#was busy making this pattern for beading on a loom

[goofyahhneocosmos]

[pandorafallz]

Vampire AU | New clothes, new friends

Jake eyed his new piece thoughtfully in his hands, his tail swishing along the grass. A simple hair fork really. About thirty centimetres long, with two prongs at one end which had very little design and wouldn’t need to when buried within the mass of hair while the joint was where he had really put the work into its design and beauty. It was a simple hunting carving pattern, he had noticed it on many bows, on both training and personal variants but he wanted it to look nice and for it to be something meaningful and dedicating a piece towards his hunts seemed meaningful enough.

Morgan hadn’t been wrong when he said he’d enjoy it. In fact, it was something Jake fell into quite naturally when he had been shown the carving techniques from Manru and then Hukinli the other day. A natural, they had said and it had warmed his heart to feel himself…more at home with the art than he had with the other areas.

He could weave adequately well, he knew how to loom and all of that, just as much as he knew to make beautiful beads and he had continued to do so and that was okay, but it was a little tedious. But craving and shaping bones was… more fulfilling. He hadn’t tried wood shaping for one reason and that being was the head of that area, Ateyo was a very… unpleasant teacher and had an even worse mate, Artsut whom he rarely interacted with, thankfully, but it spoiled his interest in wood shaping.

He turned the fork in his hand, unable to help but note the slight inconsistencies in his carving but he could correct that or add paint to the inside of the carvings to cover the imperfection. He sucked on his teeth a moment before he set it into his basket and plucked out a new bone.

A femur, at least one femur from a Viperwolf that Kim had brought back from a run-in with a small pack early this morning. Nadine somehow had made it work for lunch. Turns out, Viperwolf meat was very lean, and surprisingly tasty wrapped in a nan-like bread made from a type of Pandora grain with some steamed vegetables. It was much coarser in texture but still, delicious.

“How is your work?” N’deh asked, appearing from the depths of the treeline with a basket of fruits from his foraging.

“My hair fork is done, more or less.” Jake picked out of the basket to show him, feeling prideful as N’deh set his basket down to take with a clear interest in the Na’vi’s expression. “I’ve got an idea of what my hair is gonna be so I’ll be needing this to keep my hair off my face.”

“You have decided?”

Jake nodded, his hand running through his straight single braid for a moment. “Some sort of thick locks. It’ll be easier to have my hair done in advance. The rest of my clothes are still gonna take a while to make.” He liked the idea of dreadlocks once they were set in; less maintenance to handle and he was okay with that. His tswin wouldn’t have that same treatment so he’d rather keep it braided and protected. However, he wanted dreadlocks that would style well, so naturally leaving his hair to mat up would be less than ideal.

“Thick locks. That’s a bold choice.” N’deh considered, “Those are not easy to craft. The Kame’tire are a clan that has crafted such styles of hair. I met a traveller of their clan once, Siul who sought the Tawkami for more flowers for work against a deadly yavä close to his clan.”

“I don’t think we’ll wear them quite like they do. I’ve seen pictures that Ruby had pulled from the data banks each of the research shacks had.” Jake said. They had another shack haul to do and he very much wanted to be a part of it but until their outfits, at least, one version was done, most of the Dreamwalkers weren’t out and about as much unless at their camps or Hometree. “Yavä?”

“Some sort of deadly air that clouds the minds and can lead to death. I didn’t inquire further since it wasn’t my business.” N’deh handed the hair fork back to him thoughtfully. “Came about after the Sarentu clan went missing sixteen years ago. The clan was blamed by neighbouring clans for their disappearance as they were the last clan to house their company.”

Jake blinked a little though he couldn’t help his mind stall a little. “A whole clan went missing? Neytiri spoke of that clan with pride.”

N’deh sighed but nodded. “The Sarentu were a travelling clan, they often journeyed in smaller groups but often had moot points to reconnect and celebrate as a whole again. The Omatikaya held Sarentu guests for a week or so when Mo’at was a child. Our mother would tell wonderful stories of them.” N’deh looked a little put down the more he spoke. “It is a great sadness that they are gone.”

Jake uneasily shifted, twirling the femur in his fingers. “Indeed.” He didn’t know what else to say. What could he say that wouldn’t be dismissive? It… sounded a lot and he could feel the empathetic ache because how would he feel if the Omatikaya just…disappeared? Everyone he knew was gone… or worse, dead. The unknown nature… and the void that would follow. It was unimaginable in a lot of ways.

N’deh composed himself after a moment. “What is your plan with that?” He directed his question down to the bone he had still.

“I was thinking about a small blade?” He didn’t need the whole bone but he could use the smaller pieces made from this to make decorative beads for his hair and this femur had a good diameter to it as well.

N’deh eyes it for a moment though not convinced if the hum he gave was any indication.

“I’ll need Morgan’s help with my hair. This will be a Thank-you gift for his work.” Jake explained.

“We still have some hide left, I can get some prepped for the handle?” N’deh offered.

Jake peered at the basket. “Aren’t you busy?”

N’deh gave his own work a passing glance. “I can sort them later. The hide shouldn’t take too long to prepare.”

-

So, Jake continued on with N’deh’s help as he marked out the length relative to a human and began to slowly carve the bone away with his small hand tools. What he couldn’t chip away, he had a rough hand stone sand the bone down and closed the pores in the process as the shape of the blade began to take shape. He kept the handle almost bare since it was going to be covered but decided on a small hunting pattern at the very least; Morgan would get a good surprise when the handle hide needed replacing.

Nadine came back from her foraging looking like a happy gremlin with her basket of eggs and seeds.

“I found good seeds that make smooth flour!” She cackled. “Better than the ones they use at Hometree since these aren’t growing close to their gathering spots.”

“Ooh, what you making?”

“Pasta.” Her eyes were alight as she set the basket down beside the fire. “I need my rolling pin and a flat, clean surface but…I can make it work. Better if I had access to a pasta roller but…meh, I’ll make do.”

Nadine’s flat surface that wasn’t inside was in fact a large slab of stone that was washed down a few times; once with disinfectant and the rest to clean it away. And was set down upon a giant leaf for further space that may be required.

N’deh moved off to sit beside and watch Nadine grind the seeds into flour, still working on cutting the hide for Jake and asking about the processes and what ‘pasta recipe’ she was making.

It took a second for Jake to realise that…Na’vi didn’t have pasta. At least, not the Omatikaya. The concept was new, despite having all the ingredients available. They had a lot of recipes of course for wonderful food of course but why expand when you had something for everyone? Traders of course may add to it from their cultural exchanges. Food would of course be a delicate trade of knowledge and connection. Was it possible that the Omatikaya knew of such recipes and didn’t use them or simply didn’t know? They did have to help feed the whole clan; it was a lot of preparations for that much pasta.

Still, he couldn’t help but...enjoy the idea of Nadine teaching the clan something. Something that could be received well. To share that knowledge with the clan, not just the clan teaching them. He wondered what else could be received as well… food-wise.

Jake finished the carving by the time Nadine had made the pasta dough, spending ten minutes longer to sharpen up the blade edges then N’deh handed the hide for him to wrap the handle neatly and orderly until it was done. He turned it happily in his hand, content with the result.

“You finished that bracelet yet?” Nadine asked as she rolled the piece of pasta dough flatter and flatter.

“This is a knife.” Jake pointed out, holding it up.

“No, I mean that pretty purple one you were making last week?”

Oh. “No, not yet.” He had gotten sidetracked on that project with other things. He hadn’t given it yet because he wanted to be…happy about it. Content to make it perfect. It was almost there but not yet. He hadn’t figured out a good latch for it. “But I’ll let you know when it’s done.”

Nadine craned her head up to him. “Maybe I’ll see someone else wearing it.” She chuckled. “She’ll love it. You’ve got taste.”

Jake gave her the middle finger with a roll of his eye. Nor was he gonna open that topic further. Nadine of course would see through him but it wasn’t like he wasn’t expecting her to find someone, most likely Morgan, to bone once she was ready.

N’deh’s eyes flickered to him but he said nothing to add to it as he rose to get back to his basket of fruit and a few bowls from storage. Jake took a large leaf from a nearby tree and gently wrapped it up, using a small vine to bind it together.

-

It was well into the afternoon when Morgan seemed to appear, jumping off the back of Neptune as Jerome set the gentle horse off to their makeshift stables. They weren’t empty-handed. Morgan came carrying a wrapped bundle in his arms, grinning happily and excited.

“Have fun?”

“Yep! We checked on Kendra’s refinery. It’s done now and they’re making a good amount of fuel.” Morgan said, putting the goods down onto the grass and began to stretch out his arms. “We can restart the shack stealing without concerns. I made a few adjustments to their engines so they shouldn’t have any problems once they switch to the new fuel sources.”

“Ooh, was it nice?” Nadine asked. “It’s been a while since you handled an engine.”

“I helped them build it but…yeah.” Morgan shrugged “I forgot how much I loved tinkering with tech.”

[Once an engineer, always an engineer.]” Nadine quipped in Spanish.

Morgan blew a raspberry and then turned his focus to Jake. “I popped down to Hometree to update them on our plans and they finished this for you.”

From his pile, Jake watched as he pulled out two stringy pieces of fabric and held them out. A loincloth,

The loincloth came in two pieces, not many humans knew that unless you were in SciOps or had seen a Na’vi put them on. The external that everyone saw and made to look nice and then there was the second one underneath. The underneath was essentially a cup (the type used to protect males in sports) on strings however shallower since their genitals didn’t hang out so it fit both males and females comfortably. It slipped up around their legs, the string tailing the thigh gap between until it reached their tail where it was secured there for good measure before the outside one was put on.

Jake realised and he recognised the… design of it. It wasn’t just a random one being shared with him to start the process of hiding him among the people. This had been one of the pieces he had shown the weaver.

The outside of this was a warm brown, with dark yellow threading laddering up one side with a few hunter’s signals in a complimentary dark red on the right. On his piece, it had a back cover as well instead of tapering straight off to a tail loop that the Omatikaya’s had, nothing spectacular but there was a hole made for his tail instead and the woven leather waistband adjustable. It wasn’t as big and colourful as a typical Na’vi but the designs came with clan honours; your position and placement. He had a place through Uturu, he worked well and had provided for the clan so he had the designs on, otherwise, it would be plain.

He felt his heart speed up in excitement at the sight. Jake stood up and took them from his hands. “They finished it?!”

“They were inspired.” Morgan chuckled. “I think they were excited about new projects and being allowed to be more adventurous with their designs. They’re working on the others as well.” He explained.

Jake turned the loincloth over in his hands then eyes the crotch piece first in his other with a heavy sigh.

Fun.

“Put it on!” Nadine called, “Let us see those lower cheeks of yours!”

Jake poked his tongue out.

“Yes,” N’deh jumped on the bandwagon with a sly grin, “The weavers would be joyous that you put it on straight away. Delighted, even.”

Jake gave him a sour look and then rolled his eyes. “Fine.” Feeling their eyes on him as he left, Jake clambered up to his mauri and shut the curtains for some level of privacy. He dropped his pants with some level of reservation, then his boxers; the cool air ticking too close for comfort as he hastily pulled the cup string first.

He felt like he was giving himself a wedgie he slipped the wider fabric underneath to cover the goods and to attach it to his tail strings then tightened it.

“Ugh” Yep, right up his ass. Crouching was going to be shit.

The actual cloth itself is far better. He sipped his tail into the back hole first before he secured the front and let it sit happily at his waist. His tail swished a little, he could feel the rim ticking but… nothing worse than usual. It was…very breezy still. The air going where air shouldn’t and…his ass still felt on display, even with the shed of cover the backcloth gave which was more than that the Omatikaya had.

Carefully, Jake popped a squat with immediate regret, hissing a little but forced himself to bear through the discomfort.

“<You okay in there?>” Jerome called, far too cheerfully. “<Need help>”

“<Fuck off>” Jake called back, straightening up to feel how the cloth sat with that movement. Nope, he wasn’t leaving soo soon. Walking like a baby deer.

It took ten minutes of privately testing his movements for him to get…marginally used to it. Bending down, crouching, rising, repeat. The first layer had settled and barely moved, thankfully but he wasn’t used to the breeze about his crotch still.

The wolf whistles from almost everyone as he clambered very awkwardly down, barring N’deh made him glower at them with a sour look. Kim had appeared as well from her mauri at the commotion, tiredly rubbing her pregnant belly though she seemed to grin a little as she noticed the new addition to his attire.

“Looking good, Sully,” Morgan called. “If you rid the shirt, you’ll fit right in.”

“Hey, my backside is naked enough. My top half can wait.” Jake huffed, resisting the urge to try and pull the swing out from between his cheeks. Yep, he hated this.

“You look stunning.” Nadine cackled. “You have really defined cheeks.”

Jake flipped her the bird again. “Go make pasta and leave my ass alone.”

“Pasta’s cooked and cooling. I’m shit at shapes but I think I’ve got a good start for tagliatelle.” Looking rather pleased with herself.

“Kinda looks like Pappardelle.” Jerome remarked.

“Unless you’re Italian, Jerome, get off my ass about pasta.” Nadine quipped back. “I’m learning.”

They continued to brattle on so Jake took that as an escape to slowly sat down on his log, prodding Morgan for his attention.

“What?”

“Can I ask a favour?”

“Shoot.”

“Can… can you help me with my hair?” He asked, a little nervous.

Morgan’s eyes moved up. “What style were you thinking?”

“Some sort of deadlocks? Or something similar?” He asked, “The Kame’tire clan have their hair similar but I don’t want to straight up copy either yours or there’s but I’m open for a compromise. Think you could help?”

Morgan hummed, frowning as he moved around to his braid. “Dreadlocks take years to start naturally and it’s high maintenance the first few years before they mature.” He ran his fingers through his own dreads. “I had to teach N’deh how to work with my hair type to help me, so he’s got experience as well. Thankfully, I came to Pandora with my locs just about mature so I didn’t have to panic too much when I got abandoned.”

“What can you do?”

Morgan let out a heavy huff, his fingers coming to his hair, feeling the straight hair. “I…straight hair is hard to work into locks but not impossible. Most people can leave and let nature take its course but… I can’t let you do that to your avatar’s scalp. Na’vi hair is thinner than human hair and more hairs fill the scalp than humans too. I could… try instant locs. Not dreadlocks.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Locs are cultivated, Dreadlocks aren’t.” he replied, “The term is often mixed up and used interchangeably, depending on where you live. Instant locs will give you an immediate look. Instant locs aren’t typically permanent but they can be nurtured to be. It will take time to set in and for your scalp to grow the locs than you or me having to do it manually. It is a commitment, Jake, not something to flash at the RDA.”

“I understand,” Jake realised the man’s concern. “I want something that lasts and is stunning. Not a costume or anything.”

Morgan moved around him, his eyes fixed on him for a moment then back to his hair. “Set your avatar down by your ramp where I can reach. I will help but I will also teach you how to do them yourself. I can’t always be here and you exist in two bodies. It’ll take a while to do. I can do half before bed.”

“Okay.”

-

Morgan wasn’t kidding when he said it would take a while. His avatar was left mostly hunched over a loom frame, chin resting at a soft angle, arms hugging the frame for stability and his head tilted down enough for them to work from down to up.

N’deh helped by unravelling the kuru, separating the hair and rebraiding it, this allowed Jake to opt to have a few inches of hair from either side of his head shaved in advance. Morgan, with a thin bone crochet tool, began to section off the long strands of hair first then added a coarse waxy substance to help keep strands together since they were so long.

Jake sat out of his wheelchair, legs dangling limply off the edge of the ramp as he leant over and watched as Morgan backcombed the hair strands, a bit at a time, then began to use the crochet hook through the hair, twirling it and twisting as he went, talking him through it as well.

With the amount of hair, on the basis of the Dreamwalker having a larger scalp than a human, and the length of hair, it took well over sixteen hours for the whole thing to be done, with several breaks for everyone, to move the Dreamwalker a bit so he didn’t link with unwanted aches and to feed it. He opted not to go to Hometree so instead remained with Morgan and helped, taking over a few times to get used to it and with his guidance on the matter.

Jake was relieved to stand up and flex once the locs were done, touching them delicately, feeling the air breezing against the sides of his head and the weight of his new hair down his back and shoulders; unfamiliar but… it felt nice. He felt a deep sense of pride in how he looked and it shuffled away the distinct awkwardness of the loincloth. Jake had to admit, he had cared for his Dreamwalker more than his human body but his Dreamwalker felt…more belonging than before.

He knew it was much like what N’deh had criticised him about his mauri.

‘Be respectful of what this body provides you’

That felt fitting now. More so than ever.

“I’mma gonna go and nap. My hands need a long rest.” Morgan complained, but looked quite chipper as he packed up “Don’t overwork them too much.”

Jake gave him a two-fingered salute as he passed and crawled up to his link shack. His mind touched back on the gift he had let to give Morgan but he could wait till he had recovered and rested. So, Jake didn’t linger for long. The afternoon sun was still high, so he had plenty of time before the others would return from Hometree. Plenty of time for practice more so with his new hair and wedgie-inducing loincloth. He had to learn to live with that in everything, hunting and training included. He didn’t want to look like a complete rookie with his cheeks clenched at every step.

Jake picked up his sling, shrugging off his shirt to…try and get used to it. He found his ammo pouch, going for the carved rocks this time as he made his way down towards the lakeside to their target.

It took some minor adjustment without the confines of his clothing as he pulled his arm back, winging the stone before he let it sail at the right moment, the sound whistling through the air and then hitting the target with a satisfying thud.

Jake lined up for a second shot and began to wind—

“That loincloth suits you.”

Jake swore, the rock pining out of the sling before he could stop it but it had no momentum to far further than a few feet into the grass.

He spun around, only to be faced with… Mo’at of all people standing a few meters away with a curious look on his face.

“You really need to stop sneaking up on me!” He exclaimed, his heart thudding in his chest. By Eywa’s grace, she was silent.

“I do enjoy the effect my silent steps have, Jakesully.” She remarked, her eyes twinkling in amusement. “You should be more aware of your surroundings.”

Jake sucked in a few calming breaths. “Point, yes.” Maybe. But still, she didn’t need to sneak up on him in his own home. Jake bent down, recovering his dropped bullet. “I thought I’d practise my slinging before the others came back. I’m surprised you’re… here. Not Neytiri?”

Mo’at inclined her head towards the camp. “Neytiri has tsakarem duties to attend to today. N’deh speaks of having the Omatikaya provide more mauri covers to mask your metal homes entirely, to look like a Na’vi camp. He intends to change Txon'ong’s bones to resemble a more striking totem. I came to see if what would be necessary.”

Jake chuckled a little, glad to feel his heart start to take a slower pace now. “Not just that?”

“It was mentioned you had your hair restyled, I got curious.” Mo’at admitted a little, “I didn’t expect you to be…dressed in a loincloth as well. It took a second to realise it was you. The eyebrows gave you away.”

Jake grinned a little, a hand coming to his waistband. “I’m getting used to it first before I parade in front of the clan with it on.” He wasn’t gonna make a fool of himself.

“Wise decision.” Her lips were curled up a little as she said this, “You do look…tense.”

Jake snorted a little at that. Tense. That was one way to put it. “How you wear these every day is almost beyond me. At least I got my back-flap going for me, don’t need a temper tantrum about it now.” He reached back to tug the backcloth with some merit. “So glad Bree knew to include it so my goods aren’t constantly on display.”

Mo’at had to chuckle at that. “She knows what is comfortable in this compromise of your new clothing. She had told me at length of the merits of human clothing when I inquired.” There was a soft gesture for them to start walking. “I have some foraging as well I’d like assistance with. I do have much to discuss still in regards to… your plan of this ‘new clan’ idea my husband and daughter spoke of.”

Ah, fair. Eytukan had mentioned he would discuss this with Mo’at but hadn’t gotten back to him over the last week about it. It was easier to talk when doing stuff as well, like a shared duty, no doubt why she was offering.

They headed northeast for several miles before they reached a very hilly side, the trees much more spread out but it was easy to see the familiar plants now; herbs and larger flower heads.

“Twenty miles east, we get into the Tawkami Clan’s territory, this is far foraging for me but often worthwhile,” Mo’at explained as she knelt towards a large bud of flowers. “I would be cautious about going too far. They do not like Dreamwalkers.”

Yes, he had heard that before. “Will that opinion change with exposure to us? The ones that drop out from the RDA?”

“Perhaps but I wouldn’t test that quite so soon. With your… new appearance, they may not realise you aren’t one of us.”

Jake pulled out his knife and gently cut a few leaves from a plant or two, being careful not to remove too many as Mo’at did the same. He could sense there was a tone to her voice. “You’re worried about that?”

“I am. I know and understand why you must resemble one of the people. People outside of the Omatikaya may not. I fear they may get…aggressive if they are to find out you’re not one of the people.”

Jake considered her words softly. “What has Eywa said?”

“She had been silent on the matter. I believe she is…waiting to see what path we’re deciding before she graces us with any answers. I do not sense displeasure.”

“Will there be harm done in not telling the other clans that they’re in the presence of Dreamwalkers?” Jake proposed softly. “That’s probably where we should see it; is there harm made in saying something, or not mentioning it, that sort of thing? Now, I don’t see my origin as being something shameful to hide. We hide from the RDA, not the people. They will learn to See us when they see us respect the world first. Change will take time.”

Mo’at considered his words carefully, with a thoughtful expression as she rose to her feet. “That is one way to see it, I suppose.”

Jake hummed with a nod, “It’s not easy. I understand both your difficulties in his. I don’t want to overstep and disrespect the way of the people. No one does.”

They settled into a moment of quiet as he helped collect more herbs for the Tsahìk. His height helped get more higher plants to spare her from climbing something.

Jake however paused abruptly as he heard a distant sound. Steps and snapping of sticks mostly but… there was a whirl of an…exopack that sharpened his awareness and followed it; the sound was… isolated; Singular. Not grouped.

Was it the RDA? Or someone alone? Lost or abandoned?

“Jakesully?”

“Wait… I hear something.” His ear twitched before he headed towards the sound and pushed through to see the back of… a human treading carefully (for a human) through the trees, a basket of fruits in hand. The guy looked to be somewhat short with pale skin, and short curly auburn hair that was shaved at the sides. His gear was loosely padded, but not the SecOps standard of gear. He had a gun in a holster but both hands were on the basket; he didn’t look like a SecOps guy. SciOps, maybe? The padding on the knees wasn’t standard. Maybe another sector?

MineOps?

Jake paused as he stepped on a twig himself, wincing as it dug into his foot but the echo reached the human who spun around.

The man froze up as he caught sight of him in the bushes and for a moment there was almost a tese second of staring (he had really wide brown eyes) before the guy dropped his basket of fruit and bolted like a fast little fucker.

“Wait!” Jake took off immediately after him.

Mo’at was close behind, surprisingly, but Jake was a little faster on his feet with his height and turned easily on a dime and leaving her more in the dust. The man dipped easily through the trees, weaving through them and less hindered by higher branches and then seemed to break the treeline and straight into a crack in the rocky hillside.

Jake barely stopped himself, sliding on his knees and lunging his arm painfully into the crevice and the guy elated a high-pitch squeaked as he accidently struck the guy in the back but he couldn’t grab him before he was gone.

“Avatar! Avatar!” Jake echoed, wheezing a little, waving his 5-fivers in the gap. “It’s Sully!”

He pulled his arm back, hissing at the lightly scratched skin and blood of ramming his arm and chest into a rock surface. Fuck, he shouldn’t have done that.

After a second, Jake bent down so he could peek into the crevice. He could see better in the dark with his Dreamwalker eyes so it was easy to make out the near hyperventilating sprawled-out human on the floor, lying on his back against some rocks.

“It’s Jake! Shit, sorry for scaring you!” he apologised a little, still trying to catch his breath. “God, you’re fast! Were you part of a short-distance running or something?”

Mo’at finally seemed to catch up, less flushed and far more dignified than he ever was.

“Fuck….” The guy groaned, his exopack whirling with each of his breaths. His cheeks were flushed for obvious reasons as he stared, wide-eyed still but looking less prone to about to pass out. His hands were shaking in tight fists against his chest from adrenaline.

“Take your time,” Jake knelt a little. “Ooh, I haven’t run that much since I got chased by a Slinth.” Which was saying something. Neytiri had been training his body for long-distance running, not short bursts of speed like this.

“Xavier!” Another voice echoed, distant and alarmed before there was a flurry of feet.

Jake ducked his head back as three people appeared from the depths of the cave to the sprawled man.

The first was a woman, with beautifully smooth ember skin, her hair tied back from her face in coils and each seemed to be bound in very aesthetic cording and some synthetic beads. Her clothes were dusty, basic casual clothing with padding on the knees and elbows.

The next guy’s attire was similar, but he had a dark burgundy hard hat with a light on the front. He was a short man but very thin, what stood out to him was the clear glowing left eye and facial scars and hints of external implants almost hidden by his helmet and mask by the silver glinting in the light.

The woman that followed was a very Kung-stern in her attitude. Tank top, body pads, hard hat on top of straight near black hair, around her neck were her dog tags and on her right arm was a simple skull and crossbones tattoo with a hardhat and hammer as the crossbones.

The moment he was spotted, the first woman reached back and clearly for her weapon. He ducked back away from the entry swiftly, hands raised and barely stopped himself backing into the Tsahìk.

“It’s Sully! I’m Jake! Just got a new hairstyle!” He called, hoping she didn’t fire at him. She didn’t, thankfully but her weapon remained raised at him as she slipped out from the crevice and into the light.

Mo’at stiffed a little but remained tense at the sight of the weapon. Cautiously examining this interaction.

Her eyes raked over him slowly before she frowned at him, lowering the muzzle of her gun. “Why are ya wearing a thong with curtains, Sully? I could have shot ya!” Out of her mouth was a very strong southern accent.

“Long story, almost had an RDA run-in and rather not tip them off that avatars are about with the Native clans here.” He summarised, “Not the complete look but… this is a good start.” He rose to his feet, giving them a nice long twirl to break the tension. “So, apologies for scaring the shit out of your buddy in there. He bolted before we could talk.” He grinned sheepishly, a low groan echoing before the guy peeped his head through the gap with a disgruntled look, hands still shaking as he gripped the rock side.

The woman sighed deeply, slipping her gun away into the back of her pants. “Names Xanthe May, I try to keep The Vents secure. The one ya scared is my husband, Xavier Holton, then there’s Moran Kellis and this is Alejandra Castro our group leader.” Xanthe stepped aside, allowing the other woman, Alejandra to step forwards and take control of the situation.

Jake turned his attention to her fully as she gave her scrutinising look to both him and Mo’at, mostly eying the Tsahik more so.

“Do you want us off your land? I know we didn’t ask but we weren’t planning on running into anyone.” She asked, very bluntly. “The fact you’re here, Sully, does seem to suggest you’re on good terms with the Na’vi?”

“We are. We have a deal with the Omatikaya at the least, they protect us from the RDA and educate us on how to live with Pandora and with the people. We work with them every few days of the week in return. We’ve found the others that escaped the RDA. They’ve accepted the deal to stay at their chosen location.”

Alejandra’s head turned curiously. “I expect that offer extends to us?”

“It does,” Mo’at spoke, more cautiously than Jake, “But, I do have questions.”

“Shoot.”

There was a moment of pause, Mo’at’s brow pulling in confusion.

Jake decided to step in and help. “<That means ‘Go ahead and ask’. English tends to shorten or abbreviate sentences like that.>”

Mo’at sighed a little at that, “<then say that. There is no need for reducing your language to a simple word.>”

“<Not on earth, whole other story. It’s a cultural thing.>” Jake said. “I won’t go into it now but remind me to explain what a tripe contraction is later if you’re curious. You’ll hate it.”

Mo’at moved, her head turning to the cave entryway more closely “You are living in a cave?”

“Yes. It’s actually part of a massive cave system. It connects to other systems all under this region. We’re still mapping it out.” Her eyes seemed to light up a little as she spoke, her lips curling up a little with clear passion in her work.

Geologist, most likely. They loved their rocks.

“You’re miners, obviously from your gear so I suppose you’d know how to survive in a cave. How long have you been out here?” Jake asked curiously.

“About a month or so.”

“A month!” Jake laughed a little. “Woah, I thought a week at best.”

“You hid very well…for humans.” Mo’at noted, eyeing the entrance more thoughtfully, “This spot isn’t part of our typical patrols.”

“We know caves. Figured we have better chances in caves than we do out in the surface world with minimal weaponry. We have a SciOps gal who knows her shit and how to avoid the poisonous plants and animals, even the ones inside the caves. I found this cave about a year ago in a geological survey. Deleted it off the servers with a bunch of other useful data the RDA didn’t give a fuck about if it didn’t have Unobtainium underneath. I realised the potential but didn’t want to bail too soon. Kung’s death last year stuck…a lot of fear in my crew. Figured it was safer out in the caves of nature than in the shit hole the RDA is digging into the side of this world.”

Ah, he didn’t know much about that, Kung herself didn’t speak of it but… the fact her daughter’s death reached MineOps meant it was not a simple death. He was curious to ask but knew better than right now.

“How many are you living in there?” Mo’at asked.

Xanthe at this point seemed to disappear back into the cave, her hand coming towards her husband to help him up and distantly spoke before they headed away. Jake didn’t pay them much more attention but  Moran seemed to dither about the entryway regardless with his arms over his chest and his prosthetic eye glowing cryptically in the shadows

“Twelve. Most of us are MineOps. That covers geologists, mineralogists, Speleologist and… well a few more but either way, we know what we’re doing out here.”

“That’s a good number of you living in a whole. How’s life?” He nodded towards the cave. “Cramped?”

“No, it gets bigger on the inside. We’ve got a good trail line and the best spots and the shortcuts to a few various areas that you can dream of, buddy.”

“Try me.”

“Two words; Hot Springs,” Moran called with a smug grin.

Jake’s amusement dropped into pure jealousy that his tail dropped a little. “Damn… you really picked a good area.” He could bet the miners were really enjoying Eywa’s creations really well. “We’ll have weed soon, would that buy passage to your hot springs?” he immediately bargained; it’d cut the share down with the other camps but… they’d see it worth it if it meant they’d have access too. They’d provide a good excuse to visit the camps as well. Who wouldn’t want to be part of that?

Alejandra’s head tilted though her eyes seemed to light up a little more in deeper consideration. “Yep, I’ll still need to run it past my crew. Maybe if we take those offers, we’ll invite you down.”

“We can come in?”

“Not this way, obviously. We covered up the closets Na’vi-sized exits but there’s one four hundred meters west but we’ll have to make it safe first before you come in since it’s basically a vertical drop. We didn’t install anything lasting.” Alejandra explained. “We actually dug in from another site and trekked underground for miles. Barely avoided massive bat monsters and got where they were too big to get. The upside of our diminutive stature compared to the rest of life on this world.”

“You have a radio?”

“Of course. We don’t go caving without it. I gotta keep my people safe at any and all times here.”

“Why did you leave?” Mo’at asked.

Alejandra sighed deeply. “MineOps started to get funds cut. Selfridge wanted more work done and began to have us cut corners to achieve the new daily output he wanted. Safety checks were the first to go. Not just in the mine but it affected the SecOps Patrols as well since the building counted as MineOps facilities. Accidents happened. Moran, for example.” She gestured to him.

Moran left the cave, pulling away his hard hat to show off the extent of his scars and the implant that… actually showed he was also missing a left ear. What was there was the implant that stretched around his cranium, covering the ear space but he could see there was a hole in the side; making it possible for his ear to be functional still? Jake wasn’t sure.

“Faulty equipment gave the wrong reading time for the mine explosives,” Moran said to simply the explanation as he slipped the hat back on. “If I wanted to look pretty again, they would have sent me back home.”

“A failed safety rail caused Kung to fall head-long into barbed wire till she grew two inches. Her death was a…vivid realisation that the MineOps facility wasn’t safe and our people were expendable. Replaceable. I couldn’t have that. My people deserved better. At least out here, we know how to track our safety, we know what is safe and what isn’t. We can trust ourselves rather than live with ignorance or hope for change that will never come. We sure ain’t putting more money in some guy’s pocket at the expense of our lives.”

Jake nodded. “I respect that. Get out before it gets worse.”

Alejandra nodded, “Sometimes ditching is the only thing you can do. The Mine is become a death pit. We have lost miners to accidents before. It’s not uncommon but… now it’s amping up because Selfridge wants to drain the remaining ore but also start preparations for the new mine. He doesn’t seem to get that there’s a process to closing a mine. We can’t close it and still keep it operational. There’s not enough miners for that.”

“Did you not offer complaints against your leaders?”

Alejandra snorted a little. “Complaints go nowhere. Selfridge has them cleared if they’re not considered important enough. He wants results, at any cost it seems.”

Mo’at looked a little disturbed at that. “He doesn’t value even the life of his own kind?”

“Nope, unless it’s his next paycheck, he doesn’t care enough.”

“Damn.” Jake hated every word of that. Yep, he had made a good call to bail as soon as possible. Now here was the proof that it was people’s best option to leave. How was it safer out here?

“I see…”

“Give me your radio, I can patch you into our group frequencies. We found all the other human camps so far so we’re staying in contact. We gotta have each other’s back out here.”

From her waistband of pouches, the miner handed over her radio and allowed Jake to fiddle about until he had done it.

“Thanks.” She took it back from him “I’ll update the others when I get back.”

“Let them know if you’re gonna accept the offer. If you don’t, the Na’vi won’t do shit if you’re discovered by the RDA and you’ll be left to your own devices.” He clarified, should they want to know the alternatives.

“Alright, I’ll keep them informed.”

“Sweet. Also, does anyone have an Avatar?”

“Murphy, he did but it died in transit to Pandora. He never got clearance for a second to be grown planetside”

“Ah, damn.”

“Why?”

“Just wondering. Since Avatars stand out in human clothes, we’re having them disguised as Na’vi to stop the RDA coming for the Omatikaya if they clock on.”

Alejandra’s eyes dropped down, eyeing his loincloth a little more. “Fair enough. One last thing…” She shifted on the balls of her feet and reached into a pouch at her hip where her radio was stationed and pulled something out. “Catch.” She tossed it up into the air.

Mo’at caught it before she opened her hand to reveal a… rough reddish and white stone. Jake leaned towards it curiously to see what it was. Shiney rock.

“Is…that quartz?” He directed this question down but where Alejandra had stood was now a human-less area. That was one way to leave a conversation. Throwing rocks and dipping. A soft chuckle escaped his lips. “I bet that would make good beads.” He added to Mo’at at the very least. “I suppose we should head back. You gotta talk to Eytukan about the…new additions. Hopefully.”

Mo’at eyes the stone in her hands and then to him. “I’ll inform him in a bit. Let me tend to you first.”

Her hand touched at the scrapes on his arm, shoulder and chest; he had all but forgotten that. Now that it was pointed out, he could feel the stinging again. He was probably gonna bruise as well. His own fault really

Still… it was kinda worth it. Who knew a grown man could make such a sound? Almost as impressive as Zeke with teylu down his back.

The Masterlist

[cloudysarts]

please please tell us about rick and morty x-33 i fell in love with them instantly

GLADLY!!!!! aughhgh im SO glad people want to know about them i wanted to talk about them so bad!!! i have 300 million ideas. Ill give you the highlights <3 and a couple old sketches!!! under the cut so i dont clutter the tag TOO much :p

I saw someone mention their dimensional code in the tags and that was not an accident!!!! i DID pick x33 JUST bc it looks like a cute little emoticon <333 it went through a bunch of variants before i landed on that one and it was the right choice i think

Rick x33 didnt LIVEE on the citadel but he did work there!! up until it was destroyed ofc :P he runs what is basically a knockoff hot topic called “Bloody Morty” (like bloody mary <3). 

The tagline for the bloody morty  is “Memento Morty” which is. also a pun skldfhksd. The phrase it comes from, Memento Mori, is “remember death” or “death remembers” in latin, which colloquially translates to “Don’t take anything for granted.” the pun is obviously just a play on words, but its also sort of a reminder to ricks on the citadel. It would mean “remember morty” or “morty remembers” or,,,, “Don’t take Morty for granted” :]

He is a terrible business man and WILL price everything based on how much he likes you personally. You’re a Morty who wandered in to buy something behind your Rick’s back? It’s on the house, don’t even worry about it. You’re a Rick who dragged his Morty in here by the arm after yelling at him outside? Fuck you. This single pin is now thirty dollars.

Flesh Curtains Era Rick x33 ALSO had very wild fashion. As did the whole band honestly. Back then, though, Rick used to dye his hair like once a week. It was always a new color. He would paint Squanchy’s fur/BP’s feathers with the dye, too, so they all had a fun new look for every show!! When he went blue, though, he switched brands, and didn’t notice until AFTER dying his hair/dying Squanchy and Bp’s fur/feathers, that this dye was made to last…forever. It BECOMES your natural hair color. You could shave your head and it would grow back blue. He could dye on top of it, but ever since then he’d pretty much exclusively stayed blue, and BP/Squanchy now have permanent dye patterns in their feathers and fur long after growing out of their Phases

Speaking of BP, Rick x33 has the same little badge on a necklace that BP has on his collar. I like to think he gave him that necklace at Blood Ridge <3

Rick also has a yellow locket! This is to match Morty’s teal felt heart on his chest. They’re wearing each others colors!

Morty’s earrings look like Fleeb!! :3 

Morty does a lot of graphic design work for the store, since he knows what Morty’s like and this store is mostly for them :P lots of “”cringey”” unlicensed merch for things like FNAF and Warrior Cats are in here :3

Morty also spends a lot of time watching/making AMV’s or edits and such <3 Even drawing!!

Morty is very social and gets along super well with other Morty’s :] He likes to hang around the citadel and make kandi and rainbow loom with all the friends he makes. You’ll run into a lot of Morty’s with ‘memento morty’ spelled out in beads on their bracelets. Its like his version of a ‘best friends’ necklace for every morty hes ever befriended!

Morty x33 is very well liked by other Morty’s on the Citadel. Most Morty’s like Rick x33 too!! Not true for other Rick’s though. If they don’t OUTRIGHT HATE rick x33, they probably at least think he’s annoying as fuck

Rick and Diane x33 met at a rave <3

WAHGHJHKSDFHJKL OKAY ive gotta cut myself off i could literally ramble hcs about them all day :PPPP THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE ASK im so happy that people like them and are interested in them bc i love them so much!!!!!!!!!!!!! I really appreciate it o((>ω< ))o here’s some little bonus doodles of them that i happened to have on hand!!!!!!!

pr*ship/c*mship dni please!!

[kesariatextile]

Glimpse into India's Saree Manufacturing Industry

A saree­'s beauty and elegance­ make it more than a piece­ of clothing – it's like a masterpiece­. Ever thought about how materials like silk and cotton be­come these stunning drape­s women in India wear? Let's le­arn about the Indian saree make­rs and the skill behind eve­ry fold.

Rich Legacy of Weaving The sare­e manufacturing business in India has a long history. Unique patte­rns, colors, and weaving methods are found in e­ach area. The choices range­ from luxurious Banarasi silk to intricate Chanderi weave­s, displaying an incredible variety.

Heart of the Industry The life­blood of India's saree making industry is its adept craftspe­ople - the weave­rs, dyers, and stitchers who rele­ase their innovation and mastery into e­very piece. Fre­quently, they bestow the­ir wisdom across generations, cherishing time­-honored customs while accepting fre­sh change.

The Manufacturing Process: A Journey of Transformation

Designing: The process begins with a design concept, often inspired by nature, mythology, or cultural motifs.

Material Selection: High-quality fabrics like silk, cotton, linen, or georgette are chosen based on the desired drape and look.

Weaving/Printing: The fabric is either woven on a loom or printed with intricate patterns using various techniques like block printing or digital printing.

Embellishment: Embroidery, zari work, sequins, or beading may be added to enhance the saree's beauty.

Finishing: The saree is cut, stitched, and finished to perfection, ready to be draped and cherished.

Choosing Your Saree Manufacturer in India

When selecting saree manufacturer, consider these factors:

Quality of Fabrics: Look for manufacturers who use premium fabrics that feel good and last long.

Craftsmanship: Check for intricate details and well-executed designs that showcase the artisan's skill.

Ethical Practices: Choose manufacturers who prioritize fair labor practices and sustainable production methods.

Customization: Many manufacturers offer customization options, allowing you to create a saree that reflects your unique style.

Saree­ Production's Future in India The saree­ production sector in India is set for expansion, se­eing a rise in desire­ from local and global consumers. While kee­ping its origin intact, the industry is also accepting rece­nt tech and style trends to me­et the changing prefe­rences of customers. Finishing Re­marks

[the-fiction-witch]

Blood Of A Cesar

Media The last Legion

Character Romulus Augustus (Age Up)

Couple Romulus X Reader 

Rating Smut

Concept Kings Blood is powerful

Smut restraints/ riding/ full sex/ bitting

I sat on the little stone bench looking out across the sweet fountains, plants and statues in the courtyard. Bored out of my mind, but that was fairly normal, However could assume emperor of all Rome and her empires would be so damn bored all the time. I never get to do anything around here the senet deals with most things and my advisers hardly ever even ask me about anything anymore.

"Why so glum Romulus?" Aurelius asked as he headed into the courtyard

"I'm bored" I sighed "I never get to do anything anymore Aurelius. I can't even remember the last time they let me out of the villa"

"Well, likely before your coronation"

"See, I haven't been out of the villa since I was a child. you're the only person I even speak to"

For a moment he glanced around the courtyard noticing the lack of my security "Perhaps, we can go on a little adventure" he smiled "Come on" he says

I happily followed him making sure we weren't followed as we headed to my suite, he picked me out some clothes I often wore on days I didn't have much to do just plain old fabrics without much grandeur as well as cloak to hide myself away

"Go on, scamper over the wall and into the city. I'll cover for you shut the room up and claim we are having a meeting just be back before sunrise tomorrow"

"I will, I promise" I smiled happily taking a bag and heading out the villa, I managed to get over the little villa wall and I quickly ran through towards town.

I walked through the cobblestones looking at all the little shops and stalls about the city, People didn't even pay attention to me but I didn't care finally being outside of that damn villa for a while, seeing all the little things that never came to the villa foods, trinkets and such like. knowone even glanced at me nothing about me drawing any of their attention away from their business well... almost everyone.

Across the market leant against the stone collum for the outside of the bathhouse was a girl, she looked my age if maybe a year or so older. She had this dark almost black hair with slight light silver highlights in these spring-like curls that loomed down to her waist loose enough to have an inch or so between each curl, she had a sweet face with almost glinting green eyes, peach coloured lips that curved on one side to hold a seductive smile. her body graced with a long lilac stoa that reached her ankles, a leather harness of some type around her waist, and shoulders and crossed over her chest slightly supporting her breasts, the nipples of which at times made their presence known below the fabric, small leather sandals that laced high up her legs in a crossing pattern, purple tie in her hair made of the same fabric as the dress with small silver beads to line it,  a silver chain around her neck hung low the pendant of a crescent moon hung in line with her heart. In her hand was a wicker basket with flowers, herbs, and small wax-sealed bottles.

She was looking at me.

and only me.

She seemed to watch me as I made my way across the market that smiles still lingering, part of me was worried as I had heard of the... kind of girls that linger on street corners and knew I could never partake in their business as Emporer and king it wasn't even a consideration.

I found my feet powered by themselves as I uncontrollably walked to her standing on the cobbles just before her stone step.

"Good Afternoon" she cooes

"Afternoon, I uh I'm sorry for staring I was merely curious to your wares," I told her trying not to sound nervous

"Of course" she smiled showing her basket more clearly "Tonics, potions and helpful things" she encouraged "Can I interest you in some luck tonic?" she smiled

"Ohh that's okay, but are those lavender flowers?"

"We always have Lavender" she smiled getting a sweet sprig from her basket

"how much?" I asked here getting some coins from my bag

"No charge" she giggled handing it over

"Ohh, thank you" I smiled happily taking it "that's very sweet of you, If I may ask why?"

"You seem a sweet one" she smiled

"Thank you, you seem very sweet too." I smiled "I uhh I'm Romulus"

"Y/n" she smiled

"If I uhhh if I may say so. You're beautiful"

"Ohh," she blushed "thank you very much, sweet and handsome"

"oooh. I uhhh I uhh thank you" I stuttered

"if you like, We could go for a little walk in the lavender fields"

"Well, if you'd like that"

"Umm hummm" she smiled offering her arm, I happily smiled and took her arm.

She lead me though the city and out of the city walls. I'm sure auralious wouldn't want me leaving the city but I felt so safe with this girl. She lead me into the woods though the sweet lavender fields and such until we reached a sweet little house and she tugged me inside the little wooden cottage with a sweet fire going setting the basket down.

She smiled widely and tugged off my cloak a little and cuddling me closely wrapping her arms around my neck peppering little kisses across my skin.

"ohh I uhh" I stuttered pushing her back a little moving back her hips "I uhh I don't have that kinda money" I told her a little upset that I was wrong and she-

she blushed a little "I'm not that sort of girl romulus"

"Oh, your not?"

"No. did you think i was?" she asked a little offended

"well I just uhh I wan't sure. sorry I don't get out much"

"No, not that sort of girl"

"Good." I smiled tugging her hips a little closer

she pulled me closer and kissing my lips I happily kissed her back stroking her hips and her waist we kissed for a while it getting deeper and more passionate she pulled back and tugged me to a beautiful wooden bed with sheer purple curtains she pushed me to sit down and she happily climbed into my lap but I blushed hard

"I uhhh... I ummmm... I've never."

"Ohh, never?" she blushed

"Never."

"I'll be gentle then" she smiled pulling me back to kissing her I happily kissed her intensely stroking my hands across her skin sweetly after a while she pushed me back to lay on her bed, I held her closer kissing her more passionately she stroked her hands across my arms before she pinned my wrists to the bed and pinning my arms above my head kissing me far more intensely till she pulled back kissing down my neck I was going to wrap my arms around her but I couldn't move my hands which made me panic. I tried to stay calm looking over noticing she had put my hands through a tie meaning they where tied to the bedposts and there was nothing I could do completely at her mercy.

"Uhhhhhhhh.... what are you doing?" I asked

"just keeping you calm" she smiled pushing apart my shirt peppering with kisses

"Ummm, okay." I groaned a little feeling her sweet kisses, she untied my pants and pulled them down enough to expose me completely to her

"Ummm what a pretty boy" she giggled stroking my stomach as she moved her dress up and immediately slipped down my erection

"Ughh! Oh my god!" I gasped grabbing the bedsheets hard feeling her almost immediately starting to move her hips against me getting faster and faster leaving me a moaning mess I knew I was close.

But suddenly I noticed something she had pulled back her dress to reveal her bare breasts, her hands on my stomach as she moved muttering things as she did I couldn't tell what it was she was saying possibly just muttering things from the pleasure. I didn't care really too close to even care what she was saying.

Uncontrollably I bucked my hips up and groaned opening my eyes waiting to stare at her halof naked ontop of me but...

I panicked as she sat over me bare breasted muttering these strange words I didn't understand but they where clear and obvious not strange mutterings but words and phrases that just made no sense to me, in her hands a blade of silver hung above me menicingly-

OH FUCK!

She quickly moved the blade down before I could pannic badly cutting the blade across my chest not deep enough to kill me but enough to make me bleed she threw the knife and climbed off my lap

"What the hell! what are you doing to me!"

she returned to a bottle letting the blood run down into her bottle,

"I know who you are romulus" she smiled

"you do?" I asked in fear

"Umm, your a sweet little thing. But I need some powerful blood for my magic and no blood is more powerful then the blood of a king." she smiled "And cesar blood. your going to be very helpful" she smiled giving my cheek a kiss "I'll let you finish when I have what I need"

"you- you lied to me"

"You never asked if I was a witch." she smiled "relax sweetheart. I'll drop you back to your villa before sunrise" she smiled "and I'll make sure to thank you for all your help" she smiled kissing down my stomach

"uuuhhhhh okay. but I'm still not thrilled about it"

[poepoe-thebunny]

SEWING SPIDERS Spiderverse headcanon: All of the spidefam are, on varying levels, (somewhat) competent at sewing and other needle arts for multiple reasons.

Peter B, Gwen and Noir are the best in terms of actual skill.

Peter B and Noir learned from their respective Aunt May's as a way to stretch out the wear and tear of their clothes, since they didn't always have money for new ones. Between that and the time they spent sewing their costumes back together, they became pretty good at it.

Noir uses it as a reflective, relaxing activity when he can't sleep or the nightmares keep him awake. Because of this, he has the most patience when it comes to hand sewing even if it's larger projects or when dealing with an endless amount of small stitches. He is also surprisingly good at embroidery, and has made many patches for the Fam to stick to their jackets and bags. They all come out gorgeously detailed and monochromatic, but once the Fam gives him other colors and he has them all labelled and sorted (they know better than to mess with the labels) Noir occasionally asks them for help on color theory and what colors look good together.

Peter B is decently competent at sewing and fixing hem lines, waist lines, and holes. His aunt May was also a master knitter, so he has borderline medium level skill there, and can make a mean scarf or blanket if he really gets going. He has tried to use a loom before, but finds it too bulky and his rows often have large gaps because the struggles with yarn tension.

Gwen is by far, the best out of them. Not just because she can fix things, but because she can make them. Gwen has dipped her interests into many aesthetics ranging from punk, rock, vintage, pastel, or the softer looks based off of ballet and lyrical dance. She has made, and worn, a corset a time or two. She also isn't afraid to rip her clothes up and patchwork them together to see what she gets if she likes it enough, and has a good eye for diy stuff. She can make pretty rockin' circle skirts and blouses, and is the only other one besides Noir and Ham who knows how to take measurements and what they mean. She also legitimately sketches out her ideas and has a mannequin bust for her projects, and can use a sewing machine even on thinner slippier fabrics. She has a lot of talent for sewing and clothes making, on the flip side she has very LITTLE talent for things like knitting and embroidery and has rage quit them more than once.

Ham is exactly in the middle of them all in terms of skill. He can do the basics pretty well, knows how to keep his stitches lined up and even, can take measurements, and is better at short bits of hand stitching. His own skill is more for fixing holes and hemlines more than anything else, although he occasionally struggles with the learning curve of human bodies when it comes to the Fams' clothes because he is, in fact, a pig. And humans and pigs don't share a lot in terms of physical features. The Fam sometimes wonders WHY Ham needs to know how to sew, but since they're not sure about Zany Cartoon Logic when it comes to clothing they decide not to ask.

Miles is not necessarily GOOD at sewing, but he IS learning and getting better with practice. Apparently sewing your own costume is par for the course when you have a secret spider identity. He learned sewing from his mother, but the Aunt May of his dimension is also willing to help and a very tired miles is grateful. He still wants to do it on his own thought cause he feels guilty, which leads to several poked fingertips and sore hands and somehow getting wrapped up in the measuring tape while his mother laughs and scolds him for his lack of patience. His stitches are a little large and not spaced very well but he's getting there.

And while Miles can't sew very well, him and Gwen get along fabulously because Miles can diy pattern layouts in his head, dye/dip dye/acid wash/paint fabric pretty well. He actually learned it initially from both his father and uncle Aaron. He can use fabric glue and sealant pretty well, and can use acrylics and tea and coffee for cosplay style costume aging. While he's better at drawing, his dad taught him pastel dying with stuff like kool-aid, and how to properly iron patches onto his jackets and backpack. His uncle Aaron would always help little Miles out around Halloween time, and Miles learned things like placement, making texture, and making shadows and highlights with things like fabric paint and hairspray for costumes.

Peni is generally the worst of them in terms of sewing. Partially because she has no interest in it, and partially because her interests in science and technology tends to bleed into her other interests. As in, she's the kind of person who would rather make a Lazer scanner to get your measurements because it's more accurate and time effective versus doing it by hand. She CAN hand sew, kinda, but finds doing it on clothes time-consuming and frustrating. Being from the future, when she does feel like doing cosplay or fixing things, prefers to use her tech because she loves to see how accurately she can recreate things. She introduced the other spiders to characters she cosplays, that have futuristic designs or weapons, that Peni likes to recreate just to challenge herself. If she has to get something done to her clothes beyond her own skill, she prefers to be an informed consumer and look up local businesses to support that can fix her clothes, or where she can buy bolts of fabric that are no longer being mass used (deadstock) so they won't go to waste for Gwen and miles.

That being said, she CAN sew. Kinda. She often goes to Noir for help learning how to do it by hand since he is surprisingly patient with her, compared to an amused Gwen smacking Miles in the head when he doesn't listen. and Peni believes in being fashionable AND functional. She doesn't always have the time or interest for full length projects like Gwen or Miles, but her hand stitching is getting better with practice. Her interests lies more with accessories and decorative designs. She has begun practice on stitching ribbons and bows made of silk, or hair pins, belts, and patches made of fabric flowers/leaves and faux gems and pearls. She has even made the odd plush toy and doll. Noir has been teaching her basic embroidery, and she sometimes helps Gwen and Miles pick accent colors and textures for whatever they're making.

All in all, it's another weird little thing they all have vaguely in common. Ham snickers and jokes that they're Spiders, of course they can stitch stuff together cause that's what they do. But it is nice, having something they can all bond over like this. On good days when they can all hop over to someone's dimension and just need to relax and get things done, every inch of the room will be covered in needles, threads and fabrics of various colors.

Sometimes it's a Learning Day. Noir, Gwen, and Peter B help teach hand stitching, while Peni and Gwen drag Ham along with them to learn. Ham wants Gwen to teach him how to cut, measure, and drape fabric, because just like in the human world, in Ham's world there is a struggle to find clothes that fit certain looks and body types and he would like clothes that FIT please and thank you. He will also help Miles with his hand stitching when the others are busy, and is surprisingly good at distracting Miles long enough that he doesn't get bored when sewing. Noir teaches Peni ladder stitching to fix her plushies, and how to bind and cut fabric edges so she can stitch her silk belts and ribbons in clean lines. Peni shows Noir pictures of different tree and leaf designs, and helps describe the colors to Noir while he copies the unfamiliar shapes onto fabric with markers so he can practice the designs. Peter B teaches Gwen to find the rhythm of her knitting, and how to count time and stitches and rows with songs under her breath. Miles Shows Peni and Noir how to stick patches/ribbons/cloth to bags and clothes, what fabrics work with certain fabric glue, and whether something should be ironed on or sewn on (in which they turn to Noir for help).

Other times it is a Work Day, fun and relaxed but full of concentration. Gwen and Miles will be hunched over her sketchbook, bickering about draping and texture, what colors and patterns work best with what fabrics and what pieces should be layered together, occasionally asking for Peni's thoughts about what spots need something eye catching. Peni will be sitting next to Noir, hunched over with her tongue sticking out of her mouth, small quick hands working stitches into a plush toy or doll dress, or if the kids are working on something together, occasionally silk ribbons or belts with colorful glass beads, or a fabric flower hair piece. Noir is almost always next to her, half-watching her lines and guiding her softly when she gets frustrated, his own fabric pulled tight in his embroidery hoop and thread looping into something beautiful. Ham sits across from Gwen, grumbling as he fixes the holes in his work shirts and pants, and occasionally having Gwen help him redesign something that just doesn't fit right because he is working on a reporters salary and can't afford to waste it on clothes that aren't built for him. Peter B winces in empathy because he has BEEN there, and hums as he counts rows for the scarves and blankets that will help the others survive a New York Christmas. Occasionally, if Gwen is busy, Miles asks for Peter B to help him stitch his costume together, and amid bickering and exaggerated groans of death by boredom Miles feels a little proud of his stitches, neater and more precise than anything he has done so far.

[blarrghe]

Twelve Nights

Modern au fic where BusinessMan McMoneybanks Dorian Pavus meets LocalArtist Outdoorsyguy Taren Lavellan whilst on a trip to a Fancy Ski Resort In The Mountains with his Terrible Family, and learns the True Meaning of The Holidays (it's love). Now with added subplots and a plan! This fic is my holiday obsession, it's going to be tropey and fluffy and sweet, and not terribly long. Set in some kind of vaguely Thedasian modern au, with Dalish elves and dwarves and the like, but no actual magic, only *~holiday magic~* Rated M for not-very-explicit sex. Excerpt under the cut. Read it on AO3!

The air was crisp, and perfectly still. The thunk of Dorian’s car door slamming shut sounded out soft, almost muffled by the quietness of the snow-covered street. There were no other cars parked in the tiny lot in the centre of it, which divided two rows of quaint little shops on either side. The street rejoined itself around the empty parking lot and wound away in either direction. The side streets that branched in awkward zigzagging patterns off of it, sparsely lined with picturesque little cottages with wide yards of snow between them, weren’t even plowed. The main road ran up and down; up, winding slowly through a forest of trees and disappearing into the mountainside, and down, towards a glowing town square lit up at its centre by a tall, festively decorated pine tree. 

Dorian watched his breath form a cloud of mist in front of him, and pressed the little button on his keychain. His car’s lights flashed, and the horn beeped once, obnoxiously loud against the silent scene. For a moment, he glanced up the road, and then lifted his head higher, arching his head way back to take in the peaks of the mountains overshadowing the quiet town. The sky was fading into sunset, and pink light glowed through the trees and sparkled off the snow in the distant mountaintops. The mountains loomed quietly, shining in orange and peach with dark evergreen trees blanketing around their roots, and among them little golden lights from mountainside cabins were glowing softly through the snow. It was beautiful and serene, like a scene directly out of a holiday card, and Dorian hated every single thing about it. 

He sighed, breath forming a long whispering mist from his mouth and disappearing into the air, and rubbed his hands together. He scanned the shops on the street before him, windows all dark, signs all turned round to ‘closed’, and then with another, more irritated little sigh, looked at his watch. 

Half past four, said the large gold analogue contraption on his wrist. He sighed again, and strode forward across the street, his shoes slipping awkwardly against the packed down snow. He stepped up onto the sidewalk and frowned at the crunch of coarse salt under his foot. Then he glanced up and down the line of shops one more time, his eye landing on the only lit window on the whole street, and with one last heavy sigh, walked carefully towards it. 

The buildings looked old; stone foundations with thick wood or brick walls, mostly two stories tall with little apartments slotted in above, and topped with high-pointed dutch roofs complete with smoking chimneys. He passed a dark-windowed chocolatier with displays of intricate candy ornaments and gold foil wrapped chocolates in the window, and a bakery with windows decorated with paper snowflakes and quintessentially charming gingerbread houses. All closed as of four in the afternoon. 

"Ridiculous." He muttered aloud to the empty street. 

The open shop, when he came to it, had a large sculpture of a wooden bear in the window, and a tower of suede moccasins on display. Lavellan's Crafts, said a sign on the door. Looking in through the window he could see more display stands; postcards and keychains and little animal figurines. 

Fantastic, thought Dorian bitterly, a chintzy souvenir shop. Just what he needed. 

He pushed the heavy wooden door open, and it grunted on its hinges as his feet stomped over the welcome mat. And it was a Welcome! mat, woven out of some coarse fabric and dotted with thematic pine cones and holly leaves, the happy greeting stencilled on in uncomplicated calligraphy. 

The warmth and the smell of the place washed over him immediately. The walls were left unpainted, beautiful old wood varnished and shining in the warm incandescent light from an intricate wooden chandelier that hung overhead. A nearby shelf littered with artisanal scented candles and boxes of "genuine" incense sticks wafted out a mix of bold scents; patchouli, sage, maple, pine. He moved away from it, scanning the other shelves and displays. 

Beaded decorations and windchimes hung in one window, and further into the shop, past the little rotating displays of animal figurine keychains and greeting cards, larger items stood out with hefty price tags. Large canvases displayed boldly painted landscapes of the local scenery in all seasons, and portraits of rustic looking elves engaging in various traditional activities. His eyes lingered on the paintings a little too long, caught up in the crisp lines and bright colours. The people all had joy on their faces; rosy cheeks and bright eyes, dancing in colourful dresses that very nearly looked to be moving. As he stood struck by their expressiveness, he almost forgot to remain unimpressed. 

He picked up a bar of handmade soap scattered with gritty bits of lavender, sniffed it, and put it back down. Then he wandered over to a display of wooden tree ornaments, and spun it absently, watching the little wolves and caribou and bears sway about. 

"Looking for something specific?" Said a soft voice out of a dark nook behind the counter at the back of the shop. 

Dorian turned to look with a start, and before he could think better of it, he complained.

"Got anything that says 'happy holidays, thank you so much for dragging me out to the frozen middle of nowhere to spend the holidays working out of some stuffy old cabin that doesn't even get cell service. Not that it matters, since the entire dull little village shuts down at four in the afternoon and in all probability there won't be anywhere for miles to find decent company or a decent brandy’ ?" He asked. Then with a twinge of self-aware guilt for his attitude, he amended the rant with a vaguely apologetic "no offence". 

Behind the counter, the soft voice was laughing. Then an elf came into view, leaning his elbows over the counter and looking at Dorian with sparkling green eyes. He kept laughing, chuckling mildly under his breath and shaking his head so that golden light danced off the messy curls of his dark red hair. His face was tattooed, like the elves in the paintings, and they glowed against his warm-toned skin. Dorian had never seen work like it in real life, and once again found his eye lingering a little too long.

"Sorry, I don't think so." The elf said finally, a sideways smirk resting on his full lips, "but the shop down the street sells chocolate truffles filled with brandy that are quite nice. They don't open again until ten tomorrow, of course. Can I interest you in a postcard of our dull little village, instead?" 

Dorian's cheeks burned, and not half because of the chiding tone of the shopkeeper's rebuttal. Mainly, he was busy getting hot at just how striking those eyes were; how they glittered across the room at him with perfectly patient bemusement. 

He sighed. "Apologies. Long drive." He muttered, quickly grabbing an ornament carved like two fish swimming after each other's tails, and a wintery postcard decorated with a photograph of the tree in the town square. He walked himself up to the counter and set the items down, hastily digging into his pocket for his wallet and avoiding the elf's still-penetrating gaze. 

"If it's for someone you don't like, you should go with the wolf." Remarked the elf, still leaning his elbows on the counter and making no moves to ring him up, or stop smirking. "Around these parts, we tell stories about a Dread Wolf who tricks tourists into getting lost in the mountains." His smirk broadened. 

"Then why put it on an ornament?" 

The elf shrugged. "They're good stories." His soft voice lilted with an accent Dorian couldn't place, musical and sweet, but there was still a good deal of cheek to his tone. "Actually, the wolf represents strength and loyalty. The Dread Wolf is just a local legend." Then he winked at him, and slid the postcard across the counter to the register. 

"Strength and loyalty." Dorian shook his head, "and fish?" 

"Balance." 

Balance. As in work-life? Ironic, given the intended recipient. "I'll stick with the fish." 

"That everything?" 

Dorian nodded. 

"Hold on, I think I have something in the back that might interest you." The elf disappeared into his dark little nook and through a storeroom door, the teasing smirk never once leaving his face. When he came out again he was holding a single gold foil wrapped chocolate, and he nudged it across the counter with a friendly nod. "Happy holidays." He said, and the smile on his face shifted into one that was somewhat less amused, and more sincere. 

Dorian took the chocolate tentatively, and finished paying for the ornament and card. It totaled more than he would have expected for some faux-Dalish tourist fare, and he took a second to properly look over the ornament before tucking it into his pocket. No factory logo, just the initials TL burned into the wood. So maybe it wasn't quite a chintzy souvenir shop. 

"This all local?" He asked, suddenly feeling a new wave of guilt over his earlier disparaging comments. 

The very obviously Dalish elf in front of him raised an eyebrow and nodded. "There's a collective." 

He plucked two business cards and a pamphlet out of the brochure stand in front of his cash register, and slid them across the counter. The business cards had gallery names on them, and the pamphlet advertised the services of a local community centre, including an ongoing holiday craft fair. Dorian glanced over the rest of the brochures in the stand. There were a few other business cards for local shops, and pamphlets for companies offering various adventure packages; mountain climbing, horseshoe tours, trail rides. 

The elf's gaze followed him with a faint degree of amused judgment, and the expression fell on his striking features in a way that made Dorian's throat dry. He cleared his throat, picked out a general ‘Village Businesses’ brochure from the stand and smoothed out his expression. It was entirely unfair, this striking elf looking at him like that. He could fix this. 

"Well, now I've made a fool of myself, can I more humbly ask for a recommendation?" He passed the brochure over the counter with a gracefully apologetic smile. 

The elf unfolded the page on the counter top. Then grabbed a pencil from somewhere out of that mess of hair, and flashed him a quick, toothy grin before bending over it and beginning to circle and scribble away. 

"This might help keep you from getting bored, even without cell service. When do you leave?"  

Dorian's heart jumped at the retort, and the elf glanced up at him with another quick flash of taunting teeth.

“In about two weeks.” He answered roughly, throat dry again. 

The elf passed back the brochure, and tucked the pencil back into a braid behind his ear with a slight frown. “Not really enough time, but hopefully you can manage to enjoy some of it.” He said, leaning back and smirking again. Dorian went back to feeling flushed. “But we close in five minutes.” Of course you do, he thought. "If you want, I could show you where to get a good beer, if not good brandy.” Oh. Read the rest on AO3!

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Blood Sister | Feeding Habits Update #5

Hey People of Earth!

Are we back for another Feeding Habits update? Today let’s chat chapter six!

Blood Sister is the first chapter in Harrison’s POV and also the longest chapter in the book (a little over 8k words). It took me about a month to write!

Scene A:

Harrison gets back to the NYC apartment he shares with his mother after running errands to ward off either the spirit that haunts their walls or to rescue whatever is stuck in them. His mother preps for a dinner as Harrison has invited his old pal Reeve over.

Scene B:

Harrison removes a litter of kittens from behind the drywall. One of the kittens is dead. Strangely, a German Shepherd puppy is also in the litter.

Scene C:

Reeve appears in a glamorous blur and makes an interesting first impression on Suz who seems slightly stunned and endeared by her.

Scene D:

At dinner Reeve confronts Harrison about his “straight-edge” lifestyle since moving to NYC and he realizes her judgements about his life being monotonous are very true--he lacks purpose.

Scene E:

Harrison and his mother clear the dishes and Suzanna confronts him on the fact that he hasn’t told her that Reeve is in fact Lonan’s sister. Suz knows the boys’ relationship is complicated, and plays Devil’s advocate by outright asking Reeve how her brother is. Reeve, who hasn’t seen Lonan longer than Harrison, has assumed Lonan lives with them or is close by, and feels semi-betrayed that Harrison has kept his whereabouts a secret.

Scene F:

Reeve and Harrison drive to a garden and he’s reminded of the event that lead to him and his mother’s return to the east coast.

Harrison meets Winona outside a convenience store, the same woman Lonan meets in ch.6 of Moth Work. She takes him to her mansion where she’s hosting a party and introduces him to her husband. Harrison makes multiple bad decisions which you can probably figure out for yourself!

Scene G:

Harrison wakes up in Winona’s house and is confused to see her and her husband standing over his leather jacket. If we remember what happened in ch. 6 of Moth Work, Lonan gets beat up by Winona’s husband and has Harrison’s jacket & angel chain stolen. We can assume from this scene that Winona has a) recognized the jacket and b) chosen him to come back to her house for the purpose of also beating him up (which happens).

Scene H:

Reeve and Harrison jump a fence into a garden to give the dead kitten an unorthodox “water burial” in the garden’s fountain. Reeve confronts him on why no one has seemed to care about her whereabouts for the last year, and also suggests the only reason he wanted to see her now is because he misses Lonan. Harrison miserably drinks too much wine.

Scene I:

Harrison wakes up in the cold, very drunk, and Reeve is gone. A security guard looms over him. Harrison asks the confused man if he thinks he was separated at birth. Harrison isn’t referring to feeling like he’s been removed from a sibling bond, like the kittens, but a deeper, “indissoluble bond” formed between two people (like the kittens and the puppy). This connects to the title “Blood Sister” as Reeve suggests she and Suzanna may be connected in this way, to the kittens, and to Lonan and Harrison.

This idea of “indissoluble bonds” was reinforced when I listened to Stephanie Harlowe’s coverage on the Parker-Hulme case, and this was the title of her video! This idea of an immutable connection between two people who are forever separated, like the dead kitten despite its death, still being connected to its siblings, was very relevant to how Harrison feels about Lonan.

Excerpts:

Here’s the entire first scene <3

Something has died in the drywall. Suz insists there must also be a ghost—she hears cries when she sleeps—so when Harrison returns to their apartment with both a handsaw and a bottle of holy water, she’s more than pleased.

Today, it snows in New York City, and no amount of brushing off his hair and jacket rids him of the snowflakes he tracks in. His face stings with the bitter early March air, and he’s resettled easily into the east coast grit; he likes the taste of instant coffee and the smell of gasoline.

Harrison shoulders off his jacket, the leather rigid with frost, and undoes the loop of his scarf one-handed. The apartment smells overwhelmingly of cloves and apple peel, and he is unsurprised when his mother rushes over to him, flushed from the kitchen heat, her #1 Dad apron bunching at her hips, and pushes a highball glass into his palm in exchange for his findings.

“It’s a secret recipe,” she says, twiddling through his errands. Suzanna lifts the bottle of holy water to eye level, unscrews its cap, and daps two soaked fingers to her lips just as he dips his fingers into the glass, around its rim, and then into his mouth. The hot mull of liquid bursts against his taste buds, citrusy. “Wish I believed in this shit as much as I believe nutmeg is my new holy saviour.”

Harrison downs the rest of the glass’s contents, the cider’s spice grafting down his throat. Its heat clings to the roof of his mouth, a subtle burn that numbs his tongue, but he likes it, its sweetened acid like a rucking back to life.

“Is that the secret?” He runs his pinky along the base of the glass so the last drops of liquid climb up his fingernail.

“The Lord?”

Harrison laughs and accepts the holy water she hands him, rescrews its cap in place. “Nutmeg.”

Suzanna takes his empty glass and whisks toward the kitchen. On the stove burbles two saucepans and one Dutch oven, the fan whirring like the pleats of an accordion.

“Maybe it’s both,” she says.

You asked for the entire second scene? Here Harrison finds the litter of kittens:

The first thing Harrison removes when he saws through the drywall lining the two-prong outlet is a dead kitten. Its body shifts onto his hand with damp weight, like an overripe pear, its silver hair glass-like under the beam of his flashlight. Though it sits comfortably in the pit of his palm, though he knows he cannot kill or revive it, his first instinct is to lay it on the beach towel Suzanna laid out because he fears he’ll crush it with just one pulse of his thumb.

Its eyes are the size of his pinkie nail, gently shuttered like it’s drifted to a lawless sleep. The animal will remain in this state—only death, but as he looks at it, braying its hairs back with his forefinger, he considers alternative options. Harrison knows little of necromancy, but considers anointing it with the holy water, lighting a red-cased candle in front of it, chanting a verse from Revelations.

With the flashlight secured between his molars, Harrison pulls out four more kittens, all that mew as they cling to his fingers, their noses twitching against his skin like it’s feed. They burrow into the beach towel, trampling over one another with blind fervency, all shimmery silver. In comparison to their deceased sibling, they wriggle, pink-nosed, and don’t settle against the grain of the towel, always wagging, like earthworms.

Harrison believes he’s done—removed the dead animal and rescued four more. Good work which he’ll take to a farm just outside the city—Suzanna has a friend. He’s nearly clicked off the flashlight when he sees it, just a subtle glint of something else—an animal that isn’t silver, but a dry brown.

At first, he thinks it’s a rat that’s raked through the walls to where it is now, but the longer he shines the flashlight, the more he sees it is not a rat, or even a kitten. What sits, jittering behind the outlet, is a pup.

Like the kittens, its nose twitches back and forth, its eyes small enough to be the ovular black beads on Suzanna’s rosary which hangs, decorative, above the front entrance. “It’s a cleanse for the spirit,” Suz said when he questioned her reasoning for bringing religious memorabilia into a house of two atheists. “Dianne from church told me.” Dianne is a beer-bellied schoolteacher, proud pothead and mother of four who frequently volunteers at the church’s weekend functions with his mother. “She’s into that kind of thing. Seances. Jesus Christ. I think she mentioned they had something spicy going on in college.”

“Something spicy?”

“Spicy. Like hot wings. Habaneros. One-night stands. I don’t know Harry, it sounded illicit.”

They both grinned.

Harrison does not know when him and Suz began getting along. There was no one date or time, no anniversary to look forward to for their official reunion. One moment he struggled not comparing her face to the one he knew in his early teens, and the next, they crouched over a salad bowl of burnt popcorn, taking turns painting each other’s fingernails with the same shade of red nail polish—Crazy for Carmine

The dog can’t yet focus its eyes on anything, but Harrison swears it stares at him. It fidgets from its position crouched on the outlet, so when he extends his hand, an offering, he’s surprised when it crouches onto the tip of his finger, shimmying into his palm. It’s even smaller when he holds it, plum-sized, and velveteen. Its eyelids flicker like the apartment’s bad TV signal, and when it opens its mouth to cry, its teeth, no larger than the tip of a toothpick, prick up.

“You’re not a tabby,” he says, drags his fingers through the suede-like gloss of its fur. The pup curls against his knuckles, murmurs languidly until Harrison pets its head again.

“Did you say something, Harry?”           

Harrison stands from his crouch when his mother materializes from her bedroom, the animal still pared delicately in his palm. When he glances at her, he’s surprised to see she’s changed out of her usual loungewear, a tank top and bell-bottoms, and into a patterned shirtdress that sways to her knees. The Matisse-like design, organic shapes, all the colour of a celery stalk, drapes to her knees, flounces when she twirls for him.           

“I thought we agreed on business casual,” he says, but smiles wider the longer he looks at her. Tulle gathers in a funnel down her waist, pluming her so she looks less like his mother and more like a fairy.          

“I’m taking the business side, and you’ll take the casual.”          

“She’s just a friend, Mom. She’s not expecting anything.”           

“She’s got an English last name,” Suz says. Her eyelids glitter with gold pigment, her lips tacky with rouge. “Of course she’s classy.”           

Harrison thumbs the back of the pup’s head and shifts closer to Suzanna when she cocks her head toward it.

“I think Reeve is more than classy,” he says. “Maybe stylish. Exclusive. Superior. Glamorous.”           

Suzanna shifts the pup from Harrison’s hands to her own, neatly patting its head with her pinkie until its murmurs soften. When she holds the animal, it’s like he no longer stands behind her. It’s just her in her Matisse dress and the dog, comfortably blinking in her hand. “You found a puppy in a litter of kittens?” she says, less of a question, and more of a declaration of wonderment. She lifts the animal to eye level. Its nose wrinkles, like the skin of a fig. “Looks like mama picked up a stray. A beautiful stray. You’re absolutely beautiful.”

Reeve making only iconic appearances:

Reeve appears in their doorway wearing cat-eye sunglasses, a bottle of pinot noir slatted between her arm and chest. Though it’s been storming since early morning and there has been no sun in the city since the week previous, her appearance is so believable—cheekbones subtly tanned like she’s mastered the timing for a perfect sunlike glow, the sunglasses teetering neatly on the tip of her nose and staying there, like they’re a dog she’s taught to sit and stay—that Harrison’s almost convinced she commissions the sun to come out twice daily for a private show, just for her.

“We booked an appointment,” she says, letting herself into the apartment in a faux-fur blur.

Harrison swivels as she unzips, tooth by tooth, the red skin-slick vinyl of her gogo boots. Her hair falls in an untamed fringe around her forehead, the front sections pinned back by an array of rainbow-coloured butterfly clips. It mimics the fray of her jacket, fluffed around the hood’s perimeter.

Reeve dusts snow off her corduroy culottes, readjusts the collar of her black turtleneck. “When I moved to the city, I forgot how gruelling the winters can become.” She taps the heels of her boots onto the welcome mat so slush flakes onto the rubber before slipping her feet out elegantly, like Cinderella. “I almost believed New York City existed in a fictional bubble where everything remained dry and hot, like in Egypt, or the Mojave. When I asked for a hellish climate, I was hoping for sun and the occasional forest fire. Not ice and more ice.”

“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” Suz speaks where Harrison’s words shrivel. She steps from the kitchen to the entrance, her dress flouncing when she extends a hand toward Reeve. “William Shakespeare.”

Reeve looks up. The cold has pinched her cheeks pink, drooled water to her eyes so when she blinks, tears sprout to her jawline. “Suzanna,” Reeve says, and embraces his mother with willful ease, like they’ve been girlfriends for a decade, like they purchase pavlova from the same patisserie at the same time on Thursdays, like they help each other whip perfectly fatty meringues at the same baking class so they can master the same pavlova and never buy it again. “I’ve heard nothing about you and yet I feel we’ve known each other for years. What do they call that? Blood sisters.”

So here’s the whole third scene lol:

At dinner, Reeve pops the cork of a bottle of pinot noir with her teeth before Suz tells her she and Harrison don’t drink. She’s in the middle of saying she’s a prophet, the bringer of wine, her lips parted around the cork, traces of her lip gloss gumming around its circumference.

“No alcohol?” Reeve says, spitting the cork into her palm so a glob of red transfers onto her skin.

Suz stirs a serving dish of clams with an olive wood spoon, their shells phosphorescent in the artificial light. “Harry and I have taken a break from spirits. Except for the holiest one of course.” She points to the roof as if signaling to the man upstairs and dishes a spoonful of clams onto Reeve’s plates, the shells chiming against the ceramic.

“That’s so reverent.” Reeve pricks the edge of a clam with a toothpick and swallows its frill into her mouth. “So virginal.”

Harrison accepts a spoonful of clams from his mother and adjusts a sprig of rosemary so it lies perpendicular to the plate’s edge. Olive oil gums under his fingernails and soaks into the fibres of a slice of bread he rips at the crust.

“I always assumed you’d be a partier if you ever moved back to the city,” Reeve says, and it takes Harrison a moment to realize she’s speaking to him. “Disco. Karaoke. Cocktails. Men who buy you cocktails.”

“Has that been your life in New York, Reeve?” Harrison sucks a lobe of clam between his lips. Its brine coats his tongue in a burst of salt and cilantro.

Reeve tips the bottle of wine to her mouth, its red gift bow shifting, silverish with light. “You could say that. I just expected more. Not that your life now is boring. But I assumed there would be more glamour.”

Harrison sops up a dribble of oil onto a shear of bread, and says something like, “I thought so too,” before swallowing.

“We have glamour,” Suz says as Harrison absently eats more clams. She points to the chandelier the two found at the bottom of a New Jersey dumpster, yet to be installed, sitting in its crystal glory on the floor. She explains the story of how it came to be as Harrison eats and listens for the mewing of the kittens, thinks about their one dead sibling that now lies curled inside a shoebox, separated in eternal rest.

Reeve is not wrong. Life in New York City has been far from glamorous. He shares this apartment with his mother who pays for all of the rent—it’s been months since Harrison could hold down a steady job. He tries with odds and ends—repairing a neighbour’s bathroom sink, tacking sconces up outside the apartment for a hundred bucks. His room is a décor-less box that smells like wallpaper even though it’s sanded smooth and painted with two coats of an eggshell-finished oatmeal white. There is no dancing, no music, no colour, no partying, no alcohol or men with alcohol. Not anymore, at least. Her statement should not sting—this is the utter truth. The apartment is repetitive shades of indistinctive creams, furniture he and his mother pick up off the curbs of wealthy homeowners, incomplete, yet his home, nonetheless. No matter the story Suz tries to spin—look at the exposed brick, look at the counter space, look at the custom-moulded baseboards the previous renters installed—he knows what Reeve has said is true. Life in the city is comfortable but monotonous—an unrelenting kind of normal.

“We found kittens,” Harrison says, promptly interrupting the women’s conversation that has quickly moved away from the apartment to their favourite places to eat gelato. Suz’s clam drifts off her toothpick; Reeve almost chokes on a gulp of wine. Harrison swipes a chunk of bread through olive oil and chews. “That’s glamorous.”

Reeve sets the wine bottle back onto the dinner table and folds her hands over the other. Her manicure is chipped, just the remnants of a tortoiseshell marble. “What kind? Calico?”

“They’re just kittens. And a dog.”

“You found a dog in a litter of kittens?”

Harrison eats one last clam and finishes his portion of bread. “Glamorous,” he says, his mouth half-full.

The beginning of scene 4:

While Suz and Reeve discuss room décor and clear the plates, Harrison checks on the kittens. Dishes clank rhythmically as they’re soaped, rinsed, dried, the ceramic whimpering in time with the kittens. He hasn’t named any but understands their differences. Though the quadruplets share the same silver coat, one has a slightly larger nose than the rest, one has a fleck of gold in its blue eye, one has pinstripes scrolled across its forehead like a branch of lightning—small details like this differentiate them.

In his palm, the one with the golden eye crawls, its underbelly sateen. Tomorrow, he’ll make the drive just outside Brooklyn where he’ll drop the kittens off at an old farmhouse. Suz’s friend from rehab is selling it, some Theodore Harvey, but his wife fosters animals, and was delighted to have the new additions. Though he hasn’t spoken to his mother about this arrangement, he also knows tomorrow he will keep the dog. Juniper, he’s named her—June with the eyes like a solstice.

When his mother pokes him, he jumps, and the kitten shimmies off his palm.

The sounds of dishes clinking morphs into the filmy mutter of a talkshow Reeve watches, sipping absently at her gifted bottle of red wine.

She nudges a pastry into his hand, where the kitten once sat, the skin of the pasteis de nata oiling his hand. He crunches into it as she watches patiently, as if waiting for a review, and its caramel flavour ruminates on his tongue.

“This is good,” he says around a mouthful of pastry.

“$4.99.” Suz smiles and takes a nibble herself. “For six.”

Together they stand over the kittens, passing the tart back and forth until Harrison gives the final piece to his mother. The apartment whirs with the calculated singe of automated laughter and the purr of the kittens. He knows one sits dead in a shoebox on his bedroom dresser. The ground too hard to dig, a burial still necessary.

Suz licks a crumb from her thumb and wipes her palms along the skirt of her dress. Their focus shifts to Reeve who lies sprawled against the two-seater, yelling something at a contestant on the show who’s gotten an answer wrong—tulip, not two lips. That’s fabulous. You are fabulously a failure.

“You didn’t tell me she was Lonan’s sister.”

Harrison pokes at a flake of pastry and wipes his hands on the front of his jeans. Reeve’s bangles clatter in a cyan jangle as she applauds at the same contestant she previously ridiculed. There are so many things he could say to his mother—he knew Reeve first, Reeve isn’t just Lonan’s sister to him, more like his own, but when he adjusts himself, swallowing and tidying the hem of his shirt, all that comes out is, “I didn’t think you needed to know.”

“I would’ve like to,” Suz says. “Does she know? That you don’t know where he is?”

Harrison’s fingernail catches on a loose thread, and he yanks it out so even Reeve glances back at its upholstered plink. “I know where he is, Suzanna.”

Reeve and Suz being icons (direct continuation from the above):

Harrison turns back to the kittens who plow over one another like ants. Heat flushes his throat, prickles his cheeks and ears and suctions like a vacuum. Though Suzanna eventually leaves, joining Reeve on the couch, propping her feet on the same coffee table so their polished feet touch, toes pink like raw cherry tomatoes, though he knows they’re both right in knowing and not knowing where Lonan is, though he knows it should no longer matter to him, he finds himself leaning against the table where the kittens encase each other in a plastic shoe bin, ticking his fingers at his side.

He does not know what the reality television show is about. From the blots he hears from the TV’s can-like speaker, he concludes it’s something about botany, love, vengeance, fertilizer. No one theme—it does not even know what it is itself. Suz has materialized with another tart, and she and Reeve nibble at it with fervency, so close, their tongues almost touch as they dart across the custard. The sight is almost viper-like, their teeth notched forward, and it should be venomous, or at its worst—friendly, but all Harrison sees is girlish, maternal intimacy.

Suz and Reeve laugh at a contestant who wears a tartan printed jumpsuit and mismatching earrings—one the shape of a pineapple, the other an urn-like bead she claims holds the ashes of her great aunt. They outline her figure with their pinkies. They clutch each other’s hands. They flush like beets and wipe crumbs from each other’s mouths.

Reeve’s momentary lapse into delicacy:

Harrison turns his back and pretends to tend to the kittens. They all know he does nothing but thumb the backs of their heads, let them suckle against his fingertips—they all know, and yet, he continues doing it. Silence cuts through the apartment like hot glass.

If Reeve and Suzanna still touch toes, it’s because neither want to loosen the other’s pride. The only sound in the room belongs to the television which has moved away from dishwashing to a watering hose—four for four, as if this is a discount, as if anyone will truly need that many watering hoses.

“I haven’t seen your brother since late August,” Harrison says once the commercials simmer back to the gaudy laughter of the reality television show. At first, he doesn’t look at Reeve. He knows what he’ll see—some form of betrayal. She didn’t come here looking for Lonan. She hasn’t even asked for him, but he knows what he’ll see when he looks at her. Best friends do not keep secrets.

When he concedes, he is right. Reeve looks at him from under a thick smear of kohl, her eyes focused, like slate beads. Her lips are pink from wine and she unhinges a fleck of opal nail polish from her thumb. Her mouth does not move, a straight line that cranks with her jaw.

“Where is he?” she asks, fluttering her lashes when Suz pats her arm. If Harrison is right, Reeve hasn’t see her brother since she peered in on him when the two shared the tent, pearled a few smoke rings from Harrison’s cigar, and left for the east coast. Before he left, Foster filled him in on the details of her eventual cross-country desertion, though there weren’t many. How he’d last seen her at the motel, a margarita wobbling in her palm, what she’d said to him, to stay special, that there weren’t many people like him left, and how she had vanished like vapour by the time they realized to check. While Reeve hiked across the country by herself, he and Lonan swam through nighttide and badly waltzed in a four-by-four bathroom. She made an anonymous life in New York City, hailing cabs with just her eyes, and learning the easiest ways to shoplift. Alone. Her last memory of Lonan one where he pretended to sleep so he didn’t have to say goodbye to her.

“Las Vegas the last time I saw him,” Harrison says. He feels the urge to apologize for something, to hug her, or cry. Though her expression unbends from severe back to her perfected mould of glitzy conviction, her momentary lapse into delicacy startles him. He looks back to the kittens who seem more interested in themselves than him.

Reeve tightens her grip around the neck of the wine bottle and tactfully sips, her pinkie erect, her lips pursed just the right amount. “What happened?” she asks and sets the bottle onto the coffee table. She lets a dribble of wine fall from her mouth so she can dab at it like a wounded animal.

Harrison and Reeve in the car:

Harrison brings the box with the dead kitten and Reeve brings the bottle of pinot noir. Together, they settle in her red Beetle convertible, a car she insists she pawned for a quarter its listing price, though he figures from the way she settles in it, carefully placing the wine bottle in the cup holder, wiping her hands on her thighs as if checking for grease, that it must belong to a roommate or boyfriend, if she has either. The car smells faintly of pineapple and vanilla, a scent not unfamiliar to him, the waft strengthening as the tree-shaped air-freshener swings closer to him with every turn.

Reeve asks vaguely of his time in the city, how life has been for him and his mother since they moved from Vegas in mid October. Her mouth flutters with speech, each word like the hull of a hard candy she specially tastes before sharing. Has it been marvellous, just as you thought? Don’t you ever wonder how a city could become so brilliant? Isn’t the weather maddening? Don’t you adore it? She asks about Foster, what living with him was like, what saying goodbye to him the week previous was like—was it tragic—and he could tell her his move in with him and his mother wasn’t much of a plan—not a last resort either, but a salvaging. A necessary resuscitation. Reeve’s lips as dubious as shadow puppets.

Here’s some of the flashback with Winona at the convenience store:

The woman stood under the hex of the convenience store’s light, spooling her in a feverish blue. The sun had been down for hours, but its residual heat clung to Harrison’s arms in tacky gusts that wound up his fingers. Like the woman, he reached for his cigarettes. Vehicles spun across the highway just beyond the gas station, and when he raised his head after lighting the cigarette, the woman was staring at him.

“Aren’t you too young to be out without a parent or guardian?” she asked. Her hair was the colour of his mother’s candlesticks, a waxy boxed red. Her rings waggled in the false light.

“Maybe,” he said, a curl of smoke looping out of his mouth. “Can’t remember which life I’m on. There are so many. I could be ninety-seven. Tomorrow might be my birthday.”

It was September in Las Vegas. White licks of car exhaust laced the black sky, and though it wasn’t cold, Harrison pulled his jacket tighter around his chest.

Winona tries to figure out whether or not Harrison is a local by getting to know his eyes/face lol:

Harrison dropped the butt of his cigarette and stomped out its embers. When it was fully out, he fit his hands into his jacket pocket and approached the woman. Up close, her trench coat was pebbled with lint, a bead from her charm bracelet missing. She crushed her cigarette too, and when her hands were free, she stepped toward him with both palms out, and pressed them to his cheeks so he felt both the heat of her skin and the watery bite of her jewelry. She examined each plane of his face as if they were sides of a prism. Her perfume, a vinegary sort of citrus, stung his eyes the closer she got, the fur of her jacket’s trim brushing his chin when she pressed to her toes for a better look.

“You could be so many things,” she said, tilting his jaw at the same moment her pinkie slid from the jab of his nose bridge to his top lip. She pushed her face closer to his and inhaled, her plastic nail marking his skin with a pixel of glitter. “You’ve got the face of an angel. Which means you’re good. You’re sacred. You’re discreet.” When her finger poked into his mouth, her knuckle snagged on his canines. “Could also mean you’re a fraud. A criminal. You know, Lucifer wasn’t always the fallen angel.”

A bit of the party:

Winona’s front lawn was manicured, cropped neat at its soil scalp. Clusters of people huddled in different places—four gargling in the stone fountain just before the iron gate, two drinking from three martini glasses at once, a group of on their backs, arms wound like a wicker basket, shot glasses teetering between their teeth like human serving tables.

Winona parked opposite the house that pulsed with light. Harrison got out when she did, and with ease, she punched into the gate, leading him past her perfect lawn, her party guests, as if they were simply garden statues.

Inside, more people concentrated, all stopping Winona for a moment to say hello as she passed. She moved in a way only the owner of a house would, her strides easy, like she knew exactly where to take him and when.

“I know it’s busy,” Winona said, adjusting her volume for the holler of party guests. “I promise it’s always like that. Who is it that says we need partners for life? God or my therapist? This is that but every week. You meet so many people.”

Harrison listened to her haphazardly. Though he’d been in Las Vegas for a month, he hadn’t been out except for a few errands at the grocery store or for cigarettes, despite his mother’s insistence he quit. The party was overwhelming. Bass from the stereo caught him by the throat and held him there as he and Winona threaded through her house that seemed closer to a mansion. The interior smelled like cleaning bleach and fruit cocktails, and he could hardly walk without someone rearing into him. He should’ve left, known better, done better, but it thrilled him, every moment of the party’s chokehold.

When Winona pushed through her French doors and out to the back pool, Harrison tailed her closely, unsure he’d be able to keep pace if he lost sight of her, even for a moment. The backyard smelled artificially floral, like orchids, tuberose, the grassy melt of citronella candles.

Some of my fave Harrison dialogue:

“You should’ve told me you were into vintage. Cheap but chic. I like it, angel.” Her ring finger smushed into his jaw, and then against his hairline.

“What’s vintage about me?”

Winona laughed, though her eyes remained glass-like. “Your jacket, of course. You’re thrifty. Into second-hand.”

~~theme makes an appearance:

It was only later, when he stumbled, bloody knuckled, through their front door, stepping over partygoers and martini glasses, that he understood. He hadn’t come to the party thinking about Lonan but managed to attract the same people. He hadn’t drunk the magenta liquid thinking about him but managed to exit the house stumbling, as he did, his knees knotted like a newborn lamb. There was something inconceivably indissoluble about them—their bond mirror-like, one making one decision, and the other mimicking it with vigour, unknowingly inseparable.

God tier denial:

“What do you miss about him?”

Harrison blinks. He hasn’t expected her to speak to him again, in fact he’s pictured the night whittling into gauzy silence, them setting the box afloat in the fountain, and then leaving once more, wordless. Reeve drinks another sip of wine. Its scent stings, like earthy cranberries.

“I don’t,” he says, which is a lie, and they both know it. Harrison has never been a good liar, but especially a bad liar around Reeve who’s always managed to snuff out the truth. She looks at him in absolutes, like she sees his every answer scraped into his cheek and doesn’t need to check his work. Her eyes are feline and rimmed with kohl and aquamarine mica—she doesn’t need anyone to tell her the truth because she holds it in her fist. “He has a girlfriend. He’s happy.” Harrison rations more wine down his tongue, three times as much as he’s intended to drink.

“But what do you miss about him?”

Harrison misses nothing. He sleeps little and smokes too much because he misses nothing. He walks by himself, eats by himself, talks to himself because he misses nothing. He jumps from job to job, person to person, place to place because he misses nothing. He wakes up in dazes the colour of blackberries because he misses nothing. He blinks dreams from his eyelashes like they’re bad spells because he misses nothing. He holds himself, he drinks himself, he leaves no company for anyone because he misses nothing about Lonan. He misses absolutely nothing.

Harrison sits up and lifts the dead kitten’s box. He feels Reeve’s gaze when he lowers it into the fountain, the box giving into the slosh of water, and feels her gaze once more when he sits back and drinks more wine. The moon makes him miserable, its silver gloat like a reminder, of how easy it would be to look at it and see Lonan’s face appear in its dime. He doesn’t register how much he drinks, just that it feels better than not drinking. He doesn’t register that Reeve never takes the bottle, that it’s just him and its open gape of wine. As the kitten swirls around the fountain, he tries not to think of its siblings back at the apartment, all mottled over each other like burrs. An unbreakable bond, and what that means, even as one of them sits alone, gurgling along the current of a fountain.

If you didn’t ask for angst before, you sure did now:

He does not remember falling asleep, and so waking up feels illusory, shimmery, like a mirage. He focuses on dart of yellow light and a man wearing a security uniform telling him he can’t be here, here being the garden, past the fence, under the fountain. Snowflakes have clumped against his eyelashes and he blinks twice to dislodge them. The man must ask him if he’s intoxicated, never noticing the shoebox floating in the fountain, because Harrison says, “Who’s to say? I miss so many things,” and isn’t talking about the bottle of wine or Reeve that both seem to have vanished, as if they were never there. Harrison blinks again, searching for Reeve’s outline somewhere in the crisp bushel of dead foliage, but she never reappears—has he imagined the entire thing, or is she magical, effervescent, invisible? What was the last thing she said? Drink it all. It’s good for you. It’s like your own personal healing tonic.

“Do you think it’s possible I was separated at birth?” Harrison asks the security guard, who leads him by the elbow out past the iron gate and into the parking lot where he stumbles over a patch of glazy slush and onto his knees.

“Are you a twin?”

Harrison draws his index finger through the slush, doodling nonsense—letters of his name, an eyeball, a singular, faceless nose. “I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Your twin?”

Harrison shakes his head.

Snow and slush dredge his jeans and the hem of his jacket; a streetlamp filters him and the security guard in foamy yellow. His skin has numbed from sitting out in the cold too long, and in some places, prickles with heat, like the fritz of pine needles. Reeve has dissolved in the fresh spatter of snow that settles on the pavement, his fingers. The fur fringe of her hood gone, the slick of her boots. She will not be here tomorrow. He may never see her again, and yet this is not what makes him ache in the way he does.

His hands move for him. Dividing the snow in slopes, curves, lines—letters. When he’s finished, he rests his chin on his own shoulder and dries the slop of slush from his nail. The security guard leans over, bends down to get a better look, but Harrison doesn’t have to look to know what he’s written. Chiselled so the flurries fill its gaps, like cement. His name will be erased by dawn. Lonan.

So that’s it for this very, very long update! See you for chapter seven!

--Rachel

[kiatheinsomniac]

Huntress II

[ I ]  [ II ]  [ III ]

(Y/n)'s (e/c) eyes flickered between the two women who were seated before her.

The one on the left was blonde with curled hair that cascaded in ringlets over her shoulders, complimenting her tanned skin. Her face bore dark brown eyes that glimmered with sparkling tears, they reminded (Y/n) of a lost fawn. She wore an elegant grey dress with detailed beading and a white front and clutched a tear-stained handkerchief in her left hand. She looked as though she had hardly slept since the murder. This one was Lucia - the daughter of a Count and Countessa from Venice.

The second was much darker-skinned. She had her ink-black hair parted down the middle with the upper half of her locks styled up in a bun. She wore a white dress with a red sash around the middle and embroidery over the skirt of it. Wrapped around her shoulders was a cascading cloak with all the detail of a tapestry and embroidered with patterned glass beads. She wore a golden circlet and red veil that was attached with a clip at the back of her head. Many earrings and bracelets, as well as a golden necklace, flaunted her wealth. This was Halime, the daughter of a very successful and wealthy Ottoman trader. She was very tired too and had been awoken from sleep to talk with the Witch Hunter. A cup of coffee was clutched in her hands to assist in rousing her sleep-fogged mind.

"I need every detail that you can remember about that man and anything that felt different about that night, what made it out of the ordinary aside from the murder?" (Y/n) questioned as she dipped a quill in some ink and poised it over some parchment.

"It was just another street party." Lucia began, "We go to them all the time. This one was in the piazza down the street. It started off perfectly fine but then he showed up. He wore white robes and a red belt with a symbol that looked like an arrow pointing up on it." (Y/n) scribbled this down in her cursive handwriting. "He was so handsome that you could have wondered if one of the old Roman gods had returned to walk the earth, I suppose that this foolishly made us put our guards down."

"Yes, vampires tend to be very attractive: it's what lures their prey into a false sense of security, it makes them desirable. Carry on."

"He was an excellent dancer. I was rather shocked that Elizabetta was dancing so well with him: it's no secret that she was not a very good dancer." Lucia paused, "I couldn't wrap my head around it but I ignored the red flag because I had no reason to sense that something supernatural was happening at the time."

"It was like she was a puppet on strings. . ." Halime spoke up in a soft voice, staring at the steam coming off her dark coffee, "Like he was controlling her, had her hypnotised. . . Can they do that?" There was a silence while (Y/n) noted down, what she believed to be, key information.

"Yes and that makes this vampire very dangerous; he is clearly very powerful. They all have simple powers, ones to help lure in prey. But some have their own unique abilities - it's rare to ever hear of vampires with the same personal ability. I hope that he does not have one. . . Please continue."

"His name was Ezio." Halime carried on, "I overheard him introducing himself to Eliza, I can remember gossiping about it. Eliza was drinking a lot of wine - usually, she would not drink but that night was an exception with him. I swooped in to make sure he wasn't trying to get her drunk and take advantage but he was so charming. He knew of my father's business too so we spoke about that for a while though he admitted to disliking coffee. In fact. . . looking back on it now. . . there was so much food there, so much to drink. . . he didn't touch any of it. . ."

"Human food and drink will make them ill, they can only keep it down for so long before they're sick. I've known one who tried so desperately to be human again - she was turned into a vampire against her will and some villagers were worried she would attack them. I thought I would have to fight her tooth and claw but she called me her angel and accepted death. . . She didn't want to live an immortal life as a monster."

"Do you think that Ezio was turned into one?" Lucia questioned.

"I can't tell yet. He may have been bitten, he may have been born a vampire, he may have traded his soul. I cannot tell as of yet. But, this is an investigation and you two must carry on telling me about the events of that night."

"Yes," Lucia looked to Halime, "I joined them perhaps an hour after he had been talking with Eliza and Halime. Poor Eliza was worried she would get too drunk and asked him to escort her home. We were both very against this, to begin with, but the way he spoke about her and how sincere he looked. . ." A sob escaped her lips, "He was so convincing and if only we'd persisted, she'd still be alive." Her young Ottoman friend turned to embrace her as she sobbed.

"You two found her in her room afterwards when you came to check on her. Was the window open?" (Y/n) quizzed. She felt sorry for the crying Lucia but she had to get her work done if she wanted to stop any more people from dying the way Elizabetta had.

"Yes, I was the one who closed it." Halime nodded her head, her bracelets on her wrists jangling as she ran her hand up and down her weeping friend's back. "We found her naked. . ." She looked to the door and lowered her voice, "Between us three. . . Eliza was not as pure as her family believe her to have been. I knew exactly why she wanted Ezio to escort her home - she wanted him to share her bed."

"I had a feeling that he had slept with her then killed her. It's very common for vampires to do that. Some get the blood pumping with fear, others with pleasure." She noted down Ezio's behaviour. One thing didn't add up. If Ezio had escaped through the window, the heel of the palm of the blood print on the window sill would be facing inwards.

"Thank you for your time, girls. If you remember anything else that you think could be useful, don't hesitate to find me." Halime nodded for both of them while Lucia continued to sob. (Y/n) could see the hollow look in the girl's dark brown eyes as she comforted her friend.

The Witch Hunter made her way outside to the gardens and walked around the wide of the building until she could see Elizabetta's bedroom window. Her (e/c) orbs widened as she squinted against the sun. There was a trail of dirty bootprints on the side of the white wall that led to the balcony two rooms down. He must have held onto the edge of the roof and made his way over! (Y/n) felt an anxiousness loom over her. He was incredibly athletic if this was the case. She attempted to recall the layout of the mansion. That balcony was part of the Doge's study.

Why would a vampire go there if he had an unfinished meal in the other room? It made no sense to (Y/n). She made her way back inside and paused outside the study. She knew that the Doge would not like her snooping around, therefore, she quietly pushed the door open and examined the room. Nothing seemed too out of order at first glance. She made her way over to the balcony and, sure enough, there was a bloody handprint on the rail. He had stopped in here.

(Y/n) pulled a pendulum out of her pocket. She had to find something missing in a room that she was utterly unfamiliar with. She wrapped the silver chain around her knuckles and held it up in the air, keeping her arm perfectly still as she watched the point of clear quartz settle in the air, going still. She looked over her shoulder at the door, making sure that the coast was clear before beginning.

"What did the vampire take?" Nothing happened for three moments before it slowly began moving back and forth, towards a bookshelf that was placed on the left side of the room. The (h/c)-haired female slowly stepped forwards, following the direction which it swung in before she paused in front of one particular part of the shelf. "Thank you. With that said, she pocketed the pendulum and ran her hands over the leather-bound books and volumes. Her eyes slipped shut as she ran her fingertips over the spines before they snapped open and she pulled a red one off the shelf swiftly.

It was old, that much she could tell, and it seemed to buzz in her hands almost - a thrum of energy was tied to it. Though, only someone so in tune with this layer of our reality would be able to tell. Someone like a vampire or a witch hunter. She flipped through the pages: all hand-written about precursors and magical items that she had never heard of before. This shocked her, she was so very well educated in her profession that she was surprised to discover something she didn't know. Her fingers ran along where pages had visibly been torn. Why did the Doge own this book? Why did Ezio want it? (Y/n)'s eyes narrowed and her heart fluttered as she began to get the suspicion that she was out of her depth. There was something going on here that she was not aware of, something that the Doge was hiding.

Something that the vampire wanted.

Her lips parted as a piece of the puzzle in her investigation fell into place. Elizabetta had been Ezio's key inside. Vampires, like many supernatural creatures, could not enter a place unless invited. She had been his way inside and he had not finished drinking her blood because he had his fill, cutting off a loose end at the same time, then attended to the real reason he had come here.

There was no way that she was not going to read through that red book, therefore, she tucked it into the depths of her cloak and walked back out again. This was her new piece of evidence. She could question the victim's parents later. For now, she needed to understand the vampire on the loose, not the corpse.

(Y/n) made her way into her assigned room which she had been showed to earlier. She turned the key in the lock behind her so that she would not be disturbed.

It was a small but snugly furnished room. The large four-poster bed in the close left corner with its red sheets and white pillows took up around a third of it. At the end of the bed was a trunk where her bags were being stored. The far wall bore two tall leaded windows on either side of it. Against the right wall were a table and a vanity. The fireplace was in the middle of the left wall. It had a plush wooden chair and black pillow by it. Candelabras were scattered across the room to provide light at night.

The (s/t)-skinned female unbuckled her dark grey cloak to hang it up on the coat rack by the door then sat by the plush chair in front of the fire, the book in her hands. She paused to look into the flames.

The soft crackling began to ring in her ears, echoing and it quickly became a raging roar of flames at war with firewood. Screams of agony and shrieked prayers rang in her ears, the cheers of a crowd. She could smell smoke and an awful burning as well as dusty hay.

Snapping herself out of it, she sprung from her seat and toed off her boots, curling up on the bed to read instead. Tears pricked at her eyes but she smudged them away quickly, opening the first page of her book in order to try and understand why the vampire wanted it so badly. This one was too important to allow him to get away, for he would be kill number twelve.

Her final victim.

♰♰♰

Series of papers were piled over the desk, some of them pinned to the wall. Ezio's eyes picked apart every piece of information before flickering up to a drawing of his goal:

The Apple of Eden.

He was determined to but this centuries-long war to rest. He had traded his very soul for it, for immortality, for a body that was stronger than a human's in every way, for him to stop wasting time on sleep. The only price was that he would have to drink the blood of humans to survive.

Too many lives had been lost to the war between Assassin and Templar and he intended to put an end to the killing once and for all. He wouldn't have made such a self-sacrifice if he did not believe that he would succeed. He knew that if he could put an apple, he could cause the final killings of the remaining Templars that would put all the bloodshed to an end, that would guarantee freedom of will.

His large hands, olive-toned, skimmed over the papers. trying to organise the mess.

He was inside a singular room: a large one at that. It was high-ceilinged and lit with candles and small fires on intricately carved marble candelabras. The stained glass windows were boarded up, the pews in disarray and many of the statues were covered by dusty sheets. Art, armour, fine jewels and old weapons, as well as books and sketches, were set around the place.

He had set up his workspace at the very back of the abandoned church where the altar had once been. There was a large bed with tapestries hung around it to replace the fact that it lacked posts. Rugs were layered on the floor and a case of wine bottles was stacked on the shelf. Well, they had once been used for wine but now they had been repurposed and held blood. He could no longer enjoy wine like he did when he was still the careless young human boy romancing every pretty woman in Florence.

A child laughed behind him before a sheet was pulled from a statue of an angel, causing dust to swirl in the air. The eyes were painted black and the paint ran down the angel's cheeks like demonic tears.

But no one was there.

"I will not tolerate your games." He growled to the daring ghosts of the church who soon fled the room, knocking over a book in the process of leaving. The church was full of wandering spirits, many of which were daring children who were in search of a little fun and entertainment.

But there was one spirit in particular. . .

A laugh resonated throughout the hall. For someone so recently dead, she was very strong. Though, this was simply because she had a direct link to Ezio: killer and victim. Her blood was still in him, after all.

"You won't get away with it. You'll be stopped." The ghost of Elizabetta smirked as she stood perfectly still behind where Ezio was seated at his cluttered desk.

"And who will stop me? Your Templar father?" He sighed, not wanting to entertain the taunting spirit.

"No. But she will." The ghost smirked, "I actually helped her out earlier, she knows what you took and soon enough she'll find out why. My father's hired her to avenge me by ending your supposedly immortal life." Ezio whipped his head around at this, tossing his tied-back dark down hair as he did so. His chestnut orbs glinted with anger and worry as to what the ghost was speaking of. His scarred lips curled down into a frown.

"What do you mean?"

"There's a witch hunter in the city — a very skilled one at that. She's travelled very far because my father would only settle for the best of the best. (Y/n) (L/n) ring a bell?" She smirked. Ezio turner back around and held his head in his hands. No! He had sacrificed too much on this path for some human to end it now!

"Begone! You're not welcome here!" He snapped, not even facing the spirit of Elizabetta who simply giggled as she vanished into smoke, her spirit having to leave the abandoned church now that she had been banned from it. She loved getting under the cold skin of the man who had ended her life so abruptly.

Ezio growled irritably in the dimly-lit room. Surely the spirit was only taunting him? But what if she was telling the truth? He wouldn't put it past the paranoid Dodge to do such a thing. Sighing, he stood from his cushioned seat and made his way towards a door in the corner which led down to the basement of the large church. Upon opening it, a spider scuttled across the stone floor, legs running rapidly over the uneven bricks.

The vampire stepped over the threshold and small, wall-mounted braziers lit up, the oil in them burning silently and causing a soft glow to illuminate the previously pitch-black stairwell. He found himself in a room full of stacks of shelves, dividing the dimly-lit and cluttered room into aisles. Inside the containers of preserving liquids were hearts, lungs, intestines, kidneys, brains, eyes, tongues, fingers and so on. Strings of cobwebs hung from the ceiling and mould was beginning to grow from the dampness that seeped between the bricks.

Closer to the back of the room were scrolls and papers tied with twine, coated in dust. The abundance of books could not fit onto all the shelves so they stacked up in piles, some of them lying open or discarded from where Ezio had ransacked the room for information on the Pieces of Eden or codex pages. Eventually, he made his way to a wooden box, sealed with wax and a sorceress's spell to keep it's magic contents inside.

A hidden blade protruded from Ezio's sleeve with a satisfying 'snnk' and cut along the lid of the box, slicing through the dripped red wax until he could prise the old box open with his hands. Inside, was a thick lock of braided blonde hair, healthy as the day it was cut. Mermaid's hair. It felt soft as sea-foam and smelled of a hot tropical harbour's breeze. They say, that if you capture a mermaid, she can tell you your future because they can read the very waves of the ocean.

But you didn't need the whole creature to do that.

Ezio wound the braid around his hand and whispered under his breath, uttering the question to the blonde tresses which he held mere millimetres from his lips. He needed to know if Elisabetta was bluffing or not and he had to know if this Witch Hunter was a true threat. Usually, he would not take the words of a ghost so seriously but he knew in his gut that something else was amiss here. A woman's voice whispered to him:

"She will find you and she will do everything in her power to kill you. Beware, for she will burn all that stands in the way of vengeance for her sisters."

[brent-sunborn]

Darkness Renewed

The breath was knocked from Brent’s lungs as the appendage of darkness slammed him across his chest. He was flung roughly fifty yards back, before a crumbling stalagmite caught him. It was hard to say which hurt worse. Quickly as he could, he scrambled to his feet, one dagger drawn. The weapons had begun to feel heavy in his hands now. No longer did they feel like extensions of his body, but rather as cumbersome weights he’d attempt to heft to and fro. But they were all he had to defend himself with now. The Void monstrosity was unrelenting, chasing him through the Rift without mercy. With his free hand, flicked his wrist as if to hurl one of his shadow-born shuriken-- only to huff in frustration as nothing came forth. A whiff, the hand motion feeling limp and impotent now. He grunted a curse, before turning to run. His only real option, at this point.

Coming here was a bad idea. Brent had hoped returning to the Void would help him find his path again, but it only illustrated just how far he’d fallen. His mind couldn’t focus - not with so many voices ringing through his head. So many terrible images all rushing through his mind’s eye. It was crippling, in every sense of the word. Cripping, and disorienting. His only sense of direction was away from the behemoth that hunted him through the Rift, a coalescence of power he’d once wielded with such ease.

Then, he tripped; once so nimble and silent-but-surefooted, now he stumbled about and fell over like a drunkard. One hand caught him, the other failed. He rolled, face scraping against the nondescript dust of whatever chunk of Telogrus rock he’d been dropped onto. Grunting in both frustration and pain, he pushed himself up and kicked against the ground to start running again. The precious lead he’d had before was lost now. He could feel the very shadows of the monstrosity itself nipping at his heels.

What had happened? He’d never struggled so much with the Void before. He took to it well, as a matter of fact! The transition felt more empowering than confusing. Yet now, with the Old God’s demise, the Void was so unbridled. It felt very much the opposite of when the Sunwell was destroyed - yet every bit as terrible. Instead of a lack of energy emanating through him, it all felt like too much! He’d lost control-- and the Void sought to consume him for it!

Eventually gaining enough of a lead again, he dove behind a ledge and pressed his back up against it. He focused on the only thing he could control anymore - his breathing, labored and erratic, but still his own. His eyes darted about warily, watching for any movement in the darkness that surrounded him. The distant twilit starts in the Rift provided only so much backlighting. But enough to tell the ground from the sky… and bring attention to any movement ahead of him. The tense and harrowing aura of the monster that pursued him was dim now, at least. But present, as the void-born beast continued to search for the wayward rogue. 

He fought to control his breathing, or at the very least silence it as not to betray his hiding place. Beads of cold sweat dripped down from his forehead. His heart raced, beating so hard he swore it would pound its way out of his chest. He swallowed back the bile that fought its way up his throat. He wanted to puke. He wanted to die. For a moment, he contemplated hurling himself off the side of the floating platform. But he knew well that wouldn’t be the end of this torment. Rather… the beginning.

He closed his eyes, and cleared his mind. Emotions were a beacon in this place, radiating out like a siren’s call. Thankfully, he had the presence of mind to recognize it, and the training to bridle those emotions. He calmed quickly, his heart rate dropping and his worries dissipating enough to hide from the Void monster in yet another way. He could feel it's sickening aura departing, and waited until it left him fully before moving again. He exhaled a sigh, as he peeked over the edge.

“I can’t defeat this thing…” he thought to himself.

“Is that your goal, then? To defeat it?”

Brent spun around quickly, dagger’s edge faced out before him as he assumed a defensive stance. A voice? Who could sneak up on him? His eyes settled on the source of the interjection; another ren’dorei. A young woman. He kept his blade up, and narrowed his gaze.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “How did you--”

“--Read your thoughts?”

The woman’s lips curled to a smile as she snickered lightly. She wore an elegant, decorated dress. Violets and golds intertwined in a pattern reminiscent of a formal ball gown. Frilly lace decorated the cuffs at the ends of her long sleeves, as well as the hem of the dress itself. A light fur coat draped over her shoulders, with a simple golden chain loosely latching both sides before her. A pendant hung from the chain; ivory, if Brent had to guess, carved into a diamond shape. The bulk of her dark hair was tied back into a ponytail, yet curled locks of it were left unbound to frame her unmarred face. Her eyes were wide and bright, even amidst the dim and dismal backdrop of Telogrus. They spoke to her youthfulness, complimenting her melodic and cheerful voice. She was easily half a meter shorter than he was… but her presence commanded such attention as if she were two stories tall.

“Call me Vyllith. You’re Brentius Lor’aran, yes?” she asked… though clearly already knew. 

“H-How did--” Brent nearly repeated himself, before grunting.

He lowered his blade, though kept it ready. It was proof enough she was telling the truth. At least… about her reading his thoughts; no one called him by his real name anymore. It was a show of force, so to speak - what could he hope to hide from her? Still alarmed… still on edge. He looked around, before glancing to Vyllith again.

“... What do you want?” he asked, tersely. “If you didn’t notice, I’m a little busy here.”

“Running from your power. Yes, I saw.” she snickered once more. “It seems you’ve taken on more than you could handle, hm?”

“I didn’t take this on intentionally. The thing just… attacked me, as soon as I got here.” Brent huffed.

Vyllith laughed her melodic laugh again as she began to pace around the rogue - indifferent to the apparent danger of the situation. She didn’t so much as ‘walk’, as much as her legs went through the motions. Her body seemed to simply float her intended direction. She left no footprints in the dirt… her steps made no sound. Brent’s hand tensed around the hilt of his dagger, eyes never leaving the woman. And in that moment, he started to fear her more than the beast that had pursued him.

“I don’t mean that creature, silly.” she brought the back of her gloved hand up to cover her mouth as she continued to snicker. “I mean all of this! The Void is potent! Chaotic! Dangerous. You’re out of your depth, Brentius.”

“Hmph! Stop calling me that!” Brent snapped. “What are you even saying? I’m the last of the Blackened Blades! I’ve wielded the Void for years before now!”

“Not by yourself.”

Vyllith snickered again, continuing to slowly saunter about in a nigh-taunting manner. Brent scoffed. He nearly opened his mouth to dispute it, but… honestly couldn’t. Perhaps that was it? His ties with the Old Gods had made his experience with the Void easier. Not so chaotic and overwhelming like it felt, now. But in their absence, without N’Zoth to filter and focus his power, it seemed like he could barely keep up with it! 

“... Hmph.” Brent could only grunt in frustration, as he shook his head.

“Awww, don’t be upset!” Vyllith tilted her head to the side. “That’s why I’m here! I want to help you, Brentius.”

“Help me what?”

“Help you be what you were meant to be.”

Understandably, he was skeptical. Here more than most places, no one showed up offering to help without some ulterior motive. He had no idea who this foreign elf-- or entity, more like-- even was! Yet she materialized before him now, at his lowest and most vulnerable point… offering aid? No, this was very obviously a trick.

“Mm… and what’s the price of your help, Vyllith?” he asked, making no effort to conceal his skepticism. “You’ll want something in return, I expect?”

“Hee hee… Well…” she snickered, eerie laughter seeming to echo through the endless void. “Not right away.”

Confirming the suspicion didn’t help him as much as he thought it would. He’d just spent nearly a decade in the service of ominous entities, and he was in no hurry to get involved with another. 

“--Calm your thoughts, I’m not like them.” Vyllith added, proving once more to have found purchase in his mind. “My wish is to see all ren’dorei reach their potential. To sift through the Void’s whispers and embrace the gift they’ve sought out for themselves. I want you to be free.”

“Until you--”

“--Please don’t interrupt, Brentius. I won’t be calling in any favors anytime soon. And even when I do… they’ll be to both our benefits.” she flared, the thrums of power emanating from her growing more and more apparent. “All things considered, I think the offer’s fair. Minimal intrusion for getting your life back on track? There are worse ways to go about it.”

She turned, looking out past Brent-- the Void Beast had returned, looming closer and closer to Brent’s little hiding place. She smirked, eyes settling on Brent again. Another playful chuckle escaped her. A warning and a taunt all in one.

“It’s up to you.”

Brent scoffed. His hands tensed around his daggers as he felt the chaotic aura of the beast grow stronger… closer… he narrowed his eyes, taking a defensive footing-- for all the good it would do. Sidling up against the outcropping, he readied himself for another fight. He hoped for an opening, something to give him a good strike before he set off running again. Would it even do anything, though? He wasn’t sure. He glanced to Vyllith again, who simply floated nearby as if to watch it all unfold.

His wind-up dwindled quickly after, as the futility of it set in. What choice did he have? She was right, he was way out of his depth, here. The ship that helped him cross through the Void had sunk, leaving him to either learn to drown…or learn to swim. He nodded to Vyllith, accepting her offer of aid. He left it non-verbal, seeing as it didn’t matter if he spoke it aloud or not. She’d know. It wasn’t much of a choice, but at least it was an easy one. 

Just as he nodded, the Void Monstrosity whipped around the outcropping, roaring an ethereal roar as its nondescript eyes settled on Brent. But before it could reach out and strike at the rogue, Vyllith floated in between them. Without so much as a somatic expression, the beast simply - and literally - dispersed. It was silenced, then broke apart into millions upon millions of flakes and fragments, each sailing out into the darkness before being consumed by it. Brent found himself in awe, dumbfounded by how easy she had made it look to undo the fearsome beast! Her giggle resounded throughout the area once more as she turned to Brent, smiling.

“Don’t worry. That’s one of the things I’ll show you how to do.”

She floated in closer, extending her hand to Brent. Exhaling slowly, Brent sheathed his blades, and reached out to take the offered hand. He pushed the uncertainty from his mind, for the moment. It was a way out-- no, more than that, a way to gain that self-reliance he’d wanted since before N’Zoth’s demise. Brent was a survivor. An opportunist. Whatever cost came down the line, he’d find a way to either pay it or get out of it. 

Either way, he wasn’t going to die here.

[originalpistol]

𝐹𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝐦𝐲 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠. — Part One

Lace flowed down to plank wood flooring, and spilt on down for a foot or two of train. The brims of my lips were full with various little hemming pins, all so I could make the appropriate alterations. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d stood so firmly in one spot, despite my feet begging to be free of the heels. Nope. There would be no rest in sight. At least, not for the near future. My mind was busy rambling over and over last week’s events and just how everything had played out. Part of my soul still remained cautious and in disbelief of it all, but yet here I stood. Tacking in pin after pin to hold the dress in the perfect placement for when I was ready to lead it away, and into the sewing cabinet. Baby blue eyes scanned across the mirrored board I had many measurements spread across, nodding to myself once more as I slipped another pin from between my lips, into my fingers, and right by my thumb right through the soft — damn near silken, fabric. Weaving the pin into place, and securing it with a final thread of fabric against the shoulder. Draping it down to sit perfect against the shoulder of the mannequin at hand. They would slouch slightly, but never enough to reveal too much skin. Classy. Effortlessly classy. For a moment I pulled away from my project to look over it, eyes narrowing in suspicion and critique of my own work. Everything would be perfect, and without flaw by the time I was done. Oh, but time was ticking. Even as I worked away day after day, hour after hour. Refining each and every aspect of this dress. Adding subtle changes, and even some dramatic ones. I’d went from loving the way it looked soft and delicate to craving something more extravagant. More length. More crystal organza, more finely made textures. Something for every bride. How in the 𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒍 hell had I managed to get into this? Surely to God people were going to be floored when they saw a 𝐰𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 line come from one of the biggest names in lingerie. The question rose in my mind quicker than I’d been able to stop it, and I hadn’t given much time to the whole idea. Hell, I didn’t pay it enough mind to even stop the sweeping motion of my needle and thread. Closely, and precisely, guiding the needle in against the smallest stitch. Over and over until I’d mastered the perfect design. I was laying a pattern for Swarovski to follow with their intricate beading of crystals. Each dress would dawn a new take on an old classic. News of my collaboration with Elie Saab and Oscar de la Renta caught on like wildfire amongst a desert dry forest in the heat of July. Each dress was created with a particular vision, and each dress would hold its own place amongst the lineup of weddings. Some were season-specific, while others were indicative of an era in time. One doesn’t downplay a classic. No. We are here to pay homage to the times that have passed, and to restore them to a more refined glory. These dresses were all inspired. Each piece was something new, and each one held a certain key to my heart. I’d dedicated months upon months to the core design before I would even remotely allow the other designers to spill their own creativity into the designs. Not even a sketch was released. All anyone knew was the letter I’d sent over. Handwritten, and forwarded by person to be hand-delivered. Everything was reminiscent of a step-back in time. I wanted these dresses and this collaboration to drip in the essence of the beauty in simplicity. ✦✧✦ ✧✦✧ ✦✧✦ My dearest Oscar, I write to you in hopes to achieve something wonderful. Something no one expects. I hope to restore the light of a time passed to the overly sensitized world at hand. To bring something back that was once a simple dream. You’ve touched some of the most delicate fabrics in efforts to create the best designs in wedding couture. You’ve mastered the art, and I hope to do the same. This fall, I plan to release a line of wedding dresses unlike any prior. With the skillful design I’ve created, and the whimsical guide of Elie’s details, and your fabrics; this will be the crowning moment. You’re probably wondering why I, of all people, have decided to do this. And maybe you think you know. I doubt if you do. The reason is simple: Every bride deserves to have something that speaks to her soul. Most women settle on their dress for something similar to what they desire the most. Why? Well, because while this dress might have the sparkle she craves, that one mirrors the perfect amount of tulle to train ratio. After all, isn’t the fabric more important than the embellishments? For her — the truth is no. But she will settle for yes. It is close enough. I refuse. In February you and Elie will receive instructions on how you’ll not only travel to my studio, but everything else of importance to your stay. Plan for a few months, at the least. I won’t accept no as an answer. When this letter is delivered, I will assume it as a yes. Much love and regards, Alice. ✦✧✦ ✧✦✧ ✦✧✦ Both he and Elie were given the exact letter, with a few minor changes. They both knew me far too well to challenge my stance on this collaboration. Once I set my mind and focus to something? It will be mine. They would see the signature of my first name as a comfort, and as a symbol of our close relations. It was rare that I let anyone call me by my first name, and especially as I grew to a higher stature within the realm of business and high fashion. There was no need for semantics or intermingling of feeling, not as far as I was concerned. This was much of why I was regarded to as cold or standoffish. I simply wasn’t one that cared too much for feelings or anything that would stand in my way of getting what I wanted, or where I wanted to be. Nimble, agile, fingers tempted the tip of the needle to edge between the layers of a well-defined ruffle of silk and lace. I’d slipped to my knees in efforts to truly capture the design I planned to embody with this dress. Different from the last, in every way possible. Down to the stitching. None of these pieces would hold the same fabrics, or even the same similarities. This is why I’d found eight young ladies who were planning to make their walk down the infamous aisle sometime in their near future. I brought these women in, interviewed each one for hours on end, and eventually came out with a sketch in mind of what I would do. Though none of them knew to expect their perfect dress to show up in their closets, let alone to be snatched from the real world, and thrown onto a runway in front of millions of designers, and couture-hounds alike. See, the whole catch to my plan was that in order for these women to receive their dream gown would be their cooperation in walking the runway. Some would succeed, and others? They would fall through the cracks of their fragile minds as nerves came out to play. Those ladies are nothing more than a weak representation of a woman. I’d simply roll my ocean inspired eyes, and scrap their sketch from the book that lay in my leather clad lap. Let my gaze fall on the crumpled paper rather than the girl. She wouldn’t be worth the time to give another look. Instead, my dismay and lack of interest was more than enough to settle any questions she might have. 𝑵𝒆𝒙𝒕. Black fingernails slowly tapped down against the course cartridge paper at hand, giving way to the thinning of my patience. Not only in the ladies, but in the process as a whole. Only one dress was finished. It was now mid-June. I had eight ladies locked in. None of which would know that it was their dress that was looming in the balance if they chose to back away from the runway when their time came. Hell, the only way any of the others knew that was the plan was by the way I scraped the dress’s sketch in entirety. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’d heard the audible crumble of a dream from the gasp that spilt by the hopeful lips of a bride. Did I get joy from the shattered hope? Hell yes. But did I care enough to even deliver the pathetic tribe of bride’s their sketches, anyways? I could. Maybe that would be the least I could do considering the sheer amount of man-hours I’d taken from their lives to create a design all their own. All to leave their precious dresses a compromised mess on the guest-office floor. I wouldn’t dare let them set foot in my office. Jesus, no. Either way? These ladies had their chance at a once-in-a-lifetime gown. It was on them that they couldn’t check themselves when it came to their own mental measurements. “Sucks to suck, I suppose,” Southern reflects built into the sentence at hand, and a smirk rode along my lush lips. There wasn’t even a small hint of sarcasm resonating behind each of these words. Nope. in all seriousness I’d stood to my feet, and nodded one of my employees to gather the remaining sketch from the floor before it landed in the hands of a vengeful bride. We all knew how emotional women tended to be when a wedding was in the mix — how fucking classic. For the life of me, I couldn’t wrap my head around being a bitch at the cause of a wedding .𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑎 𝑏𝑖𝑡𝑐𝘩. Rip the band-aid off, and get it over with, princess. The impulsive reaction to roll my eyes was something I couldn’t and wouldn’t refrain from. So, naturally, I let my head doddle back against slender shoulders, let out a disgruntled sigh, and rolled my eyes. Nothing new here. Perfectly manicured fingers began to tap down against the marble table top, mind dwindling on what I was going for next. Crush another soul? Nah. A few a day was more than enough. Slowly, I thumbed through the sketchbook at my fingers. Each page was filled with a few small ideas of swatches, or drawings pertaining to the one dress at hand. There was a different book per bride; Per dress. Nothing about these pieces was easy. There were challenges hidden within each and every design. Sure, some were complex while others remained simple to the touch, yet they were all a challenge. Though I did love a genuinely good boggle of the mind. They always brought out the best pieces. A small smile curved into place against my lips the moment I thought about having each and every piece of my collection complete. Without a second thought, I sprung to action. Slipping the shading pencil from behind my ear, and between my fingers as I found the correct page. This would be where I worked on the bodice of Alicia’s dress. Alicia. Boy, there really was nothing too special about her. She was rather plain. Dirty blonde hair, dark brown eyes, and with a personality about as exuberant as a rock’s. It was sad, really. However, I could see where her ideas blossomed. They weren’t cohesive to say the least, but they allowed me enough wiggle room to be able to create a true masterpiece. This particular dress was beginning to grow into a personal favorite. A skirt created purely out of a glimmer encrusted lace, and followed through with a sateen tie securing the bottom of the waistline, and cinching her inward. Something to allow her to look smaller in stature. At her request. Brisk strokes of the lead against the thick paper resulted in a slender design. Something with bones in it, but undetectable to the naked eye. No one would openly know of this bride’s struggle with her own self-reflection. As far as I was concerned? The only one who would know of this would be the fingers whom built the dress, and the one who wore it down the damn aisle. On to the neckline. I tinkered around on several ideas for this particular design. Would I leave the shoulders bare and exposed, or would I place small sleeves to cusp the tanned skin? Neither. I decided to wrap the same sateen around her neck as if it were a gentle fist slipping around the slender exterior. Something sensual to the eyes, and yet leaving a mystery beneath. Giving her freedom for any surprise she hoped to give beneath. Sleeveless dresses made that hard. Once the draft of my design for Alicia was done, I made a conscious effort to pen in the number 8. Eight dresses down. Eight that have been completed from my side of the sketchbook, and from my hands? This book would travel to both Elie and Oscar for their creative input. By the end of this, we would easily have every page bruised with scritches and scratches of the design. Perhaps to the naked, untrained eye, you wouldn’t see anything more than a mess strewn across the pages. Probably. But between the three of us? This show should debut as one of the best. A show that was truly bound to top any prior to, and probably would outweigh others to come. Nothing new there, when it came to things I created. A deep sigh parted my soft, lush lips, and I found myself flipping the pages of the leather-bound book closed, and slipping it inside my bag. Now, to hand this off to the boys. Light echoes of my heels touching base with the wooden floors filled the empty office around me; I loved that noise. I always had. I could remember being a little girl and demanding to wear heels, or the closest thing to it. The house was always filled with some clacking noise or another. Somehow, someway, I was going to feel like I was somebody. Crazy how wearing heels could bring on that semblance. Heels made me feel like I could take over the world. — Maybe, just maybe that was why I owned so damn many. Locks of caramel brown hair flowed heavenly against my slender shoulders when I pushed my way through the arched glass doors. A single handprint coming into view when I did, and I didn’t bother to knock when I stepped into the threshold of their corridor. Both of them were to their own vices, one studying over what seemed to be a different set of sketches, and the other was focused right to an easel and a wooden palette. There had to be eighteen color mixtures spilt against the grain, and something about that caused a small smile to spill out against porcelain features. The way all of our minds work so differently, but yet we could all come to a harmony? Beautiful. The respect both of these men had earned from me was to a level very few were ever able to acquire, and a piece of me hoped I had managed to gain this from their perspectives as well. It wasn’t until Elie reached a single hand out that I was brought right back to the moment at hand, and a sly little smirk prompted itself in among my pink shaded lips. “Damn, you really think I’m just going to hand the sketches over that easily? Good try. No. You 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 are going to hear what I have to say, and then you can have the sketches to do with as you will.” Every reflect of my tone was laced with a strict implication. This show was my baby. My process. My idea. “Hmm,” Oscar hummed out of chapped lips that were shrouded in a line of stubble that faded against his neck. “You’re just as difficult as Christian regarded, my dear. But exhilarating, nonetheless, hmm?” Those words seemed to be coated with a fatherly affection, and something in that seemed to ease me. One swift nod was given in his respect, Elie nodded his own approval of my conditions to which I would show them. Without the smallest hesitation I made myself at home on the ottoman that sat only a foot or two shy of both men, letting my gaze wander over them for a moment or two longer. “In this book there are 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 dresses. Each and every dress is to be worn by the bride that will walk in it, and every dress will be exactly as she envisioned it. There will be no flaws. There will be no settling for one thing over the other. You two will take every little note I’ve given, and you will transform. I have designed each skirt and bodice. Fine details and embellishments; that is your specialties. Right hand moves in accordance with the left, boys. I want no changes made to the base of the dress.” “Seven? There are supposed to be 𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭..?” Elie questioned, raising a single bushy brow in my direction. “There 𝐚𝐫𝐞 eight. You have seven.” Every word that spilt past my lips was certain and calculated. “Alice. Why are we only to have seven if there are eight to be completed? You cannot hand us a partial portfolio of sketches.” Oscar seemingly argued towards my words, and I hadn’t been able to help the eyeroll. “In due time. You both will see the eighth dress. Independently. Of my own volition. As for now? Complete the first seven, when that is done I should have my segment of the eighth dress completed.” No, I hadn’t withheld the last dress as a way of buying myself any time. Not in the slightest. It was actually a quite different reason, if I was being completely honest with myself, but it was a reason I was inaudibly terrified to admit both to myself and to anyone else on the face of the earth. Fᴇᴀʀ — This was something I was foreign to both in mind and emotion. Hell, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d allowed myself to feel any sense of fear, and there was something in that fact alone that sent my mind into a mild panic. Though I sat still right in front of both of these men, and kept every hint of emotion beneath the perfect premise of a woman; saving my face for my own mirror. A confident smile spelled its way across my lips as I handed over both the bag and the sketchbook full of my designs. Oscar went in for his usual hug, but instead was met with a firm handshake and a warm gaze. The same was given to Elie as I knew far too well what would follow the endearing touch of a hug. You could tell by the way I remained rather detached from the exit that there was a story looming in the depths of my mind, and perhaps haunting the trenches of my heart. Before I knew it, I was standing outside the glass doors, fingers shaking in the memory that deemed itself important enough to shroud my accomplishment. Every goddamn dress was completed from my side of the sketchbook. Every pin was perfectly placed, and everything was exactly how I wanted it, but yet here I stood with the weight of what felt like the entire ocean on my small form. I was drowning. Was this going to be a continual hindrance in my life? Would I always be plagued with the hurt and fear that riddled its way through each and every bone in my body? Looks like it’s time to shut yourself off from both mind and heart, Alice. Time to go void. Fuck emotions, right? E x a c t l y. Broken glass crashed to the ground only seconds before, and now? — 𝑵𝒐𝒘 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒅𝒅𝒍𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒖𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒚 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒔, 𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒇 𝒂 𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒑, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒆.

[countryshitposts]

The Wasted Years, The Wasted Youth

- Japan could not remember what was and what is present. All he knows is that these are fragments.

Trigger Warnings: violence, gore, murder, child abuse

hey so ya’ll can have this 8k one-shot now

-460 “Are we there yet, haha?”, a young boy asks, as he follows his mother through the terrains of the palace, bouncing up and down, while his mother puts her smooth dark hair back in place, as she hums to herself a song she sings to Japan every night to get him to sleep; it was simply entrancing and melodious to the young child as he tugs on her clothing once again to get her attention.

She simply smiles at him, her kindly eyes full of natural fire, as she bends down to pick up her son, who giggles underneath her grasp. “We’re almost there, watashi no musuko.”

His mother kisses his forehead, and he giggles a little, looking at his mother with cheerful grey eyes, feeling his mother’s warmth envelop him. Japan sees bright light up ahead, and he coos at his mother, asking if they are almost there, to which she nods with full certainty, as she bends down and lets him go- now he misses his mother’s warmth, and he tugs at her clothes to signal he wants to be carried by her, but she laughs.

“You have two feet, shin’aina”, she replies playfully, and Japan huffs petulantly. She kisses his cheek, as she takes his hand, warmth once again enveloping the both of them, and her son smiles as they make their way to the gardens.

He could see that there are two boys in the gardens, talking to each other, looking virtually the same in any other way, but the taller of the two looking experienced, his dark hair cropped short and smooth, his crimson red eyes brimming with ambition, toying with the weapon on his hilt. The shorter of the two had dark hair and purple eyes, and he was talking to the taller boy with a worried tone.

Japan could feel his mother’s grip tightening around him, sweat covering her palm, and he looks up- she was biting her lip, eyeing the two boys with a wary look on her face.

As mother and son approach the pair however, they cease talking, the gardens now once again full of peaceful quiet, as they both turn to them, eyes on Japan. The first boy’s red eyes bore into Japan’s mind, his blood running cold as his heart stops in horrid fear, his lungs pushing him to breath harder, hating the fact that his red eyes were the shade of blood; his eyes were now brimming with a mixture of ambition and hatred. The other glares at Koku as if he had done wrong, but his ice-cold glare could never match up to the blood-shot eyes of his brother.

“Teikoku, Tokyo, where is your mother?”, Japan’s mother asks, lips curling, “or was she too… unwell to visit the palace?”

Teikoku’s glare now targets Kyoto, his teeth gritting as his eyes spit fire. “We decide to visit this place to see our own father.”

Kyoto sighs a little, “He is busy today.”

Teikoku raises a brow, “He is busy with what? Spending time with his concubines?”

Kyoto bites her lip; meanwhile, Japan was in awe of how glorious these men look, but their eyes are filled with hate as they stare at him, as if he was the cause of all their grievances, even if he was a youth oblivious to the matters they concern themselves with, wishing to forever keep his innocence and peace, wanting his entire life to be nothing more than butterflies and flowers.

Kyoto’s gaze hardens, “Go back to your mother, or your tutors. You have no place in the sun.”

Teikoku scoffs, a smirk playing on his lips as his gaze turns back to Japan, “You are just afraid we will taint your son. Oh well, goodbye, baishunpu.”

As they leave mother and son, the elder one turning back to give Japan one last murderous glare, they bring with them the peculiar and strange feeling that he had felt from the start. He tugs on his mother’s sleeve, gaining her attention.

“Who are they, mama?”

“No need to think about them, my taiyō, their wickedness has no place in your heart.” She puts a finger to his chest and he giggles.

+1

Japan dreams of he and his mother, in a field of flowers, the number of butterflies swarming and fighting for the pollen of the plants, but in the end it disturbs the peace he and his mother had made for themselves, as colourful wings flutter left and right, up and down, making him a little dizzy, his entire body wishing to swat these damned insects away, no longer is he fond of how beautiful the patterns on their wings are, and he swats them away, away from him and at his mother, who was strangely not disturbed by them.

Then as he takes a look back at his mother, who was so awfully serene in the midst of a butterfly apocalypse, he drops everything in his arms in horror.

She was a corpse, sitting on the grass that is now attached to her dead skin, the warm smile always on her face dead, her eyes closed as if she was sleeping, her hair falling down in clumps as her hands are now already shredded to the bone.

He screams in horror as the butterflies direct their attention towards her body, now devouring the only kindred soul he had.

Japan immediately wakes, his heart beating in rhythm with his breaths, entire body shaking as he panics; he is enveloped in darkness, beads of sweat dripping down from his face and into wherever they dropped into, his grey eyes finding a source of light that would calm him from his nightmare, still seeing the corpse of his mother in his eyelids.

He questions why he was not in his comfortable bedroom, his head pounding and his heartbeat accelerating, his throat sore as if he had screamed a thousand screams in his own mouth, his long dark hair wet, perhaps from his sweat. The only thing he could feel was the hardness of this damned bed, gnawing at him with their texture of hate, wishing for him to suffer the same fate as them, stuck in the darkness, as evil looms inside this room, no company whatsoever.

Then he smells the blood on his clothes, fresh and sweet, and his fingers mangled, feeling his fingernails scrape stone.

And then he remembers everything.

-2

Japan cosies himself more into his mother’s lap, as she silently fixes his hair, strangely distracted as if her son is not the only thing in her mind, as if her mind has jumbled up too much of her reality and she is now about to pay the price for her salvation. She was not even humming any types of song, as if she had never sang in front of her child in the first place and that she had lost her voice all from worry of the unknown.

“Why do you look so scared, haha?”, he asks Kyoto, who perks up from the rather odd interruption, finally noticing there is youthful life in her room.

Kyoto smiles down at her child, her smile comparable to the cherry blossoms at bloom, but more majestic and entrancing, her lips the soft petals that flow in the wind, as he watches them with his mother in amazement.

“I’m not scared, I’m simply worried, my dear”, she replies with a small sigh, tickling the child underneath her arms as he babbles and giggles out loud. “Worried that your father’s reign will come to an end, and leave you as his heir.”

Japan blinks up at Kyoto, grey eyes full of confusion. “But mama, why don’t you want me to be heir? It is my birthright after all.”

She only gives him a sad smile, “You will be too young to rule if your father’s reign would end so abruptly. I cannot help you and only your father’s ministers will help you. Especially those two young men…”

Japan nods; he does not understand his mother’s constant worry for him, as he wants to be emperor of the country now and forever, but he knows his mother was simply worried for him. She goes back to minding her own business, disregarding the fact that her son exists, so he decides to comfort his mother, wishing to bring her out of her wit’s end.

“Haha?”, he gains his mother’s attention once again, as she looks back at him with questions in her eyes, but it did not succeed in taking her spirit away.

“Yes, aisare shi-sha?”, she asks, her voice covered with sweetness.

“Watashi no tame ni utaemasu ka”, he asks from her mother, who smiles and kisses his forehead, obeying her son.

“Mochiron, watashi no musuko”, she replies, as she clears her throat, handling Japan tightly as if he was a newborn baby, opening her mouth to unleash the most beautiful voice he has heard a thousand times in life.

Her voice was brilliant; as if she was performing in all those theatres he had seen for himself, none talking of her marvellous talent except for him and only him, as she starts to sing a song he has heard one thousand and one times, getting tired of the lullaby but never getting tired of the singer.

“Nennen korori yo, Okorori yo. Bōya wa yoi ko da, Nenne shina.

Bōya no omori wa, Doko e itta? Ano yama koete, Sato e itta.

Sato no miyage ni, Nani morotta? Denden taiko ni, Shō no fue.”

Japan, never really one for staying late, yawns as he hears his mother’s voice, always there to make him feel better, always there to comfort him in his times of need, as if her voice was his path finder in life, and without it he will suffocate at the hands of evil, its claws digging into his neck. His mother must have sensed his exhaustion, as she softly chuckles and kisses him on the forehead.

“Yukkuri o yasumi, little one.”

(Japan only realised now that this was the last time he gets to hear her sing.)

+100

Everything has become routine for him; him scratching on the walls, desperately in search of an exit before giving up as he gasps in pain, one of his nails clipped off by the impenetrable stone walls, lounging on his make-shift bed, staring boredly into the darkness, wishing for something worthwhile to happen, wishing to entertain himself rather than sleeping since the only thing he sees is his mother who is dead-

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, softly humming a song his mother used to sing to him when he was but an innocent, naive small boy (he still was; though he could not say life was kind to him now), who has unfortunately been taught that life has its uphills and downhills, that life would spit acid on your face and call it a day in the hardest way possible.

He tries counting the days with his own fingers scraping into the mouldy and dirty stone walls, his only friend the darkness.

His ears then hear the sound of metal clinking, knowing the guards are once again back with his food, knowing this is his one chance in escaping this inferno he had created all by himself.

“Well well well, if it isn’t my dearest brother.” Japan’s ears perk up, knowing that disgusting voice all too well, the voice full of too much pleasure and madness, as if he was possessed by a demon that still controls every action and reaction of his. He finds himself face to face with those crimson red eyes swirling with madness and ambition, as if he never fulfilled his dreams despite the fact he had taken his father’s throne.

And Japan’s right to it as well.

His younger brother did not have the heart to reply, his days being accompanied by darkness not treating him well, the small foods and morsels he had scraped by cannot sustain his hunger, nor do the bowls of water could sustain his parched self. So all he could do is stare up at Teikoku with his dead grey eyes, knowing that his brother’s eyes still instill fear inside him, continuing to gnaw in his insides until he drops dead from fright.

After gaining the courage and energy to do so, softly, he asks, “What are you doing here?”

The sly grin on Teikoku’s face grows wider. “To see if you are still alive; I am quite surprised you managed a hundred days living and rotting in this cell.”

Japan does not speak, too exhausted from his question a while ago, his head hung low, eyes on the stone floors, which are being lit by the light from the ajar metal door.

“Well, since I see you are still - disappointedly - alive, I will leave you now.” Without giving his younger brother a second glance, he stalks out of the cell, and closes the door, once again leaving Japan being embraced by the darkness.

-453

Japan once again encounters the strange brothers that he had seen in the palace gardens a few days ago, talking to each other as if they were in the privacy of their house.

“Father has grown weak, Tokyo”, says Teikoku, his posture straight, his eyes pinning down on his younger brother, who was trying not to be afraid of him. “It is time for a new administration to rise and topple the old one to the ground. The shogunate must fall.”

“You mustn't say such dastardly things in public!”, Tokyo berates his brother, his voice soft with fright and the fear people were listening to their conversation. “We will be deemed as traitors!”

Teikoku scoffs, and Japan could tell this man has confidence and pride mixing to one, which will be his downfall in the near future. “Let them hear us; after all, what evidence do they have against us when they face Father’s court? None. None at all.”

“Even if the shogunate does fall, we will not be the one to inherit it.” Tokyo’s face sours with recall. “It will be that little kaibutsu taking what is rightfully ours.”

Teikoku laughs, wicked and evil, “He would not stand a chance against us. We have expertise on combat and swords and knowledge, while he cannot read most words.”

The two brothers laugh at the elder’s joke, all the while making Japan lose confidence in himself, as if the words of these two bullies could change the duality of time, as if they can actually and directly change the way things run in this country, nothing more and nothing less. He takes a small deep sigh, his entire cheery and jovial mood crushed by fear and paranoia, the brothers’ treats feeling real, their determination to get to their dreams so frightening to his childish brain, still clinging onto the hope that he shall succeed his father, the greatest of all shoguns.

(He meets with his mother, who was worried sick of where he had wandered off to, and his mood lightens as he snuggles warmly with his mother.)

+1,023

He paces around his cell, head hung low to the floors he could never see in the darkness, his grey eyes seeing and noting nothing but shades of black, black, black. As if he was underground, in a location that will never be known to men. He paces back and forth, back and forth with no end, as if his entire life has now been reduced to atoms with the absence of light, his feet mindlessly brushing on stone after stone, his head not lost in thoughts nor memory, but lost in nothing.

There was nothing in his mind, no thoughts that can save himself from the slowly growing insanity inside of him, waiting to pounce and cackle as it does; no memories come up, and if some do come up they are tainted by the human mind’s need of imagining everything was still fine, nothing was wrong, that he was not trapped in this cell for god knows how long.

Truth be told, the man pacing his cell did not even remember his name, or why he was here, and what did he do to belong in such a solemn place, no hope of escaping and no hope of seeing light come across this tight-locked cell.

Just like his mind, his world had gone dark, not knowing where he was, not knowing if he still had a will to live.

Then he stops pacing, his grey eyes blinking with light that he had never had after being put here in this jail from so long ago, his mind finally turning on his gears, suddenly yet briefly. He considers it for a moment, before his eyes turn up dead, as if a flashlight had turned off.

He goes back to pacing maddeningly in his cell.

-234

“Haha!”, Japan exclaims as he runs towards his mother’s throne, throwing himself upon her with such force, almost knocking her off balance.

His mother laughs, comforting him, “My, you have gotten big. Tell me, have you been eating lots?”

Japan smiles as he nods enthusiastically, “Yes mama! The foods the cooks made were delicious!”

She kisses her son’s cheek, eliciting a giggle from him. “I am so proud, Japan! Make sure you eat lots to grow faster!”

“Or you will grow fat”, grumbles his father, who was staring at his wife and heir with the most critical grey eyes, his glare striking fear inside of his son. “And you will be immobilized from wars and battles that you must participate in for glory.”

His wife scowls back at him, cradling her son like a small child. “Do not kill our joy, Tokugawa.”

He scoffs, leaning back on his throne, “My only son with my dear wife is a weakling.”

Japan feels a pang of hurt in his chest, as his eyes widen, brimming with tears, while his mother’s eyes flare with anger. She softly lets Japan go from her arms, as her son goes back to staring at his father, wanting to know he has hurt him in the worst possible way, but his eyes are now pinned on his wife, who stands defiantly from her throne, glaring at the shogun.

“He is not a weakling!”, her mother flares, “he is a child who has not been educated yet! If we are talking about weaklings here, it is you!”

Tokugawa abruptly stands up, his shadow looming on both Kyoto and her cowering son, gritting his teeth, his fists clenched, his grey eyes erupting with anger and hatred for his wife, but instead of striking her right then and there, he grabs her wrist, much to her shock and surprise, as he leads her away from the throne room, leaving a worried Japan.

“Haha!”, he exclaims, and his mother turns around to give him a small but grief-stricken smile.

“Shinpaishinaide, watashi no ko”, she replies with a comforting voice, drowning out his fear, “Watashi wa tsuyoidesu.” She vanishes with her husband, never to be seen that afternoon.

(She returns in the evening with a bruised eye, unable to walk as if her legs were unstable. Japan worriedly asks her if she was all right, and she smiles, replying that she is fine.)

+2,304

How does age work?

Does the body increase in age as if it was moving forwards through time, a vessel for experimentation, as they carry a living conscience inside of them as a journey through time?

He had been stuck in this cell for… apparently he lost count, but that hardly even matters anymore, since he cannot move properly in this damned cramped cell, legs wishing to stretch in the widest of rooms, arms wishing to reach up the highest ceilings, wanting nothing but a cell full of more room, as if the cells are purposefully closing in on him, as he can smell its mouldy stone walls and musty old floors.

Every time he wakes up from a dreamless, thoughtless, and memoryless sleep, he is greeted with the fact that he is now going to spend his entire life in a cell that cannot sustain his needs, being greeted with nothing but darkness as his way of life, the remaining air in his cell making him suffocate.

Or; the lack of it.

It was like he forgot everything someone had taught him about the world, as if he stopped existing and was merely a space in this cramped cell, no escape and no way to tell if he lives or not, his heart in pieces, his mind blank, his memories never surfacing, as if they had grown too tired of his grievances and up and left him.

Quiet reigns supreme in his cell with no room, unable to give him air, water or food he desires, as he goes back to sitting on what used to be his make-shift bed, knowing he could never fit in it.

-321

Japan was minding his own business in the gardens, resolving to wait for his mother who was busy handling important matters, cooing at the butterflies that continuously feast on the flower’s nectar, their wings still enchanting their watcher, who stares at them, fascinated, with how beautiful and elegant they are.

The feast of the butterfly has been interrupted by a shrill scream echoing across the garden, making Japan flinch and the butterflies flutter away in unison.

The source of the scream was a woman who looks close to the age of his mother, hair wild and unkept, purple eyes swirling with madness as she runs towards the palace, the guards chasing after her, trying to restrain her.

She was looking around wildly, screaming to herself as she disappears into the palace, the guards still not being able to restrain her.

Japan stares at the spot where he had last seen her, a frightened and confused feeling inside of him, as if that woman was the root of all his nightmares coming to life, wanting to devour him the way the looming darkness in his dreams gobble him up.

Then he hears the voice of two familiar brothers bickering. Japan turns his eyes on the two who enter the palace, Tokyo looking at Teikoku with something akin to fear and worry, while Teikoku had an unreadable expression on his face, his emotions somewhat absent.

“You should not have scared Mother like that”, Tokyo says, his eyes searching the entire gardens. “Now she will be the laughingstock of the court… again.”

Teikoku rolls his eyes, “As she should be- she goes talking about how I am a demon but in reality she fits the description.”

Tokyo gives him a look, “Be polite! You are talking about our Mother!”

“Does not seem like one”, Teikoku mutters, his eyes catching Japan frolicking in the gardens, and he smirks evilly, “Mother Dearest is not a mother.”

As the two brothers disappear into the palace to search for their mother, Japan felt even more frightened of the elder.

+2,546

His body is empty; no brain, no soul, no voice heard, as if no one has remembered he existed, to the point even he himself starts to consider that he was no more, and that he is just a vessel, a vessel to a life that had once existed, but he’s not sure if he was alive.

So he stands in this suffocating and dark cell, depriving him of the light and air he needs to survive, but that is alright; he’s not alive anymore, he’s dead, his name smeared off of history and the fact that Teikoku took all the glory and fame he deserved.

That is the only name that stuck inside his empty mind.

Teikoku.

He cannot remember who or what he is, if he was friend or enemy or rival, but every time he thinks of his name, he feels pain, anger, anguish and desolation, as if he was the harbinger of every remaining conflicting feelings inside of his empty and dark abyss he calls his mind.

Ah yes, a name to remember, all over the years.

-55

Japan runs around the palace, searching every nook and cranny for his mother, even asking the servants if they had seen her. They point to his mother’s private quarters, and his eyes light up, like a pirate finding its treasure. “Haha! I finally found y-”, he stops short as he sees his mother and a mysterious woman having tea in the middle of the room.

“Musuko!”, says his haha, standing up, fixing her attire as she excuses herself from the pretty lady, as she makes her way to cradle her child in her arms. “Do not intervene in people’s conversations again!”

Japan gives his mother an apologetic look, “I’m sorry, mama.” His eyes shot towards the pretty lady, who was pouring tea over her tea cup. “And who is she, mama?”

“Japan!”, his mother scolds once again, “do not-”

The lady chuckles, “It’s fine, Kyoto- no need to get agitated.” She flashes a smile towards the small boy, “my name’s the United States of America, or America for short.”

There was something in that woman, whether it be the way she looks so pretty to the point it compels him to stay with the two girls who go back to their - slightly heated - conversation, the teapot between them steaming as Kyoto once again pours tea into her cup. As they were talking to each other (which was tuned out by him), Japan was busily - or just enchanted - staring at the pretty lady with a pleasant smile on her face. Her golden hair was tied into a braid, which in turn was tied into a small bun. Her skin was dotted by freckles; they look like the stars in the night sky now blessed into her skin, and her green eyes were just like the gardens; he can get lost in them any single day.

There was something in that lady that made his heartbeat increase even faster, as if he had ran a complete route from the gardens towards the town square, as if there were butterflies in his stomach that wished to escape and flutter over the entire room, lighting up the entire room.

And when she glances at him, a thunderstorm meeting a rich forest, she smiles, as if they will meet again, someday.

(They meet again in their next life, in a not-so pleasant way.)

+28,342

He hears the metal door in his cell open, for the first time in what felt like a millenium of waiting. Waiting for something that was never there, and if it was there, it simply vanished because worthless fucks decided to forget they have left something lying upside down, all worn out from years of torment and torture.

He doesn’t bother turning around, but the open door finally gives him a glimpse of his small and cramped cell, always covered in the darkness, and he sees a stone wall in front of him, feeling someone in front of him, hesitating to move and confront the man in the darkness.

“Hello, Japan”, the newcomer softly says, his voice familiar but nothing comes across the prisoner’s mind, lost in the darkness. But he can feel anger rising in him, the same reaction whenever he thinks of Teikoku’s name in his mind, but weaker and lackluster. “Anata wa seichō shimashita.”

The chained man lifts his head, but still not facing him, his eyes up the ceiling now, full of obsolete stone. He tries to find something, anything, a voice or word to respond to this newcomer that finally made him see light again.

“That’s my name?”, he finally asks, softly and surely, his voice too quiet to even be heard in this closed cell. “‘Japan?’”

The newcomer hesitates a little, “Hai, that is your name, since birth.” His voice softens even more, to something more fatherly and regretful. “Oh Japan, I’m sorry we did that to you.”

He immediately whirls to face him, surprising the man in front of him a little as he staggers back, meeting the prisoner’s messy hair and blood-shot grey eyes wanting nothing but to murder, his lips pressed to a thin line, his body thin and gaunt, skin pale from the lack of sunlight that they supposedly need to survive. The prisoner tries long and hard to recall this pathetic man’s name, the way his lips would curl in disgust in his first few years inside that damned cell, rotting.

“Bastard”, he hisses, letting out a shaky breath. “What are you doing here? To come laugh at me? To taunt me? To make fun of me? Spill!” His body was shaking, finally showing emotion after all these years of showing nothing but emptiness.

The man shifts uncomfortably, his eyes never leaving Japan. “I’m not here to taunt taunt nor insult you. I’m here to visit you.”

Japan’s growing anger is about to reach new heights, as he whirls around to see the last face he saw before he is locked up in this cell like a bird. He changed a lot from the years that he could not count with his fingers, with his short-cropped hair and violet eyes now withholding regret, his glasses glinting in the dim lights.

“Why now?”, he asks, softly, feeling tired and weary after shouting at the man who turned his life upside down, left and right, stopping him from an eternity of happiness. “Why did you do this to me? Did I do something wrong that made you imprison me in the darkness?”

He slowly raises his eyes, his body still shaking with such intensity that would put even the earthquakes he had witnessed to shame. “Sometimes I’d think long and hard about what happens to people who put children in jail.”

A few seconds later, he is now alone again in his cell, the darkness welcoming him back with open arms, and instead of screaming and crying and wanting to see the real sun, he welcomes Her with open arms.

-69

It was a stormy day, meaning he would not be able to play in the gardens today, as he stares sadly at the downpour, longingly waiting for it to go away. He is no stranger to the rain, but sometimes his mood dampens with the weather, as if it controls his emotions and feelings to the winds, as the dark grey clouds shower the entire world with drops of liquid in various shapes and sizes.

He inches away from the window as he sees a streak of lightning from a distance, shivering a little from the cold gusts of wind that keeps blowing in his direction, as if he was just a simple obstacle to be knocked off. Lightning streaks were a sign a rumble of thunder is coming, slowly but surely, and it does; like a demon trying to say he is here and he should marvel in his presence.

Japan shrieks as another flash of lightning, this time nearer to his place, sends him tumbling down from his bed, and into the floors.

He starts to cry from the sheer harshness of his fall, as if this was the most painful thing life had done to him, the pain like a hundred men falling down on him. From the midst of his crying, he hears the sliding door open and a soft gasp before two arms start cradling him softly, feeling someone’s hair touch his skin, comforting him, calming the boy down, telling him it is all right.

“Oh, Japan”, his mother coos, voice soft and rich with caring and love, something he had loved in her from the very beginning. “Subete ga seijōdearu.”

+20,129

He grapples at his overgrown hair as if it was his enemy, tearing strands of his hair down in small clumps, falling to the ground like rain he never saw again after he was locked in this now tight and suffocating cell, as he screams. His scream was not from the fact the cell is slowly killing him with its lack of air nor the voices in his mind replacing the serene nothingness, but simply at the fact that he wants to hear himself, he wants to hear the walls echo his own voice, but all he could hear was his bones cracking to the sounds of his scream as his hands try pulling more of his hair out.

He closes his eyes in on the walls, locking him in limbo, forever and ever.

As if his fingers were claws, as if they were sharp and can tears this wall, down, his madness still building up from all these years of inglorious rage and desperation to get out of this damned cell, he turns on to the walls that had took him in as a friend and a foe, his screams becoming more and more agitated as time goes on and on and on.

He starts to create his masterpiece, fingers scraping on the hard walls that torment him every single day, the scraping of his fingers on the olden concrete singing a high-pitched and off-tune music, chanting for disarray. He howls in pain as he feels one of his fingernails break and drop to the floors, hearing its clink, but his work is not done, knowing that he is far from done, knowing he still have not left his mark, as he keeps on scraping and vandalising this damned walls for sheer entertainment, because if no one can do it he had to do this to himself; he does not care if he will break or dislocate any of his fingers, or some of his fingernails break from the intensity of his vandalism, nor does he care if his hands are mangled or bleeding.

A few hours (minutes? days? seconds?) he stops, feeling the numbing of his own pain, panting and trying to breath through, his grey eyes trying to make sure he remembered those words, remember the way they were structured, remember everything. Even from the darkness of the cell, he knew what he spelt out,

“Watashi wa sonzai shimasu.”

-192939488

Is this the past?

Is this the present?

He can’t remember anymore.

He can only remember what’s After now.

+21,456

He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out an annoyed sigh as the metal doors open once again, revealing Tokyo, with a bandage on his left hand. Honestly, his visits are making Japan miss the darkness and the close walls tormenting him slowly but surely. He did not want the man who partnered with Teikoku to visit him, over and over again, every week, every month, every year. Let him be at peace.

“What do you want now?”, he asks curtly, glaring up at Tokyo, who was awkwardly biting his lip.

“How much do you remember about your mother?”

Japan stiffens, his thought process stopping, his grey eyes widening, as he turns to stare at Tokyo in anger and fury. He stands, his body shaking with pure rage; before Tokyo could look back, he had cornered his half-brother inside of his own cell, knowing the two of them both won’t have any room to breathe. He grits his teeth as he digs his fingernails into Tokyo’s recent injury, and he screams out loud in pain.

Japan huffs out a laugh as he punctured injured skin, making Tokyo wish for death with his own voice. “Your pain today isn’t measurable compared to mine.”

All of a sudden, he lets his older brother go, as Japan stalks back to the furthest corners of his cell, back turned from his brother, who was swearing and crying like the bastard he was, as he fumbles around to fix his bandage, an injury topped by another injury, both made by Japan himself.

He lets out a bitter laugh while Tokyo continues whining, before he starts to cry. “I wish I had saved her, you know. The only light in my life destroyed by you.”

+28,299

Grey eyes stare into Tokyo’s brown ones, unable to conceal his bitterness and anger for both the brothers. “You both know that I’m the rightful heir.”

He does not respond, knowing he cannot explain himself to a lonely and bitter man, deprived of beautiful youth, and can only nod shakily, his eyes full of fear. Then he feels hands on his neck, slowly suffocating him, making him gasp as the fingers tighten their grip around his windpipe.

“Say it”, Japan hisses out in the softest voice he can muster, and with surprising strength he lifts Tokyo up until his head hits the ceiling, the man writhing in the cuckold. “Say that I’m the real heir and that Teikoku is the fake.”

His captive lets out a choked response, trying to answer.

“Say it”, Japan says with more force in his voice now, the intent to murder hidden. “SAY THAT I’M THE REAL HEIR!”

“You are”, Tokyo finally chokes out, “you are you are you are.”

+28,323

Tokyo looks back over his shoulder to find Japan still standing, in the centre, his eyes on the shadow casted by the sunlight above him. He raises a brow and tilts his head, “Japan, come on, we’re running late! I’m running late!”

His younger half-brother ignores him, his eyes still on the shadow, his grey eyes brimming with fascination- the shadow mimics his movements, as if it was a darker version of him, attached to his feet. His skin feels like it was being caressed by generous and warm hands, the sun that is said to be burning him like he was in hell a friend, giving him the warmth he never received in the cell, the open space giving him enough air to breathe.

“Japan!”, he hears his brother call out to him, and he slowly walks towards Tokyo, watching his legs move in the sunlight, the corners of his lips moving upward, trying to form a smile.

After all these years, longing and wanting to see the damned light, he can finally gaze at the sun again; he can finally be free to walk; free from the darkness. Free from his life as a vessel of the unknown. Free from being non-existent, because he finally exists.

Finally.

+28,360

Tokyo was out for the day, meaning that Japan has the apartment all by himself. He stares at the dozen books scattered on the table, the abandoned coffee cup by the window sill, and the general lack of someone looming all over him, he decides the best way to keep him entertained is to read a few books Tokyo had left hanging around. He picks one up from the pile that was enough to fascinate him, as he sits down on a chair, his fingers studying the texture of the paper, as he flips from page after page, skimming from paragraph to paragraph.

A few hours after, he finishes the book, and now he feels bored, so he goes to Tokyo’s room, promising to himself that he will leave soon after. He knows he is invading his brother’s privacy, but he too had been invading his cell for the past few years, so might as well do it to him as payback. He opens the lights in Tokyo’s room, to find the entire place - frustratingly - messy. He groans to himself as he takes a step in, cautiously avoiding stepping on the things cluttered around the floor.

Japan stares at Tokyo’s wardrobe, before opening it and taking out a uniform that was old and dusty, knowing that he doesn’t use this anymore. Entertained at the fact he can mock Tokyo once he finally gets home, Japan starts to put the uniform on him, a childish spirit rekindled inside of him, as he slowly but surely buttons his shirt on, looking for a mirror that can let him see his entire body.

(He had only looked in a mirror now, as he sees appearances a waste of time- well, fairly because he is hidden from everyone else.)

He finds a full-length mirror near Tokyo’s study, and he rushes to it to see how he looks- and then stops abruptly, finally getting a taste of his reflection for what felt like a long time. Despite the fact he has been tearing at his hair in mad fits for what felt like forever, his dark hair was a mess, strands reaching far and wide. His grey eyes were shining with emptiness, and his frame thin but tall, skin as pale as the ice that covers the country in winter.

He recalls the times when his mother would say that he had his father’s most beautiful eyes, and how she would make him feel important by saying that; it worked, for a long, long time. And today, he realises that he would have wanted his mother’s beautiful brown eyes; they were the ones that had guided him into the world where everything was cherry blossoms falling down in his face until the tree trunks came to topple him down.

Gingerly, he touches his reflection, his body once again shaking, his mind racing with thoughts about how this was wrong, how his mother should have been alive and him dead, ceasing to exist in this world, but instead it was in reverse. His lip was quivering, as he tries remembering what his mother looked like… her red lips smiling down at him with love and warmth… her brown eyes mature but caring… her arms like a nest to nurture him with… her voice the most melodious thing he has ever heard… her dark hair smooth and silky soft.

None of which he had gotten from his mother, as he looks in the mirror.

“Haha”, he whispers, as he drops to his knees, no longer able to support himself once again, as he now unleashes a stream of tears, dripping down his face. “I’m… sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be.” A voice snaps him out of his breakdown, as he looks up in the mirror to find his mother, smiling at him, as if she were alive.

“Mama?”, he asks softly, his voice merely a whisper in this room. “B-but you’re dead!”

She chuckles a little, as she drapes her arms around Japan; he should not be feeling anything, but he felt warmth embrace him once again. “I may be dead in the real world, but I will always live in your mind.”

Japan shakes his head, still sniffling and sobbing. “You must be disappointed in me, mama.”

She shakes her head, putting her lips to his forehead, “I am not disappointed, my son. I will forever be proud of you. I will be by your side as you finally finish your quest for glory.”

Japan blinks, confused. “‘Quest for glory?’”

There was something in her dark brown eyes now; vengeance and revenge. “Kill the one who decided to rewrite our fates like this. And then, you will have peace, now and forever.”

“But Mother… killing is wrong…!”

“But Teikoku killed me, and he has killed thousands of innocent lives too. Do you think murdering the bastard will have an equal effect on what he did to the entire world? No.”

Japan’s mind goes back and forth, in circles and then forming more and more shapes, as he tries to formulate a response against this ghost (hallucination? curse?). Murder is wrong, his mind supplies, but his heart tells him it is time for Teikoku to get what he deserved, to make him beg for death and he giving it to the suffering man with no conscience whatsoever.

He smiles, turning to grin at his mother.

“Perhaps I let that old bastard live long enough.”

+28,365

Two brothers are caught in a dance, a dance that decides one another’s fate, as they kick and punch and shoot with all of their might and strength, giving each other sensitive vocabulary as they chase and catch. The grey-eyed brother tackles his elder brother, making him cough up blood as Teikoku kicks at Japan’s ribcage, and he howls in pain, as Teikoku uses it as a distraction and kicks Japan off of him. He topples over, as now Teikoku has the upper hand, looking down at him with anger and madness.

It scared him a long time ago, but now it doesn’t- not anymore.

“You think I will spare you once again after you did this to me?!”, he bellows, “I showed you leniency once upon a dream! A chance to rot in the cells, but you decide to waste it after assaulting me.”

Japan spits on his face, and he uses that as an advantage as he kicks at Teikoku’s legs and shoots a bullet, which lodges on Teikoku’s shoulder. He gasps in pain as blood drips over his mouth once again, but before he could move Japan kicks him on the skull, the floors breaking his fall in a hard manner. Teikoku screams, both in pain and in anger, but now Japan has a firm grip on Teikoku’s injured shoulder, pulling it as hard as he can until he can hear joints cracking.

“You… meiwaku”, Teikoku hisses and he gasps, Japan stepping on his ribcage as if it were a toy, his step becoming harder, harder, harder. “You will die an inglorious death.”

Japan cackles, a sneer on his face, as his grey eyes shine throughout the light, exchanging his gun for a dagger. “I’d find pleasure ripping out your heart.” Teikoku pants, his hands discreetly reaching for a pole, closer and closer, as Japan busies himself with his knife.

“So, sayonara, Teikoku.” Japan lunges for Teikoku, eyes wide, full of undefinable insanity.

Teikoku meets his eyes, as he finally reaches the pole and plunges it deep into Japan’s heart just as he lunges. His brother halts, time standing still, but before he processes what had just happened, his grey eyes become blank with death. He breathes hard, as blood drips from Japan’s mouth and into Teikoku’s clothes, his brother staring at Teikoku, before his eyes go listless, dropping the dagger to the ground, as it makes a little noise.

There was silence in the halls for a moment, Teikoku looking everywhere other than the corpse of his older brother, as his eye colour slowly went back to its crimson red, while Teikoku’s red eyes were being replaced by grey, as if the blood had been drained from his body.

Japan crawls away from Teikoku’s corpse, as his body swiftly slides down the pole, the silver graces of the weapon tinged with blood and all things holy.

When the day has come where he have died.

Only to come alive.

0It happened so fast; the guards coming into his and his mother’s home, disturbing the peace that his mother have created in their own terrain, mother and son minding their own business when all of a sudden, as if his years of life are cut short by someone shooting their gun his way, Teikoku’s guards raid their home, holding him and his mother captive, who were both so busy living, breathing, being alive.

“Haha!”, the young boy says, as two guards hoists his mother up, who in turn was too weak to stand, too weak to do anything except look at Japan with her deep brown eyes, wanting him to go, run away as fast as he can. But he knows that he should never leave the source of his happiness behind. Before he could move, however, two more guards hold him back, him and his mother a safe distance from each other, tormenting them. He struggles against his captors, his grey eyes threatening to wage war. “Let me and my mother go!”

“You struggling against my guards is quite… hilarious.” A cold, calm, and frigid voice settles among the people in the room, as Japan hears the steps of the man who has orchestrated this ambush, this sabotage.

Teikoku comes in all his glory, wearing a clean and tidy uniform, his dark hair smooth and cropped, but his eyes still full of madness and ambition, laughing silently at his younger half-brother and his mother, a big smirk on his face. He is here to laugh at them for his entertainment; here to earn pleasure from their pain as he sits on his throne of gold, superior to all, controlling each and everyone of the people’s lives.

Japan meets his eyes, pleading and scared out of his wit, wanting nothing more to escape. “Please, Teikoku… let me and my mother go.”

Teikoku’s smirk grows wider, not really a smirk anymore but a sadistic smile creeping upon his face, his eyes staring down at Japan, huge with fascination and amusement. “But you and your mother stand in the way of the glory of my empire”, he smiles once again, a glint of intent now visible, “I have to take you traitors down.”

He shouts an order to the guards, who immediately obey as they drop his mother down to the floors; she gasps in pain, and Japan writhes underneath the men’s grasp, wanting to be with his mother, wanting Teikoku to leave the both of them alone. Teikoku approaches Kyoto step by step, as the latter was recovering from the assault, before he swiftly tilts her chin up, her deep brown eyes which were full of hope, now replaced with fear.

Teikoku smiles as he points his gun at her, and Japan screams, his mother shooting him one last look-

Everything goes red.

-

Watashi no musuko- my son

Shinai’na- dear

Baishunpu- whore

Taiyō- sun

Aisare shi-sha- beloved

Watashi no tame ni utaemasu ka- can you sing for me Mochiron watashi no musuko- of course, my son

Yukkuri o yasumi- sleep tight

Kaibutsu- monster

Shinpaishinaide, watashi no ko- don’t worry, my child

Watashi wa tsuyoidesu- i am strong Musuko- son

Anata wa seichō shimashita- you’ve grown

Subete ga seijōdearu- everything is alright/fine

Watashi wa sonzai shimasu- I exist

The lullaby that Kyoto sung was Edo Komoriuta or Edo Lullaby

[boogiewrites]

Choking On Sapphires 37

Title & Song:  Filthy/Gorgeous

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Genevieve (OFC)

Word Count: 7000+

Summary: Alfie and Genevieve go to a wedding reception together. Genevieve gets her blood pumping with dancing first...then with Alfie and his rum inside her they close the night out with a bang. 

Warnings/Tags: Language. Drinking. Dirty Talk. Explicit Sexual Content. (M/F, Body Fluid Kink, Dom/Sub aspects, possibility of getting caught)

**Chapter song is Filthy/Gorgeous by Scissor Sisters.**

Positive feedback is MUCH appreciated! Reblogs, likes, asks and comments feed me to write more! Let me know if you’d like tagged in my work.

My Masterlist. (Includes Parts 1-36)

You're sorting through letters in your hands as you walk to Alfie's study on a warm afternoon.

"Here you go, darling. I've been told to hand these to you," you say with a handful of decorative envelopes in a neat stack between your painted nails. A nod and grunt, a furrowed brow with a large hand reaching out, palm up in expectancy of your handing him the letters. "Looks as though we've gotten the same invitation." you say, moving it out away from the rest in the stack with your finger after he lays them on the desk.

"Eh? What's that now?" he says, shaking his head, pulling his train of thought to your words.

"I'm thinking we've both been invited to the same wedding." you say in a slow pace as your eyes scan over the folded gilded paper.

He hums in curiosity and rips open the paper square to inspect the one he's received.

"Ah, one of the jewelers I see." he says gruffly, fingers adjusting his glasses on his face.

"What a match. A jeweler and jewel thief." you say with a shoulder-shaking laugh.

He looks up to you with a questioning, raised brow.

"Thalia. We've worked together before." you shake the paper in your hand. "I've worked with James as well but I just bought and sold for him."

"Yeah I didn't assume a man like James would be out there runnin' round on jobs with you." he says with a smirk, as James was more than a bit older than you both.

"I have been to his parties though." you say with a grin.

"I have as well." Alfie says with an expression that shares the same sentiment. James knew how to throw a fucking party.

"You wanna go? I mean, sure it's a wedding but the party after the ceremony just might be worth it." your eyes and grin are wide as you beam down at him with mischief in your eyes.

"Not much for weddings, eh?" he asks, his eyes still moving over his own invitation.

"I don't hate them," you say in defense of yourself. "But the ceremonies can be a bit boring," you say with a slight frown, showing your honesty. "If you're emotionally invested it's lovely but when you just want to get to the party after it can all be very tedious and expected. The same thing is repeated for so many years over and over,  not exactly riveting for the bystander." you say with a small laugh and grin.

"You are certainly no good at being a bystander for anything, luv." he says with a laugh, tossing the paper back onto the desk. "I suppose I do need to socialize with that lot a bit more, dunnit I?" he says in a groan.  

"Couldn't hurt." you say optimistically with a shrug. "Give us a chance to show off some jewels, seeing as the bride and groom are both in the profession." you say cheekily, your fingers running across your collarbones displaying a piece that wasn't there.

"You aren't supposed to show up the bride at a wedding Genevieve." his voice low as he looks up at you from under his brow with a smirk on his face at your expression.

You open your mouth to defend yourself but end up shrugging and rolling your eyes with a flirty flourish as your bit your lip to play innocent at the accusation. You let out a "Hmph." as you stand up straight. "I know that." you say with a wrinkled nose, looking over his head with the childlike expression, like you'd been caught doing something naughty before you let out a soft laugh and turn to leave the room.   ------ Had you purposely made yourself run late so you wouldn't have to sit through a ceremony and could just take a longer car ride to their house and wait it out? Had he not bothered to remind you of what time to leave and never asked you to hurry up so you would make them late and you wouldn't have to sit through the ceremony? Yes.

You trot out in a lavender dress. Slim straps held it in place on your shoulders, somewhat hidden from your only partially up hairstyle, set into soft curls around your natural looking made up face. The dress has small sparkling beads in the small lace-like pattern detailing as it hugged your body, the stretchy fabric ending right below your hips, turning into a maribou-trimmed bottom hem, making you look like some sort of bell-shaped flower, your lovely legs serving as peaking stamens, tipped with gold heels. The heels match the coat you've just thrown over your shoulders, a lighter fabric than the thick one of his similarly styled  overcoat.

He drinks in the sight of you, taking dangling diamond earrings from Aggie's hands as you sway towards him, eyes focused on the ground as you bite your lip in concentration to snap the earrings correctly. You adjust your rings and clasp your bright diamond bracelet as she latches the necklace, same simple styling, and stones as the rest of the set. Aggie is picking spare pieces of the fluff that's come loose off the new dress as he approaches you.

"This is new, yes?" you say, your dark eyes focused on his after you took in his suit, a smile that made his nose twitch in anticipation sits upon your face.

"It is." he says, his fingers reaching out to untangle a piece of hair that's gotten wrapped in a button on your coat. "Freddie got me all measured up before he left."

"You little sneak." you say, retracting your chin into your chest.

"I lost all me suits, so maybe it's one of those fuckin' signs ya talk 'bout that I should try somefin' new.  I got 'is 'n different colors, much the same, yeah?" he says with a proud pouted lip, decorated fingers fussing with his big, ornate cuff links. "Whatcha think, luv? Ya fancy it?" he says, thumbs slipping under the black suspenders, resting under a deep, deep barely purple but just enough to call it not black, black. The gold from his rings melded so well it makes you want to whimper, the emerald eyes on his serpent ring complimenting the subtle use of color so well your bottom lip pouted out.

"You look so good I don't know whether to kiss you or kill you, Solomons." you admit with a sigh and a shrug, your honest eyes looking up at him.

"If I got a choice I'd prefer the former, luv." he says with a charming grin that makes your pout tense and turns to a smirk. "You look like the dancing girls in the pictures in this dress." he says with fondness.

"Well I plan on dancing like them so it seemed suited," you say with another charming smile. "You going to dance tonight? How drunk do I have to get you to get a fast dance with Alfie Solomons?" you ask with a wrinkled nose, smile beaming up at him to leave him weak, your slender fingers tugging at his suspenders just about the snaps to his trousers.

"I guess you keep askin' me and we'll find out won't we?" he pushes back with equal sexual aggression laced words, face leaning in close to yours. You could already tell your chemistry tonight would make for a good time whether you found that or trouble waiting for you. ------- You pull up in a long line of cars to the grand house. It was just outside of town, stone and looming with its large columns that lit the countryside that surrounded it. The house was glowing from within, the insides hidden with curtains pulled shut in the tall windows.

You fluff the hem of your dress as you stand near the corner of the house, getting a glimpse of the buzzing party inside, lanterns in the garden, hidden just barely by an ivy-covered fence. "You go in first, that way we're separate and people will be busy watching you come in and won't notice me." you say, looking down at your dress and checking it for unsightly creases from the ride over.

"That has to be the most stupid thing I've heard you say, Gen." he says with a chuckle. "Yeah, they gonna be too busy lookin' at me, eh? With you as an option?" he shakes his head, eyes looking far over and past where you stood. "Ridiculous. luv." he says dismissively before returning his eyes to yours.

"Well what do you suggest since I'm apparently just a gorgeous moron." you say with a roll of your eyes, your arms crossing across your chest.

"I'll be sure to refer to ya as a homely genius from now on." he says in a teasing way, nodding his head at you. "C'mon, I got a way for us both to be happy, yeah?" he says, eyes moving around the space as he reached down and took your hand, around the corner of the house.

"You're not dragging me out here to kill me are you?" you whisper with roaming eyes before you see a small stone staircase come into view between the front of the house and the back garden. "Ah. You've been here before I see." you say with a nod as he lets go of your hand as he helps you down a small ledge to the hidden pathway.

"I've known James for a while. Been to his parties before, had to sneak out a few times, so 'at's how I know about this, yeah?" he says with a mischievous grin, taking your hand as he shuts the small wooden door behind you, entering the warm, plain beige hallway, lit by small dim sconces.

He leads you through back hallways, similar to the ones in your home. He lifts and guides you through rooms filled with nothing, rooms filled with only books, one particularly creepy one with a single chair and rug left in it, leaving you feeling uneasy until you pass the last room to get to the main hallway, which has two people rutting away in a chair in the corner as you share an apologetic glance before you've both popped out into a hallway. This part of the house just has a low hum of the party, somewhere in the maze of halls.

"I bet what led to you having to sneak out of those tunnels was proper fun wasn't it?" he turns to see you with a rather childlike look on your face, slightly flushed cheeks rounded out in an almost bashful smile.

"How could you guess?" he gives a laddish grin.

"I've snuck out of similar ones myself." you say with a chuckle, fluffing your hair as you regain your proper posture as you walk next to him down the hall, you round a corner and are met with the outskirts of the party. People holding hands and running past the two of you, someone crying in a room with a pulled to door, boys in groups like vultures, picking off prey and laughing at their own jokes. You see the glitzy girls with their fast-moving cocaine-fueled feet in a ballroom, you feel that familiar tug to join them. "We've both got schmoozing to do, cheri. We'll find our way back to each other when we want to leave?" you ask in a polite and charming way that tells him you've already slipped back into your old socialite ways as you give a little wave to someone across the room and give a huge flash of a smile to go with it.

"See ya then, luv." he says with an equally charming smile, both of you warming up your skills on each other before departing. --- You find the light bubbling alcohol first and sip away as you find a small group of girls to infiltrate, having complimented ones dress and now you're sitting atop an unmanned piano, chatting with the other pretty rich girls, letting yourself be that girl again for a moment.

He's belly laughing with old schoolmates, they are lamenting on the loss of bachelorhoods, taking over their father's businesses and what they would do to the women in the room if they weren't married, some who were going to do it anyway. It's all the most familiar of discussions for him, and he has no problem partaking in the ramblings of men less enthusiastic about their life choices than he was in situations like these. His eyes move over the crowd subconsciously as he finds himself telling another tale of a job in an entertaining manner that lets the other men live vicariously through him. They thought if they'd just made a few simple decisions differently they could've been in his place. The power, the respect, the appeal of the thought of the money and women you could have and what wild things you could do with each if they had it all flicker behind their eyes.

You'd seen him hypnotize groups before, men and women just the same. He thinks the same of you as you notice you're within eyeshot of each other. He sees your crossed legs, hair falling to one side in a grand frame of your face as the women giggle and gently nudged each other as you told your stories in a much more intimate and quiet way than he did. You see his thick neck bulging as he speaks loudly. The men all sip with unblinking eyes, his words making them sigh and drink more because they clearly lacked that certain, je ne sais quios he had had in abundance. ------ You're both more than a few drinks in, still more sober than anyone else in the house it would seem by the deviant behavior happening out in the open at this point in the evening. Corners in every room full of rolling and writhing individuals without shame whether the effect is from sex or drugs, and at this point his money was on both for all parties.

The lads he had been speaking with had been picked off one by one, some by wives, some by mistresses, and he was left making his way through the bustling bodies, eyes looking for you as he's not seen you in quite some time. He follows the music as he assumes you'll be near it, singing, dancing or both. He turns into the ballroom, the sweat from the drug-fueled movement hanging heavy and dense in the air despite the extravagant height of the ceilings. The boom of the band in the back of the room hits his chest as it picks up again, eyes narrowed and searching until they land on you.

Your hair has fallen down completely, he can see how as you flip it and spin, it rising and falling as you command, always putting on a show for anyone watching. The swing of the horns moves your hips and shoulders, your face flushed and smiling, eyes bright and full of sparkle as he can tell you're enjoying yourself.  Your skin glistens in the glowing lights of the room, the chandeliers low, the wall scones burning, fighting against the black of the night outside the tall and sweating windows, dripping from the heat of the bodies within. Your feet seem to favor the piano, as you're spun around between a small grouping of men and women, all laughing and dancing with each other. He first sees you with another man, hands clasped together, feet moving in time, and quicker than he knew his own could manage even if he did know the moves. Your feet kick up, knees bent as your bits bounce in your dress, still distracting to him despite the almost blurred visage of your legs and feet underneath you. Your hands rise above your head in exclamation as you sing along with the words of the song. You don't seem to mind as the man's face gets close to yours, as your heads both fall back in laughter to the cheeky lyrics of the song. He throws you across the group with a swing of his arm and you land softly, gracefully against a wall. Your nose scrunches jovially and you take a woman by the hand, spinning her out with you as she blushes. His eyes narrow as he sees your hand reach around to her lower back, holding her hips close to yours, chests pressed against each other with a sly smile on your face. The girl bites her lip and bats her lashes at you as you beam down at her. He'd swear you'd looked at him in such a way before, perhaps even mimicking the way he likes to pull you towards him when he has impure thoughts on his mind. Your dance partner warms up quickly, and who wouldn't being in the crosshairs of that smile. You take the lead, taking on the role of the man, pulling her back to your chest, hands out and clasped, another at her hip, moving both yours in tandem as his eyebrow raises at the action. It's clear this wasn't the first time you'd handled a woman in such a way and if his growing suspicions were correct, the soft speaking of how wild you'd been in the past lingering in his head now, he wonders if the role of man isn't something you rather liked playing when it came to being with another woman. He shakes his head and lets out a little laugh to himself, taking another drink. You were a prize lover and he supposes it made sense for a seductress such as yourself to be able to tame anything that came your way. What an unstoppable force of indulgence you were.

You leave the girl breathless, a more than friendly kiss to the cheek as you move her into the arms of the man you'd been dancing with before. You slink back, taking a long drink of clear liquid. You wipe your brow with your forearm, taking a few deep breaths and he sees a moment to intervene.

"'Ello, luv." he coos as he approaches. Your already rapidly rising and falling chest and flushed skin make it easy to hide how handsome you find him as you take him in before he reaches your side. Your smile shifts slightly as he approaches and it does not go unnoticed to him. His jacket gone, the first few buttons undone on his shirt, and who could blame him in the humidity of the room. His necklaces sit in that masculine nest of chest hair that rises up before breaking for the space of that thick spread neck before beginning again with his untamed beard.

"So nice of you to find me just as I was getting tired, darling." you say with a soft charming laugh.

"Well you's been movin' so fast I couldn't very well cut in before such a time, could I?" he grins, leaning in for a polite kiss to the cheek that you welcome with the cute scrunching of your face.

"I'm just delighted I can keep up without chemical intervention still." you say in a self-deprecating sort of way, your finger tapping one nostril so he is sure to understand your meaning.

"Well I'm delighted you're without chemical intervention tonight as well, luv." he says, arm moving to your lower back as you stand side by side, you fanning your face with one hand.

"You are?" your brow lowers slightly as your face turns to his.

"I am." he nods. "I'm not much a supporter of it if I'm being honest." he says matter of factly.

"Hmph." you say with a thoughtful nod, never having considered his opinion on such a thing.

"Despite the rare celebratory drinking as in tonight, and the jovial wine for rituals I don't indulge in such things meself. Don't like me mind to be altered in such a way." he shakes his head, expression not one of judgment.

"Well you'll be even happier because this is water, believe it or not." you say with a playful snort, raising your glass as if to toast him. "What I'm more concerned with right now, is you reaching the point in the evening where you're willing to dance with me." you grin up at him.

"Indeed I have reached it." he says proudly. You perk up with a bounce, posture straightening out again in anticipation.

Lucky for the both of you a less hectic and demanding song comes along, you set your drinks down and let him take the lead, not something you were accustomed to.

Your hair bounces about your face, framing it in matching softness as your enchanting smile doesn't leave the entire time he has his hands on you. Your feet don't skip and jump like they had previously, but you do allow your hips to become suggestively close, as you spin and switch between your back to his chest and face to face. You're doing most of the moving and you don't mind in the least, but you certainly wouldn't put down the moves he was giving in the slightest.  The way his hands are tense and certain against your body make a familiar sort of ache start to rise within you.

You're deep in your own mind, enjoying the drops of sweat from his brow dripping to your bare shoulders as his face leans in close to your neck, feeling him move in tandem with you, reminding you far too much of your time spent together in bed and you just accept that he's making you wet just by being near you. The song ends far too soon, you spin in his arms, placing a hand on his chest.

"I'm going to melt if we stay out here, darling. I need an open window and a smoke babes." you say, taking a deep breath and patting him before moving away.

"Then let's find ya just that." he declares with a nod, taking your hand and leading you out of the ballroom and to a hallway full of doors.

After many failed attempts at finding an empty room he succeeds, shutting the door behind you both and moving to open the window against the far wall. You light a cigarette and lean against a dresser sat by the window. You groan as the breeze hits you, cooling you instantly.

"Fuck that's nice innit?" he says unbuttoning another button on his shirt, fanning it across his flushed skin.

"Like heaven." you say quietly, exhaling smoke out of the window. "Hotter than Hades out there." you declare with a smile. He nods and grunts in agreement, both cooling off as the sheer fabric of the curtains moves gently from the breeze. You finish your cigarette and extinguish it, looking him over, your mind quickly moving to far less innocent actions as you've now cooled to lava from magma.

"Your rum has made me feel some sort of way tonight, Solomons." you say quietly. "What is is you say it's for again? Was it fun and fucking?" your eyes move to his, your face not moving with it, the intent clear behind them.

"It is, sweetheart." a sly grin slowly appears across his lips.

"We've had fun tonight, haven't we Alfie?" his raises his eyes to yours, a sexy smirk making its way across his lips. "How's about we get the full use of what you and that rum of yours inside me can do?" you give that closed mouth smile that told him you were up to trouble.

"I take it you're ready to leave then?" he says with a chuckle.

"No." you say with a lilt, licking your lips slowly.

He gives you a look with a tilt of his head. "Here?"

"I'm feeling more than a bit amorous tonight darling and I was hoping you'd indulge me in a fantasy since the occasion has fallen right into my lap."

"It involve you fallin' onto mine?" he kids.

"But of course." you purr.

"What do you want me to do to you, dirty girl?" his hands grab your bum.

"It is as if you already know." you let out a deep, rumbling chuckle. "You've gone and turned me on tonight and now I want you to do something about it." you say with a little shake of your head, giving him big eyes, looking up at him, purposely trying to be as alluring as possible to egg him on. "Shag me here. Now. At this party. I want you to lift up my dress and try to make me scream so all those people out there might imagine the nasty things you're doing to me." you run your fingertip across his bottom lip, his tongue flicks out to  graze it making you hum as a wave of arousal comes over you at the sensation. He pushes against you, one hand moving your hair off your shoulders, snaking into it to hold it taut at the nape, his teeth biting at your jaw as you spoke, placing kisses with needful moans across your throat. "I want you to tell me what a filthy woman I am for wanting such a thing." He pulls back to raise a brow at you, licking his lips.

"Mmmm." he hums, eyes moving across your face under heavy half lids. "You are exceptionally bad for wanting something like this from me, pet. Fucking magnificent and fucking filthy you are, eh?" He pulls back your head, both hands in your hair as he pulls is back slowly.

Your eyes flutter shut, your lips part. "C'mon then." you snarl your lip, nodding your head once in a taunt as even with your head in his control your eyes still ooze power with a glance. Your shoulders squared against him, a direct challenge he answers with actions and not words.  

A rumble from deep in his gut rolls over you, making you tense before he makes his move. His fast and strong hands reach down to grab you through the thin fabric of your dress before landing a hard slap to your bum, grabbing a handful of you before it could even sting. His hand yanks your head to the side, lips feverishly moving against your skin, still glistening with sweat.

He keeps his hand in your hair as he stalks over to the bed, dragging you along beside him.He pushes you onto the bed, your bum hitting the edge. His hand snakes up your front and to your chin where his fingers firmly grasp it.

"You know as well as I do that that door isn't fucking locked, Genevieve." he sounds threatening and it makes you take a deep inhale at the sound and the feeling that it makes spread down your spine. "Anyone could come in here and witness what I'm doing to you." he speaks slower, a growing growl in his throat. His hand moves up your thigh, a pinch here, a tiny slap there on it's way to your soaked center. "You were so worried about your reputation before weren't ya? Now look at you." he snarls. "Asking me to fuck you with people just on the other side of that door that could hear." his fingers move quickly, expecting to be blocked by the silk barrier of your pants but when he finds nothing but the soft hair between your thighs against his palm his hisses. "Fuck me." he spits out. "And bare-assed in public. You are a dirty little thing, innit ya?" his fingers move to tease you, the middle one running over the arch of your clit. "And always so fuckin' wet." he moans, crashing his mouth into yours. You moan back, you don't reach for him since he's holding you, still enticing him to take it further. To make you do what he wanted. He must be starting to learn he hasn't been anywhere near as rough with you as you can handle. His hand retreats from under your skirt and goes to your wrist, shoving your fingers in the front of his trousers. "Take my cock out." he orders in a quiet, low and eerily calm tone that makes you swoon at him, you obey what he asks.  You shoot your eyes to his, not losing contact and showing raised brows feigning innocence, asking what the detour was about. "You wanna act like a dirty girl, you're gonna get treated like one, yeah?" Your fingers work quickly despite how distracting his lips are so tauntingly close to yours. Groaning and pressing into you as you managed to undo his trouser fastenings and relieve his magnificence from its confines. Your lips pucker as his grip tightens on your face. "That's it, now." he exhales, one hand moving along his length in smooth strokes as the other grasps his bits. "Now suck it." he releases your jaw roughly.

You don't expect this but the way your muscles tense between your legs, there lies the proof that you love it. You slide off the bed and to the floor to kneel before him. You give one slow blink of lash, keeping those big gorgeous eyes on his, as you take him into your mouth without so much as a scolding glance. You're following instructions, you close your eyes to focus your hands and mouth and tongue all together as he huff and puffs above you. Your wet, sucking and slurping are enough to make one of his hands go to your hair. But when you let out  a moan around his cock as your work him in response to his hand tightly fisted in your long, dark curls he tugs at you and you suck harder, your brow furrowing for just a moment, but this show of defiance for the sake of you wanting to continue keeping his prick in your delicious mouth makes his balls tighten and he pulls you off forcefully. A string of saliva connects your lips to his bell end, eyes as wide open as your pink mouth.

"Fighting to keep sucking my cock?" his voice is low but it does not change the strong wave of chills that turns to wetness down your body. He pulls you up, and rather roughly by your hair. "I knew you were fucking filthy..." he purrs at you, fingers holding your chin as he leans in close to your face. Your eyes are wide and batting but not reading scared, just very, very into what he was doing. He could tell by the way your chest was rising and falling. If you liked this, were asking for this, seeming to be willing to experiment tonight he simply follows his beastly instincts. He releases your chin and gives your cheek a firm but still light smack. The smile on your face could've been the sexiest thing he's seen from you yet. Biting your tongue between your teeth with a hum of approval. He smacks you harder this time, enough to move your face just slightly. Your face turns, you look to the direction he's hit you in for just a moment, enough to make him wonder if he crossed a line.

Your swing your head back, eyes glaring up at him from under your brow, your mouth open, your tongue pushing against your teeth as you exhale a breathy chuckle. "Go on." you purr from between clenched teeth. He growls and moves you so quickly by the back of the head from standing, to face first, bent over the edge of the bed. He holds you by the back of your neck, his hands curling up the edges of your dress, jerking it over your hips. He gives a hard slap to your ass. You jolt but quickly squirm under the chills it leaves after. And another. And another. The last he hears a slight gasp, and not wanting to hurt you before he even gets inside of you, he gives the now red flesh a rest. His thoughts turn to your sweet, dripping lips, framed between two soft thighs. "Arch your back." he demands. You oblige, as soon as you do you feel his fingers sliding between your lips, two sinking into you as you moan into the fluffy blanket on the bed. "Don't even have to touch you to get you dripping do I sweetheart?" he asks rhetorically, withdrawing his fingers, another firm slap to your arse, making it wobble in the wake of it.

So when he hears, "No." in a weak and lustful from you he groans with need, the hardest slap of the night to your arse cheek, a high pitched gasp from your mouth as he grabs your shoulders to hold you down.

"Acting like such a little slag and then admitting to it as well." his tone makes your eyes roll back, you thank the powers that be for sending you a man that can read non-verbal cues and take instruction. He sinks into you and you go limp for a few seconds.

"Oh fuck." you weakly whisper, your hands grabbing the sheets beneath you.

"To ask to be treated like the filthy fucking girl you are." he wastes no time, pressing your hips so hard against the bed, pounding into you, holding your shoulders to assure neither you or he went anywhere. One hand gathers your hair, wrapping it around his fist before pulling it back towards him. "C'mere." he orders, not giving you a choice. Your back is arched, your weight now on your hands as he pounds into you from behind. Heavy, hard slaps, punctuated with the subdued moans on your exhales. "This what you fucking wanted?" he hisses in your ear and your shudder around him.

"Yes." you helplessly moan out. The intoxicating stretch of him feels too good with you being this turned on. You feel yourself throbbing, aching as he draws you closer, overwhelming you to make you succumb to him.

He leans forward, hand now clasped over your mouth as he's pulled you up by the arm, holding it behind you. Now pumping into you with a force that makes your tits bounce wildly. "You better shut that cock sucking mouth of yours." he growls into your ear and you let out an unfiltered moan against his hand, eyes rolled back into your head. "Unless you want someone to come in here and see me fucking  buried in your cunt." He uncovers your mouth just long enough to slap your arse again before returning to stifle your cry. "What fucking reputation would you have then love? Letting a man like me fuck you like this? I wouldn't be the only one who knew what a little tart you were then, eh?"

You're praising everything he's doing, all muffled from behind his hand as you're being tenderized by his hips. The cliche of  Lady being taken by a criminal comes to mind and you find yourself getting off to the idea and you let out another moan, growing from deep in your gut, being fucked out of you by that thick cock of his.

"A Lady wouldn't allow herself to get fucked in such a way, Genevieve." he whispers. The way he says your name, brings another wave of pleasure over you, fuck you were close. He was going to run his mouth all the way to the finish line and take you with him. "But you are not a fucking Lady. Are you?" he growls. You shake your head back and forth and he roars into your ear, hitting you like a piston as your breathing starts to pick up, he knows you're close. "What are you then?" he groans, he knows you're close and he cannot last much longer, talking to you like this, you reaction to it in such a way, god it was intoxicating.

"Filthy." you cry out, he clasps his hand over it again. He lets out the sexiest laugh you've ever heard.  

"Ah, fuck Gen." he loses his composure for a moment. You are a handful of thrusts away from losing all composure. He feels your thighs tense first, he knows he's done his job well good when they start to shake. "That's it." he thrusts and it inside you as you come, holding himself there for a few seconds, moaning louder than you had the entire time.  "Fucking take this cock you wicked thing." he barks, you're now being used and pulled and pounded by him, a useless mess seizing against him.

"Give it to me." you huff out, your breath catching as your take in a shaky inhale still shaking against him.

"Fuck, I'm gonna come." he roars, a hard slap to your ass cheek again.

"Give it to me." you repeat, much harsher, much more demanding as you focus on the feel of his skin against yours, fingertips with bruising force against your hips, the hard convulsing now passed, leaving you a sensitive mess that was still getting fucked, leaving you so needy you'd let him spit in your mouth if he'd tried. What he did to you, the way he made you feel, you wanted every bit of him in that moment. Every ounce.  

He pauses a moment in his mind, he didn't like to make a habit of coming inside you but if you were asking for it who was he to deny you? "You want me in this little velvet cunny, love?"

"Yes." you moan. "Give me every last fuckin drop of you, Solomons." you growl, pushing back on him. You'd gotten yourself so worked up at the idea of him taking and marking you in such a way that you might just come again with the way his moans are starting to sound more guttural, his fingers squeezing tighter against your flesh.

"Fuck!" he shouts, grinding his teeth. Fuck you felt like heaven and fuck if he didn't want anything else but to come inside you at this moment. "'At's what you'll fucking get innit?" he hisses. "I'm going to fill that little cunny and you'll be walking out of this party with me dripping down your thighs."

"Yes, you fucking take it, Alfie." you praise, pounding back on him, your head turned to see him.

"Fuckin' hell," he shudders, and you hum and moan, a bitten lip and a blissed out smile on your face as he moves to short, hard thrusts. "Yes fuckin' take it all..." he groans through clenched teeth. His moans turn to gravel in his mouth, grainy and dragging on. His breathing becomes more labored and less moany.

You're currently humming contently. He releases his grip, moving instead to wrap his arms around your waist so you don't collapse. You move your hands up his forearms, running to rest over his. "You alright, darling?" you ask quietly with a smile he can't see. His forehead moved to between your shoulders.

"I've never been better." he grunts and you answer with a chuckle then a heavy sigh that relaxes you completely. You pat his hands and he releases you. You turn, looking up at him, sweating and disheveled, your favorite visage of him. You fix his hair, tucking the longer pieces back, smoothing it down. "I don't recall the last time I've had that much fun." a grin comes across his face now, the flush in his cheeks making you smile. You move to put him back into his pants, buttoning him back, fussing over his clothes until it looks like nothing ever happened. "Ya sweetheart, stop ya fussin'." he scolds with a laugh. "I call ya a slag and then ya fix me up?" his smile carries over his whole face, relaxed and you knew yours looked much the same. "Ya making' me feel proper guilty for doin' so right now."

"Don't. You were fantastic. Quick learner, you are." you praise, voice low and relaxed, eyes perhaps a touch tired now, but you'd hardly notice from the glow you have. You move to fix your skirt, he steps back to give you room, his legs not wanting to work at their best selves still. You pull your fingers out from under your skirt. You both watch them, sticky with the both of you. "Really did fill me up didn't you?" you say with the most wicked smile. He isn't prepared for when you start sucking the mess off your fingers with unwavering eye contact as your bejeweled fingers slid out of your mouth, tongue lapping away at them.

"Fuck me..." he whispers, face looking drunk all over again, watching your tongue lick him up and your lips suck him off your fingers. His glazed eyes give away the effect the action had on him. What good fortune for him to be bedding a woman who was certainly a descendent of Aphrodite herself, he thought.

"You get off on that as well?" you smirk.

There's that bloody smile again of yours that makes his cock twitch. "Well a man like me can't very well not take pride in his work now can he?" he grins, eyes raking over you. "And I'll admit I hadn't given it entirely too much thought before." he shrugs, now fixing your hair for you, like you did his. "But if what you say is true of us 'n our power complex's it really innit that far fetched, is it?" he gives you a soft laugh, you watch his satisfied, easy going expression as his big fingers run down the straps of your dress. The size difference made it seem as though he might just snap the strap without meaning it. Ugh, you didn't need to go thinking about how big and strong he was and go and get yourself turned on again. You certainly didn't need to put your lower half through that again so soon.

Pt 38 Do I Have To Talk You Into It

@fangirlfreakingout @jaegeeeeer @cosettewinchester @lookuptheskyisfalling-blog @brianaisasongbird @cry5t4l-w4rri0r @iliveonchocolateandnetflix @jess2464 @hardygal69 @thegarrisonpublichouse @a-flock-of-angry-pigeons @pootle @negansdirtygirl22 @musingsby-night @wtf-is-wrong-with-this @shine-dont-shadow @inkinterrupted @vale0413 @lafayettes-baguettes-1 @sxlomons 

[burgundydahlia]

Trying

So, I’ve been working up the courage to post some Romione stuff for a while, and decided to use Ron’s birthday as an excuse. I know I’m a couple days late, but in my defense, my real-life Ron (a.k.a. my husband) just celebrated his birthday on March 2nd so I was a tad bit busy. 

Anyway, in honor of my sweet ginger boy’s birthday, here is a quick Romione missing moment from DH. I hope it’s not terrible and all you lovely people enjoy it. <3

And happy of happiest to Ronald Bilius Weasley!

*~*~*~*

Ron was trying - he really was. 

He tossed and turned feebly on his lumpy mattress, cycling through different tricks he had heard were supposed to help with bringing on sleep - counting sheep, attempting deep breathing patterns, picturing himself in a favorite place - but nothing seemed to be working. He pulled roughly at the quilt covering him and gave an exasperated sigh as he pressed the back of his head firmly into the thin pillow underneath him. 

In the quiet of the tent, Ron could hear low, rumbling snores coming the bunk above him where Harry was fast asleep and for a brief moment, he felt a wave of gratitude wash over him. Harry, his best friend and brother by choice, who had welcomed him back so eagerly after his shameful departure, had spent the past week after their disastrous visit to Xenophilius Lovegood obsessing over the Deathly Hallows. And the fact that he was sleeping at all tonight, rather than purposely isolating himself as he brooded over the possible existence of the Hallows was a small miracle in and of itself. 

But even with much larger questions looming large over their heads, for Ron, it wasn’t the thought of Horcruxes or Hallows that were keeping him up tonight. If he was being honest with himself, he knew that sleep would continue to elude him as long as Hermione was outside on watch.

He stared towards the flaps of the tent that lead outside and squinted as he tried to make out her outline against the canvas. Outside, the wind whistled through the bare tree branches, and Ron shivered involuntarily as he pictured Hermione huddled on the cold, hard ground, a tiny figure against the inky black night.

Unwilling to fight any longer for sleep that he knew wouldn’t come, Ron swung his long legs over the side of his bed, shoved a pilling maroon jumper over his head, and shuffled towards the small kitchen. 

Tea, Ron smiled as his mother’s voice filled his head. Tea always helps bring a bit of comfort during trying times, dear. 

Pointing his wand at the small kettle sitting on the stove, he watched as a long wisp of white steam began trailing out from the spout as he grabbed a crumpled and nearly empty box of tea bags and two chipped mugs from the small shelf overhead. Working methodically, he found himself oddly comforted by the otherwise mundane act of preparing the two drinks - his with three sugars, the other with one sugar and a splash of cream. It was almost absurd, the notion of trying to do anything normally, as if there wasn’t a war going on and people being hunted, tortured, and killed every day. But one of the things Ron had come to realize over the past seven months was that finding these moments of levity and normalcy was an integral part to their survival; otherwise, the enormity of the task ahead of them and the ever-present danger they faced would fall over them like a shroud and smother them.

With a swish and flick of his wand, the two steaming mugs of tea began floating ahead of him and with a brief stop at his bed to grab his blanket, he took a steadying breath and walked out through the flaps at the front of the tent. 

The chilly blast of air that hit him as he stepped outside was so shocking that for a moment, Ron felt paralyzed by it. However, as Hermione turned and looked up at him with a mildly distasteful expression on her face, Ron quickly recovered and gave her a small, apologetic smile.

“Hey,” he started as she continued to eye him warily. “D’you mind if I join you?”

Hermione bristled slightly as she sat up straighter, her eyebrows furrowing together.

“I am perfectly capable of handling the watch on my own,” she said testily, her eyes narrowed.

“What? Of course you are,” Ron said hastily. “I didn’t mean it like that.” He quickly weighed his options as he stood under her withering gaze and decided the truth was the best route. “I can’t sleep and Harry’s not helping matters by snoring. I was hoping maybe I could keep you company for a bit.” He nodded his head towards the floating mugs of tea and gave a small, hopeful smile. “I brought tea.”

Hermione looked towards the mugs, her face softening momentarily, and with a dismissive shrug, she turned back to the book sitting in her lap and began reading again. Realizing that the absence of an out-and-out rejection was as close as he was going to get to approval, Ron sat down, careful not to bump her accidentally, and wrapped his quilt tightly over his lap. Setting his wand next to him, he grabbed the floating mugs and offered the one with cream and sugar to Hermione who took it from him with only the briefest of glances in his direction.

Ron took a sip from his own mug, grateful for the instant heat that seemed to seep down into his chest and branch out through his body, and glanced over her shoulder at the tome perched in her lap. 

“What are you reading?” he asked.

“Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Geneaology,” Hermione said without looking at him. 

“Is it any good?” he pressed, hopeful she wouldn’t snap at him.

Hermione exhaled loudly through her nose. 

“It’s fine,” she said stiffly as she carefully flipped a page over and continued reading.

Ron nodded silently, knowing better than to press his luck with further questioning. It was already a tiny miracle that she had let him sit with her at all. Instead, he stared out ahead at the dark landscape of trees in front of them. The blankets of snow that had covered everything in pristine white for all of January had melted into a muddy slush in February and after weeks of nearly constant storms, tonight seemed to be offering a brief reprieve. Ron breathed in deeply, his nostrils filling with the woodsy smell of wet dirt and the slightly sweet scent of rain. Glancing over at Hermione again as she silently read, he chewed the inside of his lip as he contemplated where he stood with her. 

Even after nearly two months of being back, Hermione was still maintaining her icy and distant demeanor towards him. And although he had been mostly successful at reading her moods and gauging the best ways to interact with her, he found himself mostly functioning in a cautious manner around her as he was still secretly fearful that one false move might topple over the weeks of work he had done to try and get back in her good graces. But Ron wasn’t complaining; the truth was that while one of the happiest days he’d had was the day he finally found his way back to a safe and very much alive Harry and Hermione, he still felt he had more than earned her anger towards him. Being away from her, and from Harry, for those few weeks leading up to Christmas had been so agonizing, that he was more than willing to endure all the frosty glares and curt responses thrown his way. And as long as she was there with him, safe and alive, it was all he cared about. But in the meantime, he would just continue what he had been doing ever since returning - carefully and constantly working to chip away at her steely demeanor and prove that while he might not be worthy, he was always going to try. She meant too much to him not to.

“I, er, hope your tea is how you like it,” he said, trying to sound as casual as possible. “We were running low on cream, but I think I put in just the right amount.”

Hermione shot him a sidelong glance, before finally sighing as she closed her book and placed it back in her beaded bag.

“Don’t you get tired of this?” she asked wearily as she cradled the mug of tea close to her face.

Ron stared uncertainly at her for a moment. 

“Tired of what?” he asked cautiously.

“This,” she said, waving her hand vaguely at the space between them. “Constantly trying to make small talk in the hopes that I won’t bite your head off. Isn’t it exhausting for you? Because it certainly is for me.”

Ron swallowed loudly as he fought to ignore the sudden plummeting of his stomach at her words.

“I can stop,” he said quietly as he gently placed his tea on the ground beside him. “I… I don’t mean to bother you, Hermione. I’m just trying to -”

“To make amends, to prove yourself, to apologize,” Hermione rattled off dispassionately. “I know, Ron. You’ve been at it for weeks. Trust me, I am fully aware of it.”

She took a small sip of her tea as Ron watched her, unsure of how to proceed. Aside from the night he had returned, Hermione had been skillfully avoiding speaking with Ron about anything to do with his leaving and certainly had never acknowledged his efforts to make it up to her. Some days, he wondered if she noticed him at all as she had become so adept at tuning him out. But at her words now, he realized just how stupid that line of thinking was. Of course Hermione knew what he was doing - she knew everything. She just wasn’t willing to let him know it. 

Until now.

“I honestly thought you would have learned your lesson by now,” she said dryly. “It’s not as though I’ve been making it easy for you.”

“Well,” Ron started, “I’ve been told I’m a slow learner.”

Hermione snorted and Ron gave her a lopsided smile as butterflies sparked to life inside him. They sat quietly for a bit longer, sipping their tea and staring out into the distance. Hermione finally broke the stillness with a heavy sigh.

“I am tired, you know.”

“You can go back inside the tent,” Ron offered eagerly. “I’ll take over the watch for tonight -”

“No, no,” Hermione shook her head. “That’s not what I meant.”

Ron stared at her curiously and Hermione sighed again.

“I’m tired of being angry with you all the time.”

“Oh,” he said dumbly, and he watched as Hermione traced her finger over one of the chips on the rim of her mug. He hesitated for a moment. 

“I’m really sorry, Hermione.”

“I know.”

“For everything.”

“I know.”

“And if you want to keep being mad at me, you can, because I deserve it.”

Hermione stared thoughtfully down at her mug but said nothing as Ron pressed on.

“I just want us to be okay. And… and I really want to go back to how things were. Between us. Like at Bill and Fleur’s wedding.”

Ron could feel his ears burning, but the fact that she hadn’t told him to sod off yet felt like such a monumental shift from the last two months that he was worried if he stopped now, he might not get this opportunity again.

“I was so surprised when you asked me to dance,” Hermione said in a small voice, and Ron shrugged nonchalantly as he fought to contain the now burgeoning hope growing inside him.

“You told me once that the next time I got the chance, I should ask you before someone else did, and I definitely wasn’t going to make that mistake again.”

Hermione studied him carefully, her cheeks turning a delicate shade of pink before turning out towards the trees in front of them again.

“It was a lovely evening,” she said. “Until…”

“Until Death Eaters crashed the party?” Ron offered as he raised an eyebrow playfully at her.

“Something like that,” she answered quietly and with a small shiver, she drew her coat closer to her body.

“Here,” Ron said as he gathered the blanket up off his lap and began to drape it over hers. Hermione’s eyes widened slightly as she looked at it and for a moment, Ron thought he saw a glimmer of sadness pass over her face.

“Ron, stop -”

“Come off it, Hermione. You’ve been out here for hours.” As she gave the blanket another uncertain look, Ron suddenly teased, “You can use my blanket and still be mad at me, if that helps. I won’t mind.”

Hermione glared at him briefly before clicking her tongue and rolling her eyes. Ron grinned and coughed in an attempt to cover a laugh.

After another stretch of silence, Hermione suddenly furrowed her brows together and looked at him curiously.

“What time is it?”

“Er… 1:13 AM,” he said as he looked down at his watch. “Why?”

Hermione bit her bottom lip and Ron felt his stomach do somersaults inside him. He watched as she hesitated, clearly debating something, and then turned back towards her beaded bag. She dug around momentarily before pulling out a small package wrapped in an old copy of the Daily Prophet.

“I know it’s not much, but, well…” she stammered nervously as she handed him the parcel. Now it was Ron’s turn to look at her curiously.

“Hermione, what…?”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “For your birthday, Ron. Just…” Hermione shook her head quickly and tucked a curl behind her ear. “It’s ridiculous and embarrassing and under normal circumstances, it would be an absolutely dreadful idea for a gift, but seeing as it’s been a bit difficult to shop as of late…”

Ron stared at her dumbfounded. It was his birthday and he had completely forgotten. Truth be told, he had stopped paying attention to the date a while ago as every day seemed to bleed into one another anymore. 

But she hadn’t. She knew it was his birthday and had clearly prepared for it. She had even found a way to get him a gift.

Ron’s mouth had suddenly gone bone dry and he swallowed roughly against the tiny lump forming in his throat. He took the neatly wrapped present from her and gingerly removed the surrounding paper before staring at the items in his hands.

“A chocolate frog and socks?” he asked as he looked up at her.

“I told you it was rubbish,” Hermione said pointedly, her cheeks glowing red as she avoided his gaze. 

“No, it’s not. I think it’s brilliant,” Ron grinned.

“Oh, stop it, it is not!” Hermione clucked as she rolled her eyes again. 

“Yes, it is!” he laughed. “I honestly didn’t even realize it was my birthday and the fact that you did and you got something for me…” Ron trailed off, still grinning foolishly.

“You’re just saying that because you’re trying to win me over,” Hermione muttered as she shook her head, but Ron could see she was struggling to maintain her stony demeanor.

“That’s not true,” Ron asserted firmly as he stared at her. “You remembered my birthday and actually got me a gift - in the middle of the bloody woods and while we’re on the run. That is brilliant and thoughtful and way more than I deserve, Hermione. So, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said and Ron watched as the corner of her mouth twitched slightly. 

“Did you make these?” he asked as he turned over the pair of wooly, black socks in his hands before pulling them on over his hole-ridden pair.

“Yes,” she nodded, “I knitted them.”

“Amazing, you are,” Ron smiled and opened the box to the chocolate frog, grabbed it, and quickly broke it in half. “Here,” he said as he offered her a piece. Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Ron put his hand up to stop her. “It’s my eighteenth birthday, and if I want to share my chocolate with you, I will. Now, take it.”

She narrowed her eyes briefly before taking the half from him. 

“You’re quite bossy for someone who until a moment ago, didn’t know it was his birthday.”

“What can I say?” Ron teased as he popped the chocolate in his mouth. “I learned from the best.”

“Are you referring to your mother or to me?”

“Both,” he laughed and ducked out the of the way as she attempted to swat him.

“Well, your last two birthdays really have left a lot to be desired,” Hermione mused as she took a small bite of her half of the frog.

“True,” Ron agreed. “Though they both seemed to help get you to talk to me again, so I’m not complaining.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Hermione said wearily as she rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“So I’ve been told,” Ron chuckled, giving her a lopsided grin.

They sat quietly again, listening to the wind rushing through the trees and watching as the moonlight broke through the branches, landing on the ground like sparkling shards of glass. Once again, Hermione was the one to break the silence.

“You’re not going to give up, are you?”

If he had been unsure of what she was referring to, it quickly became clear as he turned to meet her gaze and his retort died in his throat. Hermione was looking at him with such earnestness that he couldn’t help but feel a strong rush of affection towards her.

“No,” he said solemnly. “I’m not.”

She stared at him for a moment and Ron held her gaze, unblinking. 

“I’m still angry with you.”

“I know.”

Hermione turned to look out into the dark forest surrounding them again and Ron took the opportunity to drink in her features. Her cheeks were still slightly pink from the cold and there were tiny flecks of moisture clinging to her bushy curls that in the moonlight, gave her an almost halo-like glow. Her brown eyes shone as she looked out into the distance and Ron felt his breath catch in his throat. Suddenly, he wanted blurt out everything he was feeling - how he would do whatever she needed to earn her trust again because she was the most important person to him; how he had spent every single night away from her desperately thinking of her, wanting to hear her voice and dreaming of her face; how he knew that nothing would ever make up for his leaving, but he would gladly spend the rest of his life trying.

“Ron?” 

Her voice seemed to travel to him from far away and Ron shook his head, his ears burning slightly.

“Yeah?”

“I’m… glad you came back.”

Ron’s heart began racing in his chest and he cleared his throat.

“Me too…” he croaked.

“And Ron?” Hermione breathed, turning to face him again, her brown eyes shimmering in the light of the moon.

“Yeah?”

She watched him carefully for a moment and then curled her lips into a shy smile.

“Happy birthday.”

And before Ron could realize what she was doing, Hermione carefully intertwined her fingers with his, locking their hands together in the same way they had the night they fell asleep together at Grimmauld Place. Her hand was small and warm inside his and at the contact, Ron felt fireworks explode inside him. He found himself fighting against the now overwhelming urge to lean over and kiss her, so instead, he tentatively rubbed his thumb back and forth over her hand. 

“Still angry…” he said with a sigh.

“Yes,” she said quietly, but she squeezed his hand gently and Ron grinned.

Once again, Ron found himself grateful for the fleeting moment of normalcy as they sat together in the dark under a canopy of trees and stars, quietly holding hands. He reveled in the moment of peaceful solitude, thankful to be close to her, and in the knowledge that she was trying, too.

And maybe, just maybe, there was still hope for them after all.

[blarrghe]

Merry Christmas to Me they are going on a Date

The air was crisp, and perfectly still. The thunk of Dorian’s car door slamming shut sounded out soft, almost muffled by the quietness of the snow-covered street. There were no other cars parked in the tiny lot in the centre of it, which divided two rows of quaint little shops on either side. The street rejoined itself around the empty parking lot and wound away in either direction. The side streets that branched in awkward zigzagging patterns off of it, sparsely lined with picturesque little cottages with wide yards of snow between them, weren’t even plowed. The main road ran up and down; up, winding slowly through a forest of trees and disappearing into the mountainside, and down, towards a glowing town square lit up at its centre by a tall, festively decorated pine tree. 

Dorian watched his breath form a cloud of mist in front of him, and pressed the little button on his keychain. His car’s lights flashed, and the horn beeped once, obnoxiously loud against the silent scene. For a moment, he glanced up the road, and then lifted his head higher, arching his head way back to take in the peaks of the mountains overshadowing the quiet town. The sky was fading into sunset, and pink light glowed through the trees and sparkled off the snow in the distant mountaintops. The mountains loomed quietly, shining in orange and peach with dark evergreen trees blanketing around their roots, and among them little golden lights from mountainside cabins were glowing softly through the snow. It was beautiful and serene, like a scene directly out of a holiday card, and Dorian hated every single thing about it.

He sighed, breath forming a long whispering mist from his mouth and disappearing into the air, and rubbed his hands together. He scanned the shops on the street before him, windows all dark, signs all turned round to ‘closed’, and then with another, more irritated little sigh, looked at his watch. 

Half past four, said the large gold analogue contraption on his wrist. He sighed again, and strode forward across the street, his shoes slipping awkwardly against the packed down snow. He stepped up onto the sidewalk and frowned at the crunch of coarse salt under his foot. Then he glanced up and down the line of shops one more time, his eye landing on the only lit window on the whole street, and with one last heavy sigh, walked carefully towards it. 

The buildings looked old; stone foundations with thick wood or brick walls, mostly two stories tall with little apartments slotted in above, and topped with high-pointed dutch roofs complete with smoking chimneys. He passed a dark-windowed chocolatier with displays of intricate candy ornaments and gold foil wrapped chocolates in the window, and a bakery with windows decorated with paper snowflakes and quintessentially charming gingerbread houses. All closed as of four in the afternoon. 

"Ridiculous." He muttered aloud to the empty street. 

The open shop, when he came to it, had a large sculpture of a wooden bear in the window, and a tower of suede moccasins on display. Lavellan's Crafts, said a sign on the door. Looking in through the window he could see more display stands; postcards and keychains and little animal figurines. 

Fantastic, thought Dorian bitterly, a chintzy souvenir shop. Just what he needed. 

He pushed the heavy wooden door open, and it grunted on its hinges as his feet stomped over the welcome mat. And it was a Welcome! mat, woven out of coarse fabric and dotted with thematic pine cones and holly leaves, the happy greeting stencilled on in uncomplicated calligraphy. 

The warmth and the smell of the place washed over him immediately. The walls were left unpainted, beautiful old wood varnished and shining in the warm incandescent light from an intricate wooden chandelier that hung overhead. A nearby shelf littered with artisanal scented candles and boxes of "genuine" incense sticks wafted out a mix of bold scents; patchouli, sage, maple, pine. He moved away from it, scanning the other shelves and displays. 

Beaded decorations and wind chimes hung in one window, and further into the shop, past the little rotating displays of animal figurine keychains and greeting cards, larger items stood out with hefty price tags. He paused in front of a collection of large canvases displaying boldly painted landscapes of the local scenery in all seasons, and portraits of rustic looking elves engaging in various traditional activities. His eyes lingered on the paintings a little too long, caught up in the crisp lines and bright colours. The people all had joy on their faces; rosy cheeks and bright eyes, colourful dresses that very nearly looked to be moving. As he stood struck by their expressiveness, he almost forgot to remain unimpressed. 

He picked up a bar of handmade soap scattered with gritty bits of lavender, sniffed it, and put it back down. Then he wandered over to a display of wooden tree ornaments, and spun it absently, watching the little wolves and caribou and bears sway about. 

"Looking for something specific?" Said a soft voice out of a dark nook behind the counter at the back of the shop. 

Dorian turned to look with a start, and before he could think better of it, he complained.

"Got anything that says 'happy holidays, thank you so much for dragging me out to the frozen middle of nowhere to spend the holidays in some stuffy little cabin that doesn't even get cell service. Not that it matters, since the entire dull little village shuts down at four in the afternoon, and in all probability there won't be anywhere for miles to find decent company or even a decent brandy?’ " He asked. Then with a twinge of self-aware guilt for his attitude, he amended the rant with a vaguely apologetic "no offense". 

Behind the counter, the soft voice was laughing. Then an elf came into view, leaning his elbows over the counter and looking at Dorian with sparkling green eyes. He kept laughing, chuckling mildly under his breath and shaking his head so that golden light danced off the messy curls of his dark red hair. His face was tattooed, like the elves in the paintings, and they glowed against his warm toned skin. Dorian had never seen work like it in real life, and once again found his eye lingering a little too long.

"Sorry, I don't think so." The elf said finally, a sideways smirk resting on his full lips, "but the shop down the street sells chocolate truffles filled with brandy that are quite nice. They don't open again until ten tomorrow, of course. Can I interest you in a postcard of our dull little village, instead?" 

Dorian's cheeks burned, and not half because of the chiding tone of the shopkeeper's rebuttal. Mainly, he was busy getting hot at just how striking those eyes were; how they glittered across the room at him with perfectly patient bemusement. 

He sighed. "Apologies. Long drive." He muttered, quickly grabbing an ornament carved like two fish swimming after each other's tails, and a wintery postcard decorated with a photograph of the tree in the town square. He walked himself up to the counter and set the items down, hastily digging into his pocket for his wallet and avoiding the elf's still-penetrating gaze. 

"If it's for someone you don't like, you should go with the wolf." Remarked the elf, still leaning his elbows on the counter and making no moves to ring him up, or stop smirking. "Around these parts, we tell stories about a Dread Wolf who tricks tourists into getting lost in the mountains." His smirk broadened. 

"Then why put it on an ornament?" 

The elf shrugged. "They're good stories." His soft voice lilted with an accent Dorian couldn't place, musical and sweet, but there was still a good deal of cheek to his tone. "Actually, the wolf represents strength and loyalty. The Dread Wolf is just a local legend." Then he winked at him, and slid the postcard across the counter to the register. 

"Strength and loyalty." Dorian shook his head, "and fish?" 

"Balance." 

Balance. As in work-life? Ironic, given the intended recipient. "I'll stick with the fish." 

"That everything?" 

Dorian nodded. 

"Hold on, I think I have something in the back that might interest you." The elf disappeared into his dark little nook and through a storeroom door, the teasing smirk never once leaving his face. When he came out again he was holding a single gold foil wrapped chocolate, and he nudged it across the counter with a friendly nod. "Happy holidays." He said, and the smile on his face shifted into one that was somewhat less amused, and more sincere. 

Dorian took the chocolate tentatively, and finished paying for the ornament and card. It totalled more than he would have expected for some faux-Dalish tourist fare, and he took a second to properly look over the ornament before tucking it into his pocket. No factory logo, just the initials TL burned into the wood. So maybe it wasn't quite a chintzy souvenir shop. 

"This all local?" He asked, suddenly feeling a new wave of guilt over his earlier disparaging comments. 

The very obviously Dalish elf in front of him raised an eyebrow and nodded. "There's a collective." 

He plucked two business cards and a pamphlet out of the brochure stand in front of his cash register, and slid them across the counter. The business cards had gallery names on them, and the pamphlet advertised the services of a local community centre, including an ongoing holiday craft fair. Dorian glanced over the rest of the brochures in the stand. There were a few other business cards for local shops, and pamphlets for companies offering various adventure packages; mountain climbing, horseshoe tours, trail rides. 

The elf's gaze followed him with a faint degree of amused judgment, and the expression fell on his striking features in a way that made Dorian's throat dry. He cleared his throat, picked out a general ‘Village Businesses’ brochure from the stand and smoothed out his expression. It was entirely unfair, this striking elf looking at him like that. He could fix this. 

"Well, now I've made a fool of myself, might I more humbly ask for a recommendation?" He passed the brochure over the counter with a gracefully apologetic smile. 

The elf unfolded the page on the counter top. Then he grabbed a pencil from somewhere out of that mess of hair, and flashed him a quick, toothy grin before bending over it and beginning to circle and scribble away. 

"This might help keep you from getting bored, even without cell service. When do you leave?"  

Dorian's heart jumped at the retort, and the elf glanced up at him with another quick flash of taunting teeth.

“Two weeks.” He answered roughly, throat dry again. 

The elf passed back the brochure, and tucked the pencil back onto a braid behind his ear with a slight frown. “Not really enough time, but hopefully you can manage to enjoy some of it.” He said, leaning back and smirking again. Dorian went back to feeling flushed. “But we close in five minutes.” Of course you do. "If you want, I could show you where to get a good beer, if not good brandy.” Oh.

[gurguliare]

omg, huor/rian? -vardasvapors

It was sometimes difficult to know that his brother was angry. Happily, Huor put an end to all doubts by flinging himself on the hearthrug with a cry.

“Ha!” went the cry.

“Ha,” agreed Húrin. He set down his penknife, and after a little thought his pen. Huor was drawing moon-letters in the ashes. “I was right, you look better in blue. Did she make that for you?”—meaning the wreath around Huor’s neck.

“Yes, she was all posies today,” Huor said, slowly. He removed his hat, which had irises tucked in the chin-band, and set about abusing it. There were wildflowers clinging to his beard. “She could do nothing but pick flowers and plant them.”

“You’re not good for much.”

“If I’m not, I lay it at her door…” He caught Húrin’s eye and frowned, dogged by his own unfairness, and launched on a long explanation: her mother thought them young to wed; she wouldn’t say so, for respect of Húrin, but she thought it, and they were. And Rían said, yes, of course, and spent a day dismantling turf…

Húrin had heard as much before, though never, it was true, from Rían’s mother. Morwen behind the portiere had neither changed nor lost the limping rhythm of the loom; but she was listening, anyway, for he was listening.

He had married her the autumn after his father died, and he had been four years younger than Huor now, and lord of Dor-lómin. Neither he nor his young wife had parents to give warnings. “Why is Rían in haste?”

The tail of Huor’s braid lay coiled on his back from many heartsore shrugs. “I don’t know.”

So saying, he folded his hat in two and let it flop back to its proper shape. The brim stayed pinned beneath one palm, like a dog submitting to have its paw held. He had a tender way with hounds and birds, but Húrin thought this had made him rather proud; he could be impatient, not with the animals, but with beast-tamers less patient than he. At times he turned the same unkindness on himself: why can I not be gentle, and bring my blood to heel? And so on. Húrin understood better, now he was father to two children, one living. Still such stern sight had no place in his brother.

“Let us say that she loves you, and waiting’s a grief to her. I can just conceive of it. But you wait out of love for her which warns you to feign wisdom, like an old man. I see no harm in that. Shall I speak to Rían?”

“Showing me for a youth, unfit to court her?”

“Isn’t that the object?”

“Yes!” A glare. Huor looked afraid to laugh, as if it might do his lady dishonor; his lip did tremble. “She’s young,” he said to himself, “and it falls to me to practice wisdom, if she must be so brave.” Very soft, he said, “I think of them, and their ladies who made a game of the mountain’s face… from green to red, and sparkling with frost. For them it was never wrong to wait.”

“Never and never. I hope that in a hundred years, when we are dead, our enemy all crushed beneath our weight, they may descend and gaze around. A new untarnished land, with green things growing.” He smiled at Huor, saying to himself that the future wasn’t so far off: but their sunlight was less than this sunlight, and the white cities they might raise less gorgeous than this low-timbered hall. “Is that what you have in mind for Rían?”

“It sounds as if you’d have me marry.”

“Brother, I must thrust you from my house. All means else failing—”

“What would you do with me gone?” said Huor, seriously. Then: “I have her lute. I forgot it was still on my horse when I rode off, I’m afraid in a hurry.” If he heard Húrin’s hand strike his brow, he gave no sign of it, except to stiffen a little. “Will you bring it back to her? Tell Rían we have your blessing. It makes no matter, but maybe she’ll taste the bitter less.”

Through spread fingers, Húrin considered his poor inventory—more often abandoned than taken up—and the ink now drying on the reed.

*

Rían’s mother greeted him warmly and, after he spoke her fair, tasted her beer and let her exclaim over his handsome mule, directed him to the creek bottom that dipped between the homestead and the fields. If she had asked why he had come in place of a servant, he would have said, the men are dead of weariness from threshing-season, or if not from the harvest then the raids; I of all of them can best be spared. But she was circumspect in everything.

Rían sat in a ring of toppled cups, and she was writing something down. At the sight of her, stylus in hand, he felt a jolt of guilt, having thrown over his own clerk-work for a leisure-errand—although it was his business to pay calls to malcontents. With her back to a birch slenderer than her back—with knees drawn up, feet planted, and hair curling from its net—while her maid lay snoring on a bead-fringed sheepskin, she rather than he had the air of a lady holding court; but her head snapped up at his coming, and she stared straight ahead, and almost past him, so that he felt he headed a host. “At ease, cousin,” he tried. Then her eyes found his. She nodded and rose in a bow before he could prevent her, and smiled broadly when she left it, remembering her charm.

Pretty Rían, a child in long skirts; he could guess what his brother meant, that she had begun some work and not finished it yet.

“‘Mistress cousin,’” she quoted, and showed him where to set down the lute. “‘Lady sister.’ But name me sister, if we must choose degrees.”

“You’ve disowned Morwen?”

She was losing interest. “Why come tonight? Huor—”

“Huor is hale,” he said lightly, dismayed by her insistence. “I thought I had better return the thief’s spoils for him.”

“Ha! foes!” snapped the serving-girl, and rolled over; it was no serving-girl at all, but his kinswoman Aerin. She must have crept late from Indor’s house for a drinking party, although, as Húrin had cause to know, she was not much charmed by songs of old. She narrowed her eyes, shook the sandy hair from her face, tugged the veil from her hair, and thrust a plump finger at him: then lay back down, doubtless to gather strength. Not yet dusk, but in a sky like fallen clouds, the leaves on the bough had lost color, and patterned themselves after the fox’s gray beard; the gurgling from the creek should have drowned all frogs and nightjars, but that their singing carried, bounded higher on the stream. His daughter’s laughter never sounded louder than near water; but already he had forgotten the laws that made her life.

Because he had no better plan, he lay down beside Aerin, on his back. “But do I have a case to judge between you and sir thief?”

Rían knelt in the heather and said, “Please forgive me if I am churlish, which I must be, to have driven off everyone but Aerin.” (“Thank you!”) “I’ve had evil dreams.”

Húrin bit his tongue. “Of Huor?” he said after a time, trying to be grave, and to restrain the bitter feeling, so common since Lalaith, that all this was a waste; her terror like his cheer, poured out on stone, because neither of them knew what would come.

“Huor! No, god forbid! Of you.” She touched her brow, kneaded the skin, and bent her head. Had she been his sister in truth, he would have pinched her. And she was right that it was wearisome and hurt to hold off from things which were needful; he was glad at some hour or another every day, but it was hard, to go from his house to his friends’, his house to his brother’s, from Dor-lómin to the fortress of the elves, and back again to make friends with his son.

“That’s strange,” he began. “Though I were the fondest of brothers, I couldn’t begrudge him to you. I wish you every happiness. When your mother consents, we will set a day in spring, when the trees vie with the flowers of the earth, and there are showers enough to dress the thatch with jewels. If it should snow, we’ll hold the dancing indoors, and burn the great hall down.”

Rían nodded. As he talked on she grew thoughtful: she tapped her stylus to the tablet, and said, “In my dream, you sit in a great chair.”

“There. I am presiding at the feast. Sador is carving me the very chair. If I seem grave, he has left me a long splinter.”

“I’ll marry Rían,” Aerin announced. “All the unwedded maids of Dor-lómin; I’ll marry them and keep them, when you ride off to war.” She spoke almost without moving her lips, her chest rising and falling in starts, her cold fair face impassive. “What do you say?”

Rían whispered something in her ear; Aerin convulsed in laughter. Húrin pretended to avert his eyes and said, “Now, tell me. Is there something my brother should know?”

“That I beg his pardon,” said Rían; “I am sorry for him. Every year he must fight, facing what I know nothing of, though he has you and God, my lord, bespeaking him. I think of him often—I hope he’s not too afraid. I don’t remember a moment of my journey here, from Ladros. So maybe it’s the same for him, that he goes to fight and doesn’t remember. I wish he were younger! Then indeed I could wait happily, while we would play at being children.” She bit her knuckle.

If he could only see all, from sea to sea, and rule over a land that answered him: he thought he would have ordered it better. That would have been best, to know that wherever his kin went, he could follow them in mind, and understand their passing. Here she was before him, and he strove to follow her. Did she think she wasn’t a child, or that the girl had died in the wastes, driven forth from her home? She sounded, it was true, older than her years, not like a woman grown but like a daughter of elves, clear-spoken before the milky eyes could see.

“He pities you as well,” Húrin said. He got up in a crouch, for the dew was creeping down his back, and he wished too to take her hands.

Rían gave him a glad mistrustful look: face red in the cheeks from talk of Huor, and teeth bared by her drawn-up lip. She put her hands on his, saying, “Feel how cold. I have drunk too much, even with Aerin here to warn me. If I sleep early, will I still have a headache tomorrow? Will you tell Huor not to expect me before noon? My turn to visit, but alas—”

“I’ll tell him.” He might have said, grandly: Don’t punish him too much for loving your mother, but she had nothing of the kind in view. Without knowing it she took a step back and another. She was drunk, and proud enough after her fashion, and had grown used to the new wealth of time, now that Huor was home; that she feared Huor’s death in war had little to do with how they spent their days together. She picked up the lute and put together a bare chord; she played just well enough to scaffold her towering voice. If he had had the sense to bring his harp, they might have made music together, although his mount would have been overburdened, and his knees ached from bending in the cold.

“You may as well escort me home,” Aerin said, standing more steadily, by leaning on his back. “If you have what you came for, lord?”

“Maybe,” he said. “Anyway I’m the better for having come; for it’s not every day I hear a song from Rían, bard of Dor-lómin.”