the man nodded, “sure.”

Keith felt the action a little awkward. He’d seen the server many times before. He was a happy person, loud and unrestricted. Keith liked watching him. He had a lightness to his feet, an air of dignity despite being treated like a rat by some of the patrons. He was strong. Confident. He had an innate ability to brush off the worst of comments, moving along like water. Ever the professional he wouldn’t yell like Keith, and yet still found a way to put people in their place. Keith admired that. So, he couldn’t help noticing that this particular behaviour was strange. Even so, Keith had a mission and powered on.

“Have you seen who leaves the messages in the lion’s head?”

Lance’s eyes briefly washed with shock before he quickly swept it away under a smirk, leaning up on the counter.

“Now that would be telling.”

“So you know?”

Lance hummed, sending a sly eye over to the lion.

“The lion’s there for anonymity. It would be unethical to divulge that information.”

Keith sunk back in his seat. Lance was right. Secrecy was how this system worked. If they broke that even just once, the whole system would lose its integrity.

“You seem disappointed? Why’s that?”

Keith blinked back at the server, lips parted. Why? Because he was so close to finding his mysterious admirer. The wordsmith who made his stomach warm with just a few sentences. He shook his head. The man’s secrecy should be respected.

“No reason.” Keith said quietly, removing himself from the bench. Stuffing his hands in his pockets he left the shop.

~*~

Keith hadn’t planned to leave for the Coffeehouse so early. He’d just had a rough night sleep and as a result had given up trying. Cutting some bread and cheese for breakfast, he’d watched the sunrise by the dock before heading up. A cloaked figure headed up to the door ahead of him, pressing a key into the lock. Keith hung back. It would be rude to enter during set up. So, he slunk across the street to watch the window inconspicuously. That’s when he noticed the figure remove some paper from behind the front desk. He watched as they grabbed one of the candlesticks and headed straight to Keith’s seat. They bent down, orange flickering over the gleaming golden lion. Keith chest tightened. His paper lover.

Keith raced across the street before he could stop himself. Throwing the door open, he came to an abrupt stop as the figure turned around. Cloak falling free, the man gaped at Keith. Tan skin, a mess of brown hair and perfect pink lips. Keith recognised him instantly.

“Lance.” He stammered. “You’re my-?”

And then the shock dissipated. Warmth spread through Keith’s veins, face softening with the flow. Lance was his secret admirer. Wonderful, radiant Lance. Keith was only too happy to give him his heart along with his words. His whole being. He ventured across the room.

“Why did you write letters?” Keith asked, stepping into his space. “You could have spoken to me.”

Lance glanced away, then back again, before staring at the floor and sucking on his lips.

“You don’t remember do you?”

Remember what? Keith bent down to catch his eye, shaking his head. Lance sighed, cheeks turning the faintest bit red.

“You asked me to.”

Keith blinked. When? He was pretty sure he’d recall such a bold act.

“When you were drunk.” Lance elaborated. “I wrote it to tease you, thinking you’d remember. But you didn’t.”

Keith’s memory of the day was blurry at best. He remembered the morning after much more clearly, though the details of his vomit could have gone a miss. But the drunken mess beforehand? It slowly formed in his brain, but it was swirly, like he was watching from underwater.

“And you looked so funny when you read it, all red-faced and flustered! I had to send more.”

Lance bowed his head in shame. “And when I realised you had no recollection of the event, I took advantage of being just an ink stain on paper. It was just so liberating. I was always too scared to speak to you in person. This way I could tell you how I felt and all those embarrassing things…”

He trailed off and now his whole face was red. Keith’s fingers twitched at his sides. He understood that second letter now. There was nothing more enticing than the red of shy skin. He wanted to touch it, taste it, kiss it. His stomach suddenly filled with overwhelming longing.

“Look.” Lance said sharply, raising his head with those steel eyes Keith couldn’t stop watching from across the room. Now they were on him and his heart raced. “It was inappropriate and I am sorry. I will not disturb your patronage any longer with my unwanted feelings.”

Keith shook his head, fighting a smile. If there was anything Keith wanted more, it was for his patronage to be disturbed. Lance’s feelings weren’t just wanted, Keith needed them. He had a face for the words now and the two collected together in his heart, pushing it forward with desire. He wanted all of Lance’s words, written and spoken. He wanted to flirt between drinks, support his arguments and have his icy demeanour by his side when he was about to lose control.

Stepping forward, Keith reached out and cupped Lance’s cheek. It was warm and soft and leaning into him.

“I’ll forgive your inappropriateness.” Keith said softly, “If you’ll forgive mine.”

Then he leaned forward, close enough to feel Lance’s hot breath across his lips. He met his eye, awaiting response and Lance’s turning to sparkling curves. Then lips were on his and Keith gave himself to them. The kiss was soft but raw. Passion growing like the warmth unfurling in his chest. When they parted, Keith felt a little giddy - tipsy from their touch. Lance smiled widely, every inch of his face soft and Keith melted all over again. He giggled, pressing in another peck for good measure.

“Let’s go for a walk. After your shift.” He said, bringing his hand down to clutch Lance’s. The other nodded, squeezing back.

“Sure.”

#klance au month #historical #klance hisorical au #klance love letters #klance fluff #klance fic #my writing #my post #I was not supposed to spend my whole day writing!!#i have coursework #I am banning myself from writing until i can get it done.

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phoenixgirlreviews-blog · 5 years

Text

A Blessing In Disguise (Days Of Our Lives/General Hospital Crossover AU)

Chapter 1 – Goodbye Salem, Hello Port Charles

SALEM, ILLINOIS

THERESA DONOVAN’S APARTMENT

SEPTEMBER 19TH, 2017

8 a.m.

The alarm rang and Theresa’s eyes shot up as she quickly rose out of bed, her blondish brown hair all messy and hanging in her face. She then went into the bathroom and got ready for the day – brushing her teeth, washing her face and even combing out all of the tangles from her hair.

Theresa groaned and screamed in frustration and agitation as she pulled and tugged with all her might to get a particularly huge knot out but to no avail.

“Ow, ow, ow, dammit!”

Then after several more minutes of messing and fighting with the knot and finally getting it under control, she heard a loud voice calling from the hallway.

“Mommy, hurry up! I wanna watch my favorite show!”

“In a minute, Tater Tot!” Theresa hollered as she gave a couple more strokes of her hair and then ran her hands through it slowly.

“Okay, that’s better.”

She then dug into her closet and got out a great outfit – a pretty purple floral blouse and a pair of navy blue dress jeans with dark black combat boots. After getting dressed, she then went over to the mirror to admire herself for a moment, fixing up her hair into a half-bun with a clip and a pick. Shortly thereafter, she turned towards the door and headed out of the room.

Several minutes later, Theresa walked downstairs with Tate in her arms and then went over to his high chair, where she placed him in securely. She then went over to the refrigerator and took out a couple of puree baby food jars, placing them on the counter.

Theresa picked up a banana flavored baby food jar and pulled out a drawer, whipping out a small metal spoon. She then opened up the jar and stuck the spoon in.

“Okay, Tate, here comes the choo-choo train!” Theresa announced as she brought over the jar of banana puree to her son and took out a spoonful, offering it to him.

Tate frowned and shook his head, grimacing and crossing his arms defiantly.

Theresa then licked her lips, circling the spoon in the air with one hand while making a rubbing motion on her belly with the other.

“Mmmm… Yummy banana! Come on, Tate! Don’t you want to grow up big and strong like Kion?”

Tate hesitated for a moment, considering her words. Then after a few short minutes, he opened his mouth and allowed his mother to feed him.

After Tate was done eating, Theresa cleaned him up and took him in her arms, heading upstairs.

“Come on, kiddo. We better get ready to go to your dad’s.”

AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER

THE KIRIAKIS MANSION

The doorbell rang and Brady opened, revealing Theresa and Tate in the doorway.

“Hey, Theresa! Glad you can make it!” Brady smiled warmly as the two exes hugged.

Theresa stepped into the mansion with Tate and the baby supply bags in hand.

“Yeah, traffic was rough,” she griped as she entered the living room and sat down on the couch, exhaling sharply.

“How was work?” Brady asked as he sat down next to her.

“Pretty good. Our summer collection was a huge success and got a lot of great publicity. Everyone is still talking about it on social media,” Theresa answered with a small, satisfied smile on her face.

“That sounds amazing, Theresa. You should be really proud,” Brady complimented her.

“Aw, it was nothing,” Theresa blushed, feeling flattered. “Nicole, Kate and Anne deserve all the credit too just as much as I do.”

“Ah, so the wicked witch of the west finally showed up,” a gruff male voice intoned as Victor and Maggie walked into the living room.

Theresa glared with a scowl but fought to keep her tongue.

Tate then jumped out of her arms and rushed over to greet his great-grandparents.

“Grandpa Victor!” he shrieked excitedly as he embraced the old man joyfully. “You’re here!”

Victor chuckled, his face immediately brightening at the sight of the blonde haired child.

“Great to see you too, my boy.”

“Ready to have some fun today, my little one?” Maggie grinned brightly at him.

“Yeah, Grandma Maggie!” Tate exclaimed, doing a fist pump.

“Let’s all go into the garden then,” Maggie declared as she grabbed Tate’s hand and walked off, with Victor following them.

Melanie then came downstairs and met up with Brady and Theresa in the living room.

“Oh hey, Theresa. Wasn’t expecting you for another hour,” she grinned with an earnest and friendly expression.

“Yeah, just wanted to be here on time,” Theresa shrugged casually.

Melanie didn’t respond but acknowledged her with a silent nod.

Over the past couple of years, Melanie and Brady had become much more committed and devoted to each other as a couple, much to Theresa’s chagrin.

Even after Tate was discovered to be Theresa and Brady’s long lost son and was brought back home to Salem, she still desperately hung on to a tiny sliver of hope that somehow Brady would eventually see her in a brand new light upon realizing what a great mother and person she really was and take her back.

But as Brady and Melanie’s relationship continued to thrive and Theresa focused more on her new responsibilities as a first time mother and a newly successful fashion designer and savvy businesswoman, she slowly began to realize that she was wasting her time hoping and praying that she and Brady would miraculously get back together and it was high time she had to move on.

It was a cold and hard truth that at first Theresa wasn’t prepared or even willing to accept at first, but eventually she got to the point where she came to terms with it. And after a long while, Theresa slowly began to let go of her dreams of a future with Brady and worked harder at building a more prosperous future for herself.

And if she really had to be honest, she even admitted to herself that she would rather be happier as a single working mother than an unhappily married woman.

“Cool. Well, have a great day then, Theresa,” Melanie smiled with a wave.

“Thanks, Melanie,” Theresa nodded politely and she turned around to face Brady.

“Well, gotta go. I’ll stop by after work to pick him up.”

“Sounds great,” Brady replied with a nod.

“Okay, see ya,” Theresa waved goodbye and quickly headed out the door.

After another successful and hard day at D.W. Design, Nicole and Theresa went out to grab a bite to eat. They stopped at a local deli that had recently opened up and got some sandwiches.

Theresa took a huge bite out of her turkey and cheese sub and moaned in satisfaction with a huge smile on her face.

“Ugh, this is sooo good.”

“Yeah, now that is what I call a real sub,” Nicole declared as she also munched on her salami and ham sub and wiped her mouth with a napkin.

“Yep,” Theresa nodded as she swallowed her food and took a sip out of her water bottle.

“So how are things with you and Eric?”

“We’re doing good,” Nicole replied after taking a moment to swallow her food. “Eric is really happy with the work that he’s doing and a lot of people on social media are singing him endless praises. I’m so stoked just mentioning it.”

“Yeah, it’s really nice for Eric to finally find a passion that allows him to do what he loves and still be with you,” Theresa quipped. “I always had a feeling that you two were meant to be together.”

“Oh, really?” Nicole smirked coyly with an inquisitive eyebrow. “Did you?”

“Well…” Theresa grinned sheepishly with a casual shrug. “He literally turns into a completely different person whenever he’s with you. At least you are able to get him to stop being such a grumpy sour puss all the time.”

“Well, he helps keep me sane and grounded. That’s why I love him,” Nicole replied.

“Yeah,” Theresa sighed deeply. “I kind of feel bad though that he had to give up the one thing that he devoted so much of his life to. I mean, I don’t personally care for religion or even church, but I know how much it meant to him.”

“Yeah, but just because Eric can’t be a priest anymore doesn’t necessarily mean that he can’t still be a devoted, loving disciple of God,” Nicole rejoined.

“True,” Theresa nodded.

The two women then fell silent and continued to eat their meal. Theresa gazed down in deep thought as she nibbled on her sandwich periodically, looking very troubled. Nicole then noticed Theresa’s sudden change of mood and frowned anxiously.

“Hey, you okay, Jeannie T?”

“Yeah,” Theresa replied glumly, taking a long drink of her bottle. “You know, I was thinking about that offer we got a couple of weeks ago from Crimson to expand our brand out of state and establish a new office in New York.”

“And?” Nicole queried.

Theresa took a deep breath, exhaling sharply.

“I’m actually thinking of accepting it and moving to New York.”

“What?” Nicole started, nearly choking on her water and gawking in bewilderment.

“Theresa, are you nuts?! You have everything you could ever want here. You have a very successful fashion line, an adorable and sweet baby boy who loves you and a couple of really great and loyal friends. What more could you possibly want?”

Theresa frowned, averting her gaze and playing with her hair.

“I-I don’t know. I just feel like there is something missing in my life and I can’t figure out why. Like there’s this really weird funk I can’t seem to shake myself out of.”

“Like what?” Nicole inquired.

“Well…” Theresa trailed off, pondering. “For one thing, I haven’t dated anyone ever since Brady and I had called it quits and none of my other relationships have quite panned out so far.”

“I mean, everywhere I turn, everyone around me seems to have someone in their lives. You and Eric, Brady and Melanie, Chad and Abby, Will and Sonny and even J.J. and Gabi. Me? I have nobody. It’s like I’m literally the only single young woman in the whole town and no one wants to touch me with a ten foot pole.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Theresa,” Nicole reassured her with a gentle squeeze of the hand. “Trust me; you are going to find that special someone.”

“It’s only a matter of time before you are going to find that perfect guy who is going to love you for you. Believe me, if I would’ve realized that years ago, I could’ve saved myself a lot of heartache and drama.”

“True that,” Theresa laughed.

“So what is this Crimson company exactly?” Nicole asked.

“Well, it’s technically a subsidy of this multimedia company called Aurora and it’s run by an older blonde woman named Nina Reeves.”

“She had seen a whole bunch of articles and videos on our company and she was so impressed that she had decided to extend the offer to us. But if you don’t want to move our company to New York right now, that’s fine, Nicole. I don’t want you to do anything that you’re not comfortable doing.”

“Thanks, kiddo,” Nicole smiled, gazing at her intently. “I appreciate the sentiment. But are you sure you really want to go through with this?”

“I haven’t really decided yet,” Theresa mulled. “I still need to figure things out. I mean, I’m scared of leaving all of the things and people that I love behind, but at the same time I’m also not sure if I should really pass up this offer. I mean, who knows if I’m ever going to get an opportunity like this again?”

“That’s a good point,” Nicole retorted.

Theresa checked her phone and then picked up her paper wrapping and water bottle.

“I better go and get Tate from Brady’s. I also need to discuss this with him once I figured out what I really want to do.”

“Good luck then, Theresa,” Nicole hollered as Theresa dumped her garbage into the trash can and then started to walk back to her car. She glanced over at Nicole and gave her a small wave.

“So I’ll call you or text you later?”

“Sure,” Nicole replied. “See you tomorrow then.”

“Yeah, bye,” Theresa hollered as she left the deli.

The following afternoon, a car pulled up in front of the local cemetery and Theresa stepped out of the vehicle, carrying a bouquet of roses, lavenders and daffodils.

She then walked past several long rows of graves as she slowly scanned the area in search of one particular resting place she wanted to visit.

Finally, she arrived at her destination and she knelt down on the soft grass, setting down the flowers beside her as she took out the ceramic vase from its hole.

The minute she laid her eyes on the engraved inscription on the grave marker before her, her eyes welled up and she fought back tears.

CAROLINE BRADY

BELOVED MOTHER, WIFE AND GRANDMOTHER

“Hey, Grandma,” Theresa murmured, her voice holding back a choked sob. “It’s me, Jeannie. I need to talk to you about something.”

She glanced up at the dark, cloudy sky and noticed the soft gusts of wind picking up. Theresa then turned her focus back to Caroline’s grave.

“I got this really great job offer to go to New York and expand my fashion line there. This Nina woman seems really excited to work with me and I also feel the same way.”

She then paused, feeling at a loss for words.

“But I…”

Theresa shook her head, chuckling wryly.

“I don’t want to leave everything that I know behind. I don’t want to leave behind my friends, my family, everything that I’ve ever known or loved…”

“But I also want a chance for my fashion brand to grow and thrive, and I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself if I turn down this opportunity. I need to evolve and adapt as a businesswoman and entrepreneur – otherwise, what’s the point? Grandma, please give me a sign; show me that I’m going on the right path, that I’m making the right decision.”

Right as she said this, a cold burst of wind blew directly into her face, almost sending her tumbling into the ground.

Theresa landed on her hands and knees and looked up just in time to see a stream of dead and dried leaves dancing and circling in the wind. Just as she was getting up to her feet, she heard a soft voice that was so faint that she almost didn’t catch it at first, and yet it sounded so familiar and clear in her head.

Do it.

Theresa then stood up suddenly, looking up in confusion and bewilderment as the voice continued to ring in her ear.

Just do it.

“Grandma?” Theresa whispered, wide-eyed.

Do it.

The voice continued to whisper softly to her until it gradually faded away.

Finally Theresa let out a big sigh and relaxed, suddenly not feeling so scared and apprehensive anymore. She then looked over to her left and smiled tenderly upon noticing that there were some flowers left at her uncle Bo’s grave.

“I’m glad that Aunt Hope hasn’t completely forgotten about you, Uncle Bo, even if she is Aiden Jennings’s new wife now. I know that there’s a part of her that will always love you no matter what.”

She then said a few prayers before turning around and walking away, her resolve and determination strengthening with every step that she took.

“Wait, you’re leaving? But why?” Brady demanded in shock and horror upon learning what Theresa had just told him.

“It’s time to make a new change in my life, Brady,” Theresa informed him calmly. “I’ve been in this town long enough and I’ve done all that I could ever do here. I’ve spent the last couple of years trying to make a living and be a good parent to our son. And now I have a chance to start over in a brand new town and have brand new adventures.”

Brady frowned, rubbing his chin with a puzzled look on his face.

“Okay… But can’t we at least talk about this before you run off to a whole other state?”

Theresa then burst out laughing hysterically, her eyes beaming.

“Why else would I be here, Brady? Trust me, I’m not that dumb.”

“What’s this I hear about someone moving?” Victor demanded as he stormed into the living room.

Theresa then turned to face Victor with a proud smirk.

“Well, I’ll have you know that I’m not going to be around here for much longer. I’m accepting that job offer from Crimson and I’m moving to upstate New York.”

“What did you say?” Victor gawked, his eyes bulging in disbelief and leaning in closely to make sure that he had heard correctly.

“She said that she’s moving to New York, Dad!” Brady bellowed in a loud voice.

“Really? Truly?” Victor reiterated incredulously as he was fighting to keep an increasingly widening grin from crossing his face.

Then after a few minutes of silence, Victor let out an excited holler as he jumped and yellowed for joy.

“I don’t believe this! It must be my lucky day! The wicked witch is finally leaving this ivory tower! Hallelujah!”

He continued to celebrate and rejoice in a boisterous and loud manner as Brady stood there with a slackjawed and mortified expression and Theresa covered her mouth and fought to keep herself from laughing.

“What on Earth is going on here?” Maggie demanded as she entered the living room with a suspicious look on her face.

Brady shrugged.

“Granddad is just excited that Theresa’s moving away to New York because she got a new job offer.”

“Oh, really? Well then, congratulations, Theresa. Brady and I wish you the absolute best of luck,” Maggie replied as she went over to Theresa and hugged her.

“I won’t!” Victor declared loudly as he continued to cheer and hoot in the background.

“Aw, thanks Maggie. That really means a lot coming from you,” Theresa blushed as she hugged her back.

“It’s no trouble, Theresa. You are Tate’s mother, and in my book that makes you family,” Maggie informed her earnestly.

“Yeah,” Theresa looked away with a guilty expression. “I know you had every right to hate me after all the crap I’ve pulled with Brady and Melanie…”

“Oh, hush now…” Maggie interjected, putting her hands on her shoulders and gazing into her eyes. “It’s all in the past. What matters now is the person you are now.”

“Thanks,” Theresa blushed sheepishly in a low voice.

“So I guess we’re going to court now to hash out the new living arrangements,” Brady sighed, dropping his shoulders and hanging his head.

“Yeah,” Theresa nodded, sharing his concerns. “I just need to figure out how I’m going to tell our own son that we’re about to rip him away from everything that he’s ever known and loved.”

After breaking the difficult news to their son Tate, Brady and Theresa headed back into court in order to update their current joint custody agreement.

“So it is agreed then that the new amended custody agreement is both to your liking?” the judge announced.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Brady answered.

The judge then turned to face Theresa with a neutral, emotionless expression.

“And what about you, Ms. Donovan? Do you also find this acceptable?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Theresa nodded.

The judge then turned his attention to the whole court, raising up his gauntlet.

“Then let it be on the record that both Ms. Donovan and Mr. Black are both in agreement that the minor child in question, Tate Donovan Black, will spend the large majority of the year with his mother in Port Chales and will then spend every summer and every other Thanksgiving and Christmas with his father in Salem. I hereby approve of this custody agreement until further notice. Dismissed.”

Theresa, Brady and their lawyers then parted ways and headed out of the courthouse but the two former spouses met up with each other halfway and gave each other one last embrace.

“Good luck, Theresa.”

“Same to you, Brady.”

A couple of weeks later, Theresa was already at the local airport and was waiting to board her flight with Tate and Anne.

Theresa glanced up at the flight information board every few minutes, waiting anxiously for her flight to be called.

“I can’t believe this is really happening,” Anne replied sadly, hanging her head. “I’m never going to see you again.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Anne; I’ll come by for a visit every now and then,” Theresa assured her.

Anne gave her a wistful and tender smile.

“You know, I can’t believe we’ve been friends for like what, 4 years? It feels like we’ve known each other for our whole lives and it also seems like yesterday that we first met and became best buddies.”

“Yeah, where did the time go?” Theresa chuckled, shaking her head. “And to think all I ever cared about then was worrying about getting the next high and not giving a damn what anyone else thought.”

“Funny how life can change so quickly in so little time. And now I have a prosperous career and a beautiful baby boy that I love and treasure more than anything in the whole world. All I need now is a good-looking Prince Charming and my life will be complete.”

“Well, maybe you’ll find him in New York,” Anne suggested.

“Yeah, maybe,” Theresa suggested.

Anne gave her a loving squeeze with a nuzzle.

“Promise you won’t forget me?”

“I’ll never forget you, Anne,” Theresa beamed as she pressed her head back against hers.

“Flight to Port Charles, New York now boarding,” a female voice intoned.

“Well, this is it,” Theresa sighed as she picked up Tate and her luggage. “I’ll miss you, Annie.”

“Good luck, Jeannie T,” Anne replied sadly as the two women shared one last tender embrace before Theresa turned and walked away, heading straight for the boarding gate.

Anne watched her best friend leave as she eventually disappeared into the thick crowd of people bustling and moving about. She then collapsed on her knees and broke down into inconsolable, hoarse sobs, the reality of the whole situation finally crashing down hard on her.

#alternate universe #general hospital #days of our lives #romance #drama #single motherhood

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