#aaasdrabbles

ꜰʟᴜꜱᴛᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ᴠɪᴏʟᴇᴛ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴍᴜꜱᴇᴜᴍ

This is puuure fluff <3 260 words

You and Violet were walking through the maze of rooms in the Victoria and Albert museum, pointing out interesting works of art and fun ornaments every now and then. You were enjoying your time with your boyfriend but... You were getting a little bored of all the old stuff. With a small private smile, you decided to entertain yourself.

'Hey, Gregory.' You waited for his reaction, he had wandered off to stick his nose as close as the museum security would let him to a charcoal sketch.

He turned, curious. 'Yeah?'

'I got a new perfume, did you notice?' A look of guilt washed liver his features, it almost made you regret your trick. Almost.

'Yeah come smell it, see if you like it.'

He hurried over, his long coat swishing in his wake. You angled your face up, seemingly to give him space. Gregory leaned in, close, right where you wanted him, and inhaled. Before he had the time to even look confused because you were wearing your usual perfume, you enacted your trick: quickly, you dipped your head down and pressed a kiss to his forehead — well, partly to his hair, partly to his forehead.

He reeled away, blushing so hard he almost blended in with the red of a depiction of The Great Fire Of London.

'What? Why? Huh?' He stuttered as you laughed, trying to stay quiet to still be respectful of the museum space. 'You're so red sweetheart!' You wheezed, wrapping an arm around him for a half-hug.

'Cause you keep teasing me!' He wailed.

Working on valentine's day has its perks — like being paid double the usual rate and making use of the lovely unlimited free drinks package the Café offers its employees to drink so many cherry blossom hot chocolates it makes me sick — and its disadvantages — people out on dates seem to lack even more braincells than the average customer.

I circle back to the couple in the corner booth by the window where a loud-looking blonde guy and a tired purple haired guy sit awkwardly across from each-other again. The silence around their table is thick enough to cut with one of the bar's garnish knives, neither of them is even looking at the other. I sigh quietly and put on my well practiced peppy customer-service voice.

'Hey, have we made our choice?'

They both flinch. I grin as bright as I can.

'If you're having a hard time, may I give you some suggestions?'

The blonde nods.

'Well, we have a lovely selection of valentine's specials. I've really been enjoying the Sakura hot chocolate which is even better when you pair it with the cinnamon rolls! But if you're looking for something cold to drink, we have our limited edition Persephone juice which is made of juiced strawberries, cherries and pomegranates of course.'

For all my trouble, I don't even get a reaction. They both look at me like dead fish and frustration starts to build in my stomach.

'Should I give you a little more time to consider your options?'

The purple one seemed to wake up from his trance. 'No, we'll take what you said, hot chocolate, juice and was it bread?'

'You mean the cinnamon roll?' I ask with a placating smile. He nods. 'I'll get that started right away.'

I have to take a breath as I leave their table behind before tapping their order into my company-issued IPod. It prints immediately and the barista — Dabi — who also happens to be my friend, rolls his eyes at the order.

Fluff, you're sick, Vi is here to look after you.

Modern/uni au, semi-public sexual activity, they don't get caught, libraries, fingering, Reader orgasm, reader has a pussy, Vi's longass fingers, reader wears a skirt, hickie (one), exhibitionism...

He had to admit it. Although he loathed to even consider the idea.

Cheslock needed a break. He needed to be left alone by these new friends so he could pull himself back together: they had worn him so thin that the fabric of what made Cheslock Cheslock had unravelled.

He needed time to himself, time for his older friends, those who had been by his side for years rather than mere months. Those who were consistent, unchanging for they had already gone through all their changes. They had grown alongside Cheslock, consistent in their friendship and simple presence. These new friends, fun as they were, were erratic, unpredictable and fleeting in their fancies.

Instability such as this was familiar to Cheslock, of course, considering everything that happened in his life. So when he met these new friends, he was drawn in by their rollercoaster pattern. How, now, could he explain to these people who had come to rely on him, that he needed space and needed it painfully.

Cheslock missed his old self, the self who — although bored — was capable of sitting and reading research papers for hours on end. The self who could go to the library in the morning and exit only in the late evening, having eaten a packed lunch at his usual desk on the third floor next to the window. But most of all, most of all Chelsock missed being calm.

Perhaps, unintentionally, these new friends had been what an irritated parent may call "bad influences". They had certainly made his life more difficult than it had been prior to them entering his life. He felt a sort of responsibility towards them, as the oldest, that he should take care of these children — for they were really barely old enough to be adults. Perhaps it was his "teacher instincts" kicking in, or his saviour complex. Cheslock couldn't explain it.

All he knew is that looking after these new friends, supporting them, making sure everything was for the best in the best of all possible worlds, was nothing short of exhausting. Oh, how they span in circles, rotating like a corpse in a grave when it is insulted: so fast they could have powered a small town in their indecision. Each of them criticising the next for something they themselves also did. Each of them turning to Cheslock for answers to their situations. Sometimes, he wished he could turn back the clock and make sure he never met them.

Someone let Violock babysit... Why?????? This was @livingsspecter's idea, all the credit to her

'Cheslock?' Elio looked up from what the man in question was pretty sure was a Five Nights At Freddy's theory video.

Wondering if she really should be allowed to watch that kind of thing, he put down the spatula he had been using to prod at his attempt at a pancake a,d turned to look at the small blonde girl.

'Yeah?'

'You're weird.' She said before focusing her attention back on the laptop screen.

Cheslock grinned and tried to slide the spatula under his pancake. 'So are you Elio.'

'Better than being boring.' Her statement held a finality that told Cheslock the discussion was over.

Violet chose that moment to stumble in through the front door, laden with a basket and a tote bag full of food from the market. He shot Cheslock a sharp glare as he set his cargo down on the dining table. A bubbly feeling that made him want to laugh built in Cheslock's chest.

'What?' He drawled, a new sharper grin tugging at his lips.

'What the fu—' Violet cut himself off and glanced at Elio who had shut the laptop and was watching the exchange intently.

'You can swear in front of me, I don't mind.' She said, gesturing for Violet to continue.

Cheslock snorted. 'Somehow I doubt your parents would agree.'

Elio shrugged. 'They're not here.'

'You little demon.' Violet muttered, trying and failing to give her the sink eye.

'You love me.' Elio's grin was as toothless and cheeky as it was adorable.

Violet groaned and rolled his eyes. 'Anyway. Why did you send me out there.' He jabbed a finger at the front door.

Cheslock painted as deadpan an expression as he could onto his face. 'To get food.'

Violet groaned again and Elio giggled.

'You sent me. An introvert with sensory issues. To a farmer's market full of people. Someone was selling rabbits.'

Cheslock wrestled down a laugh and shrugged. 'Did you find Elio's blueberries?'

He had. And he had bought a truly excessive amount. Elio immediately started inhaling them like a hoover on crack. Cheslock and Violet watched the little girl fondly. She was tall for an eight year old, with perpetually tangled shoulder-length blonde hair — which greatly saddened her father. Edgar was constantly fighting with her hair, trying to get it as glossy as his was. Elio had other matters to worry about; notably "badgering Greenhill into teaching her to play cricket" and "how to get out of doing tonight's homework".

'I think your pancake is burning.' Elio said, matter of fact.

Cheslock turned to the pancake. It was fully black and smoking.

'Fuck.'

— — —

Once they had managed to make an adequate number of non-charred pancakes and subsequently eaten them, the trio sat down to watch (and make fun of) the first twilight film. Elio was equally fascinated and repulsed by it. Though, no matter how many times they watched it, she always requested to see it again.

'Gregory?' Elio patted his arm during a particularly blue-filtered close up on Bella's face. 'You're good at painting.'

'Thanks.' Violet's voice was forcibly flat as he answered.

'And you always wear makeup.'

'Yeah.' Violet nodded, looking at her now.

'Can you make me look dead like her?' She pointed at the screen.

Cheslock could tell by the twitching in Violet's fingers that he was trying very hard to contain his excitement. 'Probably.' He gave Elio a small smile.

— — —

'You have to close your eyes Eli.'

Cheslock watched as Violet applied purple eyeshadow to her face as carefully and gently as possible. He had only ever seen Violet make that soft expression around Elio. Cheslock thought he probably carried an equally soft expression around the kid too. Elio was bursting with personality and adorable even though she was the daughter of the most irritating man in the world.

When Violet was done, Elio pulled a chair over to the empty fireplace and clambered onto it to peer at herself in the mirror.

'Wow!' She breathed. 'I look like a cadaver!'

Cheslock didn't have the time to wonder how she knew that word because he was too busy feeling queasy about Elio jumping off the chair. She landed safely and bounded over to him to show off her makeup.

'Look Cheslock!' She almost shouted, putting her face a little too close to his in her enthusiasm. He leaned away a little and surveyed her makeup.

Her skin was pastier and bluer than usual and Violet had done an incredible job at digging shadows into her cheeks and under her eyes that if she weren't bouncing off the walls, she'd make a very convincing corpse.

'Isn't it a bit scary?' He asked, speaking more for himself than anything else.

'No! I love it!' Elio was inspecting herself in the mirror again. Violet had moved to stand behind her chair so he could catch her if she stumbled.

— — —

It took a torturous thirty minutes to convince Elio to let Violet take her makeup off. She only allowed it when he swore he would do her make up again the next time they babysat her. Then, before she would accept to be put to bed, she required Cheslock to play her a tune on the sitting room piano.

'The music box song from Pirates 3, please Chessie!' Elio requested, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Cheslock played a few notes of what he thought she was asking for then looked at her for confirmation. She shook Violet's arm in her excitement.

'Yes!! Yes that one!'

ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴄʜᴇꜱʟᴏᴄᴋ ᴘᴜᴛ ᴏɴ ᴍᴀᴋᴇᴜᴘ

Watching Cheslock put on makeup is... A whole experience. He prances around his room, blasting music so loud there's no way it doesn't bother his neighbors. Not that he cares. He doesn't have a vanity or a small mirror of any sort he can sit at to do this no, of course not. He stands or sits at the silver-framed full length mirror that leans against the wall at the end of his bed. He sings along to whatever song his phone pops up from his shuffled "liked songs" whether it be Motionless in White or Seb Lowe, he knows all of the lyrics. Sometimes he even fingers out the melody into the air, pretending to hold his violin with his left hand as his right buffs on more black eyeshadow.

Once he's done with the eyeshadow though, the real fun begins. He whips out his trusty eyeliner pen (NYX Epic Ink, obviously), leans in as close as possible to the mirror and oh so carefully drags the tip of the pen over his skin from the outside of his eye to just before the middle of his eyelid. He does the same for his lower lash line, careful, mediculous, quiet, for once, staring at his reflection open-mouthed with more focus than he has for anything else. Well, maybe one or two other things but pretty much anything else.

When he's managed to get his eyes to look like sisters (not twins), he moves on to accentuating his scar. The one on the left side of his face, light pink, indenting a three-ish inch (7cm) line over his eyebrow, eye and the top of his cheek. Honestly, he was lucky to make it out with the vision in his left eye intact... Whatever. He traces, less carefully now, over the line with his eyeliner, dragging the scar out all the way down to his jaw and making a fork at the bottom.

'Like one of those old Victorian dolls, see?' He had jocked a couple times, 'The porcelain ones that crack like that when you drop them.'

After doing a once-over of his outfit, little top-big bottom or big top little bottom, depending on his mood, he usually stacks on a miriad of necklaces and bracelets and rings and tightens the balls on his piercings, taking special care of his tongue ring. He swallowed it one time and it would not happen again. He moves on to his hair, making sure every spike is in place and sometimes complaining about how dry it is because of the bleach...

Next is your favourite part, when he gives you a little spin, the various chains on his clothes clinking together merrily. And even better, when he slinks over, wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you close with his usual confident cat-like grin. And he's so warm — a space heater, really — and even though his chains and the studs on his jackets dig into your skin, you don't mind, you want to wrap yourself up in him and never let go.

His lips are a little chapped, a little dry when he kisses you. But they're gentle, careful but still firm. He licks into your mouth, only for a moment, enough to let you feel the sleek hard metal of his piercing.

'Alright, you ready?' He checks. You grin. 'Let's go, I'm starving.'

He loves how the balm makes your lips a little glossy, a little sticky, he loves that it makes them soft. He loves that when he kisses you, he gets a hint of its grapefruit flavour. And he loves teasing you with it.

'Y/N?' He'll ask, when you're applying your lip balm. 'Can I have some?'

You'll offer him the tube, once you're done with it and he'll take it. But he'll put it back into the back pocket of your pants with a sly grin.

'That's not what I meant.' He'll say, one hand finding your waist and the other tilting your face up to his with the tip of his middle finger. He'll take a moment to relish in the look on your face; you're blushing, your eyes unfocused with blown out pupils and your lips. Your lips... are glossy, shining in the bright summer sunlight, the corners pulled down just a little into the cutest pout he's ever seen.

He just has to kiss you, it wouldn't be fair otherwise. He presses his — chapped — lips into yours. He has to bite down a smile as your lips part, only a little, and your hands come up to grip the front of his shirt. You pull him closer, like your life depends on it. His hand on your waist slides to the small of your back, guiding your hips into his, his hand on your chin drags down to your neck, his fingers wrapping lightly around it...

He has to break the kiss before he does anything drastic, you are in public after all. His tongue glances out to taste the residue of grapefruit lip balm your lips left on his and he grins.