#I AM. TRYING. not to talk too much there is a delicate balance to strike i think.

[moe-broey]

This is what they're like. To me

[yohohonabottle]

Quickpost/Oneshot -Merlin's envy

A peaceful rainy day on the piers of Rustport, the Captain and knight walking by their love's side. Just two goofy men, well-loved without coddling or babying, well-behaved, talking happily with the 'Magister'. A stray mutt and a Golden retriever.

--And then a familiar mage appears out of the blue, using the power of plot-armor and being Esperia's true main character. Creeping from behind the felled star, she strikes the ghostly-pale man in the back. The surprising blow sends the night nymph falling and rolling roughly, the skin smoking as though singed. Both halt, shocked-- Mind still reeling and trying to process what just happened. Merlin lands another follow-up blow, eyes aglow with power unrivaled, bestowed upon by Dura and the gods. The main protagonist, star of this tale. Using this power, to prevent his opponent from striking back, throwing strike after strike with all her fury borne of burning envy-- All those adventures, rewards, connections, fame, praise, should've been mine! Mine!

It finally clicks in their heads- Merlin appeared, attacked Pirin from behind. Pirin is injured, heavily. He's hurt. If this goes on he'd die- The blows keep coming, slamming into his battered body without remorse nor relent, tossing him like enraged tides a ship at sea-

I'm Merlin!

Another tide of zapping magic rears- "Vanya!" -Darting to the prone figure struggling to get up and bloodied, the Captain catches his Siren before he could collapse. Valen following close behind, equally startled and confused. Holding the felled star in his arms, the seafarer carefully turns the delicate face over. Bruised, black-eyes, broken jaw and nose, bleeding, bones broken..and unresponsive. Out cold. Dear god of the waves - Dura above - Don't let him die-

Red. Sinbad was seeing red. Jaw clenching and hold tightening, fury flares like wildfire- raw, scorching, intense. Relinquishing the unconscious, battered, vampire into Valen's arms, he doesn't register. "Sinbad?" The last tsunami wave of light magic now reached its peak summit, the mage holding her arm high. Ready to bring it down. Finish the 'magister' off.

—"Merlin!" -A cry of war. Of rage unbridled. Incinerating. But Merlin was too caught up in her own rant of petty ire and venomous envy.

—"I'm Merlin! I'm The legend! I am! It should've-" A single, cold, strike to the face from a tight-curled fist collides with her cheekbone. Nose. The all-powerful Chosen one of the gods finds himself reeling and staggering back heavily. Almost sent flying with the force of impact, pain blooms. Felt his bones crack, dislocate.

—"Magister!" -Chippy and Hammie's unison cry of alarm go unnoticed, the little hamsters rushing over. They were perfectly content with watching the fray from the sidelines, their "perfect, noble Merlin" throw the first hit. Watch the night nymph get punted and tossed around like seal by an orca. It's only when the "great" Arch-mage starts to get as good as he gave, get hits in return, that all of a sudden it's not okay.

Before "The legend" could so much as recover, get her balance back--Merlin finds herself tackled to the cold, wet wooden floor of the pier. Pelted by swift, powerful punches, at the receiving end of a "moron's" wrath. Putting her arms up to shield her face did nothing good. Grabbing her hands in a bruising grip and sharply pinning them to the side of her head, the "idiot sailor" grips her by the collar, knuckles white.

—"You being a "legend" ain't shit." The word 'legend' falls out his lips like spat out venom, fury not even concealed as he grits out. Then it rolls into wry, cold as his smirk. Nothing but fury reflected in his rum-like hazel leer. "I let you have a hit on me back at the Golden Guest to blow off your steam. That's one, you see." Why're you scared huh? What? Thought I'd sit there an' do nothin'? "Jumpin' my Siren outta leftfield and beating him half to death, is another."

The smile is gone, voice a low hiss.

"You don't just come swinging and expect not to get jumped back." Raising his fist, the crooked grin is nothing, but malice. A sick, vindictive, grim satisfaction at that those eyes dawning in fear.

—"Square up, 'Magister'. Can't have "The legend" be a coward, can we?"

—"I'm so-" The punch is just as powerful, brutal. No holding back. No playing around. Holding the fallen star in his embrace, the brunet gently sweeps the stray hairs out of their Dove's ruined face. Careful, as though afraid to hurt him even more or cause more pain. Cradling their 'doll' close, his lilac eyes drift over to the scene of violence unfolding. ....Valen feels..nothing. Not even the faintest twinge of pity, sympathy, compassion or empathy for the Arch-magus.

Only cold. Numb. Simmering anger running much deeper under his skin, and seething in his veins far worse than it appears on the surface. The hypocrisy, audacity- insolence. By now poor thing's got more broken bones than either of them can count. Almost half to death. And it doesn't even touch his heart. Valen doesn't so much as bat an eye.

Funny that, huh?

Placing a soft, sweet chaste and feather-light kiss to Pirin's forehead, the once illicit knight tenderly lowers him down onto the ground. Admittedly he'd prefer to place his dear on something softer or warmer, but it's just them, the rain and the pier. Walking over to the Captain, Valen catches Sinbad's bloodied fist, raised for yet another merciless blow that might very well be the final.

—"Sinbad. You will kill him if you keep going. It's not worth it." Slowly, reluctantly, the tanned outlaw lowers the fist. Heaving a frustrated sigh in a sharp huff-like exhale, glaring down at the bloodied mage with disgust- And gets up. Walks over to the prone vampire, crouching down by his side to gently pick him up.

Merlin slowly, with effort and shaky arms, sits up. Looking up at the Solitaire with wide, pleading black-eyes. Fishing for sympathy. Playing victim. Only to be met with his cold, disappointed, resentment-filled leer. Quieter fury, fury nonetheless.

—"Valen..I-"

—"You know, Magister.. There's this saying I often heard about: 'Never meet your heroes.' -I never thought one day I'd be agreeing with it. And I always have been awed by tales of your great deeds, since I was just a kid.. Worst part has to be that I'm not even that angry. Simply sorely disappointed in what you've turned into." Merlin's hopeful smile fades, stunned by the numbness of his usually vivacious voice. The bitter edge that taints, seeps in it for but a short moment.

"As if hiding away in your cozy House wasn't enough.

Have you any idea, Merlin, how happy General Hogan was? When he met your double, thinking he got to reunite with his old friend at last? Do you know how that man has missed you all those years, after your disappearance without a trace? Not even a goodbye?" Stormcaller hums under his palm, fingertips idly relaxing on the hilt as he's crouched onto one knee before the fallen "legend".

"Or how much Mirael has been endlessly searching for you? How much Cassadee and Fay look up to you? The people of Holistone, of Esperia, look up to you? ...Do you even care about any of them, Merlin? About anything other than your powers, that you are so desperate to reclaim?" Nowhere to run or hide, squirming uncomfortably under his even gaze. And sharp words. If you want, are going to be a massive prick-- at least don't air it for the world to see. Keep your dirty laundry to yourself.

—"You gave up everything, knew you'd get none of the adventures, connections or honor and fame--Back when you called upon the star; struck your deal for Pirin to take your stead, your duties. And then you go get jealous, of everything he gained, try to steal it for yourself. ..Am I wrong, Magister?" Silence, no longer able to look him in the eye. No. "You can't expect great rewards, without giving an ounce of effort, Merlin. So reap what you've sown." You did this to yourself.

Merlin reaches out a hand, Valen doesn't so much as bother to offer him a hand to help get up. Simply saunters to join Sinbad in leaving the pier, carrying the damaged 'doll' to a medic. Ideally. Or to mend him themselves at the inn. The familiars huddle to their owner, the swordsman throwing them a brief side-glance, tuning out their words of distaste and disappointment per his and Sinbad's address.

Valen shakes his head, turning his attention ahead.

Like owner, like familiars.

----

Later, Merlin discovered he's not treated any better at the desert. The Uru clan weren't any friendlier, quite hostile actually. The second he set foot on the oasis settlement, instead of a curt acknowledging nod of welcome-- Soren acted towards him like he'd behave with any unfamiliar outsider. Rushed and charged right at him, swinging and slamming his club hard with lethal force.

What was (shouldn't have been) a surprise, is that Alsa didn't boast her usual welcoming and friendly attitude. Instead she struck out in sync with her brother, assumed a combative stance. The kids had varying reactions- Some were wary, some angry, some kept distance and others seemed ready to join the fray. "Go away! You're a bad mage!" "You're not welcome to our clan! Go away!"

"You-You hurt our Little Finch! You meanie!"

—"But..I'm Merlin! The real Magister Merlin!" A small 'meteorite' drops a little too close, missing his head by a hair. A very stern warning shot, as the angry teen bear swings his club in a repelling strike. The fury burning in his russet-brown irises is colder than the desert night chills, gritting out gruffly and simply- "Scram."

—"...Merlin. Please leave."

—"I..I made this oasis..! I really did! I can tell you so many tales of my-" —"Shut it. We don't need your stupid bragging. You, are no one. Just a magister." The wrath in Soren's death glare is...personal. Deeply personal, his venomous words a growl.

—"You made the oasis, and we're thankful...But.." —"You didn't once visit us or the desert. Now you remember to drag your ass here, after ditching us. And have the audacity to even show your face after almost killing Pops--You expect us to clap? Yeah right, go fuck off."

"Soren!"

And so, the Great legend left. Back to his Mystical House went, where he crawled from a little too late. Bearing the consequences of his choices and actions..or lack there of. Didn't need to think about going to the Dark Forest-- Eironn, Lyca, Lorsan and Bryon won't be any welcoming either, learning what he'd done today. How he dared unjustly almost murder their 'Graveborn' comrade.

And for what?

Jealousy.

[navabharathnationalschoolsstuff]

Are You Preparing Your Kids for Life or Just Protecting Them?

Parenting is a delicate balance between keeping our children safe and equipping them for the real world. As parents, we naturally want to shield our kids from harm, discomfort, and failure. But in doing so, are we truly preparing them for life, or just wrapping them in a protective bubble?

It’s a question every parent should ask: Am I raising a resilient, capable child, or am I overprotecting them to the point where they struggle to navigate life’s challenges?

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The Fine Line Between Protection and Preparation

While it’s a parent’s instinct to protect their children from danger, excessive shielding can prevent them from developing essential life skills. Overprotection can lead to dependence, anxiety, and a lack of confidence. On the other hand, preparation empowers kids to face difficulties, solve problems, and become self-sufficient adults.

So, how do you strike the right balance? Let’s explore the difference between protecting and preparing.

1. Teaching vs. Shielding from Failure

Many parents fear their child experiencing failure. Whether it’s losing a game, scoring poorly on a test, or facing rejection, it’s painful to watch. However, failure is an essential teacher.

✅ Preparation: Encourage your child to try again, analyze their mistakes, and improve. Teach them that setbacks are temporary and part of growth.

❌ Overprotection: Constantly intervening to prevent failure—redoing their homework, blaming teachers, or making excuses for their mistakes—only weakens their ability to handle challenges independently.

2. Encouraging Independence Instead of Doing Everything for Them

Many parents believe they’re helping by handling tasks their children struggle with. But doing too much for them can lead to helplessness.

✅ Preparation: Teach your kids age-appropriate responsibilities—let them dress themselves, pack their school bags, manage their homework, or even cook simple meals.

❌ Overprotection: Doing everything for them, fearing they might struggle, make mistakes, or take too long.

A child who grows up making decisions and taking responsibility will enter adulthood with confidence and self-sufficiency.

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3. Allowing Risk vs. Avoiding All Danger

Life involves risk, and kids need to learn how to assess and handle risks safely.

✅ Preparation: Let your child take small risks—climbing a tree, learning to ride a bike, or handling conflicts with friends—while guiding them on safety and decision-making.

❌ Overprotection: Avoiding all risk by keeping them indoors, not letting them try new things, or constantly hovering to prevent accidents.

Children who never experience risk may become fearful, hesitant, or overly dependent on others for security.

4. Problem-Solving vs. Fixing Everything for Them

If kids never face problems, they never learn how to solve them.

✅ Preparation: Teach your child how to handle difficulties on their own—resolving conflicts, organizing their time, and overcoming obstacles. Encourage them to think through solutions.

❌ Overprotection: Stepping in immediately to solve every problem—talking to their friends for them, negotiating with their teachers, or preventing them from facing consequences.

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A child who learns problem-solving skills will grow into a confident adult who can handle life's ups and downs.

5. Emotional Resilience vs. Avoiding All Discomfort

Children will face disappointment, sadness, and frustration. Shielding them from these emotions doesn’t help them develop emotional strength.

✅ Preparation: Teach kids to recognize and express emotions in a healthy way. Encourage them to talk about their feelings and learn coping strategies.

❌ Overprotection: Distracting them from sadness, fixing their disappointments immediately, or avoiding difficult conversations.

Helping children build emotional resilience prepares them for real-life challenges, relationships, and setbacks.

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Final Thoughts: Raising Strong, Capable Kids

The goal of parenting is not just to protect our kids but to equip them for the world. We need to let them experience challenges, make mistakes, and develop problem-solving skills.

By focusing on preparation over protection, we raise kids who are independent, confident, and ready for life’s realities.

So ask yourself: Are you preparing your kids for life—or just protecting them?

[invinciblerodent]

No no no hear me out this is actually really cute

Even without knowing anything beyond the buzziest of buzzwords about the guy, this character I wanted to make for his romance, I've been trying to play as a genuinely kind, but ultimately somewhat blunt character. Someone very "diamond in the rough", if you will.

Without climbing too far into her skull rn (because I'm not even close to being done), Ver's been toeing that kind of delicate balance between honest, sarcastic, and straightforward - she's supportive of people, but she herself keeps her cards close to her chest, and is quick to sympathize but slow to open up, often genuine but using levity as a deflection. She's one of those people who can be your best friend, and know everything about you, and then one day you realize that you don't actually know anything about them (as I'm kind of suspecting Harding and Neve in particular are slowly coming to understand).

That lends itself sorta perfectly to her being a frontliner, a protector, and recruiting Davrin, it's... Idk, it definitely feels like a lightning strike "game recognize game" moment. Like she's found something of a kindred spirit. Instant draw that goes beyond physical attraction.

In her idealism, she didn't fit in in Minrathous. She's all but buried her old name, to shield the loss that hides in her core. (She could have opened up to Bellara at her quest, but didn't.) She wants to do right, to do GOOD by the people around her, and she's good at her job- she Gets Shit Done. And she's also an idealist that's in way over her head, the waves crashed over her head in Nessus, and she got way more in this deal with Varric than she had eer bargained for.

It really sounds like she and Davrin are going to share a kind of understanding that'll be... kinda great for the both of them.

Like, already I can think of how being around another warrior has been spurning her on- like sure, immediately she was attracted to him, but she also can't help but want to impress him, and there's been an interesting twinge of even jealousy that I can see her feeling, listening to the easy way Neve talks (and even jokes around?) with him, while from the other side, he can't help showing off either, watching her from the corner of his eye, etc. (It probably left a deep first impression, to see her first jump to the griffons' aid without asking questions, spit in the face of a god, and THEN fight for her city with a ferocity that matches a dragon's.

Already my brain is coming up with little scenes where much later on, as a show of trust unprecedented, he tells her his clan name, and she, the name she buried along with her childhood. Something something letting masks fall and strength falter, but maybe there's a good kind of weakness that they can learn to discover in themselves and each other.

....... and then we can get into the strength he may have trouble reining in and the legendary Warden endurance and the angst of it all. God, I may be very early in, but so far it already seems that he's been so preoccupied with burning bright that he forgot that also means burning quickly, and I can't WAIT for mortality to come knocking at the door just when he finds someone worth letting his guard down for.

Is this anything. I just woke up and I'm typing semi-blindly on my phone. Is this anything. Am I cooking. is it burnt.

oh my god, it wasn't until going through this quest a second time that I'm noticing all the investigation prompts at the griffon babies' cages

guys.

Davrin is trying to comfort the babies individually

they're all sad, and scared, and trapped, and he's calling them by their names and promising them that he'll be back for them

on top of very naturally referring to Assan's clutch (even though iirc in Last Flight, they just called the eggs "clutch") as Assan's "family" and his "brothers and sisters", that's just... that's too adorable

guys he cares about them so much

I love me a man who can come off a bit rough around the edges at first (what was it you said love, "I'll have its head on a spike"?), and may be a bit on the more closed off side, but shows gentleness in how he talks to- and about the animals in his care

I knew it from the start, there's a soft, gooey center to this man, and I'm gonna find out how many licks it takes to get to it, so help me Andraste

[the-fluff-piece]

A delicate dance of swords

Part 1

Part 2

sfw Zorro x reader

Summary: You are new on the Thousand Sunny as a crewmember. One day you find yourself talking with the grumpy swordsman of the crew - about his swords and scars

Themes: flirting

CW: Talk about weapons and injuries

Like this one? Look at my masterlist

The ocean ist quiet and there is not much to do. The sun is out and there is just a sprinkle of clouds in the sky above you. Robin had already warned you that in between islands and other catastrophes, the journey could get calm. And boring.

You have already wandered aimlessly over the deck - on days like these it seems, everyone is occupied by their own pursuits. Everyone but you. The afternoon tea is already emptied, the cake eaten, every one of your own occupations seems either boring or is already exhausted. Robin is studying, Sanji is cooking, Ruffy, Usopp and Franky are building some kind of super robot-suit – there’s nothing that sparks your interest.

As you stroll over the grass, just gazing into the distance, your foot gets caught on something and you lose your balance, falling over - being held back by something around your waist.

"A bit clumsy today, aren't we?", you hear Zoros smug voice behind you as he puts you back on your feet. The crew's swordsman looks at you with an amused grin and collapses back against the reiling like a sack of rice. His three swords are leaning next to him as if they, too, were resting and enjoying the nice weather. He stretches an yawns so hard that he squeezes a tear out of his right eye. The very picture of lazyness.

"Do you have nothing to do?", he asks. "No", you reply. "Probably just as you.", you add, sitting down beside him with your legs crossed. "Hey, I am not doing nothing. Napping is an important part of my training.", he yawns again, demonstrating the seriousnes of his training regime by lying down on the grass and stretching like a lazy cat.

Since you have nothing better to do you try to join in on the training and relax -you aren’t very good at it. Zoro is absolutely still, breathing deeply, eyes closed. You, on the other hand, get restless, fumbling with the grass, settling on studying his swords more closely. They are beautiful, graceful weapons, each a different colour. The hilts are each wrapped in an intricate pattern, contrastet by the simple elegance of the sheath. It's the first time you get to examine them more closely- they're usually at his hip or in a fight.

The hair on your neck rises - you feel watched. Zoro is side-eyeing you and his mouth is curled in a mischievous grin. Still lying flat on the floor he asks "they're awesome, aren't they?"

"Yes, can I see the blades?", you ask - summoning an excited glint into his blue eye. He gets up eagerly, suddenly full of energy, and grabs the hilt of the white sword in a practiced motion, pulling out the blade just enough so that you can look at the fine steel. You see your own reflection in the polished surface and the fine lines of the damask steel - until Zoro pushes the blade back in and stands up.

"Follow me, I'll give you a demonstration", he says and starts walking towards his dojo.

It's cool and dark inside, he takes his shoes off and you do the same. Zoro throws his robe into a corner and begins to let the blades hiss through the air with incredible precision and strength. The dance of is blades looks so effortless, practiced a thousand times until perfection. His voice doesn’t even seem strained as he explains his art to you: "Each of my blades is different, some are stronger, hard to control" - he's putting the emphasis of his strikes on the black sword in his hand - "some are easier to master, but not as aggressive" - the white katana is taking the lead. His body is brimming with strength and the power of his movements, his face lighting up in a wide grin. With a graceful motion, both blades slip back into their sheaths on his hip and he comes to sit down on his knees right in front of you.

"If you want to, I can teach you a thing or two", he says in a confident voice. You are not one to pass up the opportunity to get lessons from a true master.

For the following weeks, you try to train with him as best as you can, but he is not accustomed to teaching. He is baffled that you can't lift one of his giant training weights or cut stone in half with ease. But he works hard to formulate a training program for you. It included meditation, regular napping and drinking. He couldn't tell you the sense behind this, but he felt it was an important part. Getting into the mood of teaching, he also talks lots and lots of bullshit. It seems to you that a great portion of his incredible skill is due to his inherent talent and strength. Although he seems so lazy most of the time, he is training with an unbelievably stoic discipline. A savant when it came to swordfighting – a pretty clueless guy in any other category. Still, you learned a lot of knacks simply through imitating his movements. It doesn’t take long until you can hold yourself with a sword against a marine soldier.

Even though his methods as a teacher are lacking, you become close friends during that time. This brutish man turns out to be a kind-hearted person that wants to protect his crewmates and pushes himself to become stronger to ensure everyone’s safety. His silly, foul mouth makes you laugh more than one time with surprisingly witty comments – and sometimes extremely stupid ones. He is patient and caring towards you, even though his training regimen is hard. His energy and motivation are often captivating and jump over to you, pushing you to train harder as well.

His teaching also involves random questions about the way of the sword. It seems like one of those exchanges was just around the corner as he asks: “What’s also very important for a swordsman or -woman?”

"Uhm...besides sleeping, drinking and lifting?”

“Yes”

“Taking care of your weapons?" you ask.

"Trophies of past battles" he answers, his massive chest swelling with pride. He touches the long scar on his front. You have gotten accustomed to seeing him shirtless in training, mostly ignoring it because if you didn’t pay attention, he would quickly knock you over. But right now, when he is running his hand down his front, it's hard for you not to stare at his sculpted torso, the tan skin battered and full of bigger and smaller scars. You lift your gaze and look into his face – once again you are painfully aware that your new teacher is the definition of a dangerous looking, but handsome man. His strong jaw, his scarred eye and his always taunting, confident look are hard to resist. You are pretty sure that he had his fans as well since his wanted poster came out.

He must have noticed your gaze, because his grin gets wider, more cocky, as he says: "I understand you find me just easy to look at as my katana."

To your shock he takes your hand and puts it on his warm chest.

"Scars are meant to be felt, too. This one I got really early in my travels with Luffy. I fought a man that could turn his body into a blade. A tough guy” he sets your fingertips on a scar that looks old. The pale, raised line on his skin almost runs across his entire upper body. You trace it with your fingers from beginning to end, from his chest down over his ribcage to his side.

“Cut me up really good, but I beat him. It’s important that you understand that one mistake in a fight can cost you a lot of blood.”

You have barely arrived at the end when he guides your hand to a different one, beginning just under his collarbone. "This one is from a zombie samurai I fought" his voice is barely a low whisper and you realise his face has come so close to yours, you can feel his breath in your hair. As you trace this one over his chest muscles you feel his ribcage expanding with deeper, faster breaths under your fingers. You explore this scar as well to it's end, mesmerized by the texture of his skin. Being so close to him was intoxicating, his broad frame towering over you in the dim dojo. His hand finds yours once again, pushing it down towards his abs - and still further down. "This one is especially...exciting", his voice is deep and seductive as he moves your hand past his belly towards his waistband. This is a surprise to you and you try to get free of his grasp, only managing once he lets go of your hand.

“What are you getting at”, you snap, a bit more aggressively than intended.

“I am just trying to teach you about safety”, he defends himself with his hands raised. You feel a bit awkward, his little stunt seemed to come out of nowhere and his flirtatious attitude vanished just as quickly. You decide to call it a day and excuse yourself, your thoughts a turmoil of confused what-if-scenarios.

Zoro just nods and lets you leave, training by himself again.

It was surely nothing, he didn’t think that far, he was just an airhead and probably doesn’t know what flirting even means. You try to tell yourself all kinds of things to manage those feelings that have grown over the past weeks. But you hope you didn’t irritate him with your sudden outburst.

You plan to talk to him about it over dinner – but he doesn’t show up. It’s not like him to miss a meal. You get a bottle of sake for an afterdinner drink with him, but he is not training or napping outside, he is surely in the crow’s nest. That usually means he wants to be left alone. If he doesn't want to talk you couldn't help it.

Zoro

After the little incident with his new student, Zoro decided it was time to brood and drink. He needs his space right now. All he wanted this afternoon was to brag about his past victories, but he lost control of himself, got lost in the moment. Scared his cute pupil.

sip

The burn of the cheap booze runs down his throat and will hopefully help him sleep. He still needs a strategy for tomorrow, what is he going to tell her?

"Sorry Y/n, I thought wanted it, too, and got carried away"

Surely not. The shock in her eyes when he even implied something sexual was evident, even for him. He will have to be a man about this and just apologize. Take the rejection with pride. He had faced other things in the past. Giant monsters, deadly fighters. He can always face a girl that dumped him before he could even get close.

sip

He empties the bottle and tosses in the corner. Tomorrow, after sobering up.

More parts planned as inspiration hits me

[harfanfare]

Heart Competition 💕

It is the fifth pint of beer, and there is no sign that it is the last one.

Kaeya stares at the beer, its golden surface waves slightly. His hand is trembling as if the weight of the drink was too much for him. In the reflection of the glass vessel, he sees his face;  eyebrows furrowed by grief or anger – he hasn't figured it out yet – and corners of his mouth twitching, once up, to keep an impression of happy guest, once down, when his muscles refused to obey him.

Being out of control of his own body made him also incapable of flirting, the art he practised years in the bar, that some could assume that Kaeya did it mostly to get on Diluc's nerves.

Oh, right. Diluc Ragnvindr, the star of today's event.

Through a glass pint, half-filled with alcohol, Kaeya sees the distorted silhouettes of the bride and groom, in honor of which this whole party was held.

Loud, quite unexpectedly large for the groom's tastes, the event was a mixture of attempts to make the lady in the veil the happiest woman in the world, but with some balance. This party was also a sign that Diluc won't even consider future marriage offers, having such a sweet wife on his side.

[Name].

[Name] Ragnvindr, from today.

A girl who came to Mondstadt a few years ago and stole the attention of a Cavalry Captain at the first meeting.

At first, it was just another entertainment; he flirted with you, being so natural in this as if it was his personal dialect he used everyday. Well, it wasn't far from wrong. After few minutes the blush couldn't leave your cheeks, leaving your face painted with a rich strawberry scent. He teased you even more until you realised you are too engaged in conversation and cocked your head at the side, trying to hide a blush behind your hair.

And then something went wrong.

You've spent too much time together, and each moment made Kaeya fall in love with you. He didn't know, he doesn't know yet, but his heart started to be blind and slowly started heading towards you every time you smiled at him.

One day he noticed that his heart no longer belonged to him.

If he could turn back time, he would surely try not to fall in love with you. Or he would do everything not to let you meet his not-really-encouraging-to-spend-time-with-and-vice-versa sworn brother.

Really, he could give up taking you to the tavern when he knew that his red-haired relative was right there. At that point, he just felt the need to show you to everyone and wordlessly inform them "she is precious to me, and I will defend her with all my might."

Apparently, Diluc didn't notice the aura of his intentions because he was genuinely interested in a person who would stand up with his brother's quirks („These are secrets," Kaeya corrects every time someone points it out) and without a shadow of a doubt could talk about his disadvantages as advantages.

"You have quite an interesting way of looking at the world," Diluc admitted at one of your random meetings. They happened often; you two even started suspecting each other of tracking each other, but then accepted the fact that whenever any of you will be in a flower shop or going to the library, you will meet the other one on your way there.

"Or I'm pushy because I'm looking for the other bottom in everything," you said, smiling. Diluc also almost smiled in response. "You too, are completely different from Kaeya's descriptions.”

"And... what did he say about me?"

"I'm sorry, but if I told you, you probably would never sell him any alcohol again."

"There, who are you talking about, you two?" Kaeya appeared behind you.

He approached, behaving rather carelessly, though he felt like some invisible force was tightening on his throat. You two looked so good together that with every memory of your view, the needle of jealousy and desperation was sewing through his heart.

And what bothered him the most was the fact that Diluc seemed to like you very much.

Of course, he wanted you two to have a good relationship, but the fact that you spent a lot of time together was very, very, very difficult for him.

Kaeya takes another sip of beer, which this time seems extremely bitter on his tongue. He winces slightly but takes another swallow.

He must have delayed his love confession too much.

A day, no, a few hours would be enough, and everything could've been different. If it weren't for that one evening, when Kaeya decided that he must tell you about his feelings, he would definitely be better without your announcement that you would like him to help you figure out how to confess your love to Diluc.

The heart you've taken from him was broken into pieces. It being overwhelmingly delicate in your hands, was most likely destroyed inadvertently.

...And so, he helped you with your love confession.

After all, he lived with this guy for several years and knew more or less his preferences. Probably, even without his help, Diluc would have accepted your feelings without batting an eye. Kaeya spent a lot of his time watching redhead, and he could tell that these frequent glances towards yourself weren't only a coincidence.

"Only you seem alone in such a grand crowd," says Venti, who sat next to him. Like many other guests, he wears an elegant white shirt with frilly sleeves and black trousers. There is some blush on his cheeks, but even after drinking since the start of the wedding reception, he still manages to look serious.

They haven't talked very often, but as many times they sat together in the tavern and found good drinking companions in each other, they weren't as much of strangers as many could suppose.

"I am being happy for the bride and the groom from a distance," Kaeya replies with harshness in his voice that makes it sound like a growl.

Such a quick excuse could not deceive a poet as skilled in heartbreaking stories as Venti. "I know how losing someone hurts."

Kaeya doesn't ask what he meant. In his head one moment was still playing on repeat; the one when he took you to the altar. He really didn't feel anything, when he was leading you to the groom, who wasn't paying attention to anything but you.

The moment you let go of Kaeya's hand and walked the next steps in that white snow and princess-like gown was the most striking one. With every tap of your heels against the floor, the distance between you two was growing wider.

Kaeya looks at Venti, who rises from his seat and pats him on the shoulder before walking away. He could swear he saw him mouthing “good luck” before disappearing between guests.

It didn't take a minute before you appeared next to Kaeya with a beaming smile on your face.

"Are you having fun?" You ask, and he forces himself to send you a smile, even though for a moment the corners of his mouth trembled uncontrollably.

"Of course," he replies with an eagerness that he tries to raise in himself.

He starts to look for a topic that isn't going to betray his cloudy head. At least not now, when everyone should rejoice for the sake of a new relationship.

His gaze falls on a glass of white wine, which you held in your hands.

"Ah, right," you pick up his gaze. "Diluc chose these wine because he said you somehow recommend that one. He also said they are good for toast."

"Oh? Why don't we raise a toast [Name]?" Kaeya replies, pouring the wine into his glass. He turns to you, now stiffly holding crystal vessel uncomfortably between his fingers.

"What will we raise it for?"

Kaeya cocks his head lightly as if he's trying to come up with a good reason. His gaze wanders to your face, and then he swiftly looks away.

Of course, he knew what he should say in this situation and accept that fact, he wanted to do away with.

"Toast for," He raises a glass, you echo him. A few other guests start to lift their glasses as well. "The bride and her life alongside the man who won the heart competition."

[sohin-ace]

Doppio - Frog Princess

Fairy tale AU and lots of love for my small man.

Doppio dragged his feet across the garden, restless and desperate. He sighed and whined to himself, taking the opportunity of being all alone to voice his pain and concerns, something he was never allowed to do.

"Aww jeez... This prince life isn't made for me..."

He huffed again and tugged at his very uncomfortable, gold adorned collar that was almost suffocating him.

Doppio looked around him, sure enough, the tall trees surrounding him did a great job at hiding him from the potential workers on the castle grounds that could possibly be looking for him.

He could finally have a little moment for himself and sneak out, maybe to cry to himself a little bit.

"O-ow... That still hurts..." The boy whined and rubbed on his bruised fingers, the results of angry professors punishing him for each mistakes he made. "I'm no good, I can't do anything right..."

That's right. Prince Doppio was a clumsy and anxious boy who lacked capacity in every domain. He always tried his best and obeyed every and each order, he wasn't undisciplined, oh no, young Doppio was a good boy.

He was just bad. He hardly managed to keep the required straight stance for more than ten seconds, was better at petting the horses than at riding them, couldn't follow etiquette at all, or protocol, was extremely forgetful and sadly, mother nature did not grace him with the strongest physical traits a young man his age was expected to have.

"Tch... Trish was so popular everyone courted her and she was so easy to marry, but me... No one would want to marry a good-for-nothing like me..."

He angrily kicked some rock and held his back that cracked at the movement, in pain, squeezing his eyes shut and sobbing at the sore feeling. That last lesson of fencing went so terribly wrong, how did the others do it?

"I'm so tired... Why meee...?"

"Ribbit!"

"Huh?" Doppio was startled at the very sudden but intriguing croaky sound and approached its direction near the pond.

He couldn't see anything at first, but then a tiny little creature jumped out of its hiding place. Doppio's honey eyes widened and he quickly wiped his warm tears, crouching down towards the animal.

"A frog!" He exclaimed happily, almost like a small child, new to the world. "Hi! You're so tiny, what's your name?"

"Ribbit!"

He knew very well the animal couldn't respond to him with actual words, but just the feeling of having even a one-sided conversation soothed a bit of his loneliness down. He cupped his hands together to invite the frog in, and the animal obliged by jumping on them.

He looked down and observed the chubby little creature. It had the cutest, roundest eyes, almost sparkly in the dim forest light, its green color was so bright and homogenous, there weren't any marks or patterns that frogs usually had on their skin. Even its limbs were tiny and soft, Doppio couldn't help but pet it with one careful and shaky finger.

"O-ooh! Oh my god!" He squealed uncontrollably. "You're so squishy!"

"Ribbit ribbit!"

The quiet and high-pitched croak felt so pleasant to his ears, it meddled with the sound of the water next to him and made him feel so much at peace. He loved to hear that cute sound and how the frog's belly puffed up like a balloon with each croak.

"What are you? A boy or a girl? I'd say you're a girl because you're super pretty and have a tiny voice."

"Ribbit Ribbit! Ribbit Ribbit!"

Doppio gasped loudly. "D-did I get it right?! Oohh yes!! That's so cool! Well... Not like I would have minded if you were a boy... Or both... Wait, do frogs have genders? Oh it doesn't matter."

The young prince felt like this frog was currently the only thing keeping him sane. He had no one else to talk to, there was no one who actually cared for his own well-being and he had no friends.

The only real person to actually show him some kind of recognition and love was none other than the King Diavolo himself. But even his sweet words and affection seemed somewhat back-handed and laced with pressure and severity.

"You know, you're lucky, little thing..." Doppio started with melancholy. "You don't have to worry so much about your life... I'm bad at everything and I'm all alone... I don't know what to do..."

"Ri-rib, ribbit!"

"Even if a nice princess wanted to marry me, I would turn her down because she would deserve better... Sometimes I wish I could disappear..."

"Ribb-ribbit!"

Doppio's eyes softened on the small frog. That's how sad and pathetic he was. Talking his problems out with a frog.

"Why do I feel like you actually understand me...? Thank you for listening to me and being my only friend."

Without even thinking, he lifted the small frog and brought it towards his face, giving it the tiniest of pecks. He smiled at how weird the feeling was, the animal was cold and slightly humid, a bit sticky too which he did not mind surprisingly.

He sighed and looked up mindlessly before his eyes were suddenly striked by a blinding flash of light.

"Wh-what the hell?!"

The light flashed brighter and brighter, coming from the frog in his hands. What was going on?

Doppio could only drop the creature and shield his eyes with his arms desperately as the frog sparkled like a thousand fireflies and grew in size.

The boy squinted his eyes shut and fell back right onto his butt before he felt a strong weight pressing on him, the mass eventually pinning him down onto the ground.

"U-uughh..." He groaned and rubbed his head, a sharp headache from the harsh light hitting his sensitive eyes still slowly fading.

He looked down only for his eyes to widen like saucers. He couldn't believe what he was currently witnessing and thought that maybe he went blind from the flash and was hallucinating right now.

The weight on top of him revealed to be the figure of a girl laying unconscious. He couldn't see her face buried in his chest, but he could make out her beautiful hair, smooth skin tone and the very frilly green dress she was wearing.

And that wasn't just any dress either, the golden ornaments, the tulle, the silk, the lace, the satin... That was an expensive dress, was she...could she be... A nobleswoman? A baroness? A...

...A princess?

"A-aah..." The girl moaned quietly before pushing herself up, not without struggle and Doppio gasped.

"A-are you okay signori-..." The boy could barely finish his sentence and only mumbled open-mouthed nonsense.

He was beyond mesmerized at the beauty who had just ever-so-slowly lifted her face up to look at him. Her shining wide eyes, her innocent glossy lips, her rose dusted cheeks and her hair framing her perfect face made him believe he just stumbled into some sort of forest Goddess.

"Ah-I... U-uuhm.. Y-you...uh.. W-ah-...eh... I-I'm..." He stammered awkwardly, his brain melting like ice in summer as his face and ears burned a crimson red, his breath catching in his now dry throat.

"Ah! My stars!" The girl gasped as she hovered over the immensely flustered prince. "I am so sorry! I must be crushing you!"

The young girl fretted anxiously before trying to scramble over on her knees and straighten herself up to give the poor man some much needed space, but as soon as she did, she was hit with a wave of dizziness and lost balance again. Doppio was quick to sit up and catch her against his chest, wrapping careful arms around her.

"A-are you okay, miss? What happened to you? What's going on?" The boy asked worriedly, regaining his composure slowly.

"Ah y-yes... It's just... It's been so long since I've been glamoured..."

"You've been... Glamoured?" Doppio couldn't be more confused than this, but the girl explained further as she leaned back slightly.

Her name was Y/N L/N, daughter of the King L/N. Many years ago, she had been the victim of a curse cast by the one and only sorcerer Dio, who was overcome by fury and rage against anyone affiliated with the Joestar Empire, or those who refused to become one of his pets, casting spells after spells, and curses after curses.

"He turned me into a frog and swore to me that nobody would ever come to save me from my demise... But you..." Y/N looked up at Doppio's honey eyes and couldn't help the tears pooling at her eyes.

She was free, at last.

"I was all alone... And you came here... My savior..."

Her soft voice cracked with thick emotions and she stared into Doppio's golden eyes with soft ones, her vision blurred by warm tears. Doppio gasped lightly, moved by her story and she shyly wiped her tears.

"A-ah, forgive me! How shameful of me, to weep in front of a prince like this... I'm just.. So..."

"No, princess, don't apologize." He gently held her wrists to pull them away from her timid face. "You have the right to be overwhelmed... Nobody's here, besides... I cried too, earlier, in front of you. Nothing wrong with showing your emotions."

She sighed dreamily at his gentle words and soft touches, the now more confident boy stirring her heart. "What is your name, my prince?"

"Doppio." He gulped, stiff as a rock at her saccharine gaze and tone. "Doppio Vinegar."

"You're a good person, Doppio..." She breathed out, her words dripping with warm sincerity. Doppio's heart could only skip beats at each and every one of her actions.

The boy may be clumsy and bashful, he surely wasn't dense. He well knew he was deeply falling in love with this frog princess, but something in him told him she may not be completely disinterested in him either, despite his overall appearance and personality.

But maybe, just maybe, it was because she didn't know him enough. She didn't know this extent of his foolishness, how worthless of a man he truly was. This was the perfect opportunity for her to just push him away and run back home, only to never see him again.

But against all he could have ever expected, he was completely shaken out of his low self-esteem filled transe when he felt her leaning her delicate hands and head against his chest, closing her eyes and relishing in his warm hold still on her.

"Prince Doppio... I feel so safe when I'm in your arms... I'll forever be grateful for granting me my deepest wish..." She lifted her head just enough to look at his blushing freckled face, his mouth agape. "How could I ever reward you?"

Was she... Really serious? Nobody has ever told him they felt good around him. Nobody has ever felt safe around the small and skinny man that was Doppio. Could he be strong enough for her?

Well one thing was positive, he didn't want to let her go, and if he had to eat razor blades to protect her, he would do it without batting an eye.

She actually wanted to, or at least seemed to, stay with him. She felt grateful, for him, of all people!

He hoped she wouldn't hear his heart go feral in his chest. She would do... Anything for him? Could he be selfish? Could he ask the inimaginable? Would she say yes? He wouldn't force her but... He would love to think about himself only, just this once in his life.

He had nothing to lose.

He gently grabbed both her hands in his surprisingly big ones, squeezing gently and rubbing his thumbs over her soft skin, as if to want to imprint his love onto her.

"Ma-... Marry me, Princess Y/N!" He confessed with loud yet clear determination. "Please, be mine! I will cherish you like my most prized treasure, you will never be alone and feel unsafe again! I promise my entire life to you, please promise me yours!"

She widened her eyes at his sudden assertiveness and his strong, meaningful words. The pink boy in front of her shook her heart in so many ways, and she had already lost everything to Dio in the past. She had absolutely no reason to deny, now did she?

The girl smiled bright and slowly pulled her hands out of his grasp, only to immediately wrap her arms around her hero's neck, nuzzling her face against him lovingly.

"Yes! I accept... my sweet Doppio."

[qqueenofhades]

I am loving all the Fivan fics. Thank you! I feel like we may now need some good old fashion Fivan hook up. If you’re in the “mood.” Get it? Mood? See what I did there? :)

An excellent idea. So let's have some "yay I survived my interview!" smut. Below the cut for sexy, very NSFW reasons.

The moment he locks eyes with his husband across the dusty, noisy courtyard, crowded fit to bursting with otkazat’sya, Heartrenders, Healers, Fabrikators, Durasts, Squallers, Inferni, horses, pack animals, wagons, and the other detritus of the battalions finally returning from six months on the Fjerdan frontlines, Fedyor Kaminsky knows for an unassailable fact that they are not going to make it to the bedroom. He has been going out of his mind, even if he has been diligently focused on the equally important duty (or so he tells himself) of serving as a guard for the Grisha examiners traveling around the country, providing support for the supply lines to Shu Han, and otherwise trying not to think about the fact that this is the longest they have been separated since they got married. Fedyor is a good soldier, and a loyal servant. He has done his job exceptionally well, and so, off in the godforsaken frozen wastes of Tsibeya, has Ivan. But right now, in a crowd of thousands, the only thing the two of them can hear is each other’s heartbeats, and all they can see is their life.

Fedyor raises a hand, as if he actually needs to do this to let Ivan know that he’s there. Ivan glances at him, shucking his fur hat and ripping open the buttons on his black-embroidered red kefta, now that they’re back in the safety of the Little Palace and don’t have to worry about gunfire. Ivan, curse his contrary northern heart, then turns away to discuss something with the equally dusty general, as if Kirigan didn’t have all that damn time on the road. Fedyor wonders how much trouble he would get into, exactly, if he murdered his commanding officer. Or maybe just gave him a minor heart attack.

It probably only takes a few minutes, though it feels like forever to Fedyor. He is, he likes to think, normally a patient man, but not when he hasn’t seen Ivan for six months and is standing a dozen yards away with a hundred other people and not yet able to touch him. Finally he catches Ivan’s eye again, affects a nonchalant shrug, and turns to leave the courtyard, as if to signal that if Ivan would like to catch up, he should really get on it. Nothing to Fedyor himself, though. He has important things to do elsewhere, do svidaniya.

To Fedyor’s entirely unqualified smug delight, it takes barely thirty seconds until he hears the sound of pounding boots running up at full speed behind him, and breathes a strong smell of horse, sweat, and unwashed Heartrender. That part he is less thrilled about, but in the next instant, a pair of fiercely strong arms are around his waist, he is being pushed into the nearest room with a door that closes and locks, and Ivan growls into his mouth, “You are a little bastard, Fedya.”

Fedyor would answer, but he’s currently too busy making out with Ivan like their lives depend on it, their hands pulling and clutching and seizing fistfuls of each other, the usual desperate ritual that they have to perform after a lengthy separation, checking that everything is real and right and good. Ivan only pulls back long enough to start feverishly unbuttoning Fedyor’s kefta, and the reinforced material hits the floor with an authoritative thump. Fedyor then dives in to take his turn, except Ivan clearly thinks he’s going too slowly, and pulls it off over his head himself, which is not as easy as it looks. Underneath, he’s wearing only his linen undertunic, and then he shucks that too.

Fedyor lets his eyes roam luxuriously over the hard muscles of Ivan’s torso, searching for the subterranean lines of new scars. He can always tell when they’re there, even when the Healers have smoothed them away. He shrugs out of his own tunic, as Ivan has already started on the lacing of his trousers. He accomplishes the necessary revisions, then grabs hold of Fedyor and walks him straight to the nearest flat surface, which as it happens is a wall. A nice wall as walls go – it’s covered with a thick, soft tapestry of someone who appears to be Sankt Vladimir, who is about to get one hell of an eyeful that is probably not at all Saint-appropriate – but still a wall. Fedyor bites a grin, then pants, “Really, Vanya? Can’t even make it to a divan?”

“You want to go find a damn divan?” Ivan, distracted from his frenzy of lust just long enough to (barely) form words, looks vastly irritated. “Or do you want me to fuck you now?”

“I wasn’t aware it was an either/or – ah – situation.” Fedyor gets cut off as Ivan lunges in for another growly, possessive kiss, his big, callused hands clamping firm hold of Fedyor’s hips. They make out with luxurious sloppiness for another minute or two, but Fedyor can’t really wait much longer either. He fumbles for the laces of his own breeches, slipping them off his waist and kicking them free of his feet, as Ivan digs in the pocket of his fallen kefta for the small vial of oil he keeps there. (It’s usually for saddle leather, but it does also have additional purposes.) He flicks it expertly open with one thumb, pours in a palmful, and rubs his hands together to warm them up. Then he grabs Fedyor and pulls him close, slicks them both, and murmurs something incoherent against the back of his neck. Asking, as he still does despite the almost-decade they have been together, for permission.

“Saints,” Fedyor pants, pressing himself back against Ivan with desperate, starving need. “What do you think, you utter blockhead?”

He feels Ivan smile, the rough curve of his mouth against the tender nape of Fedyor’s neck, the scratch of the unshaven stubble on his chin. He takes a better grip on Fedyor’s hips, his knees sliding between Fedyor’s thighs to push them apart, and eases into him. Slowly at first, carefully. Then, all at once, almost savagely, to the hilt.

Fedyor hisses, moans, clutching ragged fistfuls of the tapestry in order to keep his balance, as Ivan presses against him and then into him at full length, joining their bodies in raw and naked and utterly intimate communion. Ivan bites the back of Fedyor’s shoulder and swears again, and Fedyor wriggles his hips to ease the fit, as one of Ivan’s oil-slick hands slips down between them to be sure. Then he reaches up again and clamps his hands over Fedyor’s where they grip the tapestry, crushing their knuckles together with almost bruising force. Then he thrusts with his full strength, pinning Fedyor flat against the wall, and both of them gasp.

Their mental connection, their utter attunement to the other’s heartbeat and body and breath and bone and space, doubles the pleasure like an amplifier, so they feel both their own ecstasy and each other’s, shared and reflected back and magnified until it’s no longer possible to tell which sensation belongs to who. Fedyor is himself, with Ivan inside him, and he is also Ivan inside Fedyor, and he is something both and neither, and whatever prayer he is mouthing now is one that even Sankt Vladimir has never heard. It is heat and hardness and madness, soft for a moment or two and then rough again, delightful, claiming, possibly only between two lovers who know each other as intimately and trust each other as thoroughly as they do. Ivan is hitting the sweet spot in him, over and over until Fedyor thinks his own heart will burst sooner than stand it. Then Ivan’s hands let go of his and grab his waist again, dragging him as close as can be managed as they both lose their minds, and then the rest of them. Fedyor loses his grip on the tapestry and slides down it to the floor.

They remain where they are, breathing wildly, entangled, Ivan still halfway inside him, slick with sweat and having utterly desecrated this nice drawing room that some unsuspecting Grisha will walk into later completely oblivious as to what it has just hosted. Then they hear an imperious voice in the corridor outside. “Ivan? Ivan!”

Saints absolutely strike him dead, it is the general. Even in his dazed post-coital haze, Fedyor is perfectly capable of wishing for it. How the hell has Aleksander bloody Kirigan not had enough time to talk to Ivan already? They’ve been on campaign together for half a year!

The footsteps come closer. “Ivan? Are you in here?”

Swearing for a rather different reason, Ivan pulls away from Fedyor, making both of them moan, and scrambles across the floor on all fours, frantically trying to get dressed before Kirigan barges in without knocking, as he has a bad habit of doing. (When you’re the Black General and this entire palace is your personal fiefdom, why would you bother?) Fedyor likewise does his best to grope wildly for his discarded clothing, but has only managed to lace himself back into his breeches and pull on his under-tunic before the door opens. “Ivan! I need you to check the requisitions for that last – ”

At that, Kirigan stops short, taking in their state of barely-habiliment, Fedyor’s mildly murderous smile, and Ivan’s painfully studied nonchalance. His eyes flick them up and down. “Mr. Kaminsky,” he says. “I’m glad to see you’re welcoming Ivan home?”

“Yes, sir,” Fedyor says, his smile now even more fixed. “Absolutely, sir.”

Kirigan’s dark gaze surveys them again, even as his face remains unreadable. Then he clears his throat and coughs delicately. “The requisitions can wait until after supper,” he says. “Presuming that you make it. Good day.”

(Fedyor and Ivan do not, very decidedly, make it to supper.)

[amphtaminedreams]

Sitting Front Row at...(On a Budget Obvs): Lookbook no.15

Hey to anyone reading!

And welcome to my fave lookbook I’ve done in a longggg ass time! Yes, that’s partially because it involved making collages and doing the low effort work of scouring Vogue Runway for “research purposes”, but I promise, that statement wasn’t made out of COMPLETE laziness-I am super happy with it too. It’s been a good use of pre-part-lockdown-lift time in the interim between that brief period of Christmas celebrations and eateries finally fucking opening again because let’s be honest, I always knew I was gonna get distracted by oat milk vanilla lattes and veggie all day breakfasts once I could actually sit down with them at my fave local cafe. You could say I was very much operating on a self-imposed deadline.

The “what I would wear to sit front row at...[insert designer here]” TikTok/Instagram reel trend was something I wanted to get on board with ever since I first saw one and whilst the option of doing my own live action take-I really cannot bear the thought of having to edit footage of myself awkwardly attempting to sit nonchalantly in front of a camera for hours on end-was off the cards considering my complete lack of screen presence, I decided a Tumblr text post would work just as well, and if not even better in a way. Given the absence of the time limitations you face when you’re making a reel or a TikTok I thought it’d be cool to present the looks as part of a mini moodboard for each designer which adds a bit of context to each look even if you aren’t familiar with their past collections and establishes the general vibe of the brand I’m attempting to replicate. Not to sound snotty or as if I am the font of all knowledge on anything high fashion related but even with my amateur knowledge I noticed that as the video trend took off and was adopted by big name influencers, it became less about the average person putting their own personal spin on the aesthetic of the labels we can’t ordinarily afford and more about them building outfits that only vaguely resemble the general public perception of the brand around the real corresponding (and often gifted and thus inaccessible to someone who doesn’t makes thousands for a sponsored post) pieces they own SO I thought I’d take the trend back to its roots and get a bit resourceful. All that being said, in no particular order, here are the outfits I would wear to sit front row at Gucci, Vera Wang, Miu-Miu, Marc Jacobs, Dolce & Gabbana, Brock Collection, Alexander McQueen, Etro, Burberry aaaand Saint Laurent based on their past collections and guess what? They didn’t cost a shit tonne of money :-)

-disclaimer: will include an asterisk before any new purchases if from a high street store though to be honest, I don’t think there are any, we shall see! I do include where I got old purchases from in case anyone wants to search anything on Depop/Ebay-

1. Saint Laurent (formerly Yves Saint Laurent)

-blazer from identityparty on Depop, pleather trousers from Zara, jewellery from Dolls Kill-

I know technically abbreviating Saint Laurent to YSL doesn’t really make much sense anymore given the brand’s name change in 2012, but I’ll always think of it as that in the same way I’ll always associate it with the slightly dishevelled yet simultaneously glitzy rock n’ roll aesthetic. The thing is, whilst YSL hasn’t done anything wildly out of the box for a long time, it’s rare they put a look on the runway that I wouldn’t wear; they never end up being a fashion week standout but the Parisienne take on grunge we’ve seen Anthony Vaccarello establish as his go-to will always have a place in my heart. 

2. Alexander McQueen

-embroidered leather jacket from Ebay (originally Topshop), harness from Amazon, dress from ASOS, boots from Koi Vegan Footwear-

Alexander McQueen is a brand that is pretty much universally liked, from the historically extravagant and groundbreaking shows the man himself put together to Sarah Burton’s more toned down but still beautiful collections. Obviously I didn’t attempt to do justice to the former, so I tried my hand at putting together a look inspired by Sarah’s blend of delicate femininity and nomadic edge, and it went...okay? Like it’s definitely not my favourite of all the looks because it does give off slightly cheap copycat vibes buuut outside of the context of this lookbook it’s cute.

3. Brock Collection

-boater hat from Ebay, midi skirt from morganogle on Depop, corset top from ownmode_, heels from amybeckett1, bag from Primark-

Brock isn’t as well known a brand as most of the others in this list but I adore everything Laura Vassar Brock does and I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to try and channel the vision of one of the OG pioneers of the cottagecore vibe through my own wardrobe. I mean fr, this woman’s work as a steady provider of meadow photoshoot worthy dresses and corsets and skirts is v slept on and I will not stand for it. I will sit in front of a camera and then write a paragraph in my blog post begging anybody who reads to give LVB (an abbreviation I acknowledge is unlikely to catch on because Lisa Vanderpump anybody?) some form of acknowledgement for her services to period romance novel inspired moodboards everywhere.

4. Marc Jacobs

-coat from House of Sunny, white shirt from Retro World Camden, co-ord from Sugar Thrillz, bag from Poppy Lissiman-

If there’s one thing Marc Jacobs always does, it’s COMMITS. TO. HIS. THEME. I just KNOW he has a secret Pinterest with separate boards for every fashion era of the 20th century and he is putting those boards to good use providing us with collections that are as immersive as they are eclectic year in year out. 

5. Miu Miu

-beret from H&M, hair clips from H&M, jewellery from Primark, coat from mollyyemmaa on Depop, shirt from YesStyle, sweater vest from YesStyle, skirt from Depop, diamanté belt from Brandy Melville, shoes from Koi Vegan Footwear-

We all like to talk about Bratz dolls and Monster High dolls and Barbies as fashion inspo but can we all focus on Cabbage Patch dolls for two secs so as to acknowledge the fact that a Miu Miu collection is basically all their fits grown up? And made boujie as fuck? If I want my fix of Wes Anderson meets Scream Queens (what a combo) inspired outfits, if I want prissy and girlish but also glam, if I want to look like a bratty rich girl whose one redeeming quality is her eye for vintage clothes, I know where to look and that is the Miu Miu section of Vogue Runway. 

6. Vera Wang

-blazer as in no.1, velvet bralet from catdegaris on Depop, harness from Amazon, skirt from Ebay, knee high socks from Ebay, lace up boots from Ebay-

Vera Wang’s RTW aesthetic, a blend of the ethereal, ultra-feminine bridal designs she’s known for and British style punk rock influences, is something I feel has only become firmly established in recent years but it is everything I ever wanted and more. I always find myself trying to balance the part of me that loves everything girly and delicate and pretty and the part of me that would love to be in a biker gang and Vera’s collections are always an inspirational reminder of just how well it can be done.

7. Burberry

-coat from charity shop, suit from emmafisher3 on Depop, top from simranindia, shirt underneath from Zara, jewellery from ASOS-

Now I’m not gonna lie, I’m not the biggest fan of Burberry but there have been a few looks over the past few years I’ve really liked and as someone who owns numerous trench coats, high necks and way too much plaid, I thought it’d be an easy one to replicate. Plus, if you can count on Riccardo Tisci for nothing else you at least can rely on him giving you some layering inspo which is very much needed in a country where it literally just snowed in April and where my plans for today have just been cancelled because the iPhone weather app did a Karen Smith and didn’t predict rain for today right up until it started raining so thanks for that one British meteorologists. Your incompetence strikes again.

8. Etro

-corset from Urban Outfitters, vinyl trench coat from Topshop, boots from Ebay, black slip dress from kaoanaoleinik on Depop, fur trim afghan coat from louisemarcella-

Like with Brock Collection, Etro isn’t a hugely well known brand, but it is always one of my favourites-to add a spanner into the works of any attempts to cultivate a firm sense of personal style, I live for the ornate Bohemian look that Etro does so well just as much as I love both grungy and girly pieces, and so I really wanted to include a brand whose collections go down that route. It was a toss-up between this and Zimmerman, the flirtier, free spirit counterpart to the dark romance of Veronica Etro’s designs; her vision really shines through the most when it comes to the brand’s winter collections, imo, and given that I live in a country where winter or some weather state resembling it does seem to take up 70% of the year, I did decide on channelling her work rather than that of the equally talented Nicky and Simone Zimmermann this time round.

9. Dolce & Gabbana

-flower crown from ASOS, tiara from Amazon, earrings from YesStyle, dress from alicealderdice1 on Depop, opera gloves from Ebay, boots from Koi Vegan Footwear-

D&G is a brand I felt really conflicted about doing-I don’t include their current collections in my fashion week reviews based on the actions of designers Stefano Gabbana and Domenico Dolce over the last few years because I don’t want to mitigate the collective effort of fashion critics to push them towards irrelevancy. Though people like to claim the brand has turned a corner since Lucio Di Rosa was brought on board as the manager of celebrity and VIP relations last year (they are as prolific a force on red carpet fashion as ever), we haven’t seen any real meaningful apologies or reparations made by Dolce and Gabbana themselves which once again leaves us in the all too familiar quandary of whether or not we can separate the art from the artist especially when it is far too much of a simplification to only credit the two men for their work given there’s a whole design team behind them. There are a LOT of shitty people working in fashion, the whole industry is a bit of a cesspit if we’re honest, but I don’t think that should stop us from at least being able to appreciate old collections if we make sure we aren’t engaging in any kind of promotion of current works whilst doing so. D&G are a brand of high highs and low lows, with looks that range from hideously ugly to showstoppingly beautiful in a single show-when the looks are good, they are GOOD-and their presence in the fashion world is most definitely felt whether we want it to be or not. It would just be shit to refuse to recognise the existence of some real iconic runway moments, the practical work that went into the ornate detail and opulence that helped cement D&Gs place in sartorial history, the styling that’s made goddesses and fairytale queens out of modern day women as they’ve glided down catwalks, the far more extravagant and, let’s be real, sexier version of our world D&G shows have transported us to in the past. Will I talk about D&G ever again? No, and if you Google the scandals their brand has faced over the past few years, there are more than enough reasons why, but just this once I did want to pay homage to some of the collections, the snippets of which I saw on my Tumblr dashboard back when I was about 13, that first got me into fashion.

10. Gucci

-fur coat from Topshop, clips from Zaful, glasses from Ebay, dress from gracewright246 on Depop, shirt from Boohoo, blazer from charity shop-

Now last but, if you ever read any of my fashion week reviews (the likelihood of someone actually having read one of them and reading this is incredibly, incredibly slim lol, I wouldn’t read me either) you’ll know, definitely not least, is Gucci because Alessandro Michele comes through every!! single!! time!!

The man is truly the king of quirky throwback maximalism and it hurts my heart that a lot of people seem to think of it only as a brand associated with ostentatious displays of wealth. Year after year since Michele was made creative director he has released purposeful, fully-fleshed out collections which unravel themselves to us on the runway like time capsules containing the belongings of the rich and whimsical and yes that can sometimes result in outfits which are *ahem* a bit mismatched but it doesn’t matter because through fashion he manages to take us to a vivid version of the past where people could dress as freely and lavishly as they wanted to, into the wardrobe of a person unaffected by the side-eyeing of others. You get the impression he doesn’t design so much as plays around with some kind of enchanted dress up box and takes inspiration from there and to give that impression is only a credit to his talent-to make outfits so kooky and extravagant look like they were meant to be takes a boldness and genuine love for clothes that I do tend to feel a lot of the big name designers have lost in the pursuit of profit and the necessary placating of the dying customer base that keeps that coming in. Of course I'm not for a second saying Gucci does not care about profit, but at the very least, they have on board a creative director who genuinely has fun with what they’re putting out there and wants to make a statement too and that really shows; you can rest on your laurels and sell tweed boucle jackets to rich old white women for eternity but nobody’s going to mention your brand name and the word groundbreaking in the same sentence ever again unless they’re talking about what it was a century ago, you know (mentioning no names...unless...did I hear someone say Chanel)? That feels like such a shady way to end, lol, but I’m sure said brand will survive-to be fair, they’ve been included in every other What I’d Wear to Sit Front Row At video I’ve seen so although I’m always slagging them off for doing the saaaaame thinggggg year after year, for that same reason their aesthetic is instantly recognisable and so will always be a source of imitation. There are obviously pros and cons to being a brand which constantly reinvents itself but I think it’s totally possible to do that whilst maintaining an overall mission, and Alessandro Michele’s work at Gucci demonstrates that with ease.

Anyway, if you got to here, thanks for reading! I know I’m super behind on this whole TikTok trend and I know a Tumblr post instead of a video is a bit of a cop out but all the real, physically awkward ones out there know that watching yourself back is excruciating lmao, so I hope this does the trick. After this, I’m gonna get back to the reviewing S/S21 collections post though knowing me I’ll probs take a few days to get back into that because I feel like since I left full-time education (RIP me going back in a few months) writing continuously like this for any longer than about 15 mins fries what brain cells I have left. Again, thank you for reading and if you are, sending many good vibes your way! Stay safe!

Lauren x

[s-c-r-i-p-s-i]

MyQuil™ Cold & Flu: Powerful Nighttime Relief

🖤  🖤   🖤  

Pairing: Laurie Strode x Michael Myers

Rating: Mature

CW:  Incest, nonconsensual cuddling

Word Count: 2,277

Summary:

Textbooks were strewn across her messy bed with good intentions, peppered with crumpled up dollar store tissues that rubbed her nose raw. A full, unopened bottle of NyQuil sat on the nightstand, taunting her; she’d bought it as a last resort but was too stubborn to actually touch the damn thing.

She was already disgustingly vulnerable as it was. No need to sign, seal, and deliver an invitation to the Devil himself.

Notes:

Thank you so much for commissioning me, Beck!!! It was a joy to delve into this ship. 🖤 I think it was kinda taboo to talk about this ship even on the DBB server until you broke the ice and I'm eternally grateful because it's a GOOD one.

& Thank you to Pugge for coming up with this GODAWFUL title, and buying me boba, and keeping me sane ILY MY MUSE, MUAH 😘 🖤 🖤 🖤

Michael had never stopped chasing her. Nor she him.

And that balance was more delicate than she’d like to admit. Always the looming sense that despite everything she did, all the measures she took, she wasn’t completely in control.

Turns out that feeling was right. She just wasn’t expecting that her greatest enemy would be her own body crapping out on her.

Textbooks were strewn across her messy bed with good intentions, peppered with crumpled up dollar store tissues that rubbed her nose raw. A full, unopened bottle of NyQuil sat on the nightstand, taunting her; she’d bought it as a last resort but was too stubborn to actually touch the damn thing.

She was already disgustingly vulnerable as it was. No need to sign, seal, and deliver an invitation to the Devil himself.

You know - she was willing to bet he didn’t have to put up with this kind of thing. But that would be opening up a train of thought she’d rather not have.

It was cold in the apartment. Laurie never put the heat above 60 degrees. And any other day, that would have been perfectly manageable, but she’d soaked clean through her sheets overnight with sweat, and now she was freezing.

Sarcastically, she wished Michael was there so that he could put her out of her misery then instantly regretted it, chastising herself and wondering when her sense of humor had gotten so dark. The answer, though, was obvious. He’d changed her. Morphed her, warped her. She couldn’t even relate to her peers anymore. And they certainly couldn’t relate to her.

She was in some half-state at the moment. Awake enough - the bitter cold made sure of that - but too sore and lethargic to actually do anything about it. Just lying there shivering wasn’t going to be very productive, though. At some point, she’d need to decide what she was going to do, whether that was sleep or study or… what.

Droopy eyes blearily drifted over to the alarm clock. 3 AM.

God. The whole day. Gone.

Her gaze wandered over to the television playing quietly in the background, its soft light playing across the walls. Had she really left that on? Falling asleep on the couch in front of the TV had been commonplace as a kid, or while she was babysitting, but now… Well, she preferred to be able to hear her surroundings.

How unlike her to forget...

Wouldn’t hurt to leave it, would it? She wondered with a shiver, eyes slipping closed. Just this once…?

Impossible to tell if it was seconds or hours that had passed when Laurie awoke with a start at the sensation of the bed moving under someone’s weight. Eyes cracking wide open, she stared at the wall in front of her, the way her heart kicked a crater in her chest immediately sobering.

She knew. Exactly. Who it was.

It sounded ludicrous, even to her. She wanted to doubt. To believe that there was a thin margin it could really just be a very… very foolish burglar. But she knew better than that.

So… what should she do?

The obvious answer was fight, but something told her not to move. Not yet. Wait. See if she could map out her attacker’s positioning first; anticipate what he was going to do. She might only have one chance. Had to make it a good one.

Strategically, she was in a tough spot. Her bed was adjoined by the wall on two sides so that she couldn’t be snuck up on from behind, but evidently, she’d gotten turned around in her sleep - all that feverish tossing and turning. Now she was facing the wall and flying completely blind.

It took all her willpower not to move, scraping, with tooth and nail the bottom of the barrel of her everything. Defying every instinct, every ache in her muscles to do otherwise. She could hear him swiping her textbooks out of the way like a cat knocking things off the table with zero regard for her personal belongings; one of them audibly smacked the floor and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

In the past three years since that one fateful Halloween and everything proceeding it, Laurie had seen him a handful of times. But never this close. Just glimpses, here and there. Hard to tell what was real and what was just… unchecked psychosis. (She refused to do something so foolish as dull her senses while he was still out there - fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. She wasn’t going to let anyone else die if she could help it.)

He seemed to come and go like a stray. Sometimes leaving evidence in his wake. Missing clothes… things in the wrong place. Hard to tell if he was trying to bait a reaction out of her, or if he just… didn’t care enough to try and cover his tracks.

On a dangerous whim, she’d tried to chase him down a couple of times. It never amounted to anything, though. Wouldn’t be seen unless it was on his terms.

To think he was nearly in her grasp now…

She tried to make the move as natural as possible, like she was merely shifting in her sleep as she crawled her hand beneath her pillow and wrapped her trembling fingers around the hilt of the knife stowed away safely underneath. If she wasn’t already sweating, she would have started now.

He seemed to hesitate behind her, as if unsure if she was awake or not - though she knew better than to think it was out of fear. She got the impression that, for whatever reason, he didn’t want her to be awake for this.

Well, fat chance, it was like an elephant stepping onto the bed. He had to weigh some two hundred and something pounds.

For a moment, they were both perfectly still.

Then he began to move again, lifting the blanket up and… keeping it there. She could feel the cold air on her sweat-damp skin, on her bare legs and hip, her nightshirt having ridden up in the middle of the night.

There was a pang in her shoulder, a desperate urge to preserve her modesty and yank it back down over her ass, because she could feel his eyes burning into her.

It drew out too long, and something inside her snapped. “Michael!” Laurie whipped around, the words hissing through her teeth, sharp and scolding, before she could even stop herself.

Her heart dropped to her stomach as soon as she realized what she’d done.

There was a long pause. Odd, how much she could interpret from the silence, even without a real face to put to it. He was definitely… thinking. Contemplating something, staring at her with those mismatched eyes from behind his mask.

She did that to him. It was a point of pride for her, and maybe it shouldn’t have been, but the physical proof she could leave lasting damages on him was… Satisfying.

Whatever he was set on doing, he apparently decided to carry on with it even if she was awake, the weight of his knee pressing into the mattress as he loomed into her space.

Digging her heels into the bed, she kicked herself back until she felt the wall behind her, but he just wouldn’t stop.

She had to strike now.

Fingers tightening around the knife, she lunged for his throat, only to be brought to a screeching halt mid-air as his hand clamped around her wrist. A metallic clatter jarred her, Michael dropping his own knife so that his other hand was free to pry her stiff fingers off the blade one by one, until there was a second clattering as it too hit the floor.

Then he shoved her back onto the bed with such effortless force she bounced on the bedsprings.

Like a snake coiling and striking she reared her leg back and kicked right for the center of his gravity, but he just snatched her ankle, yanking her down a couple of inches.

Her stuffy head was spinning from all this motion, a twinge of pain blooming behind her eyes. And she didn’t know what his end goal was, but that didn’t stop her from thrashing and kicking up a storm as he manhandled her around, her own hair flying in her face, bodies bumping until she didn’t know what was direction was up.

Far too quickly, she wore herself out, the fight slowly leaving her as her body went lax, panting for breath and mind reeling as her brain tried to catch up and physically place herself, because she wasn’t getting anywhere struggling mindlessly.

She was on her side, her back pressed up against what she was fairly certain was his front, in some vicious mockery of spooning, and he was just pinning her there with both arms, waiting it out. A patient boa constrictor.

After a moment of her just lying there, one of his hands moved from around her waist to her arm - she jerked as if to elbow him, but it was a feint, and a weak one at that; she didn’t have the strength to put any real oomph into it. Her whole world was pulsing, dilating and constricting, blood rushing through her ears. No thought. Just raw nerve. A bird that’s just flown into a window.

Gradually, she realized he was examining her scar. Prodding and pushing at it, using his thumb and forefinger to pinch and stretch at the skin. She wondered if he felt the same way about it as she did the marks she’d made on him; satisfied. That same primitive feeling of ‘I made this.’

The number of times they’ve been this close have been few and often far between - and always chaotic, no time to smell the roses, as it were. Maybe that’s what he was doing. Examining her while he had the chance, while she was too weak and tired to yowl and spit and kick and fight. Playing with his food. Pushing the peas around on his plate.

It was strange, feeling him treat this permanent artifact of violence that he put there with such… He wasn’t being gentle, exactly. But something about it felt so antithesis all the same.

Grabbing her wrist and pulling her arm up and out from the blankets, he pressed his thumb into her palm and firmly rolled his giant fingers across her metacarpals neither gently nor ungently, more like he was trying to feel out her skeletal structure.

Strangely, it didn’t feel awful. Something about it redirected straight to her stomach, a light, lurching feeling but not an unpleasant one. It wasn’t that off from a manicure massage thought she knew without a shadow of a doubt pampering her was not his intent.

He was just being a creep. Like normal. Just… a lot closer than usual. So close she could hear his breathing. Feel his breathing, despite the number of barriers that should have prevented it; hot and warm on the back of her neck.

It wasn’t long before she felt his fingers creep into her hair. She allowed it. What the hell else was she going to do? In the same off, incidental way, it wasn’t the worst. Didn’t feel deliberately nice, but that’s because it wasn’t, it wasn’t for her benefit at all. And yet, every movement had tingles shooting down her scalp, it was so unexpectedly good.

A number of things to call him came to mind. Pervert being one of the first, though she wasn’t sure that’s what this was about. Maybe she was the weird one, for feeling anything other than utter revulsion at him touching her like this. He was her brother, for God’s sake.

She began to zone out while he messed around; Michael eventually moved on from her hair, but by the time he did, she was nearly half-asleep from the warmth he was radiating, finding it a whole new struggle just to stay awake. A grope at her elbow, here. A touch of her knee, there. Invasive. Bothersome. But non-threatening enough that she was starting to slip against her will. At one point, her aching eyelids had dropped closed and she hadn’t managed to reopen them since.

Unbothered, he continued exploring, his finger pushing past her lip to feel at the gum of her canine, while she mumbled some vague groan of complaint, gently kicking him in the shin. Everything felt so sensitive. Ooey, gooey, sick and vulnerable, and tired.

And then, his fingers found her hip bone, pressing deeply, and something sharp ran through her, zinging through the fog.

He was all over her, Laurie couldn’t even keep track anymore, her breathing starting to pick back up as his hands roamed over her. The next thing she knew, Michael was running his hand up the column of her throat and the sensation went straight to between her legs. Arching, she shifted in search of friction, only to feel an almost painfully unyielding hardness poke at her tailbone.

Oh.

There was a definite pause before Michael removed his hand from her neck, returning to constricting her in place with both arms so tightly she was unable to move- which was probably the point, but what it felt like, was that he was trying to grind their bones together until she was absorbed into him completely; to solder them, the gap between them only ever arbitrary to begin with.

Eventually, she melted into his hold, the last pale dregs of fight left within her evaporating as she drifted off to sleep.

🖤 🖤 🖤

Thank you for reading!!! Please comment if you enjoyed; I am but a simple goblin who thrives on external motivation. You can find my socials on my carrd! Follow me on Twitter! Or, join the 18+ DBD thirst server 🔞 Dead by Baelight 🔞 here!

[thecowardwrites]

Fifty Shades of Gwaine Part Three

Part Three: The Feast

One more part uploaded! I know it doesn’t take long to transfer one piece at a time, but linking everything takes some time (and I don’t want to overwhelm peoples notifications or dashboard with a shit ton of random writing)

| Series Masterlist | Ao3 | Previous Part | Support me | 

Summary: It’s finally time for the feast, and once again Sir Gwaine is slinking his way into your thoughts.

Warnings: None

Words: 3.2k

<><><><>

In escaping Sir Gwaine and the butterflies, which happened to invade your stomach the two times you seemed to meet him, you were left wandering around the corridors and guessing at which direction to take. Usually, you were never left without a “guide” when you were commissioned for noble families. You did suspect, though, that was more for their comfort than yours. In other words, they wanted to make sure you didn’t have sticky fingers and steal something from them.

“I should’ve asked him where to go,” You mumbled to yourself after taking another wrong turn, leading you back to the entrance of your room. “I’m such an absolute imbecile.”

“That seems rather harsh,” A familiar voice piped up. You glanced over to where Merlin was leaning against your bedroom door, apparently you hadn’t noticed him standing there. Probably too distraught at having gone around in a giant circle to take notice of the serving boy waiting for you.

“Oh, thank goodness,” You breathed a sigh of relief, “Can you tell me how to get to the banquet hall, I had to have been wandering around for hours. How late am I?”

“You’ve only been walking around for the last forty-five minutes according to the guards that saw you leave,” He chuckled, “And, consequently, you’re only about ten minutes late.”

You cringed, realizing you could have just asked the guards stationed in every hallway where to go. “I gather that this won’t be a very good first impression, will it?”

Merlin pretended to think about it for a moment, tapping a finger on his chin in faux thought. “I’d say it makes you more fashionably late.” He grinned at you after making his decision on what to say.

“Well then, good sir,” You exaggerated your voice into an overdramatic, posh accent, “Would you do me the absolute honor of being my escort to such a prestigious event?”

“Of course, Madam,” Merlin attempted a deep bow but wavered, making it look more like he was stumbling. When he arose, his face was plastered with a lopsided, goofy grin, and you couldn’t help but laugh with him.

After taking a moment to compose yourselves, he juts out his elbow for you to take. Which you accepted by linking your arm through his. It wasn’t so much of a dainty hold, rather than having your arms hooked together by the elbows. It was friendlier that way, you thought, made it feel more equal.

“Who all will be there again?” You asked him as you approached a grand door that you could only assume was where the feast would be held.

“Just the king, the queen, the five knights of the round table, my mentor Gaius, and your favorite person in the world and savior. Just a hint that’s me, Merlin.”

“I’m so glad you’ve claimed that title for yourself, Merlin.” You grin, “Without that clue I would have never known who my favorite person in the world is.”

“All in a day’s work, my fair lady.” The two of you stopped in front of the ornate doors of the throne room, turned banquet hall, and waited for the guards to allow you to enter.

“Before we go in, I must ask,” You tugged on his arm slightly, “If you’re my favorite, then am I yours?”

“Well,” He sucked in a breath and cocked his head to the side, “I’m afraid that has to go to Gwaine right now, I promised him  he would be for the week.”

“Next week then?”

“No good, reserved for Leon.” The guards had started to open the doors for you now.

“Put me at the next available week and then let me know,” You chuckled before the two of you were finally entering the room you had searched an eternity for. Okay, it wasn’t really an eternity – it wasn’t even an  hour, but it was long enough to make you elated to finally be inside.

“Ah, finally Merlin has finally done something useful,” King Arthur exclaims, standing as he sees the both of you, “Welcome, again, Lady Y/N, to Camelot. We are excited to have you here.” The rest of the room following suit to stand as their king did.

“I am very excited to be here,” You announce with a grin as you approach the open seat next to the queen that King Arthur had gestured to. As delicately as you could, you took to your seat while the rest of the room took theirs as well.

“I hope your room is to your satisfaction.” King Arthur spoke as Merlin bounced over to fill his goblet.

“It is amazing, your majesty. I thank you for accommodating me so well.”

The queen, Gwen, responded while Arthur was taking a sip of the wine that was just poured. “It’s no problem. We have more than enough space.”

“Plus,” King Arthur added after, “You are forced to look at my men’s mangey faces for months on end. I feel as though I should be apologizing for asking you to do this.”

You simply laugh at his words along with the few surrounding you, as you take a chance to look over the men that were sharing the banquet with you.

The seven men (including Merlin and Gaius) that the king trusted the most were in this room. It sounded like so few people to trust fully as a ruler, but at the same time the knights made the grand room feel full. Their laughter echoing off the walls, the way they threw themselves around while telling stories and joking about. It seemed like they were more like a family than just a king and his knights.

Glancing around, you took notice of one closest to you who seemed a little less comfortable than the others. The boy was quite a bit younger than the rest of them, and you even. He had dark, wavy hair and the brightest blue eyes you’d ever seen. He wore the same chainmail and cape as the knights - he wore the uniform well. Yet, you could tell he felt slightly left out. Maybe he was the last to join their circle, maybe his age made him somehow separate from them. Maybe he was a secret agent that works for the moon, you never know.

Next to the boy, was an extremely tall man. His arms, apparently too large for the chainmail, were bare and looked like they could tear boulders in half. His hair was cropped close to his scalp, and his face looked as though it was sculpted of stone. If you hadn’t seen him here, smiling and laughing boisterously with the others, you would think him a brutal, frightening man.

You continued observing each of the men in the room. The knight with a mop of curly hair, the one who struck a striking resemblance to Gwen, the old man with locks of white hair and eyes that drooped, and, finally, your eyes fell to Gwaine. The way he threw his head back when he laughed, and how his hair seemed to blow in some imaginary wind. Funnily enough you also heard angels singing which was weird?

As if Gwaine sensed your eyes on him, he stifled his laughter and looked in your direction. He had no shocked reaction to finding your gaze already lingering on him, in fact, he seemed pleased to know that he had drawn your attention. You were sitting almost directly across the table from him, so it was an easy enough excuse to say you had zoned out and your eyes happened to rest on him. But the excuse was (already) futile, especially when you had no way to explain yourself in the loud room.

“He has been looking at you all night,” Gwen leaned over and whispered to you.

“Who?” You tore your eyes away from Gwaine to look over at the queen.

“Sir Gwaine,” She stated, “I think he’s been showing off a bit more than usual, too. Perhaps he has a little crush on our lovely painter.”

Your cheeks flamed up at her words, “Surely not. We’ve barely met.”

“But you have met?” She took a sly sip at her own wine and looked at you from the corner of her eyes. You could tell by the way her lips quirked into a small grin that she was enjoying teasing you. You, in a less dignified manner, began opening and closing your mouth like a fish choking on air.

“He saw… saw me in the town square. We just kind of introduced ourselves from there.” Your neck and ears began heating up with your words. They weren’t lies, but it wasn’t the full truth. It’s not even like you had met in a scandalous way, either. You – for whatever reason – just couldn’t seem to bring up exactly how you had met. Maybe the embarrassment of how you’d wrongfully accused him of trying to arrest a child had been more brutal than you thought, or maybe it was the way he shamelessly flirted with you and how that made you run away. Who knows?

The queen just let out a knowing hum before her focus was drawn away by King Arthur starting a conversation about something that seemed important. You drowned out their words, and once again, looked back towards Sir Gwaine’s, now empty, chair.

Puzzled, you looked up and down the long table, wondering where he might have moved but he was nowhere in sight. You grumbled to yourself, trying to balance the disappointment of his disappearance with logic. The logical side of you was telling you to stop fawning over a man you had seen maybe four times, while the part of you that was fed way too many love stories wanted to believe that he did have a crush on you. Though, as adults a crush seems like a silly thing to get excited for.

Brushing away thoughts of the dark-haired knight, you turn towards… another dark-haired knight.

“Hello,” You interrupted the boy’s thoughts, “I’m Y/N.”

“Mordred.” The boy gave you a small smile, “I’ve seen some of your work in another kingdom we had to visit a few months back.”

“Oh?” A wave of calm washed over you. You knew how to talk about work and if that’s what Mordred wanted to talk about, then you were more than pleased to oblige. “How’d you like it? Be honest.”

“I’ve never really had an eye for anything like that, but you’re pretty good.” His cheeks tinted pink a little as he spoke. Assuming it had to do with not talking to people very often, you continued on.

“Thank you, I think. I’ll take it as a compliment even if it wasn’t.” Your light laughter filled the space between you and Mordred’s tension began to melt away slightly.

The rest of your dinner was spent in between conversations with Mordred and Gwen. It was a relief to have a few people by your side that you felt at ease with, and, as Merlin eventually joined the three of you, your brain was completely void of a certain knight that had seemed to be your subject of infatuation for the day. Perhaps tomorrow you would have forgotten all about him.

<><><> 

The following morning, you awoke to the bright sun pouring in from an open window and the sounds of birds chirping happily in the trees. Had it not been for your wine-induced headache and the incessant clanging of metal that accompanied the sun and the birds, you might have had a truly peaceful lie in. However, that’s not what the gods had planned for you that day.

Rolling out of your (extravagant) bed, you place a thin robe over your nightgown and move towards the window that was somehow opened now. Even though, you were sure it was closed the night before.

Leaning against the rock window frame, you glance down at an open, green arena. It was lined with wooden dummies with armor placed haphazardly on them, and various weapons resting along the fence. Upon further observation, you also noticed a dozen or so men sparring in one section of the grassy area.

They were obviously Knights of Camelot, that much your hungover brain could put together, but why they were up so early and disturbing your sleep was something that could hardly be forgiven. But, standing by the window had let the sun melt across your cheeks, and the warmth that followed it was so welcoming, you couldn’t bring yourself to move from your position.

With a satisfied sigh, you slowly dropped into a chair by the window, lay your head in your arms on the frame, and watch the knights as they did their early morning training. Perhaps you had been too quick to mentally snap at the way they trained first thing. It provided you with entertainment while your face basked in the sun on an early summer’s day.

You had dozed in and out during your morning show. Sometimes waking up just enough to catch a glimpse at a shiny knight win his spar, and other times completely imagining an entirely different world as you once again lost consciousness.

“Y/n!” The voice was distant, and you assumed it was another dream. So, you let the voice lull you back to sleep. Afterall, it was just as warm and smooth as the sun felt dancing upon your skin. It must’ve been a dream.

You heard it again, “Y/n!” The voice just begging you to stay asleep for five more minutes. Just a few more moments before reality came crashing in.

The third time your name was called, however, is what drew you out of your slumber. Because you knew that voice. That wasn’t the sultry sound of a fantasy. That was reality.

Picking your head up from its position on the windowsill, you glanced down where the voice was coming from. There, below you, stood Sir Gwaine. He had on a white cotton shirt that clung to his shoulders and his abdomen with sweat. You could tell that his hair was curling with moisture, and he was heaving from the morning workout.

“Enjoying the show?” He shot up at you, a lazy smile transfixed on his face.

“I was,” You yelled down to him, stifling a yawn, “But it seems it’s all over now.” The rest of the knight were not to be seen, as you assumed they went back to do some knightly duties of some sort. You weren’t really sure what they did during the day whenever they weren’t training.

“How did you sleep?”

“Oh, just fine,” Your voice quipped with sarcasm, “Until these rowdy boys and their metal swords woke me up.”

“I wish I could do something to fix your burden,” He shifted from one leg to the other as he spoke, looking strangely energized for someone who should be ready to drop with exhaustion, “Alas, I am but a simple man with so little control over the king’s schedule.”

“A schedule you don’t seem to follow regularly.” You added.

“What do you mean?”

“I know for a fact you weren’t there first thing this morning when training started,” Your face held a smug smile, happy that you had caught him slacking off and giving you something to tease him about.

“And how would you know that, Lady Y/n? Were you,” He paused to purse his lips, “Were you looking for me?”

Your lazy demeanor had completely vanished. Previously, he was the one at fault. Albeit it was just because he was late to a sparring session, but he was the one under the spotlight. But, as he looked up at you with an innocent pout adorning his face, claiming that you were the one that had their hand in the cookie jar, you wished you had never crawled out of bed.

“I – I was not!” You claimed, but it was too late. “Not looking for you, specifically.”

“Oh?” Gwaine placed his hand on his heart, “Then who were you looking for?”

“I… I wanted to see if Mordred was down there. I think I’m going to sketch out his portrait first today.” You silently praised yourself for a quick (though not smooth) save, “I just happened to notice you were not among the original men I saw.”

You could tell he didn’t believe you; even from twenty feet in the air, you could see the disbelief painted across his face. Though, it didn’t matter as he dropped the subject.

“I’ll let him know you’re looking for him,” He turned around to head back into the castle, before shooting one more phrase your way. “While I like your hair like that, if I were you, I’d check to make sure an animal didn’t nest in it while you were sleeping.”

With a disgruntled squeak, you slam your window shut and rush over to the mirror to check how bad your bed head truly was. It was pretty bad, and you swore you could hear Gwaine cackling from outside.

It took the better part of an hour to detangle and plait your hair, get dressed, and head off in search of Mordred with your sketchbook. It wasn’t an extravagant book: loosely bound with twine and leather, some pages were stained a dark yellow from wear, and it was only half full. But it was a gift and you cherished it deeply.

Just as you had opened your door, you were almost hit in the face with a fist. Basically, throwing yourself back, you look at the person standing in front of your door absolutely horrified.

“I am so sorry,” Mordred gushed, “Gwaine told me you wanted to talk to me. I didn’t realize you were opening your door-“

“It’s okay,” You reassured, letting out a breathy laugh, “I wanted to know if you were free so I could get some sketching done for your portrait.”

“I’m sure I can spare an afternoon.” He grinned.

“Perfect! I just want to get a few angles of your face drawn and planned out so I can see what the best pose for your portrait would be.”

“It sounds like a good plan, where should we go?” Mordred followed you as you strolled out of your room and down the stairs that you learned lead outside.

“Anywhere that has good lighting at this hour,” You skipped down the stairs, excited to get to know more of a Camelot while also learning about Mordred. You’d hoped he would become a friend during your stay here. If anything, your conversations from last night seemed like a good starting point.

“I think I know just the place then,” Mordred gave you a small smile before throwing open a side door and leading you through the courtyard of the palace.

You followed him between a few shops in town and through a bit of shrubbery until he stopped. Using an arm to sweep a tree branch obscuring your view of the spot, Mordred let out a “Here it is.”

You could only say one thing:

“Wow.”

 <><><><>

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[squarecarousel]

Challenge 144: 10 Years, Looking Forward: A-Frame Studio Life Buckle up-- this is a long one! Wow, ten years. It’s hard to believe a whole decade has passed since Square Carousel began, and since I graduated college. In some ways, it feels like another lifetime, and in others, it feels vastly shorter than the decade before that, from ages 12 to 22. Time is fascinating that way. College was such an incredibly impactful time period, but just a measly 4 years-- I could have done college 2.5 more times back-to-back in the years since I graduated, but somehow those four, from 2007-2011 were monumental.  It’s hard to believe I’ll be in a post-college world without Square Carousel, since the group has been a constant in my life these last ten years. I’m really proud that we made it this far and are able to choose to end the journey, rather than it fizzling out or dying from lack of interest. Sometimes it felt like that might happen, but other times it felt like we were blooming. There have been many ups and downs over the course of this journey. And damn, it was a lot of hard to work to keep running, but I am so grateful for the learning experience. I know so much more about leadership now than I ever would have before-- the delicate balance of having rules to keep the group running (deadlines, participation requirements, our dreaded “strike system”) and keeping up morale (knowing when to forgive slip-ups, keeping challenges sufficiently entertaining and well...challenging, making sure the group feels like it’s a community). Elizabeth and I were reluctant leaders, just naturally having to take those roles as other original members of the group left and were replaced by folks who needed guidance. We definitely didn’t seek it out, but we knew that if the group were to stay alive, we had to put some structure into the system. Pretty early on we made our rules and guidelines, extended the challenges to 3 weeks from just 2, and worked on our visual image online. Our awesome logo was made by former member Casey Crisenbery, and we switched from Wordpress to Tumblr, purchasing a URL, and Casey using special code for custom organization on the site. Sketch critiques were now a halfway point through our 3 weeks-long challenge, which helped a lot with the community aspect and engagement. We started doing interviews for each member, reaching out to other illustration groups, blogs and submission sites and had our work featured on a few of them. Some of us even got jobs from the connections made through Square Carousel!  There was a bad stretch several years ago when I wasn’t sure we’d make it through, with toxic behavior and a few folks petitioning for removing deadlines and structure, making everything optional. One thing I can tell you with certainty after ten years of working with artists is that 95% of us require deadlines to do anything, and incentives/obligations for meeting those deadlines, or it just isn’t going to happen! Elizabeth and I, along with a few other solid members, were able to keep the structure we’d worked hard to create, but the toxic culture had already killed group morale and we lost a lot of members simultaneously. That was a sad and scary time for Square Carousel, but I didn’t want to go out on a sour note. So the small group of us picked the pieces back up again, did a little refocus on our goals as a collective and created an “Admin” so Elizabeth and I didn’t have to carry the entire burden alone. I am forever grateful to Sayada and Jordan for stepping up into these roles to help us get the train back on track. Sayada especially picked up a lot of responsibilities that a newer member shouldn’t have to worry about, and was a total rockstar for Square Carousel. I wish we’d had her with us for the whole ride. I’m so happy that we’ve had a few really great years with some really loyal and talented artists to round out the experience at Year Ten.  There is nobody I’m more thankful for than my Good Cop, Elizabeth, though. She was so reliable, always able to provide balance in our leadership roles, and such a wonderful shoulder to cry on when things got too stressful. Elizabeth, thank you for this journey and for being my SC Wife all these years! It’s so funny because of all the original members, you were one of the only ones I hadn’t really known from SCAD classes, yet you’re the SCAD Illustration friend I have remained most connected to most consistently. Nothing bonds you quite like running an illustration collective does! It also cracks me up that in all these years, we hadn’t ever facetimed or talked on the phone until a few months ago--I didn’t even know your mannerisms or voice, but knew you so well anyway. My greatest internet friend! I love you dearly and it truly won’t feel right, the absence of our weekly SC conversations. Thank you for all of the memories! As just a member and artist, this group has helped me grow so much professionally. It was my client when I didn’t have clients. It was my motivation to paint when I didn’t feel creative. It was my source of portfolio-worthy work, but also my safe place to experiment and fail when I was trying something new. The girl who started as a Square Carousel member freshly graduated in 2011 was working part-time at Urban Outfitters, had basically no money, and no clue how to promote herself. The “studio” was a corner of the bedroom and nobody took her seriously. But a stubborn dedication and the security, purpose and structure of Square Carousel helped the slow change from that lost girl to a full-time freelancing woman. Now, in 2021, I have been doing freelance illustration fully for six years, through contract jobs, editorial, publishing, advertising, commission and local work, as well as selling prints and products online, in local shops and events. I am not making the big bucks, certainly, and I still have goals I’m working towards, but damn, if that isn’t a glow-up, I don’t know what is. Thank you for helping me achieve my impossible dream, Square Carousel, and always being a place with the right amount of advice, support and critique. Ten years, 34 artist interviews, 38 artists, and 144 challenges. I’m the only member to have completed every single one. 144 illustrations through the years. Some were game-changers for my style and my portfolio. Some were total stinkers and I hope you don’t go looking for them. But all were an important step in my career.   So, in ten more years? I’ll be 42 years old, which is very weird because I have never imagined myself that old before... it’s hard to honestly say what that would look like, especially considering the world we are currently living in and how the last 4/5 years have proven that anything (awful) can happen. Jordan and I have a goal to move to Colorado in the next 4 or 5 years, and I’d love to have a little A-Frame in the mountains with a loft studio, shown in my illustration here. Texas has become extremely problematic, especially after the winter storm in February of this year, and will be impacted greatly by climate change, both environmentally and economically. Right now, Austin is still booming, but at some point the lack of foresight in this state’s government is going to screw over the residents and it will be one of the places from which climate refugees run. Is that tomorrow? No, obviously not. But I want to already be settled someplace more stable, having grown some roots, before other folks start to roll in. But, to be able to do that, I need to rely less on my local jobs and connections and be able to have an “anywhere career.” So right now I am focusing on expanding in that way, particularly with book cover illustration and design. I’ve been doing a lot of portfolio work and self-publishing jobs, and hope to get an agent that can shop my work to big-time publishers sometime in the next year or two. Let’s say I succeed at all of those things in five years-- we’re in our Colorado A-Frame, I’m illustrating book covers (and I’ve also convinced my parents to come with me, and maybe a couple friends!). The next five years after that? I don’t know... hopefully a lot of adventures. Hopefully a lot of cool jobs, but also a lot of work/life balance. Right now, I don’t want kids, so the A-Frame will be filled with cats. Maybe we’ll have an old camper van for regular road trips around the western National Parks. I’d love for my work to reflect those passions-- more jobs with outdoor brands, parks, organizations. More book covers for stuff I’d personally love to read and keep on my overflowing shelf. That’s the vague goal for me in ten years, but I don’t want to plan any further than that, because life just also needs to happen the way it’s going to happen. There are parts of my current life I planned for in 2011... and there are parts I never, ever would have guessed. I hope there’s some fun surprises in 2031, too. Thanks for the decade, Square Carousel. Joining illustration collectives will always be the first bit of advice I give fresh graduates. Caitlin

[fanficflaneuse]

One Day - Part 5

A/N: Hello magical tumblr friends! I hope you’re all doing alright. So...we’ve reached the middle of this series! I can’t believe I work four chapters in a week. Goodness! I feel on fire right now. I hope you like it. What’s about to come is just plain, simple, absolute drama. 

For this chapter, I drew a bit of inspiration of a series called The Arrangement by @fandomsfeelsandfanfics. It’s not plagiarism or anything, but I did have it in mind as I wrote. All of this to say you should check it out if you haven’t, it’s an amazing series and I’m waiting for an update lol. 

Finally, thanks for all your love and support <3

Here we go: 

Draco x reader (she/her pronouns) Word count: 2607 (oops...I did it again! (lol) I’m sorry it’s so long. I think this will be the longest chapter of the series).  Summary: One day AU. Post-war. Since The Battle of Hogwarts, Draco and y/n meet one day a year.

Masterlist 

3 May, 2002

“(Y/N), you cannot lock yourself in your library forever.”

“That’s rich coming from you, Hermione,” she said, her voice hoarse.

The brown-haired Gryffindor rolled her eyes, trying to be playful, but there was a hint of concern she couldn’t hide. (Y/N) had been working nonstop. Headmistress McGonagall had offered her a position at Hogwarts. Without a second thought, she quitted at the Ministry and now spent a lot of time in her library, revising every book on DADA and making her best to create a study plan that was challenging and fun. She was also writing again. (Y/N) felt her life was heading in an interesting direction.

“Listen, (Y/N/N), I love you. We all do,” Ginny said as she dragged (Y/N) to her room, Hermione trailing behind them, “And we support every single one of your choices. But you cannot keep waiting for Malfoy to appear at your doorway and magically revive what you had.”

“Besides, he’s bad news, (Y/N). You’ve seen what they write about him in the papers. Not someone a respectable Hogwarts professor, like yourself, should be associated with,” Hermione pointed out, using what they now called her ‘ministry voice’.

“He is a good –“

“We know, we know, love. We know he can be a good person. He is – or was? – our friend as well. Not as close as he was to you,” Ginny raised an eyebrow playfully at this, warranting an annoyed eyeroll from (Y/N), “But we did help save him from Azkaban, didn’t we? So yes, we know he can actually be a good person. You just can’t go around saving him forever, dear. Don’t you realize most of his friends have stopped talking to him because of his behaviour? Merlin! Even Parkinson and Zabini are friendlier to us now than he is.”

“He’s chosen a path, (Y/N/N). He’s not trying to change. And even if he was, he’s not here. It’s time for you to move on,” Hermione reasoned.

(Y/N) sighed. She missed Draco way too much. Sometimes she wondered if he missed her. He hadn’t contacted her in a while. No owls, no visits, no cuddles. It had started out small, a bit of extra drinking during the week, an increasing amount of partying. Then every time she saw him, Draco was nursing a drink. Then the visits started to spread out. He’d always have a party to attend, an invitation somewhere and some sort of alcohol running in his veins. His letters stopped coming shortly after. As she got busier, (Y/N) ceased reaching out for him, tired of his excuses and self-destructive behaviours. She started mourning their friendship and her love for him.

At that point, the infamous articles were already a thing. Draco’s drunken antics had warranted him the moniker of “enfant terrible” and his misadventures were fuel for Rita Skeeter’s sensationalist quill. He always made the front page for the worst of reasons. Everyone had tried to talk some sense into him, to no avail.

“I can’t move on from something that never happened,” she declared in defeat.

“Well, more reasons for you to put this gorgeous dress on and enjoy your date with Ernie,” Ginny pressed on as she threw a blue dress over her shoulder.

“We’ll be waiting for your every detail,” Hermione added as she started working on your hair.

Ernie McMillan asked (Y/N) out at least five times before she accepted. In the end, she did because of her friends’ insistence. Everyone agreed she needed to go out. (Y/N) hadn’t been on a date for such a long time, even she admitted to herself the idea sounded tempting. She wasn’t particularly attracted to Ernie (she wasn’t particularly attracted to anyone whose name wasn’t Draco Malfoy), but she found him very sweet and patient. As the day approached, (Y/N) was getting excited about it.

Then, just the day before her date, she was invited for tea at Malfoy Manor. The affair had been so nerve-wrecking that (Y/N) came back home and cried her eyes out. She spent all night in her library, curled up in a ball. That’s where Ginny and Hermione found her. She had puffy eyes and seemed tired. They didn’t need to think too hard to guess what was the reason for her sorrow. It had been the same for a couple of months now. That’s what made them push harder for her to go out.

As Ginny helped her with her makeup, (Y/N) could only think about her visit to Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy. The only time she had been in their lavish mansion, she had been tortured and put in a cellar with her friends. As she stood in front of the gates, she felt her hands clammy and her whole body shaking. Every fibre of her being was begging her to turn around and run. She felt the tentacles of her fear and trauma engulfing her again, trying to drag her down, reduce her to tears and panic.

“Are you alright?” said a voice she’d recognize anywhere: Lucius Malfoy himself had come to greet her. She saw a lot of Draco in his father. The striking grey eyes were almost too painful to look at.  Lucius’ eyes didn’t hold for her the same affection Draco’s did, but she could recognize a mixture of respect and also a bit of fear. Was he afraid of her? Or was that concern? Did she look that frightened?

“Yes, sir. I was just…”

“Remembering?” he offered, an apologetic expression settling on his aristocratic features.

(Y/N) nodded in response. She tried to smile at him.

“I am glad you could come, Miss (Y/L/N). My wife and I have not had the pleasure of your company since the trials. We never got the chance to thank you for everything you did for us,” he said, motioning her to walk with him.

They strolled through some beautiful gardens. The flowers were blooming and the peacocks showed their beautiful feathers. As they entered the house, (Y/N) felt shivers down her spine. She had to stop for a second and take a deep breath. Lucius waited for her patiently. The walked up the stairs and move through different halls.

“We well be having tea at our living quarters. Narcissa is recovering from that hippogriff virus. Fortunately, it is under control, but my wife is still very delicate and needs her rest,” he explained as he opened the door to the room.

Narcissa Malfoy greeted them. She was seating up on the bed, her back pressed to a mountain of fluffy pillows. She wore an embroidered nightgown and her silky bedspread covered her up to her waist. She was a vision; even in the comfort of her bed, Narcissa looked like a queen. Her whole demeanour, even her seemingly informal attire, made (Y/N) feel underdressed.

As soon as (Y/N) was close to the bed, Narcissa grabbed both of her hands affectionately. It took (Y/N) less than five minutes in front of that majestic woman to decide that even if Draco was physically a copy of Lucius, everything else was absolutely Narcissa: his mannerisms, his smile, his way with words.

“I am so happy to see you, (Y/N),” she said, offering her a smile so wide that reminded her of Draco.

As Lucius brought her a chair and left to fetch the tea, (Y/N) felt really out of place. It was not only the looming idea that she was intruding, but also the way in which such domesticity seemed so strange to her. Draco had told her about his life growing up, how he had a seemingly happy childhood, even if his parents were – to an extent – emotionally distant. The Manor was huge for him alone, but his parents dotted on him and cared for him. (Y/N) imagined that this scene, three people sitting close by in the middle of a huge room, was a constant in Draco’s childhood.

As minutes went by and both women engaged in small talk, (Y/N) let go the idea that Draco would barge through the door at any moment. She then concentrated in her current situation, trying to figure out why would they, of all people, invite her over for tea. Narcissa noticed this and pursed her lips.

“I am going to be direct with you, (Y/N). I know it must be very strange, our invitation, I mean. I do wish we had done it sooner, for I have a lot to thank you. The matter at hand, though, is not a joyous one,” she explained, carefully, “we are very worried for our son”.

(Y/N) gulped. She was about to respond when Lucius came back, balancing three cups and a teapot. As he made his way to them. He served the three cups with effortless elegance.

“I hope you like jasmine tea, Miss (Y/L/N) ,” he said as he offered her a cup.

“Yes, it is excellent,” she answered, trying to adopt a posher inflection in her voice.

Lucius and Narcissa shared a meaningful look. “I was just telling (Y/N) how we are worried about Draco,” she explained, almost as a though it was a nuisance.

“Worried?” Lucius scoffed dramatically, “I am not worried. If anything, I am mad and disappointed. He is tarnishing the family name with his stupidity.”

“He is worried,” Narcissa decided. Lucius sighed and nodded in response.

They talked for a while about how he had gotten into drinking. It had started with a glass of firewhiskey every other day, then he was drinking every night, going to bars and partying until very odd hours. The conversation flowed between Narcissa and (Y/N), with Lucius adding his somewhat scathing remarks. They talked about the articles in the Daily Prophet and the stupid moniker.

“I have not talked to him in a long time, Mrs. And Mr. Malfoy,” she said at some point. Her vision got a bit blurry with tears, but she was determined not to cry in front of them. She tried to blink them away to no avail. She looked away. Lucius took her cup from her trembling hands and Narcissa enveloped her in a hug. (Y/N) started crying on her shoulder.

“I wish there was something I could do. I tried. I really tried,” she sobbed.

(Y/N) felt really stupid for how she was behaving. But both Narcissa and Lucius were surprisingly nice about it.

“Dear, we did not invite you here to ask you to do something. We know if anyone has tried to help our son, it has been you. I was really sick, you know? As a matter of fact, I almost died. If you ever get that hippogriff virus, please do take it seriously. When I was delirious, only two things truly worried me, (Y/N): one was leaving Lucius behind and the other one was Draco. My son’s life is an utter chaos as it is. And I know my husband and I have a very big responsibility and a lot of blame for his bad decisions, but I also know the kind of person I gave birth to. And he is a good person. I know you saw something in him. Something good. And as I started getting a little better, my heart was suddenly set on one thing. I needed to know you. I needed to know that someone out there genuinely cares for my son and sees him for who he is, (Y/N).”

(Y/N) felt her heart heavy with longing. She took Narcissa’s hands. “I love your son,” she said and immediately felt her face getting hot, “a –as a friend, I mean. It’s no secret we haven’t talked much in the last year…but I still care for him. I think I will always care for him.”

Narcissa squeezed her hands and smiled at her. “Thank you, (Y/N).”

As Lucius was escorting (Y/N) out of the manor, they bumped into Draco himself. He could barely stand on his own. He reeked of alcohol. His eyes were glossy and an easy smile was set on his face. Lucius frowned. The sight, however, broke (Y/N)’s heart.

“Hellooooo, father,” he slurred.

“Draco, where were you?” Lucius countered, trying to be as patient as possible.

“Around,” Draco said.

“You have been around for three days now. Your mother was very worried.”

(Y/N) winced. Draco took notice of her. At first, he didn’t recognize her (or maybe he didn’t want to recognize her), once he was sure it was her, he tried to stand up a little straighter. He gave her what he thought was a charming smile, but his mind was so hazy it was actually pitiful.

“Hello, Dray,” (Y/N) whispered, trying to keep her emotions in check. As she said this, though, Draco lunged forward clumsily and gave her a hug that felt almost like he was slumping onto her. (Y/N) held him in place, almost collapsing under his weight.

“I’ve missed you so so so so so so so so so much, (Y/N/N). I promise I’ll write more. I miss you,” he said, covering her face with kisses. His breath also stank of alcohol. Although his words were a consolation, his deplorable state made her very sad.

“Behave, boy. I thought I had raised you better,” said Lucius in annoyance.

He grabbed Draco by his shirt and pushed him away from (Y/N). Uncoordinated as he was, he fell on his bum. He searched for (Y/N)’s face, teary eyed. As they made eye contact, (Y/N) was reminded of a very small child. She wanted to cradle him in her arms again and reassure him that everything was going to be alright. (Y/N) knew that wasn’t the best idea. Her thoughts were echoed by Lucius, who, as kindly as possible, asked her to leave.

(Y/N) kneeled in front of Draco, who looked at her with a bit of sorrow and a great deal of confusion. She kissed his cheek and he smiled.

“Take care, Draco,” she said very softly.

Just thinking about that now, as Ginny blended her eyeshadow, gave her enough reasons to want to apparate in Malfoy Manor. She knew her friends were right; she couldn’t save Draco forever. She couldn’t change him either.

As Hermione and Ginny pushed her in front of her mirror, (Y/N)’s heart was shattered. She looked beautiful. The dress fit perfectly. Her makeup was incredible and her hair was twisted in a delicate braid. Somehow, even like that, she felt like hiding herself under her bedspread. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her doorbell.

Ernie had arrived.

…

“I can’t believe I’m going out with a published author,” Ernie said with a cheeky smile. 

“Oh, it’s just a couple of short stories in The Hogsmeade Review. It’s not a big deal,” she answered before taking a sip of her wine.

“The Hogsmeade Review is a big deal, (Y/N/N),” he countered, “it’s where most big shot writers started. I believe Newt Scammander published his first essays there as well. Can you imagine your novels becoming standard Hogwarts readings?”

Ernie had a very articulated opinion on everything. At times during the date, (Y/N) would let him talk and talk and talk, until he seemed to exhaust his information on whatever they were now discussing. Did it bore her? To infinity and beyond. She couldn’t deny, though, that his enthusiasm was a bit infectious as well and she needed something like that at the moment. And, surprisingly, she wasn’t having a bad time.

So, when he asked her out for a second date, she bit the inside of her cheek and accepted.  

tags: @naomi02hook @okaydraco @fandomscombine @iliketoast23

[selkiesblog]

The ruse(DracoX OC) Chapter 1- The plan

"mooom please, does she really have to spend the summer here???" The little boy with white silverish hair said pulling on his mother's robe ends, hiding his head over her kilt

Every June until September Saphira Jones would come to his mansion to spend the summer over the Malfoy's

It started as a tradition, the two families were quite fond of each other. Since Voldemort first vanished and the rumors of his return started. The Malfoy's needed to reassure their family's safety and economic stability in case of things gone wrong during the rise of death eaters and late battle. So they made a pact that neither of the children would know: for every year until they turn a majority age, they would unite their families in expectation of a great match. And not until then deny or agree with a marriage proposal, that should be made

Draco utterly despised every second and Saphira knew it, so she would try to make his life just as miserable as hers, the only problem is that the game they both plays of twisting and pulling each other until one or another give up or break was never-ending

He would bark she would bite

As a child, they would fight over toys

"Mooom!!! Saphira stole my broom!!" He cried

"No, I did not!!"

Sometimes she would indeed steal his toys and hide in the most inconvenient of places cause at the very young age she would be more advanced in spells than he, a fact that she would- till this day- constantly remind him.

"You did!! Stop lying!!"

But this time she didn't

Oh no, he was just having fun getting her in trouble.

"Safira, give him his broom!" Her mother stepped in the light

before she could deny his allegations or make any more of her comments she heard a snap and by pulling her hear she was dragged into her room "that's it!! No wand for a week!" He smirked through his fake tears

And it got worse as it got physical. In school he will do whatever it takes to provoke her, pulling her long brown braids, pushing through the halls, calling her names until she snapped over him with her hand in a fist. She got -10 points to Gryffindor's he got a red-eye

Summer came and there she was again cuffed to him like a second skin

"Kneel," he said

"No you kneel" she pushed him

"No, I'm older than you"

"And I'm richer than you"

"Enough both of you!!!" Narcissa said "now Saphira, kneel" she took a large breath, she went down reverencing like a Princess only less charmingly. He puffed his chest with pride and kept his back straight smirking with victory "now you kiss her hand" they both looked at Narcissa who seemed with her patience on the edge, both hands in her temples. Draco not into hearing more of his mother's speeches on how the Yule ball was a very important event and that he was going to make a fool of himself if he didn't know the proper steps. Soon he raised her hand to meet his lips and planted a kiss there

The music started, slower. Saphira still taken by surprise with his action crumbled over his pace, stepping on his foot. The music started again and again until she got it right, only when it was time for him to spin her and catch he let her fall

Fifteen and It was time for pranks that she learned from the Weasley twins, Fred and George. Colorful bombs in his dorm room or shoes that would fart every time he walked, name it she has it

"Never heard of it?"

"What does it do?"

"It tickles the skin non-stop until the person breaks in laugh"

"Rather harmless..." Fred started

"But very affective" George finished

"Okay!..." She whispered to herself "Rictumsempra"

In the tall estate of the games, missing one point to Slytherin score 150 and Draco catch the golden snitch. He started twisting on his broom, having a pit of a contagious laugh. Everyone started to making fun until he lost balance and crush in the dirt of the ground

She was shaking when they took him to Papoula Pomfrey, he had hit his head but the problem was in his broken arm. He was still conscious when they asked him what happened, he just looked at her, and said "I lost balance and fall"

He lied?

It didn't make sense, he knew it was her and he wouldn't tell her off? He would always tell her off. Draco was the boy who would do everything in his reach to get her in trouble, wasn't he? Did he beat his head so hard that he has forgotten he hates her? Was he gonna use it to his advantage, just waiting for the right moment to strike like a snake?

While he was asleep she stayed up all night on his side, guild kicking in, anxiety keeping her awake, looming at his facials expression as he slept. That night Saphira discovered many things...

first one: Draco talked in his sleep

"No, No I won't fail you"

he woke in shook in the morning, sweat dripping from his forehead, breathing heavily

"Are you feeling better?" She asked ready to question why didn't he told dumbledore it was her who cursed him

"Yes" he simply said

Second one: don't trust the Weasleys with spells

"It was a really hard crash" she sighed "unfortunately I have some bad news" he positioned steadily in the bed frowning "you fall so hard and ground that your face fractured" he quickly turned to the mirror on his side " now you look normal"

His delicate lips had a small cut in them, nothing scandalous, but he looked angry as he turned at her, his serious serious expression turned into a grin. They both laughed immensely for a couple of seconds and stared at each other not knowing what to say, or do.

"Draco?" A small voice echoed in the corner of the room

"H-Hi pansy!" He said

Suddenly it was a weird atmosphere that broke through the windows as she had just crossed nearly headless nick for the first time

"I'm gonna live your two alone" heading out the door, leaving space for the both to talk she realizes the Third one: she was completely head over heels in love with Draco Malfoy

And every time she would catch him snogging pansy in the corner of the halls, kissing the length of the neck, or overheard them talking, she would get this feeling of nausea on the bottom of her stomach

"You're jealous!" Hermione said

"Why would she be jealous?" Ron asked with his mouth full, she never so gentle smacked his head with her hand pointing at the way pansy would play with Draco hair

"He doesn't even like it in the middle part," Saphira said playing with the vegetables on her plate with her fork, not hungry at all

"You gonna eat that? " Ron asked

"Wait...you like Draco? " Harry asked, "why?"

"I don't like him!!!"

"Okay...But you spent every summer with him, it's a little suspicious"

"It's because of my family you know that"

"Have you ever considered confessing your feelings to him?" Hermione again asked

" I don't like him," she said again loudly "even so, he doesn't see me that way"

But the thought lingered in her mind for a couple of weeks, weeks-long enough for the students already know that Malfoy would keep his Summers busy with her. Suddenly everyone knew and assumed the same thing that Hermione did

"Are you dating Malfoy?"

"How long are you guys together?"

"What about Pansy?"

"Is he a good kisser?"

Overwhelmed by the random questions and thoughts she went to talk with Draco personally until found him talking with Blaise and his friends "come on guys, I'm not dating her" he laughs "she not even my type" he said making an ugly face "I am just is stuck with her through the Summers cause she so annoying and boring that even her parents don't want her around" he quickly realized the words that had just come out of his mouth and shut

There was so much truth in those words, the truth that she never wanted to admit nor she could. She was adopted, it's true, people didn't know and those who knew certainly didn't talk about that.

When two purebloods decide to adopt a magic muggle-born, the elite society doesn't take it very well, first of all, it's illegal. Second: the chance of dishonoring the bloodline and status of the family by polluting their legacy mixing their divergence with a "mudblood", it a risk that no one should take, even a mother who lost her child at early birth; a bare family in an empty nest; a tree rotten in its core. She was embarrassed, only for a couple of seconds, soon she was filled with the very familiar feeling that emerged in her mind of angst

She got a suspension when the school heard from her that she had used a spell against a student and wounded him during a game of quidditch. Sitting on the bench Draco looked at her stiffed

"Why did you tell them?"

"My parents are going to move me to

Beauxbatons school" he looked worrisome that she almost felt pity "then I won't have to trouble you with my annoyingly boring behavior" she was about to get up when she felt his hand on her wrist twirling her body close to his, too close even

"Is this what you want?" She felt his mint breath in her cheeks and shivered over the wooden cologne

"W-what I-?"

" You wanna ruin everything don't you?" Her stomach filled with butterflies "our parent's plans, the secret, you found out and now you wanna ruin it"

Instantly the short moment went away, she stepped out of his intense gaze and unlocked her wrist

"Secret?"

"Why do you think you would come every summer to my house?" He said

"obviously isn't because we're so friends"

"Our parent's plans all along were that we would be more than that, I guarantee you" the words hissed against her thoughts, it was all so obvious now "marriage, Saphira, they want us to be wedd"

She felt like crying, run away like a little girl who just found out that Santa isn't real. She felt like breaking. Draco was bounded to her, stuck with a girl that he doesn't want

Making his life miserable as hers

"Draco, hear me, loud and clear," she said crying out, he never saw her tears, but that day it poured like a stormy rain

"you will never, never marry me. I give you that" alone with his thoughts, he builds his first wall

You're free

That summer she didn't come. It was his darkest summer, that gloomed into his mind like clouds over a parade

_____

"Will you fail me, boy?" Voldemort whispered

"No, my Lord"

[pengychan]

[Batman: TAS] Clockwork, Pt. 1

Summary: To say the Clock King was pleased to see Hamilton Hill lose his bid for re-election would be an understatement - but suddenly nothing in Gotham is on time anymore, and he has to choose the lesser evil. Characters: Temple Fugate, Hamilton Hill  Rating: K    

A/N: Happy birthday, @vampirenaomi​! If you wondered about my radio silence these days, this was why. I was hoping to get the entire thing done by today, but I couldn’t make it. Will do my best to get the second and final part done by Christmas! (Also, little heads-up for everyone: the plot bunny for this thing actually hit me a long time ago and I promise the election fraud plotline in it has nothing to do with the insanity currently going on in the States.)

***

“Freeze!”

The order comes a quarter of a second after the first cop reaches the roof, predictable as the stroke of midday that will follow in precisely twenty-five seconds. The Clock King estimates it will take him exactly another fifteen seconds to reach the ledge, at which point he will have ten more to turn and throw in a mocking comment before his ride arrives. 

Excellent. His plan has been running as smoothly as sand in an hourglass.

“I said freeze!”

Temple Fugate entirely ignores the order and keeps walking to the ledge, pocketing his watch and twirling his cane in his free hand. It is an unspoken rule in Gotham, it seems, to do anything but freeze whenever you’re told to. It only occasionally works - not in a pattern he’s been able to reliably discern, to his annoyance - when it’s Batman to give the order. Or, well, Mr. Freeze, for reasons that should be quite obvious.

An interesting fellow, that one. Intellectually gifted - he wouldn’t mind conversing with, provided that he leaves his freezing gun at the door. Fugate generally pays little mind to his colleagues, even less after having to endure the indignity of being referred to as the White Rabbit by Mr. Tetch - a comparison that he found nothing short of insulting, because he is never late. Not anymore.

Not since the one time he was late and lost everything. But he’s getting it back, one timepiece at a time. The one he just took back from the museum is a priceless one, which he acquired by sheer luck only months before he was forced to sell every single piece he ever collected to pay--

“Stay where you are!”

The Clock King reaches the ledge, turns, and gives the three cops walking towards him with their guns drawn a tip of his hat. He might have thrown an explosive watch or two at them, of course he came prepared, but they are still far away enough he knows he needs not bother. Even if they decided to sprint now, they would never get to him on time. 

“Apologies, gentlemen, but I must decline your invite to stay. I have a lot of lost time to make up for,” he declares, and lets himself fall back exactly at the strike of midday. He straightens himself in mid-air, knees bent to prepare for landing on the roof of the eleven-fifty-eight train downtown going through the elevated tracks right no--

Except that there is no train beneath him. Fugate falls past the exact point where a train should be and is thrown entirely off balance. By the time he does connect with something, it’s with his left shoulder first.

“Aagh!”

He cries out, more in outrage than actual pain - though there is pain, train tracks are extremely unpleasant to pull upon from a height - and sits up, dazed, trying to make sense of that nonsense. He looks around, ascertain that there is, indeed, no train in sight. What… what just happened? The eleven-fifty-eight train is always, always precisely two minutes late. 

Where is it now? It can’t have been on time, he would have heard it rushing past. Is it even more late than usual? Has it broken down? Has the schedule changed? This is an outrage - is nothing in this world reliable anymore?

“Hey! Are you all right, uh… sir?”

Fugate looks up, and sees the three cops looking down at him from the roof of the museum. “It’s Clock King to you,” he snaps, though without much venom. That is… a rather civil enquiry, and he sees no reason not to be equally civil. “I have had softer landings, but I’ll live,” he mutters, standing up and rubbing his battered shoulder. The one talking, the big one, looks relieved. 

“Good! Listen, uh, Mr…”

“Clock King! It’s not that complicated!”

“Right, right. Mr. Clock King, don’t go anywhere - we’ll get you help.”

Of course, on account of not having been born yesterday - his birth took place fifty-seven years, ninety-two days and approximately seven hours ago - Fugate has no intention to wait there until they get help. “Ah, I believe I have to decline your offer, unfortunately, and be on my wa--”

“No, look - things are never so bad. Don’t do this. You’re in a dark place, but it won’t last.”

He pauses, taken aback. Their tactics to get fugitives to surrender certainly seemed to have changed since last time. “... Come again?”

“Get off the tracks, there is no reason to do anything drastic. I am sure we can help - professionals can help.”

The cop standing right next to him - the third is surely coming down the building heading his way - nods in agreement. “It’s going to get better, okay? It will be all right.”

… Wait. Wait a moment. 

Fugate sputters a moment, face ablaze as incredulity and outrage threaten to choke him. “Is this-- are you-- is this some kind of suicide prevention talk?” he yells, pointing up accusingly with his cane. “What in the world makes you think it is the appropriate response now?”

The two of them blink a moment, then exchange a glance before looking back down at him. “... You just jumped off a roof on the train tracks.”

“I am aware! But the eleven fifty-eight train is always exactly two minutes late! Is should have been--”

His words are covered by a warning cry from one of the cops first, then vibrations on the tracks, and finally by a dreadful, loud horn. 

Ah. There it is.

Right after turning to see the eleven fifty-eight train rushing towards him, Temple Fugate has enough time to make two calculations: the first is that it’s five minutes late, which is entirely unacceptable. The second is that he has approximately nine seconds to get off the tracks before he’s turned into something resembling strawberry jam, which is highly concerning.

He doesn’t quite manage to estimate precisely by how many seconds he manages to avoid that fate, but later on he decides that is probably for the best. 

***

Hamilton Hill, former Mayor of Gotham City, is rather enjoying his retirement. 

Well. Perhaps losing re-election for Mayor and spending most of his time in his mansion to lick his wounds is not precisely what most people would consider a vacation, but saying he is ‘taking some time to spend with his family’ got most attention off his back for now. 

There is the fact he’s been divorced fifteen years and Jordan is off to college, so the house is empty aside for himself and some domestic staff, but that isn’t something the general public needs to know. He needs some time, is all, to recover from a loss that was unexpected as it was painful, and then to figure out where he’s going from here. 

Back to practicing law, probably. He enjoyed that. Maybe returning to the courtroom having to worry only about the fate of the person he represente and not the entire city will do him good. Gotham is far from an easy city to serve as Mayor, so much so that some of his closest friends delicately suggested he belonged in Arkham for just wanting the job. And maybe they were not too far off, Hill muses. Maybe losing the election was a blessing in disguise. 

… Maybe he needs another glass of port.

He is pouring himself said glass when the glass door leading to the balcony opens, letting in a gust of cold wind. That could mean a number of things in Gotham: that the latch of the window was not closed properly, that a criminal is breaking in, that Batman is breaking in. 

All three things have happened remarkably often in the past decade or so, and Hill simply got used to visits from a masked vigilante, or the occasional kidnapping scheme that would later be foiled by said masked vigilante, so he’s not overly worried. But perhaps, as he no longer is the Mayor, this is simply a matter of closing the glass door properly and--

“Hill,” a voice proclaims. 

Well. It was not the latch.

Hamilton Hill makes the decision to gulp down half the glass before he turns. “Mr. Fugate,” he greets politely, before his eyes even rest on the figure standing rigidly on the balcony. He recognized his voice quite well, of course. When someone tries to squish you between the hands of a giant clock, you do tend to remember what they sound like. “What do I owe the pleasure?”

Temple Fugate lets out a noise of mild disgust. “I highly doubt you’re any more pleased to see me than I am to see you,” he informs him, stepping inside. “But as the situation in Gotham City is most dire--”

Hill downs the rest of the glass. Fugate trails off, then reaches into his pocket to pull out - of course - a watch. He stares at it for a moment before he looks back up at Hill, at the glass in his hand, at the liquor cabinet he’s standing at. “It’s eleven thirty-two in the morning,” he finally informs him.

“So it is.”

“Not even noon yet.”

“And…?”

“Don’t and me, Hill! Isn’t it-- far too early to be drinking whatever it is you’re drinking?”

Ah, Gotham truly was like no other city, was it? The only place where a man who kidnapped and tried to kill you can later show up to lecture over socially acceptable times for alcohol consumption, without any self-awareness whatsoever. Hill supposes Fugate truly is a man born in the wrong time: he would have been right at home during prohibition. He considers voicing that thought, but in the end he shrugs. 

“I’m only having a glass. I’m not drinking myself into a stupor.”

“Your demeanour suggests otherwise.” Fugate frowns, or at least it looks like he’s frowning. It’s hard to tell, with those glasses, but he seems mildly offended. “A reasonable reaction upon seeing me would be fear,” he adds, pointing towards him with that curious cane of his, part sword and part clock hand. “Possibly a scream, if not too drawn out or grating, followed by an attempt at running for your life.”

Ah, here comes the lecture in proper hostage etiquette. “Let me reassure you, it is not down to alcohol,” Hill informs him, putting down the empty glass. Honest to God, he would be more worried if he found himself facing a run-of-the-mill goon with a gun; people like that are more likely to simply shoot you dead. But those like the Clock King, or the Joker or whoever was out in the streets that week? They would come up with an elaborate scheme that gave Batman plenty of time to intervene.

Maybe the best course of action would be to stall for more time, until Batman does intervene. 

“Don’t take it personally, Fugate, but I have been Mayor of Gotham for too long not to get used to some things,” Hill adds. “No Tuesday is complete without at least an attempt at kidnapping me.”

The frown turns into something closer to disgust. “It’s Monday, Hill. have you truly lost all sense of time?”

“Happens when you’re on holiday, I suppose. I am no longer Mayor of Gotham City.”

“I am aware. About that--”

“I am a private citizen with a lot of time on my hands.”

“Not for long!” Fugate snaps, stepping forward with the cane pointed at Hill’s chest. Ah, yes, there come the death threats and-- “You must return into office!”

… Wait. What? Hill blinks, and moves the cane aside with one arm to look at the Clock King’s face more closely. “... Come again?”

“Are you deaf? I am here to make sure you take back your office.”

Who are you, Hill thinks, and what have you done to Fugate?

“Are you well?” he finds himself asking instead, and Fugate groans, throwing up his arms. The cane very nearly knocks a very expensive lamp right off the nearest table. 

“Of course I’m not! Two months with a new Mayor, and this entire city is in shambles, Hill!”

That’s not exactly what Hill expected to hear. He has been told that his replacement made a few… questionable choices, appointing questionable people in delicate roles, and there have been some complaints - but no account he’s heard so far made the situation sound quite that dire. Not that he doesn’t get some vindication over being told that the man who ousted him is making a dreadful mess of things. 

“Is it now?”

“Of course it is!” Temple Fugate paces back and forth, features twisted in what’s nothing short of anguish. “Nothing - and I do mean, nothing - is on time anymore! The trains, the buses, everything is all over the place!”

“Yes, I did hear that the public transport office had an overhaul--”

“Not that your administration was ever able to make things run on time,” Fugate cuts him off, clearly not inclined to hear a single word from him at the moment. “But most things were reliably late. There was a schedule, there was a pattern! Now there’s nothing but chaos! How am I meant to carry on in such a world?”

Hill opens his mouth to suggest he loosens up, remembers what happened last time he advised him as much, and chooses not to. “Surely, it is not quite that bad--”

“Yesterday there was the inauguration of a new mall. It was meant to be at midday - the ribbon was cut almost sixteen minutes late, Hill! What sort of administration is sixteen minutes late?”

"Yes, that is, er. Absolutely unacceptable,” Hill says. He knows better than dismissing it as something minor, considering that it’s distressing Fugate enough to make him turn to the man he probably despises the most in the entire world. “However, there isn’t much I can do--”

“Once you’re the Mayor again, you can put things in order,” Template declares, pointing at his chest with his cane again. “And everything will be just as it was before. Until I exact my revenge on you, that is. Which will be--” he pauses, and a look of discomfort crosses his features at the realization he doesn’t have a set time for that. “... Soon,” he finishes, not very threateningly. 

Hill frowns, pushing the razor-sharp tip of the cane away from his rather expensive shirt and, rather more importantly, the general vicinity of vital organs. “Fugate, as much as I’d like to help you - possibly with better results than last time I attempted to - there is nothing I can do. I lost my bid for re-election. I cannot just waltz in my old office and declare--”

“You can,” Fugate cuts him off once more.

“Yes, I suppose I could, only to be arrested before--”

“This election was rigged.”

Hill trails off, his brain grinding to a halt. “... Come again?” he hears himself muttering, searching Fugate’s face for any sign that he may be joking despite his strong suspicion that Fugate is simply incapable of uttering a joke. All he gets is an annoyed hum.

“Get your hearing checked,” the Clock King mutters irritably. “Surely you must have suspected it.”

He didn’t, not really. The race was rather close from the start, his opponent a new face who made plenty of promises Hill already knew he would be unable to keep but which, apparently, many couldn’t resist; alluring lies often hold more sway than less glamorous truths. He’d thought he would win, sure enough, but that it would be narrow. So his defeat by a rather small margin had been… a surprise, sure enough, but not something he’d thought beyond the realms of possibility.

“I… not really.”

“Hmph.” Fugate scoffs, and sits on the nearest armchair. He may very well be sitting on a stool, because he doesn’t lean back: he remains upright, back rigid, both hands on the handle of his cane. “Unexpectedly gullible for someone sly enough to engineer my demise.”

Oh, for God’s sake. “I engineered nothing. I only suggested you took your coffee break fifteen minutes later than usual because you were so tense--”

“The plaintiffs were represented by your law firm! Am I supposed that your advice making me late for the court date was a coincidence, Hill?”

“Yes, because it was! I had nothing to do with that case, I knew nothing about it - it was only some advice in a conversation you started in the first place.”

The last statement seems to hit a nerve, and there is something on Fugate’s face, a twitch that passes immediately but doesn’t go unnoticed. After all, Hamilton Hill built his career on being able to take note of every telling twitch and expression shown by witnesses and defendants. “... You have thought of that, haven’t you? That it was yourself to start talking that morning, not myself. There was no plan nor conspiracy. You were not targeted. It was a terrible coincidence-”

Fugate’s hands clench on the handle of his cane, so tight the knuckles go white. His jaw clenches before he speaks, words cold and clipped. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“It all happened by chance. Out of your control. Accidents happen whether or not we believe--”

“Silence!” Fugate snaps, tapping his cane on the hardwood floor and likely leaving a hole in it. “I will get you back for it, mark my words, but this is not the reason why I’m here. And you have already wasted--” a pause to check his pocket watch. “Fifteen minutes of my time. Now, do you want to hear what I know, or not?”

Hill sighs, and sits on the armchair across him. “How do you know the election was rigged?”

“I crunched the numbers. Something is not adding up.”

“My entire campaign team crunched the numbers--”

“People who were not me,” Fugate cuts him off, a sharp edge to his voice. “And who forgot to keep an eye on the time.”

Ah, of course. Of course it was going to boil down to time.

Hamilton Hill can feel the beginning of a violent headache starting to build up behind his eyes.  “All right, I’ll hear you out.”

“You’d better.”

The headache immediately spikes a notch. Hill glances back at the liquor cabinet, thinking he could use another glass of port. “Can I offer--”

“I do not drink. Certainly not before noon.” Fugate’s voice sure is full of judgment for someone who goes around with glasses looking like the face of a clock, stealing timepieces from auction houses and museums and throwing around explosive pocket watches.

“... Right. Coffee?”

“I have my coffee at three in the afternoon. On the dot,” is the stiff reply. “As you very well know.”

Hill almost considers asking why not three-fifteen, then his gaze falls on the razor-sharp tip of the Clock King’s cane and he decides against it. 

“... Very well,” he finally says, leaning back on his armchair. “Tell me what you’ve found.”

*** 

The key, as it’s the case with most things in life, was in the timing.

It was something easily overlooked by most people who poured over the election result, exit polls and whatnot, but Fugate found the answer by painstakingly looking through the transcript of all votes registered by the brand new voting machines, which allowed one to give their vote at the press of a button. There were no names, nor details to match individual voters to any vote, but he found something better.

On each of them, he found timestamps.

One of the tenets of Temple Fugate’s existence is that everything has a chronological order. Everything has a discernible pattern. And where order and pattern are disrupted, it can only mean one thing: human intervention. Bumbling, chaotic, life-ruining human intervention, like sand in the cogs or a too-jovial councillor suggesting a break fifteen minutes later. Fugate has seen human intervention at work more times than he’d have liked.

But until he began looking into this, he had never seen anything quite like it.

“So something is wrong with the… timestamps?”

Unsurprisingly, former Mayor Hamilton Hill is having trouble keeping up with his explanation. “Yes. In the districts of Gotham where you were expected to perform better, the pattern was disrupted.” Fugate pulls out his notes from the breast pocket of his jacket and hands them to Hill, who opens the folded pieces of paper to take a long look. “Your team poured over nonsense like age, or gender, or race and class--”

“It isn’t nonsense, it helps predict--”

“But none of them,” Fugate speaks a little louder, cutting off whatever nonsense he was about to spew, “looked at the time in which each vote was cast. One after another, polling stations in each of those districts had precisely a two-hour window during which not one vote was cast in your favor.”

Hill blinks down at his notes, adjusting his glasses as though to see better. “What? Not one?”

“Not a single one, you can check the timestamps yourself. Just read - the pattern is clear.”

He sees it, Fugate can tell from the way his eyes widen. He may be dense, but not so dense that he couldn’t see the pattern now that it had been pointed out to him. He stands and begins pacing back and forth, eyes glued to Fugate’s notes. 

“I think, these polling places-- I would need to look at a map to be certain, but--”

Well, he has picked that up on his own. If not stubbornly determined not to be impressed by anything this man does or say ever, Fugate could say he is impressed.

“No need. I already did, and saw what you are seeing now. This happened in polling stations close to each other. There was the first one downtown, then another a short distance away, then another a short distance away from that one… and so forth.  It, whatever it was, moved across the city with brief pauses consistent with the time it would take to drive from one polling station to the next. This kept up for the entire two days the polls were open,” Fugate adds with no small amount of disapproval. 

He sees no reason why the citizens of Gotham would need more than one day to pick their Mayor, but apparently the change was brought forward upon suggestion of Bruce Wayne, along with the decision to hold the vote over a weekend. Something about allowing more time to vote to people working long hours. How typical, catering to people who cannot be on time by giving them more time.

Unaware of his musings, Hill is still staring at the notes, then at him, then back at the notes. “I… how can it be?”

“Is it possible someone was able to sabotage the voting machines?”

Hill frowns, ceasing his pacing, and finally shakes his head. “I don’t believe so. Those machines were inspected before and after, and are not connected to any other device. They store all votes within their own memory and at the end of the day, the data is saved on an external device. There are witnesses for all candidates each time, to ensure everything is transparent.”

“Yes, that is what I suspected.” Fugate frowns, rubbing his chin. “I have looked for a link between your Mayor Sanderson and the company that manufactured the machines, but found none. Well then. This only leaves one option.”

Hill blinks, trying to think what he may mean and drawing a blank. “What option?”

“If the devices and therefore the votes were not manipulated, then the voters were. At least to a more extreme degree than they usually are during your campaigns.”

Hill gives him a look that somehow manages to be insulted, stunned, and confused at the same time. “I beg your pardon?”

“You may not have my pardon, Hill, but I will repeat myself,” is the dry reply. “You must agree this very clear pattern must have been the result of an external intervention. If the machines could not be compromised, then the people in the voting booths were.”

Hill stares. Opens his mouth. Closes his mouth. Stares some more. 

“... Not that I don’t appreciate you keeping silent for once, but as I cannot read your mind--”

“Is this-- what are you exactly suggesting, Fugate? Some sort of mass bribery?”

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous. Word could have got out immediately if such an attempt had taken place. I said the voters were manipulated, not bribed - were you not listening?”

A scoff. “Manipulated with what? Hypnosis?”

“You say that like no such thing occurred in Gotham before.”

For the second time in less than a minute - Fugate probably knows exactly how many seconds - Hill finds himself opening his mouth to speak and then closing it without uttering a single word. He is right, something remarkably similar did happen from time to time in Gotham, usually the work of… of…

“Now, I cannot imagine Mr. Tetch has any stake in this, but the man is not above selling his machinery for money. It is a possibility worth exploring, don’t you think?” Fugate says.

Tetch isn’t above giving people wildly unfitting and unrequired nicknames either - White Rabbit, the notorious latecomer, what an insult that has been - but that is beside the point at the moment, and Fugate doesn’t bring up that particular grievance. 

“I… yes, I suppose it is,” Hill is muttering, looking at his notes over and over as though he thinks anything has changed while he wasn’t looking. “I should call the police, perhaps Commissioner Gordon--”

“Forget the police, they’re busy giving misguided anti-suicide speeches these days. Perhaps once you’re the Mayor again, you can see they are hired in Arkham.” Fugate stands, adjusting his tie. “I know exactly where to go to gain some intel.”

“... Right. I’ll get my coat.”

Fugate blinks. “... I beg your pardon?”

“It’s cold outside. I am not sure how you manage to stroll around with only a suit on, but--”

“Whatever gave you the idea that you are coming?”

“Why else would you show you up here to tell me all this?”

“To let you know what an imbecile you are for letting someone steal an election from you. Put that coat down-- Hill!” Fugate barks, but it’s too late: the coat is on and Hill is buttoning it up, looking back at him. Good God, he misses the days Hamilton Hill feared him. 

“I am not about to leave you a choice, Fugate,” he says, much too flippantly for the Clock King’s taste. “This is personal. I am certain you of all people understand.”

“That’s not-- well--” Fugate is taken aback, fumbles for words. It is only a couple of instant, but it is enough for Hill to get coy. 

“Good to see we reached an understanding. Are we going, or are you inclined to waste more time, mmh?”

The remark makes Fugate want to smack him with his cane, or better yet skewer him with it, but that would be rather counterproductive as a dead man cannot be elected Mayor and he needs Hill alive for… a little while longer. Just enough to fix the utter mess his successor has made of things. A sixteen minute delay on an inauguration, for God’s sake. How is anyone meant to live in such chaos?

The thought of ending that particular brand of chaos is what eventually stills Fugate’s hand. He takes in a deep breath, relaxing his grip on the cane. “... Very well. But you will do exactly as I say. No speaking, no initiatives. And if you’re going to take any advice from me, put your hat on and lose the glasses,” he adds, turning back towards the window. “The place we’re heading to is both rather cold and not someplace you’d want to be recognized if you wish to avoid a potential scandal.”

“Fugate?” Hill calls out, causing him to stop walking and look at him over his shoulder. Chickening out already, is he? He almost smirks, waiting to hear excuses as to why he has just realized he really cannot come with hi--

“You do realize we can get out through the door, right?” Hill says instead, pointing at the door behind himself with his thumb. Something about his raised eyebrow makes Fugate scowl.

“Well, it is not often I get the luxury to go through main doors, since you made me a wanted fugitive,” he mutters, crossing his arms. 

“I thought I made you late.”

“It is the same thing!” the Clock King snaps, and stomps out of the room, using the window out of sheer spite.

[nothingbutfangirlsmut]

The Maze Trials: A Gally Fanfiction

Pairing: Gally x Emi(OC)

Summary: Emi, first girl the Glade has seen. Tougher than she looks and more than ready to prove it. Since day one her and Gally have been at each other's throats. Fighting constantly and not just with their words.

(Gally fanfiction which will include smut. It also has an actual story line. Think of it as an AU to the original Maze Runner. It'll mostly follow the main story line with some changes. Mostly focusing on Emi and Gally and their relationship.)

Chapter Seven

I stood in the center of my hole just staring at the only entrance or exit. This is absolutely ridiculous.

How long am I gonna be locked in here?

I couldn't see Gally in the next hole over but I could hear him. He was mumbling angrily. The only words I could make out every now and then was 'shank' or some variation of 'klunk'.

I haven't figured out what 'shank' means yet but I'm pretty sure I've got 'klunk' figured out.

"You done mumbling yet?" I decided to ask loud enough for Gally to hear me.

"What is your problem? It's like your trying to piss me off with every word that leaves your mouth." Gally said angrily.

"I don't have to try very hard. Plus it's become quite funny to piss you off." I chuckled lightly.

"What the shuck is wrong with you?" He asked in what sounded like disbelief.

"Oh come on. You know it's funny. It's like I piss you off just cause I'm a girl." I was smiling even though he couldn't see it.

"That's not it" he grumbled barely loud enough for me to hear.

"Then please tell me what it is? You can't possibly be that delicate. Is it because I don't back down from you like the others? Or maybe because I can actually beat you in a fight."

"You haven't actually beat me in a fight." He answered quickly.

I couldn't help but laugh.

"Oh I see, bruised ego. Don't like not being the big bad wolf anymore?" I knew I wasn't helping but I just couldn't stop myself.

This time he didn't answer. My smile faded as I listened to the silence for a few minutes.

"In all seriousness, can I tell you something?" I asked thinking back to my dream again.

After a few more moments of silence I heard him let out a deep sigh.

"Yea sure" was all he said.

"I keep having this weird feeling we've fought like this before. It just feels so familiar. Something about you is familiar." I said slowly trying to explain how I felt.

"Really? I thought I was losing my mind. I just kept getting that deja vu feeling repeatedly." He said calmly.

"So you gonna tell me why your so snappy with me then?" I asked again but more calm this time.

He sighed again.

"For that reason I think. Like I said I thought I was losing my mind. It made me mad to think you were making that happen. I was fine till you showed up." He snapped a little near the end of his sentence.

"Can we make a deal?" I asked leaning against the wall near his side.

"Depends on the deal." He answered simply.

"Since we both know that we both are having the familiar feeling we don't have to think we are losing our minds. I won't show you up in a fight anymore unless you want me to. But let's keep the rough banter. I like it. Just make it more playful than serious."

I waited intently for his answer. All I heard was silence and the occasional howl of a griever lurking in the maze. I thought he wasn't going to answer.

"Fine but one more thing." He spoke sounding like he was standing right next to me.

"When we get out of here take a walk with me away from the others." He spoke quietly.

I chuckled nodding before I remembered he couldn't see me.

"Sure as long as you don't pull anything like Minho did." I chuckled not thinking much of it.

"What?" Gally asked sharply.

"Minho asked me to go for a walk. When we were away from everyone else he kissed me. I didn't let it get farther than that though even though that's what he was trying for before I shut it down." I explained nonchalantly.

"Minho kissed you?" Gally asked roughly.

Why did he sound like he was getting mad? Why does that bother him?

"Yea that's what I just said." I rolled my eyes.

"That shank. I knew he had a thing for you and he lied straight to my face." Gally hissed obviously more to himself than me but I heard it.

"What? You talked to him about me?" I questioned smirking.

"I'm going to sleep." He stated simply.

It wasn't long after those words that I heard him snoring softly. I made myself as comfortable as I could on the cold ground. I really hope they let us out of here tomorrow.

___

"Everyone knows Minho has a crush on you. How did you not know?" A squeaky voiced Newt asked.

"I don't know" I shrugged staring down at my hands in my lap.

"Probably because she's too hung up on Gally to notice anyone else." A girl cooed leaning into me.

"Oh shut it" I laughed pushing her away.

"Her and Gally are just friends though. Right?" Newt said looking between me and the girl.

"I think so" I said simply.

"Yea for now but just you wait. I know they'll end up together when we are older. I can already see it the way they fight and bicker all the time." The girl next to me laughed.

___

I jolted awake from my dream. Why does that keep happening? Who was that other girl? Why do I get the feeling these aren't actually dreams?

"Wakey wakey shanks" Newt called out loudly to both of us.

I pulled myself up to get closer to the blonde. I heard Gally groaning and grumbling about being woken up.

"You two resolve your issues?" He asked looking between my hole and Gally's.

"I think so" I said softly.

"Yea yea, now get us out of here Newt I'm starving." Gally grumbled.

Newt looked over to me for reassurance. I could tell from the look on his face he wanted to make sure we were telling the truth.

"Seriously Newt we're good." I said with a small smile.

"Alright but if you two go at each other again I'm tossing you both in the same hole for a week." Newt warned.

He quickly opened both of our cages. Gally helped himself out while Newt moved to pull me out. I looked at Gally for the first time since our agreement. Man, I wanted to say something too but I knew now wasn't the time.

Instead I extended my hand to him to show Newt we were being honest. He smirked at me then clamped his hand around mine. He shook it roughly causing me to loose my balance. I almost face planted into the dirt but Gally grabbed me causing me to fall against him instead of the ground.

"Thanks big bad wolf" I smiled then patted his chest.

"You're welcome princess" he smirked down at me then let me go.

"I think I liked it better when you were at each other's throats. This is just weird now." Newt commented before walking away.

I chuckled then playfully pushed Gally away from me. I jogged to catch up to Newt wrapping my arm around his. He didn't seem to mind the contact.

"What did you two talk about?" Newt asked quietly as we stood in line for our food.

"Honestly, not that much but we did strike a deal." I smiled thinking back to it.

"A deal?" Newt questioned raising a brow at me.

I just nodded then stepped up to take my tray from Fry who I thanked as always. I followed Newt over to our regular table with the normal people sitting there. Minho was stuffing his mouth full while Clint and Jeff laughed at him.

I sat down between Minho and Newt. Minho nudged me playfully with his shoulder then smiled at me with a mouth full of food. I couldn't help but laugh at him. I guess Newt was right. He seems to be cheery again.

—