#[ the details on his sleeves are called guarding and they came into fashion in the last two decades of the 1400’s ]

[feretra]

I kind of hate that, as a historian, my knowledge bank is composed of two very contrasting things:

genocide/ethnic cleansing

historical textiles and fashion

like great, I can tell you about when x tried to kill a bunch of people or you can have me look at your favorite dumbass’ outfit and i can tell you all about a bunch of crazy little details you probably have no clue even existed

[skyflyinginaction]

Character Design talks: Hanako kun

Hanako or better yet Amane Yugi is the titular character of the manga. He has an interesting design that makes me want to do a post about it. To be honest I did not anticipate doing a character design analysis on Hanako since I don’t have any knowledge of Japanese culture. His design is influenced by Japanese culture which is going to be difficult to explain since I’m not a huge expert on Japanese culture. 

Two prominent things about Hanako are prevalent in his design, one is his school uniform and the two ghost orbs swirling around him.

The first thing I am going to talk about is the clothes Hanako wears Hanako wears a stylized male school uniform a typical old style of Japanese uniform called a gakuen. The Gakuen is a black stand-up collar and hat that are usually worn by male students and are used for many middle and high school boys in japan. Hanako stands out from the other characters due to his old Gakuen winter uniform he wears in the summer. The winter Gakuen school uniform contrasts with the summer uniforms the characters wear. The Gakuen put more contrast to the modern blazers the male characters wear, making him stand out.

Hanako came from the Showa period, the Showa era takes place after WW2, the period when Japan was getting modernized and mingling with traditional Japanese culture. The Showa period referenced had the Event when the first moon landed.

The origin of the Hanako school uniform is complicated to tell since the school uniform has a long history

that dates back to the 1880s. The school uniform wasn’t introduced until the Meiji period school uniforms started in 1886. The Gakuen evolved from the Japanese military uniforms and adapted the design for boys' uniforms. It's militaristic because it is based on a military guard The Gakuen that Hanako wears is based on a naval uniform from the military. Hanako wears a cape though not to be badass or not only to demonstrate his power as a school wonder but the cape in the uniform and coat is militaristic.

Hanako's school uniform is based on a typical showa era school uniform, the details of it are seen in Hanako's Gakuen the buttons are located on the Gakuen form of collars

the gold buttons that are on the sleeves a school year logo on them with the kanji for the middle which reference to Hanako school year number. Hanako wears a formal cap. I pointed out before that his uniform came from the naval uniform. Hanako is seen wearing a cap at the school entrance along with his brother.

Hanako wears a cape though not to be badass or not only to demonstrate his power as a school wonders if the cape in the uniform and coat is militaristic; it's something that is worn in the Showa period.  During the Showa period school students wore high collars and sailor uniforms which is what they wear during the period.

Hanako wears an old-style Gakuen uniform since male students wearing blazers didn’t become popular until the late 1970s. Hanako's uniform is old-fashioned since his school uniform is from that period. The old-style Gakuen uniform references that he used to be a student at the academy but died suddenly.

The second thing in his design is a couple of pairs of ghost orbs.

In Japanese media, ghosts are accompanied by flaming orbs which are called hitodama.

Nene refers to them as hitodama; the two hakujodai resemble hitodama.

Hitodama is the spirit of the dead. They are often described as deceased humans in Japanese. They look like balls of flame to Japanese people. This is what it should look like taking the form of flames. This is a clear note of Hanako being a ghost since he is followed by his hitodama or hakujodai. The hakujodai have a functional purpose for Hanako if you look at the Japanese they are called Tsueshiro means "cane replacement”

This points out how they act as servants carrying out his orders when he attacks or to detect used to teleport that given location to another is in how Hanako is a powerful school wonder who has connections to god.

The hat on Hanako has a purpose. Someone pointed out that the hat is a metaphor for Hanako’s vulnerability, Hanako wears the hat to mask his vulnerability and it was taken off at Hanako's more serious moments in the manga. Nene comments that Hanako looks like a normal boy without his hat this is supposed to enforce that he's a normal boy.  

Speaking of normal boys this is something I am going to go over, if you take away his outfit and hat Hanako has a basic hairstyle his hairstyle is very plain,

and that's to enforce that he's a normal boy if you think about it Hanako does have a plain design if he isn’t wearing the Gakuen uniform.

Another thing in his hair other than being very basic. He has straight black hair, hair that has a straight cut is straight hair. It resembles a hime cut in his design as you see in traditional Japanese characters' hairstyles. It references that Hanako comes from a traditional Japanese household with his mother seen in a kimono.

The seal on Hanako’s cheek is a talisman, which is a seal reference to his background about how Ko's grandmother sealed away most of his powers. Most of Hanako's powers are sealed away.

Hanako has a main shape which is a circle, circles are associated with rounded shapes and his round eyes are circles due to the shape.

The circle references the moon due to the roundness of the moon having prominence with Hanako. Circles in character design are optimistic, emotional, childlike, cheerful, selfless, and expressive. Circles are expressly used for drawing emotional, expressive characters Hanako is as expressive as the main cast. He comes off as cheerful and seems smiling all the time making jokes at everyone's expense he hides a great deal of wisdom as seen when he explains certain things to Nene and Ko which could be his experience as a supernatural. when Nene becomes infatuated with someone He displays childish bouts of jealousy and becomes possessive of her. Hanako has a lot of vulnerability underneath. He has a great deal of guilt, regrets, and pain which is hidden by his smile. circles are used for children and are used for making childlike characters that reference his actual age which fits the tragic setting with Hanako since Hanako was 13 when he died. Hanako has selfless qualities to him. If you compare Hanako and Tsukasa together, he is much more benevolent and compassionate. He displays his kindness when he interacts with Nene and Ko.there are moments in the manga where it demonstrates Hanako's compassion when he saves them on numerous occasions, gives them advice, and helps them out. He wouldn’t hesitate to use force if someone close to him is being threatened. He is considerate of others, thinking about nenes' feelings first before his own and wanting her to live.

One of the features in Hanako’s design is his big round eyes. On closer inspection, his eyes resemble the moon. The moon is considered a circle because of its shape and round eyes are more circular. His irises have crescent moon shapes in the eyes when you look closely. The series referenced historical events that happened many times and one of them is when mankind first landed on the moon.

The moon is a prominent aspect of Hanako’s character, this design detail represented his wish of wanting to go to the moon but never getting to.

As I stated before I may not be entirely correct about Hanako’s character design in this post because I am limited in my knowledge of Japanese culture. Feel free to add or correct if you think I’m wrong; I would appreciate it.

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @ARTWINS!

Unbelievably, another year has passed. Here’s to @artwinsdraws​: you shall be showered in love and gifts today and in commissions hopefully any other day. May you grow in years as much as you grow in your art every year. And for everyone else: please check their commissions page, folks. 

Sadly enough, the only gift I have for you today is a story we talked about lately. Without further ado, have it for yourselves now and don’t sue me for the smut parts! All the best to you. 

Summer in Toussaint meant blistering heat. The air flickered almost tangibly, causing dizziness, and the lungs of one’s body seemed to dry up with every breath. It was one of the reasons why Emhyr despised the country ruled by his cousin. Of course, even Nilfgaard itself was not usually a pleasure during the summer months. He was essentially used to it, yet the coolness of the palace walls helped make the weather more bearable. 

Out here, there was no such luxury. Corvo Bianco was an unreliable refuge for the heat, at least as far as Emhyr was concerned. He began to curse his decision to pay a visit to his spouse at this time of year, of all times.

The winery was Geralt's property, and it could well have been managed by the caretakers, but Geralt's visits here belonged to their tacit agreements. Geralt was amazingly inflexible in some respects: he always rose with the rising sun, he always put his personal needs behind, and he loved Emhyr with unparalleled loyalty. And yet, in accordance with his guild animal, he was a wanderer. Although no longer a cub: as if it was genetically anchored in him, there always came a time when his eyes roamed restlessly into the distance. 

Then he was dragged to the path. At first, Emhyr had thought he was being drawn to the past, but that was not true. Rather, his little adventures, as Emhyr called them with a mocking undertone meant to hide his concern, seemed to almost charge him up like Emhyr's court sorceress charging her magic crystals. 

There was another arrangement: when Geralt was in Toussaint, Emhyr always stole a day or two, during which his sorceress shielded him from the world and its obligations in a special way: by transporting him here. For that time, he remained invisible in the palace, and all requests bounced off, all meetings were adjourned, and the throne room was empty. Then Corvo Bianco was also his retreat, a place where he was only Emhyr. When the house belonged to them alone and nothing could be heard but the occasional crackling of the old beams or the flickering of the candlelight or Geralt's gasp with no need to hold back because there were no guards outside the door. 

But now they were not in the house, which Emhyr would clearly have preferred. Instead, he sat on the grass with his sleeves rolled up – one of the few fashionable concessions to the heat – and without a robe. It wasn't as if he couldn't enjoy nature, even though for many years it had shown him mainly its hostile sides. Originality and simplicity certainly had their good sides. 

For there was Geralt, who had tried in vain to persuade him to hold his bare feet in the little stream that defied the heat with sheer force of will. Geralt with that alluring, challenging grin on his face that even Toussaint's long hours in the sun couldn't really tan. Emhyr, on the other hand, had the feeling that in this climate, after only a short time, he would take on the complexion of one of the olives that his husband loved to shove between his lips. What a telltale detail. He could almost imagine the whispering at court.

And yet, he didn't care now. All that mattered now was that Geralt had taken off his shirt at some point. A single drop of sweat, long since a narrow trickle, had found its way down from his neck, teasing one of the scars only to finally stuck to his left nipple. There was sweet grape juice on the rustic blanket Geralt had spread on the dry grass, barely cool in the clay jug, just enough to moisten his suddenly parched throat. But Emhyr did not move, did not even dare to stretch out his hand as if the mere action might disturb some kind of magic that had settled over the moment. As if he suddenly found himself in one of those fairy rings that folklore told of. 

Geralt, however, was not a mystical mythical figure. He was all too seductive flesh, from his sweaty hairline to his bare fetlocks beneath the water’s surface. The languid gesture with which he shooed away an annoying insect was like a summons to Emhyr. He licked his lips as if they would burst with dryness, as if the man, his sheer existence, was drawing every drop of moisture from his body. 

Out here, in the shade of the trees, the air did not flicker, but there was not even a breath of air that would have moved the leaves and at least cooled the sweat on the skin. Geralt, with his teasing grin and his feet in the water, with his nipple wet with sweat and the strand of hair he blew out of his face: his very own heatwave. 

As the heat spread between his thighs, Emhyr leaned back, pressing his back against the bark of a tree, opening his legs ever so slightly, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Geralt. This was already foreplay. The looks, the stoic handling of the heat which had long since seized the innermost. The moisture that ran down Emhyr's back seemed to simultaneously evaporate and cool in an instant. 

"It's quiet out here," Geralt said with an innocence he must have lost more than 80 years ago. "Even the birds are too hot to sing. But you, honored husband, sit there not even allowing the sweat to cool your imperial body."

A hand, sunk in the stream, suddenly shot up and sprinkled a breath of moisture in Emhyr's direction, eaten up almost imperceptibly by the ambient temperature. 

"An attack?" Emhyr replied with a sneer. "Maybe you better choose your weapons more carefully."

"Oh, you mean like yourself? I don't see that you have anything more to offer than a sharp tongue."

"I didn't offer it yet."

Geralt's hand, seemingly absorbed in playing with the water, paused, and his gaze became interested. 

"One does wonder what else would be needed for that," he said, almost dreamily. 

Suddenly he rose, tugged at the waistband of his loose pants, adding perkily, "You might need some more motivation."

As if these tight thighs beneath the stunning waist were not incentive enough; not reason enough to make a man break out in a sweat even more than the heat could. He stood upright, his long lashes half closed over his golden eyes. The sun that could not dye this fair skin and bleach this white hair even more; that very sun shone not merely on a body, but on a marvel. The thought seemed to come directly from one of those pulp novels, and yet...  The true miracle was that this body, whose countless scars told so many stories, had a very special story reserved just for Emhyr. One that all power and wealth could not acquire. One that was given only by itself and only in true devotion. 

But no thought of that now. The day, the spot, even the romantic mood that a picnic promised, might carry something poetic in it. However, the depressing heat – or perhaps something else entirely – clouded his senses and left room only for animal instincts. A mind that on any other day bowed to protocols, rules and sheer logic, even demanded all this, virtually as the natural order of things, could stop thinking now and here. Perhaps Emhyr was simply giving in to the desire between his thighs, but as a Nilfgaard saying went, Much that is tasteless at the table is spice in bed.

This bed would be made of grass and moss, but he did not care. He stretched out his hand. The throne room was far away, and yet, for a heartbeat long, it seemed that he was ready to pass judgment. As far as Geralt was concerned, he had made his judgment a long time ago. 

"I don't want to keep you waiting," he said calmly as his eyes roamed over Geralt's body. 

It was always like this. He never got enough of the sight, and although they had done nothing but roast in the heat, exchanging glances and ridiculous words, Geralt was already half hard. Almost as if the feigned indifference in Emhyr's gestures and words excited him, although the man was still wearing all his clothes, steaming underneath. 

"You think," Geralt said as he moved closer, his wet feet wetting the grass with urgently needed moisture, "I'm so impatient? So keen to present myself to you?"

"Why else would you have already torn off your clothes, my dear?"

The incorruptible logic of these words, coolly delivered, was undeniable. With two steps Geralt overcame the distance. Even his naked body radiated a heat that took Emhyr's breath away for a moment – or was it something else? When stormy lips conquered his, the thought faded away like all the others. Geralt had gone down on his knees, but this time without that quiet mockery that this game sometimes held for both of them: the only man who had ever voluntarily knelt before the Emperor and yet had never officially done so. 

Now other moisture wetted Emhyr’s parched mouth, but he quickly realized that he was not suffering from thirst but hunger. This was hunger that always arose in Geralt's presence, as the saying goes, appetite comes with eating. Not that this required any prompting. 

Emhyr's hand was warm like everything about him, but also damp with sweat as he closed it around Geralt's neck and pulled him even closer. For a moment, all of this seemed overwhelming. His clothes stuck to his body, and Geralt's urgent tongue did nothing to relieve the heat, on the contrary. The latter must have sensed this, because now nimble fingers slipped under the waistband of Emhyr's tunic, and despite the temperatures, they left a pleasant little shiver on his back. 

Geralt's mouth parted from his, moist lips with a broad, victorious smile as he murmured, "You sure must be feeling hot, husband."

Emhyr had his shirt pulled over his head and quietly returned, "Oh, and you think you have the cure?"

"Well," Geralt returned, as his hands wandered slowly over Emhyr's shoulders as if searching for an elevation he didn't yet know, "we can bathe in the stream afterward and see if it helps."

"Afterward," Emhyr growled, impatience flashing in his eyes, and Geralt gave a hoarse, low laugh.

"You're right, of course, for an afterward, there must be a now," Geralt replied lightly, eyes fixed firmly on the veiled hazel before him as his fingers stroked the other’s crotch: playfully at first, to a firm grip that elicited a hiss. 

"Oi," he went on with raised brows, an outrageous impersonation of his spouse, "who would have ever heard of wild mountain lions around Corvo Bianco?"

"Cheeky," Emhyr returned as his tongue found the saliva for the words. 

Geralt knew exactly what effect he had, and he enjoyed it. And Emhyr relished it as well, for even if this bold advance of his husband might have had much to do with the heat lying heavily over the land and clouding the senses, it was just as rare. 

It was one of those traits that Emhyr loved so much about him. The outwardly tough witcher, a relentless fighter, a bastion against monsters (here he might exaggerate a little, but the essence was correct): he loved to surrender. In the seclusion of their bedchamber (and by no means only there), he let himself fall and gave up all strength. Wax in Emhyr's hands, beneath his fingers and his tongue, eliciting sounds that had drilled into Emhyr's memory and lingered there as an escape from all those monotonous moments that his everyday life had to offer. 

Now, however, Emhyr was the wax, perhaps even already melted. For now, his witcher appeared boldly. His fingers' movements did not allow escape, the closeness with which he pressed against him offered no way out, and that was not desired either. Soon he was nibbling on Emhyr's earlobe, soon his warm breath was stroking his neck; all this while a hand held him in place. And Emhyr let himself be held there as if Geralt's hands were burning into his skin; but if so, this was the most wonderful fire under which to perish. 

"There are things I want to do," Geralt whispered, a hot breath of wind on Emhyr's ear. "That is, I wanted to do them. But it is too hot, and if I don't feel you inside me soon, honored husband, all this will be over much faster than I would like. Or you."

"Filthy," Emhyr replied, the corners of his mouth half raised. 

Then he pushed Geralt back and lay down on the grass, literally tearing his pants off as he moved. 

"Give me what is due," he demanded, "and I warn you, hold your horses."

There it was again, that hoarse little laugh that could cause shivers all its own, but of course, Geralt obeyed. 

"He can't help it," he spoke more to himself, "commanding even out here, I may ascend his throne."

"Stop talking, or this will actually be over sooner than you thought," Emhyr muttered with a telltale little gasp in his voice. 

Geralt now knelt over him, breathing a tiny kiss on the corner of Emhyr's mouth, and then whirled around. 

"For this reward, you will have to work," he still said, with his body finally lying down on Emhyr. 

There was no answer, for his mouth was already closing over Emhyr's member with feverish impatience, leaving the latter only a rasping moan in a very dry mouth. And yet it was necessary to collect any available moisture. He raised his hands, pushed apart the cheeks seductively presented in front of him, sucking in a deep breath of the tangy smell emanating from the perky erect cock not far away. 

At that moment he wanted everything and couldn't decide; here beneath Geralt's thighs: everything was a provocation, the finely glittering precum as well as the tight rear end. He took up the drop with a careful finger, undecided whether to moisten his own lips with it, to enjoy the foretaste. But then, almost automatically, he stroked it over the puckering hole presented to him. The moisture evaporated in the heat as if it had never been there, but there was a soft sound in front of him that was almost lost in the indecent slurping. 

So his finger followed the now invisible trail, and although Geralt's mouth worked his cock with that particular skill he had never quite understood and which drove him to the brink of madness, he gave himself to the task. Gently, ever so gently, he explored the familiar folds, this irresistible mystery that was his alone. Of course, this was not enough, and the drop of sweat rolling off Geralt's back, entering his cheeks, did little to calm his excitement. As if the heat had made him lose his mind, it finally occurred to Emhyr that he needed more as well as Geralt did. Even though another seduction stood hard and firm right in front of him, now the impatience was back, demanding quick release. 

With curt but purposeful movements he directed Geralt's hips, and then finally he had him as he desired. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, but the sight before him moistened it, a clever trick of nature. Slowly, he stroked one of those few spots on that alluring body that didn't have the light, almost chalky color that the mutations had claimed. Even as the tip of his tongue merely grazed the sensitive edge, the effect was immediate. Geralt's grip tightened. A sound rang out, muffled: half sigh, half lustful moan. His tongue, only seconds before so eager in its task, faltered just a moment long.

Finally, they realized each had their assignment – with the same, immediate goal. As if they had agreed, almost in sync, they both found a rhythm. The heated air, the sweat-soaked grass, even the chirping of insects attracted to it; everything faded into the background. There was still heat, the kind that rises from the innermost, the kind that spirals up and lightens every thought. 

A light wind arose, a gentle breeze still; just a breath brushing over the heated bodies until drops of sweat became goosebumps. The wind remained unnoticed, but would not remain so for long: this first gentle rustling of the leaves heralded a still distant thunderstorm that would unload in a while. 

But first, it seemed, eagerness unleashed that lovers feel who are so close to each other and not yet close enough. Again it was Geralt who took the lead. He, who was usually all too avid to let Emhyr guide him in this particular dance, now showed an impatience that was not only due to the weather. Although it was his choice to withdraw from the palace for weeks, it seemed as if all those weeks had built up inside him and demanded immediate redemption. 

His movements were nimble and deft, and before Emhyr knew what happened, he had disentangled and spun around. Hot lips demanded a kiss, forcing a tongue inside. Emhyr's mouth filled with his own taste lingering on Geralt’s tongue, tart and a touch sweet. He closed his eyes and analyzed it as if it was a wine, and was this a good vintage? It seemed so to him. But even that, just a taste: if this was a wine, he had only absorbed the aroma, and it was Geralt who would feast on it. Suddenly, the lips were gone, yet the taste still lingered in Emhyr’s mouth, mixed with Geralt’s unique flavor. 

"Open your eyes, my love," Geralt said, "you don't want to miss this."

When had this man become so bold? He, who usually always melted beneath Emhyr's fingers; a body so hardened by many torments, yet so malleable and receptive. Receptive to every gentle touch, every breath that stroked the scars that crisscrossed the body like a map; a map of experiences that were never quite forgotten and that these fingers could nevertheless heal, at least for the moment. 

Emhyr opened his eyes, and there was that smile, broad as if the sun was rising. In truth, the first delicate clouds were moving in front of the real sun, but the sky was far, and the smile was very close. 

Geralt rested his hands on Emhyr's chest. Whether that was necessary or not, it was another physical connection that drove the heat immeasurably. The next compound wasn't quite as easy, even in this position, and the concentrated expression on Geralt's face was amazingly arousing. His shoulder-length hair, tamed with a ribbon only for work out here, had long since come loose. It framed a face that was never more beautiful than in those moments full of passion. 

And in all this: the smile remained, just like his gaze remained fixed on Emhyr's eyes. As if to assure he was with him, all the time, not only physically – a mind fixed to his. Finally, they both gasped at the same time, in a sound that blended and became one, just like their bodies that had just met. The warmth that now enveloped Emhyr was incomparable and completely different from any other heat. It was marvelous, still: he almost enjoyed the sight in front of him even more. His hands found their way to Geralt’s hips in a rehearsed movement, and he clasped tight as Geralt lowered his body with agonizing slowness. 

Geralt's member rested almost on Emhyr's belly, the wet tip close to losing another drop, and the mere thought was overwhelming. But not so much as everything else; for now Geralt leaned forward once more to graze his lips with a careless kiss. Another teaser, although no more foretaste. For now he was moving, slowly pushing himself up, leaning on Emhyr as his hair brushed his spouse's cheek. 

The fact that the wind was picking up went unnoticed, just like the sun, whose rays no longer made it through the denser clouds. The sultriness, on the other hand, seemed to increase even more, but the sweat dripping from both bodies might well have another reason. One of those reasons, no doubt, was that Geralt's body was now bent over even more, to the point their nipples met, rubbing against each other with every touch. This very special angle tempted deep, firm thrusts, and soon Emhyr had regained his dominance in this game. 

Their gazes met in a silent admission, and their mouths, only briefly detached from each other, exchanged knowing smiles. Emhyr's grip tightened, and at last, his witcher surrendered to this force of nature. When the first drops fell, a gentle summer rain with a hint of petrichor, Emhyr’s thrusts were still exploratory. Then, as if the sudden rain was his impulse generator, he imperceptibly adapted to this external rhythm and found his nature. 

Nature itself – well, it had also picked up speed. The rain hit the far too dry ground with a hiss, and the drops splashing into the stream played their own tune. Above all this was a dull rumble, not too distant now: the storm was approaching, no longer a mere announcement. No doubt, then, that their sounds were barely audible, and yet, they were the only thing they heard. 

These were delicate sounds, reserved for special occasions and places; sounds, in any case, that were probably rarely heard out here. The smacking of two bodies, drenched in sweat and lust, colliding. The low, approving hum from two throats when this happened; when what seemed to be made for each other found each other. How quickly that hum could turn into a sound that was almost a whimper, by just a single touch. The more their bodies adjusted to each other, the more Emhyr increased his speed; almost as if the more Geralt opened up to him, the more he wanted to make sure he stayed close. 

The friction stayed and increased, even though the world around them softened. The earth gave way to the surge of water. The next morning, very early, when Emhyr was back at the palace taking a bath, his chamberlain would be very surprised at the hard-to-remove stain that grass, moss, and earth had rubbed into his master’s hips. He, however, would give a very slight smile at the memory that came with it, almost wishing it wouldn’t fade so soon.  

But now and here it didn't matter. The now and here was filled with heat that was barely around them anymore. The approaching thunderstorm, a threatening sound and sheet lightning, had cooled the air noticeably. But Geralt's warmth surrounding him was so much hotter than the air had ever been. 

"It's raining," Geralt gasped, and his veiled gaze made it clear that this had indeed only just dawned on him. 

A second before he had been lying limp, nearly will-less on top of Emhyr, letting himself be held, driven into an extremely delicate state of consciousness by hard, almost ruthless thrusts. Now he was wide awake. The grayness that had set in unnoticed made his eyes glow with that peculiar radiance that rivaled a cat. But the cats, of which there were plenty on Corvo Bianco, had long since retreated to a safe place, safe not only from the strange not-quite-man and his companion but also from the thunderstorm.  

Whatever it was, the sudden coolness brushing across his heated chest, the rain that pressed his hair heavily into his neck, or the approaching climax – he straightened up, his hands firmly on Emhyr's shoulders, an unspoken request to give in. Not for the first time today, the latter obeyed. 

Emhyr lay there, in that increasingly damp bed of grass, his mouth slightly open, letting the rain moisten his throat and Geralt his desires. He came with the first real lightning strike that lit up the sky, and the thunder that quickly followed accompanied the twitching of his cock deep inside Geralt. The latter laughed, although the roar of the sky almost swallowed the sound, just as he swallowed the increasingly heavy rain. The laughter was pure joy, ecstasy even. Perhaps also a special kind of outlet, as it is sometimes in moments of extreme excitement, when joy and sadness, fear and thrill, and many such feelings blend. 

He was still laughing when he swallowed that laugh itself because a single touch was enough to break the camel's back. The rain was now so heavy that it quickly wiped away what was showering his husband. 

"I guess the bath in the stream will have to be canceled," Geralt said with a chuckle. 

Once again, lightning twitched across the sky. The thunderstorm was so close, and the trees so dry, that reason finally took over again. It was visibly difficult for Geralt to break away, but the magic of the moment had faded, and the raindrops pelted down on them almost painfully. 

"We should go," he said, jumping up and gathering their clothes scattered on the damp grass. 

Emhyr did not want to go. It wasn't that he had suddenly developed a love for nature, certainly not because it was just mercilessly pouring over them. Unlike Geralt, whose mood after lovemaking could be fragile and strange, sometimes high, sometimes low, he was anxious to delay the moment until reality crashed down on him. 

"Come," Geralt said softly, as if sensing just that – which he probably did, amazing as that was for his kind and profession, and held out his hand to him. 

This time, when lightning and thunder applied simultaneously, Emhyr grabbed his hand. 

After all, it would have been a great misfortune to lose the Emperor of Nilfgaard to a thunderstorm, of all things. 

[alphabravocharliedelta]

Therefore I Am | Russell Adler x Bell! Reader Epilogue

Series: Call of Duty: Black Ops Cold War

Therefore I Am | Russell Adler x Bell! Reader

Word Count: 6300+

[Chapter X]

Summary: The conclusion.

Content Warning: mature content, vulgar language, injuries, etc. 

Notes: Sorry this took forever to come out! I managed to simplify this chapter from 8000+ words to around 6300 since I wasn’t exactly happy with the excessive details. Though, I hope this chapter is still enjoyable, so thanks for your patience.

February, 1984

New Jersey

Your brow twitches as noise begins to fill your ears.

A steady beep played rhythmically beside you. Accompanying it was the sound of a radio, slightly static, as well as minimal chatter that occurred a short distance away. You move your finger as physical feelings begin to return. It wasn’t long before a piercing pain seared at the back of your head before reducing to a lingering tingle.

It took a while before you could open up your eye and your usual visual field was now cut by a small bit. The whiteness of the hospital walls felt more blinding than it should have, and it only added onto the distaste of the color. Everything felt out of focus, and you give yourself a few moments to properly adjust.

Your body was treated heavily in medical bandages and equipment. A heavy weight rested over the left side of your face where your eye should be open. There was a clip on your finger, as well as an IV up your arm. A nasal tube was up your nose, and you tried your best not to gag at the feeling of something in your throat.

Adjusting your posture was a struggle, but you manage to prop yourself up. Beside you on your right was a small table that had a vase filled with a bouquet of flowers along with some balloons. A bit childish, but the gesture was what mattered.

How long have you been sleeping?

As if on time, you see a nurse stick her head in through the doorway. Upon noticing your awakened state, you turned your head only to watch her scurry off with widened eyes. It wasn’t long before she returned with a doctor tagging along, in which they both proceeded to take your vitals and remove anything you no longer needed. 

“Do you remember how you got here?”

“No.” Your voice sounded horrible, throat sore and dry and lips parched from the lack of water. The nurse seemed to get the gist, bringing over a cup of water for you. 

“Can you move your fingers for me?”

A few more questions, and then began the spiel of how memory loss after a traumatic event is common, as it’s the mind’s way of protecting itself from further harm. Or some shit like that.

“You were caught in the crossfire that occurred down at the mall a month ago.”

You nodded. Right. The mall. Images of Stitch popped up, as well as what he did to you, but that was all you remembered. Anything afterwards was blank. 

Wait.

A month?

“As far as everything else goes, everything seems normal. Your body’s recovering at a fast rate, so it shouldn’t be long before you can leave. Your boyfriend will be glad to hear that.” You caught the nurse winking before she tilts her head slightly to the left. “He’s a keeper you know.”

You withheld a remark, wanting to call her out on the statement. It was a lot to process.

“We’re going to check up on you later, so page us if you need anything.”

It was only after the nurse and doctor left that you noticed Adler situated on a chair with his arms crossed in the left corner of the room. You couldn’t see him at first until you turned your head. Was he covering your blind spot?

Adler wore a light grey knit vest with a long sleeve white button up underneath. His hair was unkempt with tufts poking out in a disheveled fashion compared to its usual combed from, the unshaven stubble topping it all off. The jacket he gave you was wrapped over the back of his chair. His aviators were hanging loosely from his ears, just on the verge of slipping from his nose. You couldn’t tell exactly, but with the soft snoring and steady breathing he was, in fact, asleep.

This was probably one of the few times you saw him ever sleeping. He was always awake by the time you woke up, and if he ever just so happened to take a nap in the middle of the day, his face was always covered, whether with a magazine, newspaper, or even his jacket. The moment you address him, he would sit up wide awake as if you never caught him in the act.

You wanted to wake him, but decided against it. He looked so exhausted on that chair. The poor bastard's probably been sleepless the past month, and he needed to rest. 

Despite the current circumstances you were in, it was rather placid, just watching Adler sleep soundly. 

Although, you couldn’t help but remember back to that fateful arctic day whenever you did look at him. There was always the flash of the whiteness of snow behind your eyes before the brief shiver of cold of the Arctic breeze. With the dive into the memories, a particular question would always conjure up with no definitive answer:

What if you had shot Adler instead?

Your hand flew to your waist then, your mind giving you warnings about his subtle movements. It was the gut feeling, your instincts acting on its own, noticing the details that gave away his intentions.

How his hand discreetly fell to his side with his back turned to you, gazing out onto the ocean as the sunlight highlighted his features. Adler looked oddly peaceful, and yet he had dared to sever ties on that whim. 

It was so easy to pull the trigger. You've done it an endless amount of times. On your own former Soviet comrades, on the Americans… You played both sides of the chessboard, so there should have been no hesitation or doubt when it came towards deciding your enemies. It was up to you in the end.

The sight was lined up perfectly. Right there, at his chest. You were both exhausted and mentally drained. It would have taken a second, and yet your finger never even lifted from its spot. Was it his expression that stopped you? But, he wore his aviators. He always did.

Yet, there was something captivating about him that day, whether it be his words or that simple outlook off the edge. It wasn't romantic by any means, but it was just that particular moment that he let his guard down around you, and you fell for it. A sign of trust you came to acknowledge, and it was used against you.

Even after the speculation, you knew you couldn't do it. You couldn't bring yourself to shoot him. Was it the fact that you believed you were long time acquaintances since Vietnam? The truth was revealed to you, but it was hard to simply debunk everything you’ve been manipulated in believing in. 

And that final look he gave you. Right before you free fell into the water. Regret, despair, sorrow… Yet firm. His face hardened and cold in an endeavor to bury his feelings as he followed through his orders. 

What would you have done, then? Would you have done the same to him as he did to you: toss him off the cliff while staring down at his shrinking figure as it plunged into the cold water below?

Maybe you would have returned to Perseus. He had taught you everything you knew now, practically shaping your life in whatever form he desired. 

But, considering that you foiled one of their biggest plans yet, there was no possibility of returning to his side. Instead, you would have had to leave everything behind and shed your identity of a CIA operative and Perseus member. Leave Adler on that cliff as red spouted from his chest and bled into his clothes while staining the ground. 

But, you didn't.

And now in that sick twist of fate, from living on that old Russian base, to being discovered and reenlisted, you almost gave your life up for Russell Adler once again— the man who caused it all.

Why did you agree to work with them again?

You could have just rotted away at Langley, or in some private prison. If they were kind enough, maybe they would even let you live as a regular civilian.

A scoff.

Yeah right. You were the CIA's MKUltra project, there was no way you would have gotten that free. It was already a gamble for Adler and Park to convince them to have you undergo the conditioning, and to insist on raising the dosage was the only way to ensure it’s efficiency. 

Unless he was scared of you. Maybe Adler actually got attached to you, and got frightened at the idea of you finding the truth— it would break the relationship he managed to build up by actually working beside you.

Relationship.

The nurse’s statement echoed in the depths of your mind, the word “boyfriend” repeating itself over and over.

What kind of high school humor was going around? You guys weren’t dating or anything. Would a kiss signify a lover’s relationship?

Yeah, right.

You both tried to kill each other at one point, but even then there was no use denying that something deeper was happening. Nothing to the extent of being in an intense romantic relationship, but there was something. 

The TV in the corner of your hospital room was currently playing the news, still talking about what happened at the mall. That there was suddenly a shoot out at night time, caused by an angry armed mob who stuck in to wreck the place in retaliation to the reopening. 

"The mall was empty when the shooting started, and only one person was reported in critical condition. Investigation efforts led by the New Jersey Police Department have gone nowhere..."

You tuned it out.

After a month of being in a deep sleep, you couldn't fall back asleep that easily. You were left on the hospital bed, and every little movement you made would result in searing pain before dissolving thanks to the painkillers. Stuck in place with the news channel on, you could only contemplate as to how you made it this far without dying. You really were unkillable.

Outside the window was a populated and vibrant city, filled with cars and bustling streets. The baby blue sky had pillows of clouds that broke the sea as the sun peeked out from behind them. There was an airplane breaking free from civilization just over the horizon.

"Bell?" 

Your mood shifts at the sound of your alias as the familiar voice bounced around. It was a bit raspy and deeper than usual, and it failed to aid your attempt to fight the grin that stretched ear to ear. With a relieved exhale, you say: "Hey Russ.”

Shock practically consumed Adler's being as he attempted to fathom the words you just spoke as he tried to readjust his glasses. Eventually he gave up on them, and let them hang from the vest. It looked like he'd just seen a ghost. The tug of his cheek, to the small jaw drop, you waited as he searched that mental dictionary for words.

"You're awake."

"That's the first thing you greet me with?"

There was that rare smile of his. Your sarcasm never left you.

Adler pulls his chair closer to your bedside. His hand twitches a bit, before returning back to his side and sitting back down. He licks his lips, unsure how to carry out his next move. “How do you feel?”

“I’ve been through worse.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

You shake your head. “Not really. Care to elaborate?”

There was some hesitation before he started speaking. Adler proceeded to give you a heavy account of what happened as if he was at a debrief— How they discovered the N6 barrels before getting ambushed, him running to the arcade for cover, then Stitch sneaking up on him. You appeared at this moment, firing shots at their general direction before tackling Stitch off of him.

“You barely made it to the hospital.”

“And Stitch?”

Adler pauses. “We… couldn’t officially confirm the body.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? He was right there—”

“His body was gone when we did a clean up sweep.”

“You’re telling me that there’s a chance that he’s walking around with a knife in his forehead?” You lurch forward, only to flinch at the pain. 

“Bell!” Adler users you to lie back down.

“I’m fine,” you insist. “Just tell me the rest.”

He didn’t go into detail regarding the events after, but reiterated that you became conscious while being escorted to the ER, refusing to let them put a needle in your arm to sedate you, and how he needed to step in.

“Once again, Prince Charming comes and saves the day,” you snicker, only to hitch your breath. It hurt to chuckle.

Adler’s already somber expression seemed to deepen. “I’m not always going to be there to save you, Bell.”

Apparently, cracking a joke wasn’t the right move. “You know I didn’t mean—”

“You almost died for fuck’s sake!” he lets out abruptly. “Were you always this selfish? You were already injured as is, you didn’t need to run in and—”

He cuts himself off, watching that grin fade away. A pang of regret hits him.

“And what, Adler? Save your life?” you spat defensively, throat already getting dry again. “I did it for you. But I guess taking a knife for someone is a selfish act now, is it?”

“I didn’t ask you to— Ugh, fuck.” Adler buries his face into his hands, contemplating. “I’m sorry, alright? I shouldn’t be yelling at you but… It’s just… I see you in this state, and the thought of you dying just makes me insane. I should have just brought you to Washington. If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t be in this damn bed.”

You gave out a sign, lowering your shoulders. There was no point in being agitated. You were both scared, and the last thing you wanted to happen was to widen the rift once again between the both of you. “It’s fine. These kinds of things are expected in this kind of work.”

Adler takes a breath, shuddering slightly. “Even so, the last thing I want to do is carry your casket down an aisle.”

“You went two years thinking I died. You can move on.”

“No. I know, but… now it’s different. It’s you, Bell.” Adler nibbles at the side of his cheek, unsure if he should continue talking. You gave no response, the look in your eyes giving him permission to continue. He exhales slowly.

It’s always been you.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” he continues, “But… I know for a fact I haven’t felt this way for a long time, until recently. The last time was with her. It didn’t last as long as I thought it would. Yet, that short spur of happiness that I got while with her was something I never thought I could be granted the pleasure of knowing.”

You could only nod. 

“But of course, being in this type of job… She couldn’t handle it, eloped with someone that wasn’t military, then broke the news to me the moment I returned.” Adler tightens his jaw, as if recalling a bittersweet memory. “Turns out, there was a lot of shit we didn’t agree about. But, like always, I moved on.”

There was a bit of nostalgia within his words, sprinkled with a bit of fondness and no ill intent. No jealousy when he reminisced about it, nor any lingering tones of regret or grudges. 

“At least, that’s what I told myself… And then there’s you.” He finally locks his eyes onto yours. “I know you still hate me for what I’ve done, and I accept that. But, as we worked alongside each other, that unexplainable feeling started to come back. I tried my damn hardest to ignore it, but even then, I made a decision that brought more pain onto you.”

It nearly slipped past you, but there were small breaks between his sentences thanks to Adler sucking in some air. His voice was beginning to weaken the longer he talked.

“You shouldn’t be here. With me, with the CIA. You survived through so much shit as is, and we forced you back into it. Just the thought of losing you makes me go insane, so… When Stitch got you, I almost fucking lost it.”

Adler clasped his hands together, pressing them firmly against each other to stop himself from breaking down. You note that his nose and eyes were just a tinge of pink. What was he getting at?

“I don’t want to leave your side. But I… don’t want you to get hurt anymore, Bell. The more I think about it, the more I realize you didn’t deserve this. I made you this way. If you continue to work with us, then there’s going to be instances where I’m not there for you. I don’t want that. What happens if I’m a second too slow—”

You cut him off, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him towards you as you lean forward. 

He freezes as both your lips make contact, but didn't fight it. He melts into it, letting his mouth do the work as he closes his eyes.

For someone as tough as you once were, it was almost pathetic to see how you managed to fall for a guy like him. What did you see in him that he didn’t? As confident as Adler was, constantly reassuring and supporting you, he could only ponder as to why everything just worked out.

In the end, despite the insecurities shared by the both of you, this was something he had been wanting to do for so long. 

It's been nearly seven fucking months since you both shared that kiss in your room. He wasn't the type for obnoxious public displays of affection, but hell, even he had a yearning for that shit. Even alluding to the idea that the one kiss in your room could have been the last was scarring, so this one needed to count.

But, the wait was worthwhile. It was slow and tender, done so with such care that it made his own heart skip a beat. With each second it became more passionate, yet still had that careful touch. He wasn't going to let any more chances slip by him.

You withdraw a few millimeters, taking a second to catch your breath, before once again making contact, this time from the corner of his mouth. Trailing up his cheek you could feel his scruff brush against your bandages. Adler refused to even move under your touch, giving out a shaky exhale.

Your lips meet his scar, and you deliver a final, graceful and slow peck on it. 

“No one's getting rid of me that easily,” you declare before pulling away. "Especially you, Russell Adler."

He shudders, wiping his nose with the back of his hand while choking back a sob. 

It wasn't something he didn't think he would desire, and yet this kind of contact is what he's been missing. And for you to give affection to the brand that he was secretly self-conscious about held more meaning than you'll ever realize.

After going years without having someone, after his ex-wife, even he believed that love was something he just didn’t deserve, nor should he be bothered to seek it out. He dedicated his life to his job since then, so innocent people could live normally. It was always for the greater good, and yet Adler himself forgot that even he needed to take care of himself. 

There were nights where he would just sit in silence, reliving past events, just wishing for someone to comfort him through all of it.

Your head fit right under his chin and you waited silently, listening to his uneven breaths. Your hands gripped at his clothes as if you were holding for dear life. 

“Thank you, Bell.”

After taking time trying to settle back in, you could feel Adler press his lips against the top of your head. It was a bit of an uncomfortable position to be in, and you could feel the painkillers beginning to wear off, but you didn’t want to move. Staying there inside the warm embrace of the man you’ve become too attached to was a moment you wanted to cherish.

Adler’s arms loosen up, giving you room to pull away. 

Still, you stay close, just a couple inches away from his face. He doesn't object as you tuck some strands of hair behind his ear. Your finger runs down the back of it before trailing down to stroke the edge of his jawline, leaving him to eye you reproachfully while finding closure. You finally were awake, animating and talking right in front of him after a month of being met with silence.

Your index stops at his chin, before following the path of his scar and up to his lips, where your finger then traced them ever so lightly with the touch of a feather. You couldn't even react in time as Adler steals a quick kiss from you, which he then sends you a triumphant grin afterwards. 

"Just making sure."

While neither of you uttered those three beloved words, it was clear enough how you felt about one another. 

"So…" you begin, gazing longingly in the sea of blue. "About that date..."

.

.

.

.

.

.

Adler pulls up into a decently crowded lot, and parks inside an empty stall. He takes the keys out of the engine, leaving the car and you follow suit. The doors closed with a nice slam and he locks his car. 

“You know, Bell… I could think of a hundred different other places to eat that are way better than this joint.”

“If I remember, you said that you would take me wherever I wanted, and this is it.”

Just thirty minutes ago you were discharged from the hospital after saying an extra week. With no medical history, or insurance, Adler had personally come to retrieve you for the long anticipated date, and the first thing you requested was to go eat breakfast somewhere.

You and Adler were now sitting at a booth inside an IHOP at 7:33 in the morning. 

He was wearing a tan long sleeve turtleneck, his jacket hanging from the shoulders. The aviators were off, sitting neatly on the table. He almost looked like a different person without them, but with the scar stretching across his face, there was no way of mistaking him.

Both of you were waiting for your order, letting the morning rays hit through the window. There was the clatter of plates and metal utensils in the background, a few waitresses going around and delivering orders to their respective tables.

Upon your request, after a week of shitty hospital food and a month of tube feeding, you needed some good food. While you were never familiar about the United States in general, this happened to be the closest place to the hospital that caught your eye. It probably wasn't the best of establishments, but anything goes.

“How’s the eye?” Adler asks. 

“It's seen better days.” 

He shook his head while sighing at your attempt at being slick. But he was smiling a tiny bit. “Nice try, [L/N]. But, seriously, what’d they say?”

“...I can still work.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You bit your lip. The eyepatch was a clear indicator of the answer.

Underneath it was a pad of gauze taped securely over your eye. You could feel it throbbing from time to time, and had to take painkillers every few hours so you could sleep. Your left arm was in a sling while your right one sat comfortably inside your black bomber jacket, although both were wrapped with bandages. At this point, every part of your body had gone through some kind of trauma. 

“...They said it was hard to tell.”

Adler nods. It wasn’t the greatest news to hear, and he would have to do more research later. “Considering that it’s you we’re talking about, there shouldn’t be an issue in rehabilitating.”

You grin at his positivity. “Of course.”

"Good."

His gaze comes to focus on your face. 

That once, untouched skin of yours now had a long and thin discolored streak that ran right down the left side, starting from your forehead, going under the eyepatch, then right down to your jaw as if a single tear rolled down and left behind an imprint of its trail. It felt unfitting for someone of your nature.

"What's wrong?" you ask. Adler shakes his head, brushing it off.

"It's nothing."

You point to your scar with a conceited look. "'You mean this? Is it noticeable?'"

"Really, [Y/N]? You're stealing my lines now?" 

The sound of your laughter that followed was relaxing for him to hear. "We're matching now."

Adler couldn't help but smirk along. "With that eyepatch? No, you resemble Weaver, if anything."

"This Weaver guy’s pretty famous. Everyone else seems to know of him. Do we really have that much in common?"

"You’d be surprised. He's Russian, for one. Also has an eyepatch for the same reason as you." He pauses to think. "I actually haven't heard from him for a while. But, hey, who knows? Maybe you'll meet each other some day."

"So… Let me get this straight. I heard it from Woods and Mason, but Kravchenko stabs this Weaver friend in the eye, then you take Stitch's for revenge. Then that bastard takes my eye—"

"We've basically come full circle."

"Damn. You guys really have some unfinished business."

"It's what we're paid for."

Everyone's history ran deep with one another, and soon enough you would be thrown into the mix of special officers with intricate ties. It had taken quite the effort to convince Adler that you refused to be removed from the team (and the CIA together). With everything you have experienced, the thought of simply returning to civilian life was foreign. 

“Speaking of pay… You're going to take the med bills from my check, right?” you ask as the thought crossed your mind. Considering your injuries and the intensive care you went through, the bills were certainly more than one page. “Because, if that's the case–”

“Already been taken care of.”

You were going to ask "by who", but judging from Adler's expression, you already knew the answer. His eyes lingered a bit longer, before drifting towards someone walking towards the table.

The waitress came over, setting down two cups of coffee. You thank her, and you could hear a soft "your welcome" as she walked away. 

Reaching out for the cup, you tried to grab the handle, only for you to completely miss and grab air. Your brows knitted in concentration, you tried again.

"Need some help?" Adler asks with pure amusement.

"No, I got it."

"Clearly not. That was my cup."

Adler placed his hand on top of yours, guiding you to the handle of your cup. His hands were big, feeling hard and rough placed on top of yours. Feeling the porcelain, closed your fingers around it. 

"Thanks..." you mutter, feeling some heat rising on your cheeks. 

"See? Not that hard."

"I wish I could see, Russ, but I'm kinda blind in one eye," you retort lightly.

The coffee mug in your hands was warm to the touch. It stung a bit, especially with your injuries, but in an odd way it felt comforting. Using a spoon, you twirled around the coffee, watching it change into a lighter shade of brown before tasting it and adjusting the flavor. Adler didn't say much, only watching just in case something happened. If you needed assistance, he was right there.

"So, when do we get back to work?" you ask, hopeful. You took a sip of your coffee, making sure it was close to your lips before tilting the mug slightly.

"You still want to work? Even after all that?"

Adler was taken aback. If he were to put himself in your shoes, he would have thrown in the towel by now. Your work ethic was impressive, even more so knowing your history, and it was extremely concerning. It was because of it that you were getting closer to him, and the association between you two would only make the target on your back larger. Stitch abducting you as a hostage was the epitome of his fears, only fueling his hatred for the man even further.

He nearly lost you because of this connection. 

"I do. I mean, we still have unfinished business with Perseus."

You couldn't exactly say that you were scared of being abandoned. Or that you had nowhere else to go if you were to retire per say. Knowing how the team worked endlessly undercover, there was a low chance of ever seeing them again, and they were all that you had. Even if your relationship with them has been tested, they still never failed you. And you won’t let them down.

“Even so, the CIA considers you a threat to national security,” Adler regards, making sure you were the only one that could hear. A danger to the general public, mentally unstable, unfit for duty… the list went on.

“You guys are the only things I have left, and you are not going to take that away from me,” you counter. The brief sensation of something sharp sparked in your stomach, so you quickly eased up and leaned back. “Besides, that’s what they said about Mason, too. Operation Charybdis, was it? And look where he is now. If he’s still an operative in the CIA despite all that, then I can as well.”

“That’s classified info, [L/N]. How did you—”

“What can I say?” You shrug nonchalantly, setting your cup back down. “I’m a person of many talents.”

“You knowing that only proves their point further.”

You pout, offended. “What are they going to do, shoot me?”

Adler groans, knowing full well that he couldn’t convince you otherwise. Though, in the depths of his mind, he was secretly happy about it. Your arrogance, along with a few other things, needed some work. “I'll see what I can do, but for now let’s not discuss any of that here.”

“Sir, with all due respect, it’s eight in the morning, and we’re sitting in fucking IHOP,” you tease. "I don't think anyone is awake enough to eavesdrop."

While the two of you were regular civilians for today, the way you both looked would easily catch the eyes of anyone passing by. A man with a huge scar on his face, and another with an eyepatch, arms bandaged from the fingertips to the shoulder. The waitress couldn’t even look at you without her eyes drifting elsewhere despite her attempts.

"I just remembered," Adler perks up suddenly, digging something out from his pocket, setting it on the table. "A gift from the team, to celebrate your release."

It was a small rectangular package, wrapped in brown paper. A bow was slapped on top of it, a tag attached to it which had "[Y/N]" written on the back of it, Adler's penmanship easily eligible.

"And, uh, this keychain from Woods." He hands you a tiny jar of sand with the Florida white engravings on the outside, and you couldn't help but grin. 

"How thoughtful of him."

You turn your attention to the box, taking a peek at Adler for permission, and he gives you a nod. Opening it carefully, you found a newly packaged Walkman, still in the box. It was a newer model, one you haven't seen yet. Slimmer and lighter, too. 

"What do you think?" Adler asks, unable to gauge your feelings.

"Are you sure I can have this?" You couldn't find any words. 

"Stop undervaluing yourself, [L/N]. You deserve it. You contribute a lot to the team, we couldn't have done it without you.”

You nod, holding the box as if it were a newborn baby. You thought of which cassette to play first, only to remember you didn't have them anymore. As if cue, Adler set two tapes down. One MIX 2 and another you have never seen before, MIX 3. How original, you thought. You reach out, your arm straining itself as you went to retrieve the tapes, only for Adler to once again take your hand and place it on top. An odd feeling bubbles in your stomach.

Butterflies again.

"You know I still can see right?" you state, looking straight at him, but he didn’t meet your gaze, instead looking out the window. "Just because I only have one eye at the moment doesn't mean you need to baby me."

"To be fair, you aren’t doing much to stop me either."

It was a habit you noticed about him. Actions speak louder than words, the only exception would be how he would address you by your actual name instead of Bell whenever it was just the two of you outside of work-related business. 

"Anyways. There's a few of my personal favorites in here." He taps the third cassette.  "Had a friend of mine compile it together this time."

"Didn't know you were a music person." You take the Walkman out of it's packaging, tossing aside the extra papers and plastic.

"I'm not, but I have a good ear for talent."

After putting MIX 3 inside the Walkman, you pondered over if you should listen to it. Deciding not to, especially when you were out with Adler, you wrapped the earphone wires around it, pocketing it alongside with the other cassette. "I'll listen to it later, if that's fine."

"By all means."

Your eyes wander for a bit, watching a waitress help another table. “What’s the date again today?”

“February twenty-eighth.”

“Ah, thought so.” You got up from your seat. “Wait here for a moment.”

Adler gives you an intrigued look, but shrugs it off as you walk off. Taking a sip of his coffee, he watches a couple cars enter and leave the parking lot from his spot. It was one of those few occasions that the mornings were seldom and chill, and eating at a breakfast joint earned him some peace of mind.

While it wasn’t the best place to eat at, your presence alone brought him happiness. You were back to your usual self despite fighting against all odds just weeks before. 

You took a glimpse at him over your shoulder, before returning to talk to the waitress, who nodded before going behind the counter. You were planning something, but he didn’t know what.

“What was that?” Adler asks a bit accusingly as you return to your seat. 

“Just remembered something, that’s all.”

“And you’re going to leave me hanging?”

“You’ll find out in a bit.”

Adler stops pestering you, surveying your face for anything that could give away your secret, but he couldn't find anything. 

You notice this, and give him a sly grin. "Someone's impatient today."

Of course he was. It was the first time you were out of the hospital, and the last thing he wanted was for you to over exert yourself and open up any wounds. 

But before he could even respond with a snarky rebuttal, the waitress you talked to earlier comes back with a plate and sets it down gently on the table, along with two forks and some napkins. On it was a stack of pancakes with a small scoop of butter on top, which was already melting and dripping down the sides. The lady brought over a bottle of syrup.

"Happy birthday," you greet. "It's free, so don't worry about paying for it."

"Two weeks ago."

"Yeah, well I wasn't exactly fully awake for your birthday, was I? Better late than never."

No one ever really did something like this for him, nor did he expect you to remember his birthday. It wasn't much to celebrate as he got older, it was just another year he managed to live, but this time it felt different. 

"Lazar also told me about this thing called Valentine's Day, but… like I said," you continue, "So, might as well celebrate your birthday and Valentine's at the same time. Since, we're you know, I guess—"

"On a date," he finishes. "We're adults, no need to get so worked up about it. But, thank you, [Y/N]."

A simple morning coffee run date turned into a tiny birthday/Valentine's celebration. Weird, considering it was weeks past, but it was heartwarming to say the least. 

No wonder he fell for you. And seeing you do these little gestures for him makes him even more determined to hold you close and protect you. To see someone like you turn into a bashful, nervous wreck when showing affection was something Adler found cute.

Adler chuckles at your embarrassment as he reaches out to the forks and hands one over to you. You take it graciously, feeling his hand bump against yours. 

Your first date.

"Something bugging you?" Adler voices his concern, waiting for you to take the first bite.

You cut a small piece with your fork. "No. Just thinking."

"About?"

"You."

You wanted to learn more about him. Not by researching or through the CIA database, but through himself. What kind of person was he, really? You wanted to hear his story and his experiences, and you wanted to be there for him to return the favor. His struggles, his efforts… All of it. No more lies and fabrication.

Adler graces you with a coquettish smile. "Well, don't think too hard now. We may be on a 'date', but don't let me distract you from the important stuff."

"But, you are the 'important stuff'."

“Keep flirting like that and you'll start to sound like Lazar.”

And, if he was interested, you would tell him about yourself, too. Whatever you remembered, where you were born… There was still lots to rediscover about yourself, but you knew he would be there right beside you.

Just like he promised.

[angelic-kisses13]

Claiming Part II

Authors Note: I’m sorry it took so long to write this! But I’m glad that I finally got it out to you guys! Happy Valentines Day everyone! 

Summary: Charles and his sacrifice finally arrive at his castle. 

Claiming Part I 

A few hours later, and they had arrived back to King Charles’ kingdom, the palace was even grander than King Indulf’s. It seemed to tower above the clouds, and he watched as her features went from hostile to pure awe. Her hands made quick work of the window, and she poked her head out, trying to see every detail of the kingdom from her vantage point. 

He smiled indulgently. Yes, he had made the right decision. She was going to make the perfect sacrifice. “Little lamb,” He reached out and grabbed her waist, his hands spanning across her curves and full stomach easily. He brought her down to his side, “You will be able to see it better when we are closer.”

His sacrifice pouted, and he rolled his eyes as he reached out to shut the carriage window. “Don’t pout, now. It’s unbecoming.” She snorted and turned her body to face away from him. They continued to ride in silence, the carriage rocking from side to side as they turned bends and ran over loose bricks in the road. 

“Why haven’t you sucked me dry yet? Isn’t that the point of a human sacrifice? To become your food source?” 

His head tilted to the left in amusement. Charles forgot that the poor human wasn’t coached on what being a sacrifice entailed. He would have fun with this one. Something told him she wouldn’t take kindly to the future proceedings. 

“You are adorable Little Lamb. You will be a perfect sacrifice for my people. A few more hours and I will give you what your heart desires.” 

She scoffed and turned her head from him. Her pulse was hammering in her delicate neck. The rapid blood flow causes his fangs to ache. He knew she could feel his gaze on her, yet she stayed turned away. She was effectively cutting off the conversation. Charles should feel annoyed at the blatant act of disrespect. His little human, however, managed to chip away at his walls and self-control slowly. 

Soft but firm words had Charles’ spine-tingling, and he blinked as they echoed around them. “I do not desire to have you drink from me, ‘Your Majesty.’” The venom laced tone had Charles’ spine-tingling, and his beast was prowling in a possessive manner. Charles was taken aback at the level of possession he felt growing in him. 

“Not yet.” The words were spoken to remind himself not to reach out and claim her. There were rules and procedures in place, yet her blood and fiesty nature had him cracking around the edges—his once cool and collected demeanor nothing more but a crumbling avalanche of stone. 

It appeared that she had taken the words as a challenge. Charles was momentarily distracted by the sight of her head snapping around quickly; he was surprised she hadn’t broken her neck at the movement. Her eyes were wide, and the passionate flame he had noticed in the courtyard and throne room was resurfacing. He needed to placate her before he had her trying to claw her way out of the carriage. 

That was when his eyes fell on her busted lip and swollen cheek. He would have to heal that before the ceremony commenced. Charles’ finger itched to reach out and soothe the pain. He thought better of it, though, and curled his fingers into a fist. “How is your cheek faring?” 

She blinked before her hand rose and softly brushed across the swollen flesh. “It has been better.” The words were lispy, but it wasn’t to the point where he couldn’t understand her. 

“Once we get to the Castle, I can find some comfrey to help the swell.” Charles was confused when he saw her body tense. 

Her eyes were guarded as she stared at him. “I don’t have anything to offer you in thanks.” 

Ah, so that was what had her so tense. The poor lamb probably never had anything nice given to her without numerous conditions. Charles waved his hand, dismissing her words, “I do it because we need you in mint condition. A sacrifice is not very fun to play with if they are not in good health.” 

Her eyebrows wrinkled, the lines on her dirtied forehead more prominent with that gesture. “I hardly see how a bruised cheek and busted lip would make me unable to play the part.” 

Charles hummed as he reclined in his seat, his blue eyes taking her in. “Vampires pride themselves on perfection. Anything less is beneath us. I will not have our first sacrifice -in many centuries- look like she was in a brawl.” 

The woman sniffed before turning away, her body hunching in on itself. It seemed that the closer they got to the castle, the more she lost her spirit. Interesting. 

“You are scared.” 

Charles was amused by the scowl the girl shot him. 

“I’m not scared... just weary.” 

“You aren’t afraid to die?” 

The woman laughed, but there was no amusement in her tone. “I have been dead for many years, your majesty. Being a sacrifice just makes it more official.” 

Once again, the mortal had a way of surprising him. “You will be honored. You won’t be just a nameless lamb led to slaughter.” 

“I do not need to be honored. I have never been in my life and I don’t need to start now.” 

Charles didn’t have any words to offer the human, so they remained in silence as they pulled up in front of the castle. He tried to refrain from growling as he noticed several council members standing outside, waiting for his return. 

His little human frowned as she took in the sight. “Are they here for you or me?” Her fingers were clenched together, her thumb rubbing vicious circles into the flesh between her thumb and forefinger. 

“I believe it’s a bit of both, little one.” Charles composed himself, his cold mask falling into place. Once the carriage came to a stop, he waited until the footmen came down and opened it for him. 

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. His little human was shifting in her seat. He breathed deeply and caught the swift scent of fear. Usually, it would have been a sensual scent. Fear always made the blood taste better. But she didn’t have a reason to be scared. Anger grew in his chest; what was she fearing? Was it him? Was it the situation she had found herself in? 

His jaw tightened, and he closed his eyes before stepping down and holding his hand out for her to take. He could hear the counsel members murmur amongst themselves. Their delight at having the human here was palpable. Charles wasn’t going to have a moment’s peace until the ritual was completed. 

Charles heard several gasps from behind him, and his lips twitched when his little lamb knocked his hand out of the way and climbed down herself. Standing in the light of the torches, her form was more pronounced, the dirt covering her skin was smudged, and her lip and cheek made her features a lump of swollen flesh. Easy to say, she wasn’t much to look at. 

Before his counselors could speak out about her, Charles began moving towards the Castle doors. A gentle tug with his mind and the oversized doors opened on their own. He heard a startled squeak sound behind him, but he paid it little mind. “Come along, little lamb. We must get you situated so we can discuss the ceremony.” 

“Why do you call me that. I am a person; I do have a name.” She snapped as she struggled to keep pace with his long stride. 

Amusement bubbled up in his chest, and he struggled not to let his counselors know how much the little human was affecting him. She was something else, an enigma that he would never tire of trying to figure out. If the ceremony went well then, he would have the rest of eternity to spend with her. 

“Are you going to share it with me or leave me in suspense?” He teased as he slowed his stride down enough for her to catch up. He was momentarily startled when he felt a hand wrap around his arm and a warm body press against him. 

He raised an eyebrow as he took in the marveled awe written across her face. Her eyes sparkled as she took in the tapestries and portraits that lined the stone walls. It appeared she hadn’t been listening to his question, so he let it drop. Her name wasn’t necessary, not until the ceremony, and he was old fashioned. He preferred to voice her name at the altar than in the ever-watchful halls.

“Sire, the room is this way.” One of his followers called out as Charles continued past the corridor his little lamb would be staying in and instead headed towards the infirmary. 

“I’m quite aware, Andrews. Why don’t you and the others go and see the ceremony preparations? We won’t be long. See that you send a couple of handmaidens to start a bath for my sacrifice as well.” 

Charles didn’t bother turning to see if his followers had heeded his words. He trusted the men to do what was asked and with little questions. He heard the soft rustle of clothes as the men turned and left. His little human jumped when she turned to see nothing but open air and a long empty corridor. 

“Oh heavens, that's not creepy.” She whispered to herself. 

______________________________________________________________

He stood in front of her, his chest heaving, nostrils flared as he watched goosebumps appear on her skin. She was everything he had ever wanted, and she knew how to put him in his place when he needed it. 

She was also the only one who could ever make his heart thunder in his chest, and his hands shake with the effort from holding himself back. She was his for the taking. She had dressed in all his favorites, a dark red dress with gold lacing around the bodice and sleeves. At her neck sat a cascade of teardrop emeralds. It highlighted her collarbone and pulse perfectly. With each thud of her heart, the necklace would pulse with it. 

It was enough to have his mouth-watering; her blood was calling to him, begging for him to claim it as his own. 

Claim her. 

His mind shouted as he wrestled with his self-control. It wouldn’t do good to scare her away. He needed to execute this perfectly. 

He took a deep breath as he watched her move around the room, her skirt rustling against the stone floor. Her fingers ran along the spines of the books, her eyes flitting from one place to another. She was comfortable in his presence, her peaceful continence allowing his inner beast to relax. 

“You’re very calm about this situation.” His voice floated across the room. He watched as her body stiffened at the sound—fingers stilling as she took in his words. 

“Will you treat me the way that the villagers did?” The question was innocent enough if he didn’t know the whole story behind her words. 

“I will treat you infinitely better. You are my mate, the necklace around your neck, and the ring on your left-hand claims you as such.”

“But there is more, is there not?” 

He waited until she was facing him before he spoke. “There are several things that have to happen to finish the ritual.” 

Her eyes flickered at his words, but she stepped forward, her hands clasping in front of her. “What do you need me to do?” 

A swirl of pride ran through his body, and his beast purred in delight. His mate was willing to do the impossible, and he would treasure and value her above all else. She was his. 

“You need to transform before we can move on. Once that is done, we will proceed with the claiming ritual.” His words were matter-of-fact but held a depth of concern for the young woman. 

“What does the transformation entail, exactly?” 

“You and I have to exchange blood; once the blood is shared, your body will begin to change. It will be painful for a few hours, and your body will shut down—first the limbs, then the heart, and finally your brain. When you come back, you will be part of the Vampire realm. You will be my Queen and me, your King.” 

There was a long moment of silence, both standing in front of each other, gauging the other’s reaction.  

“You will not leave me to suffer alone?”

He stepped into her personal space, her scent invading his senses. His eyes closed for a few seconds as he acclimated himself to her. His hand lifted, and he finally allowed himself to touch her skin since the exchange of vows. It was rough beneath his fingertips; the weather had not been kind to her. 

Up close he could see the chapped lips and red circling her eyes, attesting to her long nights without sleep. He swiped his thumb across her cheek, relishing in the feeling of the blood rushing through her body. He watched enraptured as her pupils dilated and her pulse fluttered beneath his caress. His eyes were drawn to her lush mouth as her breath stuttered. 

“I will be by your side the whole time. I will never leave you to suffer, I promise.” 

Her eyes shifted to meet his, and he caught just a glimpse of fear before she shut her eyes, trying to hide from him. “I’m ready.” 

He nodded his head before stepping away from her. Turning, he walked over to a goblet on the table, a small dagger resting beside it. He grabbed the blade and reverently traced his fingers over the jeweled handle before opening his left palm. He held the dagger out to her with a flourish. She looked from the weapon and back to him. 

“You’re going to need to cut my palm for the ritual.” 

Her breath stuttered, but ever the fearless little lamb, she slowly shuffled over. Her hands shook as she took the dagger, her fingers clumsily holding the hilt. His lips twitched at the sight. Even with all the bravado out in the courtyard this morning, she was still a human that was terrified of becoming a vampire king’s sacrifice. 

“Are you okay?” Charle’s words were hushed. 

“I’m fine; just tell me where to cut.” 

He peered at her, gauging her reactions to her words. She was far from fine, but he wasn’t going to push just yet. Soon she wouldn’t be able to hide from him, and then he would figure everything out. But, in the meantime, he would continue. 

“You need to cut from the bottom of my left ring finger to the end of my palm. Once that’s done, you’re going to cut from between my index and middle finger down towards my pinky, it should make a symbol of a Cross once you’re finished.” 

Her eyes widened in alarm. “You will die if I carve a Cross into your palm!” 

Charles chuckled in amusement. This little lamb was going to be a fascinating fit for his life. “That’s a common misconception; the wound will never heal right, so it will scar, but that’s the point of the ritual. It is to show that I am claimed. Think of it as your claiming mark, little lamb.” 

“Don’t call me that.” Her lips fell into a deep scowl as she glared up at him through her lashes. His inner beast rumbled at the sight; she was breathtaking and all his. He couldn’t wait to claim her, have his blood running through her veins, his mark covering her body. 

“What would you rather me call you then? My little sacrifice?” 

“My Queen, will do just fine.” The amount of sass made Charles preen. She was his Queen, wasn’t she? The emerald ring on her finger attested to that, but to hear her claim herself as such was enough to make his cock twitch. 

Charles closed his eyes and took a deep breath, grounding himself. He couldn’t lose control just yet, and her body was too weak to handle him right now. She needed to transform first. Soon. 

“Charles.” 

He was snapped back to himself when he heard his given name fall from her lips. The way her tongue weaved the syllables of his name was enough to ignite his blood to a boil. 

“You need to cut now; I don’t know how much longer I can hold myself back, little lamb.” 

With one last curious gaze, she swiftly sliced his palm open, the Cross taking effect immediately. Charles swallowed down the hiss as he clenched his hand into a fist and raised it over the goblet, the two of them watching as the black blood trickled down with soft plunks. 

It took them a couple of times to get enough blood into the goblet, but all too soon, it was time to add her blood to the mixture.

Taglist: @agniavateira @cavillanche @cavillunraveled @creepingfromthecorners @dreamwritesimagines @fangirlings-things @ficsandcatsandficsandcats @hlkwrites​ @hnryycvll @honeydulcewrites @iloveyouyen @johnmotherfuckingfrusciante @keiva1000 @ladyreapermc @laketaj24 @littlefreya @ly--canthrope @mary-ann84 @mrsaugustwalker @ohvalleyofplentyyy @omgkatinka @sciapod @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @supersweetstache @thethirstyarchive @the-winter-witcher @thegreattodd @titty-teetee @tumblnewby @viking-raider @wednesdaybraids @wendimydarling @white-wolf-of-rivia @witcherwrites​

[awesomerextyphoon]

Slit Reflection

This is my entry for @jtargaryen18​​’s Haunted House 2020 Challenge. Mine was Sam Wilson. Credit for dividers goes to @firefly-graphics​. Check them out!

Summary: You’ve always loved Halloween, especially the haunted house at the edge of the woods. So happens when the ‘Star Spangled Trio’ enters the mix?

Pairing: Demon King!Sam Wilson x  Black!Reader (Fem)

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 3,054

Warning: Kidnapping, Forced Marriage, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Stalking, Breeding Kink, Mentions of Torture, and Non-Con/Dub-Con Smut. You have been warned.

Back to Masterlist

You’ve always loved Halloween. It was your birthday and the haunted house at the edge of the woods gave the best spooks and thrills. It was your first Halloween after undergrad and this year was different.

The Star Spangled Trio were celebrity guests and they were bringing two of the old rooms back!

It took you six days to get a ticket. You tried getting one online, every shop in town, but got nothing.

Finally, a new face at the library took pity on you and gave you the last ticket along with a book on demon folklore. You thanked the new librarian and rushed out of the building. Had you looked back you would’ve noticed a smirk on their face and their sclera and pupils turning black and gold respectively.

Halloween—the day of your birth—was here, and it was shit. Your toothbrush broke, your car refused to start, the job that you desperately wanted was dashed by yet another rejection email, and both your student loan and rent checks bounced. You just need to get through today.

You missed the cutoff, but got in because the person working the line was a family friend. Anxiously, you wait in line wondering how the haunted house in your small ass town managed to nab the Star Spangled Trio when you noticed the excited expressions of the people leaving. Now you’re super anxious.

By the time you entered the haunted house, you’re doing the breathing exercises to calm yourself. This was it! You were finally going to meet your all time heroes (and possible spank bank entries)!

The first few rooms were your typical haunted house fare which you loved, but were secondary to your excitement in seeing your heroes. Maybe you could get an autograph and hug from them!

You were about to follow the person in front of you into the haunted house’s hospital room when you noticed a light flickering to your left. It revealed a door done in the Neo-classical design with some Latin text engraved in the middle (had you studied Latin , you would’ve known that the text read “Reveal yourself, my beloved”).

Opening the door, you saw that it lead to the Hall of Mirrors. This part of the haunted house was always a favorite of yours, but both the itinerary and the ticket worker said that it was closed this year. The hall itself was chillingly quite and pristine as if no one else had stepped foot inside this season.

All of the mirrors looked standard for the haunted house; some of them made you laugh or briefly catch your breath. The one at the end of the hall caught you off-guard. It was at least 12ft (about 3.66m) high with intricate carvings of characters out of dark folklore and a single diagonal slit.

You were about to turn away when you saw nothing thinking it was a small haunted house joke at your expense when the mirror flashed.

In your place was the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen, but it still looked like you..sort of. Your hair was long, luxurious and gently flowing. Your eyebrows, eyelashes, and nails were immaculate. Your nose was adorably broad and your lips were sensually full (the type of full women would shell hundred’s if not thousands of dollars for). You wore a diadem with thick gold chains ladened with diamonds, onyx, and rubies and around your neck was a ruby and onyx amulet. You were dressed in a loose, yet sleeveless form-fitting Vivaldi red gown with hints of fiery red and a thin rosewood colored shoulder veil connected to the dress by a ruby broach in the middle of your cleavage.

You looked about four or five inches taller and the mirror version of you made you feel nervous about your curves being out on display.

Curious, you reached out to touch the mirror. Your hand was less than a centimeter away when your mirrored self opened it eyes. Suddenly, it grew curved horns and its eyes glowed pale gold.

The mirrored version of you grabbed your outstretched arm and dragged you through the mirror all while you screamed hoping someone would come to your rescue, but to no avail.

Samael, or ‘Sam’ was notified of your departure and the trio had to excuse themselves from the festivities to congratulate Sam on finding his bride.

You woke up with a start and shout clawing the air but stopped once you realized that you weren’t falling anymore. Instead, you were in a huge, opulent room filled with treasures that not even Windsor Castle had. Curiosity seemed to have taken hold of you because you walked out onto the connecting balcony to find that you were on a different planet/dimension/realm, whatever!

There were floating landmasses (the smallest of which was the size of your small town) and five planets ranging from Moonbow Gold to Venetian Red in color.

You thought about where the fuck you were and how you could get back home when a voice interrupted your thoughts.

The source of the voice was a demon with Antique Ruby skin with reddish gray undertones and Cinnabar and Rosewood colored hair. She had two short outward curved horns with a gold chain and aquamarine teardrop connecting them. Her eyes were an inviting aqua blue eyes with a dark red sclera.

“Hello! My name is Scheherazade, but you can call me Sherry. I’m your Lady in Waiting. I’ve brought some food.” Sherry offered as she set the tray of food on a small table next to a dresser.

You smiled cautiously at your new elevated handmaiden,”Do you know why I’m-”

“Oh, I almost forgot! We need to get you ready for your presentation!”

The Fuck?!

“What do you mean ‘presentation’?,” you asked as nicely as possible, but reality came out more like a demand.  

Sherry stopped her ministrations and faced you,”Well, when the monarch, crown prince, or princess declares their mate, they are presented to the royal court,” she then returned to her task of finding a suitable dress for you not catching the mortified expression on your face.

This day can’t get any worse. Wait?

“What time is it?”

“Oh, yes, It’s pretty much always night here. The sun only comes out for three hours. Would you look at the time! Everyone’s waiting!”

“One last question,” you started as Sherry began dressing you,”Who am I marrying?”

“Why my second cousin, King Samael, one of the Three Demon Kings,  of course!”

You fought the impulse to faint.

It took thirty minutes for Sherry to make you look unrecognizable. Thankful for her assistance, you followed the floating torches to the throne room. The throne room was an enormous room with high wide vaulted arches, delicately carved pillars and columns, and a small bridge connecting the ground at the door to the center. The court comprised of beautiful yet fearsome demons of all shapes and sizes.

The king himself was seated on a grand, ornate throne atop a huge dais with at least 25 steps. He seemed familiar.

As soon as you were passed the threshold, the king raised his head and everyone stopped talking and cleared a path for you. Several courtiers whispered as you striddled towards the dais. When you finally reached the dais, the king got off his throne and walked down the steps to greet you.

You almost face-palmed. The king was Sam Wilson! Or at least, looked like him.  

Sam for his part was devastatingly handsome. He had a tall, powerful build, broad shoulders, bulging biceps, muscular thighs, short well-kept hair and beard with surprisingly kind eyes.  

“You’re even more beautiful than I imagined,” Sam uttered as he pulled you in for a hug. You could’ve sworn he sniffed your hair, but you didn’t want to go into that right now.

“Everyone!” The court turned to the throne,” Thank you for coming. I have finally found my bride. We will be married tomorrow night!” Sam exclaimed to thunderous cheers and applause. He slipped on a magnificent ruby and diamond engagement ring with a black gold band.

You could not believe this, “I can’t-,” you started, but Sam discreetly grabbed your wrist, “Pre-wedding jitters,” and led you to a side room.

You expected him to hit or yell at you like so many other royals in a similar setting, but instead he gave a sad smile and asked if you were truly happy in your old life. You thought about your crushing debt, little to no job prospects, both parents dead, no friends and you had to admit your life did suck, but he didn’t get to decide.

Disappointed, Sam casted a small compliance spell and pulled you in for a kiss. Your pupils blew out in lust and you lost yourself. When he finally decided to break for air, Sam stated that you will be his bride and he will not be denied any longer. You smiled and gave him a short but passionate kiss. He moaned but had to end it before he went too far.

Tomorrow night he promised himself.

He quickly called for Sherry to return you  to your quarters.

Sherry woke you up the next ‘morning’ with a small army of beauty experts and maids.

“Rise and shine, Your Grace! We’ve got a bride to present!” Sherry proclaimed.

Damn it! It wasn’t a nightmare.

They managed to stuff you into a marvel of a wedding dress. It was a Torch Red long-sleeved mermaid wedding dress with soft yet detailed lace work made to look like an enchanted forest, diamond, dark ruby and pearl beads, and a floor length train. On your head was a black gold spiked sunburst goddess with deep ruby roses and a simple ruby teardrop chain that rested on your forehead, the ends of which were wrapped around your horns.

“Not even Lilith could compare, Your Grace!” Sherry gushed at her handiwork.

The wedding procession and ceremony was done in a swift fashion as Sam didn’t want to wait much longer. The vows were short as well. You wanted to object, call for help, anything but a voice in the back of your mind beat you to it.  

A couple hours into the wedding festivities, Sam announced that it was time for he and his new queen to retire and led you to his quarters. It’s the fanciest suite you’ve ever seen dripping with luxurious reds, violets, and obsidian.

In all your awing of Sam’s quarters, you failed to notice him approaching you in only a simple loose shirt and trousers. He gently put his hands on your exposed shoulders,”Alone at last, my love.”

You recoiled, “Can’t we wait for a few days? It’s just…” you trailed off as soon as his jovial expression vanished replaced with something darker and hungrier.

“I’ve waited for so long to have you here with me, love,”  Sam confessed while you moved towards the exit,”and I will not be denied any longer!”

In an instant, Sam pulled you in for a demanding kiss. He pushed his tongue past your lips moaning when your tongue tepidly danced with his own and from the sweet taste of your mouth. He pushed you onto a bed that had to three times the size of a California King and his lips moved jaw and neck, egged on by needy whimpers and moans.

He took his time ripping off your gown, enjoying the view like a child on Christmas, ”Fuck, you’re so beautiful. Utter perfection,” Sam murmured as he watched your breasts bounced free. He alternated between sucking and pinching your nipples with his hands and mouth,”I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he whispered in your left ear and he continued to play with your breasts like a concert-level musician. All the while moaned and cried out feeling pleasure you never thought possible.

Once satisfied with his handiwork with your chest, Sam’s hands roamed over your stomach and hips followed by strategically placed butterfly kisses that made you squirm. He tore off the last of your wedding gown causing you to hiss at the sudden sensation of cold air touching your pussy.

You used your last bit of willpower to plead, “Please stop! I’ve never-,” Sam stopped and raised his head to look at you.

“I know, love. I’ll be your first and only,” and with that, he gives your folds one long, slow lick and growled at your sweet and tangy taste, “I’ve wondered how you’d taste. You’re even better than the best Kharian wine. I could get used to this.”

He dove back in and played your pussy for all it was worth. His tongue worked its magic stroking and circling your clit sending you higher and higher into euphoria. Sam kept you right on the edge of an orgasm, just enough to beg for release.

“Say you’re mine!,” you mewled in response, to blissed out to use words. “Say it or I’ll leave!”

“Please let me cum, My King!” you cried out when he thrusted two fingers into your pussy.

“That’s a good girl. Now,”Sam started as he vigorously rubbed your pussy,”cum for me, love.”

Your orgasm came like a tsunami and Sam made sure finish his feast.

You got out of your post-oral haze to see Sam looming over in all his naked glory. His body must’ve been made by the gods because it was divine. His frame was an ode to sexiness wrapped in sinful warm sepia skin.

Sam caught you biting your lower lip and cocked his head, “Like what you see?”

Damn that cocky bastard, but damn if he wasn’t right. Part of you wanted to fuck his brains out…and that was before you saw his cock. Standing proud and erect with angry veins, his cock had to be the biggest you’ve ever seen (not like you had much exposure, just a few pornos).

Sam crawled up to you, lifted your chin and gave a soft kiss on the lips sensing your unease, “Relax, love,” He then lined his cock to your entrance and slid in as gently as he could.

You hissed from the pain, he was just so damn big. Sam praised you on how well you fit around him like ‘you were made for him’. Once the pain subsided, you bucked your hips into his causing him to moan at the sensation. He smiled at your eagerness and picked up the pace, making his thrusts come out to just the tip was in you and slamming back into you. You cried out his name each time he filled you to the hilt, pleading with him to go faster. Soon he reached your G-Spot causing to orgasm again, this time with you crossing your eyes and coming with a squirt.

Not too long after your second orgasm, Sam came with an otherworldly roar and glowing bright gold eyes shooting rope after rope of thick cum into your womb. He then flipped you onto your stomach and forced you onto your hands and knees so that he could take you from behind.

He got ten orgasms from you, each one more mind-blowing than the last. Once he was satisfied, he let you sleep.

“Soon you will be round with my seed, and we will have many children. I can’t wait.”

Ah hour after you closed your eyes, Sam left his, now yours, quarters. “Make sure she doesn’t leave,” he orders the guards although, he’s confident that she’s not going anywhere with the way he hammered her.

He strode down the corridors until he reached the dungeon. There, he found a rather nice looking apartment-style cell with only one prisoner, your mother.

“I’ve taken your daughter. Do you want to see her before you go?”

You see, Samael, Mikael (Bucky), and Stelios (Steve) were demon warlords who began conquering kingdoms left and right 1200yrs ago. They fought their way to the last free kingdom, Kharan. By the time your grandparents were brought before them, they had killed your uncle, the heir to the throne. The king and queen begged for their lives and the kingdom to be spared.

The trio agreed on one condition: if the next child the queen bears is a girl, then she would be Sam’s mate (Mikael and Stelios already had mates).

The king reluctantly agreed. The queen gave birth four months later to a girl, but she was in demon form. The queen had two of her most trusted attendants spirit the child away to another realm and raised her as their own.

Sam had your grandparents slaughtered and razed Kharan to the ground for their trickery. No matter, he was immortal. He would bide his time.

Eventually, your mother was told about her true parentage and form. She learned to control her powers, found love and she too was with child.

Sam found her a week before she went into labor and said that it was time to collect. She promised you in her stead immediately in hopes that it would buy her some time.

It did. She was able to pass you, a cambion, off to a friend of hers who wanted a child but couldn’t conceive and gave Sam a fake baby. He had your mother thrown into the dungeons.

Sam searched for you, but discovered that your mother put a cloaking spell on you. So, he approached your mother with a deal: her freedom for you becoming his mate.

It took your mother three years of torture for her to say yes.

Once the spell was lifted, Sam went to work. He made sure your adopted parents had a little ‘accident’ when you were old enough to take care of yourself, made sure that no one would want to hire you, and saddled you with debt. He even got Mikael and Stelios to pose as ‘The Star Spangled Trio’ with him to finally get you to the Hall of Mirrors.

Your mother bowed her head in shame, “No. It’s best for her to believe that I don’t exist.”

Sam unlocked the cell door with a simple spell, “You’re free to go. Have a nice life,” and returned to his quarters to be with his mate and queen.

Your mother took one last look at the palace,”I’m sorry, my little moon and stars,” and disappeared into the night.

Taglist: @jtargaryen18​ @threeminutesoflife​​ @giorno-plays-piano​ @lookiamtrying​ @sherrybaby14​ @opheliadawnwalker3​ @life-of-yn​ @mcudarklibrary​ @marvelfansworld​ @imdarkinme​ @sapphirescrolls​ @samingtonwilson​ @chris-evans-indian-fanfic​ @pseudonymphet​ @dahkness​ @saiyanprincessswanie​ @golden-ariess​ @chixkencxrry​ @anyatheladyclown​ @stargazingfangirl18​ @saint-bvcky​ @cherienymphe​ @iguessweallcrazyithinktho​ @cockslut-padalecki​

[mellowswriting]

Congrats on 100! For the requests can you write something with Marcus Pike where he never knew the reader had tattoos because her ex hated them so she covers them up with their clothing. I hope its not too specific or odd ❤ (Sorry if this sent multiple times, im having internet issues)

Ink

pairing || Marcus Pike x Reader

summary ||  Marcus discovers your tattoos - and why you hid them from him.

word count || 1,546

warnings || shitty ex, kinda hurt/comfort

Main Masterlist  |  Join the taglist

Your day, put simply, was going absolutely shittily.

First, you woke up feeling amazingly well rested. Sounds like a great thing, right? No. Unbeknownst to you, your phone charger became unplugged and your phone had died overnight. Without your alarms to get you up and caffeinated, you were left to scramble into your office attire and out the door with a frazzled mind and zero coffee in hand. You knew better than to try to tackle what was starting as a difficult day without the energy boost, so you bit the bullet and stopped at a café on your way to work. 

Foolishly, you thought your morning was looking up when you made it through the line in record time - until you took a sip of your coffee and simultaneously burned the everloving hell out of your tongue and learned that your order was not only incorrect, but entirely undrinkable. The attitude in which you dropped the to go cup into the trash outside of FBI headquarters could’ve brought the entire building down, but that was neither here nor there. You couldn’t find it in you to be frustrated with the sweet baristas at the café - they were overwhelmed with the morning rush, after all. No, your frustration was placed solely on the universe.  

In a last ditch effort to save your morning, you stopped by the break room for a cup of shitty office coffee to take back into your little office. You were frazzled enough that the team didn’t stop you on your march through the bullpen. With the blinds open to let the early morning sunshine warm your back, you settled at your desk and finally took what felt like the first somewhat calm breath since you opened your eyes. You grabbed your worn notepad and began jotting down the list of tasks you had to get done that day, grateful that it was mostly humdrum paperwork and not anything grueling. You wouldn’t have had the spoons for that. 

There was something about having each of your responsibilities laid out and ready for you to tackle that made you feel much better. A small light at the end of the tunnel. You took a deep breath and began filling out your latest case reports, your practiced fingers flying over the keys of your laptop. Of course, in true fashion, the universe decided to put you in your place. You reached for your coffee, eyes still on the laptop screen, and severely misjudged the distance and managed to tip the cup over. 

“Son of a bitch!” You hissed, shooting out of your seat at the bite of hot coffee dripping down your front. Instinct had you ripping your blazer off and pulling at the buttons of your blouse, desperate to get the soaked fabric away from your skin. At least you were wearing a tank top beneath it, even though it was thin enough to be almost see through. “You have got to be kidding me.” 

Three quick knocks rapped against your door and you didn’t even have to guess who it was - Marcus Pike, your coworker, good friend and his latest title - boyfriend. He never strayed in his little patterned knocking, something you found endearing even when you were having a comically bad morning. 

“Come on in, Marcus!” You called out as you dug around in your drawers for the wipes you kept there. Marcus entered with a bright smile that faltered slightly at your disheveled state. Your tone is almost sarcastic as you continue. “Good morning.” 

“Oh, honey.” Marcus said, quickly closing the door behind him before anyone could catch a glimpse of you sliding your blouse off. The dark, intricate lines inked into your skin caught his eye immediately but he didn’t let his gaze linger. 

He couldn’t lie - he had noticed the constant long-sleeved blouses and sweaters you wore, but didn’t pry. If you had something you wanted to hide from the world, Marcus was sure you would tell him when you were ready to. But now that he knew it was just what appeared to be some amazing tattoos, he was a bit confused. They were beautiful. Why would you want to hide them? 

You were obviously having a hard time. The hard set of your jaw and scrunched state of your eyebrows would have been enough to tell him that even if he wasn’t watching you try to clean the coffee from your skin with a pack of wet wipes. Your hair wasn’t tied back like it usually would. Instead it hung loose around your shoulders, falling in your face every now and then and making you huff in annoyance. 

Annoyed, sticky, and absolutely over the day, and you still looked god damn ethereal. How did he get so lucky?

“How can I help?” Marcus asked as he rounded your desk and you gave him a grateful smile. 

“Can you grab the extra shirt from the cupboard? Thank god I have a back up at least.” If there was one thing you could always count on, it was Marcus Pike being the best man on Earth. You smiled when he handed you the clean shirt before he began wiping your desk clean. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Of course,” Marcus tossed the soiled wipes into your trashcan, grinning and pumping his arm animatedly when they went in. What an adorable dork. He ran his hands up and down your biceps gently and you almost shivered at the warmth of his palms. “What happened?”

“Coffee has betrayed me at every turn this morning.” You pouted again as you leaned into his chest. The sight of Marcus staring down at you with that concerned, loving gaze made fluttering erupt in your belly. 

“So I suppose I shouldn’t ask if you want to get some with me for lunch, huh?” Marcus asked with that breathtaking mischievous smile and you couldn’t help but crack up at him. His thumbs rubbed circles into your skin and you glanced down, watching his fingertip run over the lines of your tattoo. You realized with a jolt that he had never seen them before. 

Your body art was something you loved - you didn’t spend endless hours in a chair getting stabbed with needles a million times for nothing. The dark swirls of ink were intricate, something that you used to be complimented on often. Until your ex came along, of course. It wasn’t as if you hid them from him. No, he was well aware that you had tattoos and planned to get more, so when he asked you to cover them up before going out one night you had been confused, and then pissed. 

Who the hell had he been to tell you to hide a part of yourself that you loved?

Those subtle requests morphed into small jabs and complaints. Over time, you began covering them by habit, trying to avoid the whole mess altogether. It wasn’t worth arguing about, you convinced yourself. Once he tried to convince you to get them removed? No, that was the last straw. Even though he wasn’t even a blip on your radar, you still found yourself keeping them covered, a small, insecure voice in your head warning you of a threat that was no longer there. 

You held your arm out, giving him silent permission to openly follow the linework, and Marcus took the opportunity with a smile. His touch was as gentle as ever, up and down your arm from piece to piece. “Sorry, I know they aren’t everyone’s cup of tea,”

“Do you like them?” The question catches you off guard but you nod immediately. There wasn’t a doubt in your mind about their importance to you or their beauty. Marcus shrugged. “Nothing else matters then.”

Tension you hadn’t even realized you had been holding melted away from your chest. The way he looked at you… it was the same appreciation and intensity he reserved for the artwork obtained by the team, his gaze hungry for every detail he had the honor of seeing firsthand. 

“Do you like them?” You whispered, your curiosity getting the better of you. 

“They’re beautiful.” Marcus doesn’t miss a beat. “I’d love to hear the stories behind them, if there are any.”

“Yeah, there are a few.” You guided his hand up to press a kiss to his knuckles before settling back on your arm, your chest thick with an emotion you couldn’t quite name. Marcus immediately began following the lines again and you chuckled. “You really like them, huh?”

“Honestly? I think they’re sexy.” Marcus murmured as he pulled you against his chest by your waist and you positively flushed. The image of Marcus’s tongue tracing your tattoos enveloped you unbiddenly. You bit back a groan - that man was going to be the death of you. 

You pressed up on your tiptoes and kissed him. The woes of your morning faded into the background at the delighted sound he gave against your lips, one hand abandoning your waist to hold you steady at your jaw. You draped your arms over his shoulders and lost yourself in his warmth, his comfort. There wasn’t a thing in this world that Marcus couldn’t make better with a few soft words and a gentle touch.

[thiswasinevitableid]

Gift (Indruck)

A second fill for @crepuscularlives

16. we didn’t read the invitation that said this party was formal so we’re in our ugly christmas sweaters. SFW

Duck’s fully prepared for Aubrey, and maybe even Mama, to tease him for his Newton family christmas sweater. When he gets to the Lodge to find everyone dressed swanky, he thinks it’s some sort of elaborate prank. He decides to ask Barclay, since he tends to be less invested in pranks than the others. 

“Uhhh” Barclay points to a stray invite, “it said formal, see? We thought a change of pace would be fun.”

“Fuck. I just came straight from a family thing, didn’t think it’d matter.”

Barclay pats his shoulder with a warm smile, “Don’t worry about it, man, it’s not like anyone’s gonna toss you out for it.”

Duck grumbles something about not wanting to stick out as he turns, and spies an even uglier sweater across the room. It’s bright green and fire-engine red with, covered in old-school colored bulb christmas lights, blinking like fireflies. 

Somehow, it suits Indrid perfectly.

The Sylph waves when we spots Duck, coming over to join him by the drinks table. 

“Hello Duck, I’m glad this is the future where you’re here.” He ladles himself a mug from one of the two crockpots of eggnog. 

“Howdy, ‘Drid. Glad I ain’t the only one who went for the ugly sweater vibe.”

Indrid cocks his head, “This is the nicest thing I own.”

Duck groans, reaches up to hide behind a hat that isn’t there.

Indrids smile widens, “I’m joking. It was a, ah, what do always call it...ah yes, a goof.”

He laughs, relieved, “Jesus, you got me good.”

“It’s payback for the time you convinced me that squirrels were carnivorous.” 

Duck snickers at the memory of Indrid, in his moth form in the woods, eyeing the squirrels warily. 

He joins Aubrey, Thacker, and Dani by the fire, and Indrid wanders over to oin them, taking a seat next to Duck when the human scoots over to offer him it. Thacker talks about the library and the regrowing cities, and Indrid’s face turns wistful. Duck suspects only he can see it, Indrid’s glasses showing enough of his eyes from the side to make emotions clearer. 

(Indrid always sits across from people. The last few times they’ve met up, he sits next to Duck).

In spite of only some gentle ribbing about his clothes, he keeps picking at the sleeve of the sweater. It’s a little itchy, and he could have worn that nice green shirt with the pine tree tie that he likes. And every time he catches a glimpse of himself in a window, he’s back in space, watching an evil hivemind recreate it’s pattern on a mimic of his sister. 

“Is it bothering you a lot?” Indrid murmurs.

“N-no, uh, I, uh, just, fuck, it’s nothin,” He stops talking, flees Indrid’s red stare to refill his cider. He pauses to talk with Kirby and Ned, is looking around the room for a new spot to sit (and for Indrid), only for a tan hand to wave him into a hallway. 

“Here, try this.” Indrid ties a discarded gift ribbon around his wrist, and he’s no longer looking down at the wool sweater and jeans. He’s in a deep gray suit, with a green shirt and a silver tie. 

“Holy shit. Wait, do I look-”

“-different? No, I left your physical form intact. I can make disguises of different magnitudes. A simple clothing swap is easily done. And I, ah, I did not want you to spend a night with friends lost in frightening memories.”

Duck’s about to thank him when the words sink in. 

“There was a future where you told me. I, ah, you’ve mentioned what you saw at Reconciliation before, but not that detail.”

“Wasn’t scared so much as pissed.” Duck glances at his shoes, now well-shined loafers. 

“Understandable. And useful; the odds were not in your favor, believe me. But well-timed anger can change the course of fate. Just as choosing mercy--even when others urge for violence--can. Punching me also reset fate rather dramatically.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

Indrid’s smile is small, and stunningly fake, “It was for the best. I’m going to get some more nog. Would you like some?”

“Nah, still gotta finish this. But I do wanna try some of that salmon dip.”

“In true bear fashion.” Indrid’s smile turns genuine when Duck snorts and elbows him. 

They talk and mingle with their friends, Indrid making frequent returns to the nog bowl. Duck steps outside for air, comes back and spends a moment watching Indrid by the fire. Stern notices him, steps away from an animated conversation with a ghostly Boyd about art forgery to join him. 

“Quite the dapper costume change.”

“Thanks. ‘Drid did it for me.”

Stern follows Duck’s gaze, then casually sip his wine, “Have you told him yet?”

“Told, uh, told him what?”

“Duck, you spend more time with him than almost anyone else.”

“Half my friends live on another planet now.”

“And every time you look at him, your smile changes. His does too. According to Barclay, he talks about you like you’re the most fascinating thing on earth. Right, love?” He kisses Barclay’s cheek as the cook joins them.

“Yep.”

There’s a crash as Indrid loses his balance and knocks over a lamp, which Aubrey freezes mid-air.

“Shit, he’s hammered.” Barclay sounds surprised. 

“How much rum did you put in the nog?” Duck doesn’t remember the sip he had from Indrid’s cup tasting that strong. 

“I made two batches, one with booze and one without. Indrid was drinking the non-spiked one earlier. Wonder when he switched.”

“About the time Duck changed clothes.”

“...How did you not catch us durin the Pine Guard days again?”

Stern smiles, “Barclay can be very distracting when he wants to be. And none of you have ever asked exactly how much I worked out.”

He has a point. As does Barclay when he points out that Indrid should have someone take him home after the party.

When Duck offers him a ride, Indrid chirps excitedly, bonks his forehead on the roof of the car, and climbs in. By the time they get back to the ‘Bago, Duck knows he can’t just leave Indrid here.

“You’re staying?” Indrid bounces on the bed as Duck turns on the space heaters. 

“Just ‘til you sober up. I’ll stay out in the main cab so you can sleep.”

Indrid lets out a chirr that intensifies when Duck slips the ribbon from his wrist. It almost sounds perturbed. 

“I mean, uh, I can go if you really need me to.”

Indrid shakes his head, barely managing to get his shoes off before burrowing under to covers, “Please stay as long as you want.” 

Duck nods, excuses himself to use the bathroom, and comes back to Indrid chirp-snoring into the pillows. He’s such a cute, weird man. Duck will just sit down a second to make sure he doesn’t wake up and need something. 

The one small seat is taken up by a binder, which opens when Duck lifts it. Instead of the expected paper avalanche, he finds drawings, each in their own plastic slip. He flips through it as he settles in the chair. Interspersed with the drawings are papers labeled in one or two two words of Sylph, and Duck reverse engineers their likely meanings from the images that follow them. The section with all the plants and animals must be “nature,” the one with parties and state fairs “events.” There’s even a section that’s all elements of winter holidays; the Rockefeller tree with decorations that suggest the 1930s, a menorah in a window, candles on the table of a house that’s seen better days.  Towards the back is a section that has to be “friends.” There are one or two people who appear in images with Indrid. Including the kind that make Duck quickly turn the page. The further he gets in that section, the more familiar faces he sees; Barclay, Aubrey, Jake, Ned. 

He sees himself, returning from saving the world, battered but alive. 

“The odds were not good”

Tucked at the very back of the section, between the final empty pages and the binder, is a folded paper. Curious, Duck opens it. 

It’s him. With Indrid. They’re on Indrid’s tiny bed, kissing.

God that looks nice. 

Startled by his own thoughts, he tucks the picture back into the binder and sets the whole thing on the floor. Decides one of the paperbacks strewn on the floor is a better way to occupy himself then accidentally finding more personal images. 

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

The world is ending, everything is ripping away into the sky, everything he’s fought for is gone. He failed. He didn’t want a destiny, and he’s failed the fucking thing anyway and it’s all gone and there’s no future for him now but to be torn into ash-

“Duck, Duck wake up” 

He jolts, whams his head into the wall of the very intact Winnebago at the edge of the still standing Monongahela while a very alive, now-sober Indrid leans over him. 

“Owfuck.”

“Oh, oh no, I’m sorry, you were very clearly having a nightmare and I figured you’d like it to stop.”

“Yeah” He rubs his head, “yeah I did. Thanks. Sorry if I woke you up.”

“Given that in many futures our positions were reversed, I don’t have a lot of room to complain about someone shouting in their sleep.” Indrid sits down on the floor next to the chair, stays silent as Duck coaxes his breathing to even out. A hand hesitates in the air, then touches his arm, rubbing it reassuringly. 

No one else saw it. Not even Minerva or Leo, the only people who could understand the horror of seeing a thing unfold with scant chances of stopping it. 

Indrid’s hand brush lightly over his own before returning to his arm. 

No, not the only people. 

“Indrid, can I ask you somethin?”

“Of course.”

“The day we let The Quell through and saved the worlds did you, uh, did you see what woulda happened if Aubrey hadn’t blown the gate apart?”

“Yes.” The reply is quiet.

“Do you, uh, still see it sometimes?”

“Now and then, but I have far more bad timelines in my mind, and more failures in my past, for my nightmares to draw upon than you do. That is half the reason I drank so much tonight. Around the time of the winter solstice, my nightmares increase in frequency and intensity, Sylvain only knows why. Sometimes substances dull that.”

“Oh, ‘Drid.” Duck turns in the chair. Indrid’s gaze stays straight ahead, but his fingers shred a nearby scrap of paper. 

“The irony is, I love this time of year on Earth, in spite of the chill. I love the winter holidays, the gathering of warmth and light to hold one over until the spring returns. But my enjoyment of it is dampened by the workings of my powers and mind.”

“Fuck, guess I oughta count myself lucky I only got a few bad visions to remember.” The joke falls flat, and Indrid glances at him. 

“That vision is nothing to laugh at. I’m glad you had it all the same, glad you triumphed and survived.”

“Woulda really sucked to accept my destiny only to fail at the last fuckin second.”

He shuts his mouth to stop the next thought from escaping; Indrid doesn’t need to know that he sometimes fears that everything he’s done and wants to do now that fate is no longer hanging a talking sword over his head will somehow be hollow.

“You were so much more than your destiny, Duck Newton. You still are.” 

The sincerity, half-obscured in shadow and red lens, is too much. He doesn’t know what to say, or if he should say anything at all. 

“Guess, uh, guess you likin the holidays explains that section in the binder.”

“Yes. Wait. Did, ah, did you look through the whole thing?” Fear slips into his voice. 

“Uhhuh.”

“Even the, ah, the last page?”

“Yep. Some real beautiful drawin’s in there. Some mighty interestin ones too.”

Indrid nervously taps his fingers together, “Since you are about to ask, that future took place shortly after the cottonwood. You, you came by to apologize for punching me and to tell me you were glad I was alright and, and ask me to stay in Kepler and when I asked why, you did that. Just one little kiss. That’s as far as I got before the timelines changed. It’s, it’s alright, of course, that’s how timelines work, and you did eventually apologize.”

He did, two or three separate times, and each time Indrid brushed it off, insisting it was what needed to be done.

Duck sinks to the floor, turns on his knees to bring them face to face. 

“What are you-” Indrid stiffens as Duck gingerly pushes up his glasses. He’s never seen Indrid’s face like this, uncovered but still human, and it takes all the air from his lungs.

“Which eye did I hit?”

Indrid touches the right side of his face. Duck tips forward, balancing his fingers on Indrids thighs, and kisses the corner of his right eye.

“There. Now it’s a real apology.” He whispers in Indrid’s ear, close enough that faint, hopeful chirps reach him. He moves a few inches down and over, lips the barest strip of air away from Indrid’s own. 

“You, you don’t have to. Just because something appears in a future doesn’t mean it’s fated to happen.”

“What if I want it to happen?”

Indrid surges forward, cupping Duck’s face. His kisses re feather-light and sweeter than nectar, and Duck wants to drink them down, knows that after this taste he’ll never be full. 

“Duck I, h, I want” Indrid clings to him, his words turning to chirps nd clicks, as he’s so overwhelmed by a little kissing.

“Want me to keep, uh, ‘apologizin?”

“So very much.”

“Then take me to bed, darlin.”

The instant they hit the bed Indrid pulls Duck atop him, fingers fawning over his body as he kisses him over and over. When they stop to catch their breath, Duck remembers something,

“‘Drid, what was the other half of the reason you got drunk?”

“A problem of my own making. I did not foresee just how you would look in your suit, and I was trying to avoid an, ah, embarrassing bodily response. Alcohol helps my kind of Sylph in that regard.”

Duck chuckles, nips Indrid’s lower lip, “want me to put it back on?”

“Not just yet.”

“Want me to kiss you ‘til we fall asleep?”

“More than I’ve wanted anything for Christmas in a long time.”

Duck kisses him, keeps teasing their lips together as he murmurs, “then consider me your resent, darlin.”

[carewyncromwell]

The Cinderella AU is back...and with it, a proper introduction to the character who fills the “evil stepmother” role -- Carewyn’s cold, cruel grandfather, Charles Cromwell. If you’d like to learn more about Charles and his family’s canon counterparts, you can consult this post, but to summarize quickly, in Carewyn’s canon, Carewyn’s mother Lane ran away from home to elope with a Muggle, which ended up protecting Carewyn and Jacob from Charles’s emotionally abusive influence. (At least until R started going after them, because hey, what d’you know, in Carey-bear’s canon, Charles is R’s leader.) But in this AU, Carewyn has to answer to Charles for some reason...so yeah, that doesn’t bode well, does it? You’ll just have to read on to learn a little more about why that might be...

Fashion changed very dramatically during the Renaissance, thanks in large part to the cross-pollination of different cultures and influences that came from more extensive travel, the growing popularity of published works, and royal funding of the arts. Pre-Renaissance men’s fashion, at least for the nobility, was very big on oversized sleeves, which ended up creating a more “top-heavy” frame. (Just look at most portraits of King Henry VIII.) As the Renaissance went on, though, trunk hose (which creates that kind of “bubble butt” look that we’re used to seeing in William Shakespeare Halloween costumes) became the latest fad, shifting a man’s frame to be much more “bottom-heavy.” Women’s fashion briefly flirted with wide trumpet sleeves (as one can see in this portrait of a young Elizabeth Tudor, later Queen Elizabeth I), but by the time the 1550′s were over, rounded sleeves grew much more popular. Fitted sleeves also went in and out of style in a lot of Europe throughout the 16th century, though sleeves were considered a special feature on gowns, so they often had a lot of embellishments, such as paneling, embroidery, or puffs. One exception to this rule, however, was in Italy, where fitted, detachable sleeves that could be used on multiple gowns became fashionable. Fashion in Italy in the 16th century was notably understated and modest compared to a lot of Europe, which tended to favor a lot of ornate beading and embroidery -- there were even laws on the books restricting how “bedazzled” women’s fashion could be. One such law even banned stripes, as it was considered wasteful to use two different kinds of fabric just to make a pattern. That being said, there were plenty of people in Italy who said “screw the rules” and worked around them anyway. Carewyn’s dress in this picture is somewhat based on this design, but with some tweaking, most notably with a fuller skirt and more ornate and puffy sleeves.

Previous part is here -- whole tag is here -- and I hope you enjoy!

x~x~x~x

When the end of the month arrived, Andre requested that Carewyn come to his chambers bright and early in the morning. Carewyn had anticipated that the prince had some extra duties for her to attend to, but instead, he immediately led her over to a corner of his bed chamber that he’d drawn a curtain around. When he pulled the curtain back, he revealed a full tailoring station inside his walk-in closet, complete with organized rolls of fabric, various jewels and beads strewn about over a table, several unfinished hats stacked on the nearby desk, an entire separate wardrobe of unfinished pieces, and several mannequins with fine fabrics half-pinned on them.

One mannequin, however, was wearing a completely finished, luxurious dark scarlet gown. It was made of about six different fabrics, all cut and sewn together in a complex tapestry of folds and textures and trimmed with many sparkling beads and jewels. Also lying on the floor just in front of the dress was a pair of heeled shoes made of off-white cloth with red and white roses sewn into the toes.

Carewyn couldn’t help but gape. Andre was grinning from ear to ear.

“So?” he asked. “What do you think?”

Carewyn glanced out the side of her eye at the prince, over to the dress, and back.

“Did you...make this, your Highness?” she asked, amazed.

Andre laughed. “Carewyn, please, it’s ‘Andre.’ But yes! I got inspired while working on your shoes, so I stitched this up to go with it. ...Do you like it?”

Carewyn walked around the mannequin to look over the gown, not daring to touch it. She’d never seen so many fine fabrics on one dress before -- velvet, linen, silk -- and all the embellishments must’ve taken full days to finish --

“It’s -- well, it’s extraordinary, your -- Andre,” she corrected herself very quickly noticing the prince’s pointed smile. Even she was finding it difficult not to smile too. “The beading on the sleeves, the lace work -- the alternating wool and cotton paneling along the bodice...it’s worthy of an artisan!”

Andre looked clearly both incredibly pleased and impressed. “You have an eye for detail, Carewyn!”

His face burst into a bright white grin as he bent down and picked up one of the off-white cloth shoes.

“I’m pleased you like it,” he said brightly. “I thought it’d be the perfect thing for you to wear today. Lord Cromwell sent a message to the palace asking Father if you could return home for a visit -- so I worked all night to get this done in time so that you could wear it for your outing with your new shoes.”

Despite her best efforts, Carewyn couldn’t completely keep the dismay and discomfort she felt off her face.

“What? Oh -- oh, your Highness, I -- ”

“Ah, ah, ah,” chided Andre, “what have I asked you to call me?”

“Andre,” Carewyn corrected very quickly, her eyes drifting up onto the dress rather than at Andre, “this dress is...truly beautiful...but it befits a lady of status, not -- ”

“It fits you,” Andre said, undaunted. “I used the measurements from your uniform fitting. It should fit you like a glove -- or better.”

Carewyn felt like her stomach was shriveling up. She hated turning away such a lovely gift -- under any other circumstances, she would love wearing it out and about. But...

“That...that is...it’s so kind of you, to use me as your template...”

Or “dress-up doll” -- that is what the Queen said I would be, isn’t it?

“...but I simply couldn’t wear such a gift on my visit...not when I have no comparable gifts to bring my cousins. Many of them are around my age, and...and well, I know Heather, Iris, and Dahlia would be very upset, knowing I got to wear such a beautiful dress and they didn’t.”

None of her cousins had ever been very respectful of Carewyn’s personal belongings. Not long after she first arrived, her aunt Pearl’s two bullying sons, Kain and Arsen, stole her jewelry box while she was sleeping and sold both it and its contents for pocket change. Her youngest cousin, her uncle Blaise’s bratty son Tristan, had once thrown a bottle of red wine out the window that shattered mere feet away from Carewyn and soaked her dress so badly that it never washed out. Even Iris had -- after Carewyn caught the eye of one of her suitors who’d come to call -- ripped the sleeve off Carewyn’s dress so badly that she had to hide from sight for most of the day, until she’d managed to sew it up enough that her chest wasn’t exposed. Carewyn had had to hide her mother’s old dress from her cousins for years, for fear they might steal and/or ruin it.

Andre frowned deeply.

“Well, I hardly can send along anything for your cousins without knowing their measurements,” he said with a quick glance at the wardrobe full of unfinished pieces.

His face then brightened with an idea.

“How about this -- I’ll order you. I order you to wear this dress on your trip home, and to have your cousins give you their honest opinion of it. Then you must bring their opinions back to me. Goodness knows I could use some feedback -- and maybe a few new ideas, if they have them,” he added with a teasing grin.

Carewyn opened her mouth to object, but Andre cut her off.

“As your prince, I command you to showcase my work to your family,” he said through a broad grin. “Am I clear?”

Carewyn really, really didn’t love the idea -- but she had to concede that she could use this to her advantage. She needed a stable place at the palace in order to achieve her goals, and she could help maintain that stable place at the palace by justifying to Charles why she had to be there. And Charles’s whole interest in her being there was to try to endear the Cromwells further to the royal family, and maybe even secure one of her Aunt Claire’s daughters a space in that family...

So, with a heavy sigh, she put on a small smile and inclined her head respectfully.

“Very well, Andre. I’ll wear your work proudly.”

And so Carewyn set off for the Cromwell estate on horseback, dressed in the new shoes and dress Andre had made for her. The shoes were lovely and fit perfectly, but they were rather impractical for walking around outdoors. Carewyn thought to herself that she might have to continue wearing her old shoes when she returned to her palace work, if for no other reason that she hated the thought of getting them scuffed up.

As to be expected, when she arrived, her cousins reacted very hostilely to her appearance.

“Well, well,” sneered curly-black-haired Kain, “what do we have here? Playacting as a lady, little Winnie?”

“All hail Lady Cinderwyn, Duchess of Dust!” sniggered his similarly dark-haired brother Arsen.

He reached for her wide skirt, but Carewyn -- remaining on her horse -- steered herself far enough back that he couldn’t reach.

“I wouldn’t damage this, if I were you,” she said as coolly and levelly as she could. “It’s not mine.”

Arsen and Kain exchanged a mocking, wide-eyed look and an “oooooh.”

“Are you a thief now, little Winnie?” asked Kain. “How far you’ve fallen -- we might need to call the castle guard on you -- ”

“Cinderwyn’s a thief!” crowed tiny Tristan in a sing-song voice. “Cinderwyn’s a thief!”

Claire’s three daughters looked a lot less mocking.

“You have some nerve, stealing clothes from your betters,” spat dainty, brown-haired Heather. “Grandfather should lash you within an inch of your life -- ”

“I haven’t stolen anything,” Carewyn said very firmly. “Now I wish to see Grandfather. I have a message from the Prince he’ll want to hear.”

“Grandfather’s inside,” said Claire’s gangling, button-nosed son Elmer with a crooked smile. “I’m sure he’ll enjoy your new look, Lady Cinderwyn...especially with the finishing touch!”

He jumped right into a mud puddle that splashed everywhere. Carewyn just barely avoided the spray, but when she moved back, Dahlia and Iris successfully grabbed hold of her velvet brocaded skirt and yanked hard in either direction, as if trying to rip it.

“Iris -- Dahlia --  ” said Carewyn, her voice growing colder and harder as she struggled to hold in her temper and emotion as best she could, “if either of you have any ambition to marry his Highness, I would strongly suggest letting go of his dress this instant!”

All of Carewyn’s cousins stiffened.

“His dress?” repeated Dahlia, looking outraged. “You mean to say you took this from the Prince?!”

“He bid me to wear it, for my visit,” Carewyn shot back fiercely. “Or would you have me oppose his Highness’s will?”

“You...arrogant, pretentious, ungrateful little rat!” shrieked Dahlia. She tried to yank Carewyn off her horse, and there was a slight struggle as Carewyn tried to both comfort her horse and prevent Dahlia from dislodging her.

“Now, now, children,” said a very coldly serene voice, “a little less noise there.”

All of the Cromwell children looked up to see Charles Cromwell striding across the lawn. He was dressed in black, gray, and white with a dark red cape with black trim, and he supported himself on an ebony-wood cane with a dragon’s head carved out of black zircon for a handle. Behind him were Carewyn’s aunts, Pearl and Claire, with their husbands, as well as her uncle Blaise. All three of them were looking over Carewyn’s outfit disapprovingly -- Blaise looked particularly irritated, his upper lip curling as he rested a hand on top of Tristan’s shoulder that made the small boy flinch.

Iris and Dahlia were still clinging to Carewyn’s skirt, but they’d frozen up like startled cats when their grandfather appeared.

“Grandfather -- ” stammered Iris, “W-Winnie’s a no-good thief -- she stole this dress from -- !”

"I have stolen nothing,” Carewyn repeated coldly. She stroked her horse’s white mane several times to soothe it.

Pearl too had come up to rest a hand on Arsen’s shoulder and was looking at Carewyn very critically out her own almond-shaped blue eyes -- most of Carewyn’s family had them.

“Is that so?” she said, her voice a low growl in her throat. “Explain, then, what gives you the nerve to show up here dressed in such obnoxious clothes.”

“It’s positively garish,” added Claire in a higher, simpering tone from her comfortable spot in her husband’s arms, mirroring her sister’s disapproval like a child would imitate their older sibling.

Carewyn raised her eyebrows very coolly. “Prince Henri will be very disappointed to hear that. He worked very hard on this.”

This startled all of the Cromwells. Blaise looked scandalized.

“And I suppose that makes you think the Prince favors you somehow?” he spat, his eyes flashing dangerously as he released Tristan’s shoulder and approached Carewyn’s horse. “Rather than just thinking of using you as some saucy little tart and then discarding you, just like your wretch of a father did your mother -- ”

"I think nothing of the sort,” Carewyn cut him off coldly.

Don’t you dare talk about my mother.

Charles, the least visibly startled, took a few steps forward. Iris and Dahlia finally released Carewyn’s skirt so as to get out of the way, and Charles came to a stop about three feet from Carewyn’s horse, his own almond-shaped eyes locked on his ginger-haired granddaughter’s face.

“I believe you owe me a full report, child,” he said quietly. “Stand before me and give it.”

Carewyn’s red-painted lips pursed as she picked up her skirts and descended from her horse at last. She looked up at Charles with a very stoic expression.

“Prince Henri learned that I would be coming to see you, as per your request,” she explained. “He commanded that I wear this dress, for my visit. He’s heard about my cousins and desires Dahlia, Iris, and Heather’s opinions on it. Then he requested I deliver their feedback back to him this evening.”

The time limit was a flat-out lie, but one Carewyn knew she could get away with. She did not want to stay at the Cromwell estate overnight -- she’d rather sleep on a lumpy old cot in the servants’ quarters than on the floor by the kitchen fireplace. 

Claire looked at Charles, her face breaking into a rather eager expression. “His Highness wishes to hear from my daughters? He must have heard from the rest of the court of their extensive talents -- ”

“Or at least purported talents,” said Blaise under his breath with a rather cynical look. “Seems the rumor mill is working well...“

Pearl shot Blaise a glare, but Claire didn’t seem to hear him -- she had already whirled on Carewyn.

“Tell his Highness that the dress is a work of art, fit for a queen!” she said insistently. “And make sure that he knows that there are much better models for his work here, at the Cromwell estate -- Iris has a far superior build, Dahlia the most perfect shoulders -- ”

“I suppose Winnie can do far worse than inanely fawning over your daughters’ target on their behalf,” said Blaise in a rather cutting voice. “Mindlessly swooning certainly worked for you.”

“Blaise!” Pearl snapped reproachfully.

Charles’s eyes drifted over Claire and her three anxious-looking daughters thoughtfully.

“...What feedback...do you believe would most please his Highness, child?” he asked Carewyn.

“He appreciated it when I noticed the details,” said Carewyn. “I would think if anyone had any creative ideas to add onto it...or perhaps constructive criticism...he might react well to it. His Highness is very interested in fashion and tailoring...I’m sure he would appreciate knowing someone who could indulge in that passion with him.”

He must be awfully lonely, locked up in the palace all the time. It’s no wonder he tried to find things to do indoors that could bring him some joy, if he’s unable to go much of anywhere...

Charles’s eyes flitted over the silk and ornate beading on Carewyn’s sleeves.

“His Highness certainly does have an eye for finery...has the royal family come into additional wealth recently?”

“I don’t think so,” said Carewyn. “The castle staff is very limited. And although the nobility are all dressed and fed well and the castle is decadent, the staff is frequently short of common necessities like nails and coal for the fire. Not to mention the staff’s rations are sparse.”

Iris gave a loud, haughty laugh. “Ha! Probably just as well -- you could do with getting some of that meat off your thighs!”

“Iris,” said Charles very sleekly, even as the rest of Carewyn’s cousins sniggered.

His lips curled up in a smile that didn’t touch his eyes.

“...It seems that the King and Queen are indeed in need of our family’s charity. But we must indulge their pride. It’ll be far easier for them to accept help from a future daughter-in-law and princess than simply from a loyal servant of the realm. Carewyn -- you shall report back what his Highness wishes to hear. Customize three answers for Heather, Iris, and Dahlia -- one fawning, one critical, one creative. Whichever answer he likes best, we will then pursue that route with the cousin you’ve assigned to it.”

His almond-shaped blue eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly upon Carewyn’s face.

“And once we’ve secured an invitation from the Prince...I expect that you will step aside, to make room for your cousin to make her move.”

Carewyn’s expression didn’t shift.

“I’m not interested in courting princes,” she said lowly.

Heather, Iris, and Dahlia can knock themselves out. Andre will see through them sooner or later, and it’ll be all their own fault.

There was a cold, diamond-like glint in Charles’s eye. “...Yes...you truly don’t care to chase any man except for your brother...do you, Carewyn, my dear?”

Carewyn tried not to blink or look away.

“You have news of Jacob?”

Charles sighed airily. “I’m afraid not, my dear. I know he’s well, of course...but news from the War front, as you know, is simply impossible to come by...”

“You know he’s alive,” Carewyn shot back a bit more sharply than she meant to. “That doesn’t mean he’s well. No one could be doing well out there.”

“And yet I’m sure you’re happy that the first is guaranteed?” said Charles. “At least, so long as you do your duty to your family, and to me?”

It was a warning, but it was done so delicately -- it was like his voice was flirting with a threat, rather than flat-out making one.

Carewyn’s lips came together tightly as her gaze drifted to the ground.

“You know I wish no harm to come to either you or Jacob,” Charles said softly. “Losing a child was terrible enough, losing grandchildren as well...well, it would deeply upset me. And per our agreement, you are the one who must shoulder the burden of your brother’s and your debt to me...particularly since you have no dowry and no possible claim to my estate. Remember, Carewyn...you are responsible for how you are treated -- and for how Jacob is treated.” 

Carewyn’s eyebrows knit tightly together over her closed eyes.

“...Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now then -- rehearse the answers you plan to give to his Highness with your cousins. I wish them to sound convincing, so that when one or more of them is invited to the palace, they will be able to play their part appropriately.”

Carewyn hated every minute of hashing out responses with Heather, Iris, and Dahlia. Like their mother Claire, they and Elmer were all “follower” type personalities who tended to echo whatever they thought would please others -- so Dahlia, Iris, and Heather were constantly trying to steal each other’s ideas to “improve” Carewyn’s answers, despite all three of them supposedly needing to take three different approaches as part of Charles’s plan. Even the three girls’ hostile attitude toward Carewyn largely came down to her refusing to follow their direction, despite her lowered status in the family giving them authority over her -- something that, Carewyn believed, they would never do if their positions were switched.

When Carewyn was finally ready to leave (and successfully avoided Tristan’s muddy hands when the wickedly grinning little boy forcibly tried to hug her goodbye so he could leave stains on her dress), Blaise pulled Charles aside. As the male heir of the Cromwell legacy, Blaise had always followed in his father’s footsteps most, but there was one thing they didn’t agree on.

“Father,” he said, his voice very low in the back of his throat as he watched Carewyn ride away at a fast gallop, “I don’t approve of her returning to that place.”

Charles smiled coldly. “You always have disliked sharing your toys with others, Blaise.”

“It’s a bad influence!” said Blaise, whirling on his father. “We can’t monitor what she does, how she behaves -- who she speaks to -- how can we hope to keep her, if we consistently open her cage?”

Charles’s eyes, the same color and shape of all of his children and most of his grandchildren, sparkled with something crueler.

“Ah, my boy,” he said sardonically, “you have much to learn about cages. Physical cages have strong bars, but ones easy to see and constantly weathered. But a cage forged carefully in another’s mind...can become so strong that the prisoner willingly chooses to stay.”

Charles turned on his heel, his lips curling up further still even though his face remained so doll-like and emotionless.

“As weak and overemotional of a thing she is, Carewyn is far more like you and me than Lane ever was. She’s very resourceful and she’ll do whatever she has to in order to get what she wants -- and that drive fuels everything she is and does. It may make her spirited, but it also makes it so that as long as she sees Jacob’s life in the palm of my hand...so too will she be.”

Blaise’s eyes flickered with a strange skepticism. “And...if Jacob’s life were ever not under your sway?”

Charles’s expression grew even more detached and emotionless as his smile faded and his eyebrows raised.

“...Would Carewyn really want to contemplate what state he’d be in, if he weren’t?”

Carewyn couldn’t be happier to leave the Cromwell estate behind. She didn’t slow down her horse’s pace until she’d reached the outskirts of the market, well after the manor house was out of sight. Only then did she slow her horse down to a leisurely trot, so that she could enjoy some time on her own wandering down the village streets before heading back to the palace. The castle staff wasn’t expecting her back to work until the following morning, so she could take her time.

Unfortunately for Carewyn, there was another reason her cousin Tristan’s hands had been so muddy -- and that reason soon became apparent when Carewyn reached into one of the pockets on the side of her saddle, thinking to temporarily change out of the pretty shoes Andre had given her and were now pinching her feet for the ride home. When she reached into the pocket, she instead found the tiny snake that Tristan had stolen out of the reeds by the nearby pond.

With a scream of surprise, Carewyn flung the snake to the ground -- the snake arched back, hissing angrily, and that in turn spooked Carewyn’s horse. With a loud, scared whinny, it reared back, bucking wildly.

“Whoa!” cried Carewyn. “Whoa, boy -- whoa!”

Several passerby turned around at the sound of the noise. A few looked like they wanted to help, but were too warded off by the horse’s kicking feet. Carewyn tried desperately to calm her horse, stroking its mane with one hand and clinging desperately onto the reins with the other, but it was no use. She wasn’t strong enough to wrench her horse into submission. And so when the horse gave a particularly violent jerk, Carewyn was thrown right off.

“AHH!”

Out of nowhere, someone dashed forward. Carewyn ended up slamming right into them, and the two landed roughly in a heap in the dirt.

Carewyn watched her horse gallop off the street, her face very tense and distraught. She then looked down at the person she’d landed on top of, and she gave a visible start.

Her “hero” was a man about her age dressed in modest clothes with tanned skin, slightly-too-long dark hair, and a beard. His sparkling black eyes were squinted slightly as he winced in pain, but nonetheless shone with some concern as he looked her over.

“Are you hurt, Lady Cromwell?” asked Orion.

[chilling-seavey]

Amoureux (c.s./d.s.) - Chapter Seventeen

A/N Things are going to have to chill soon... the wedding is approaching quickly...

Despite Louisa and Daniel’s strange and blossoming ‘relationship’, Louisa was more than busy with wedding preparation to spent more time with him, finally down to the final few arrangements that she was to help the Queen with: flowers, seating arrangements, and the details for the dress.

The dress was Louisa’s favourite part as she always had a soft spot for fashion. A tailor and dress designer came over to the palace to help her plan her perfect dress, taking down all her notes into a little sketch and a list of what she wanted included. She didn’t notice Daniel standing behind the doorway of the sitting room, listening to her excited voice when she spoke about her upcoming wedding, a small pout on his face. Even still, when her little meeting finished, they snuck off to their usual stairwell to make out, Daniel’s subconscious getting whiplash at the sound of her softly moaning his name over the two storey tall walls in comparison to her obvious excitement to marry his brother.

As the days went by, Louisa’s mood was skyrocketing but Daniel’s was land sliding, watching her rush back out of their stairwell to find Christian as he was left to sit on the stairs alone and hold his face in his hands and try to hold in his heartache. He regretted sneaking into Louisa’s room that night, finding himself falling so hard and fast for her…for a girl who could not love him back. They both knew perfectly well that going into this wouldn’t end up with a ‘happily ever after’ for them but Daniel somehow never processed that fact until the wedding was only a week away.

He stared silently out the window of the carriage as the family headed into the city to check on the Abbey and make sure wedding preparations were continuing as expected. Christian was sitting between Daniel and Louisa and simply his presence made Daniel on edge and he kept shifting as far away from his brother as possible, even Christian’s arm brushing his made him glare angrily at him.

“Can you get out of my space?” Daniel snapped, dramatically shoving himself against the wall of the carriage to get as far away as possible from his brother.

“Daniel, relax.” Christian rolled his eyes. “I swear you are always acting like a child.”

“You keep hitting my arm.” Daniel retorted.

“Whatever.” Christian scoffed, shuffling a bit closer to Louisa who was eyeing Daniel casually. He glanced at her hand in Christian’s and he looked back out the window. Louisa frowned and looked out her own window as well.

It was a brief ride to Westminster Abbey and soon the Royal Family was being led inside the church by the Royal Guards. Daniel stayed in the back of the group, arms crossed over his chest as he looked around the bustling church as the workers were setting up the finishing touches for the wedding. The last place he wanted to be was there.

Louisa was absolutely beaming, her arm tucked in Christian’s as one of the gentlemen in charge of the wedding designing led them down the aisle to show off everything that was being worked on to make the day perfect. Louisa asked plenty of questions as they all walked through exactly what would happen the day of, from when she would walk the aisle to how the wedding would proceed step by step and what was expected of them.

Daniel plopped himself down in one of the church pews and crossed his arms over his chest as he stared at his brother and Louisa at the alter with the bishop. It was one of those days where every little thing annoyed him and Daniel was rolling eyes at Christian’s beaming smile for the uncountable time that day and glaring at his brother’s hand on Louisa’s back as if his vision could physically remove it. When they continued with their little tour down the front of the church, Daniel was waved over by his mother and he sighed tiredly as he lugged himself up and shuffled after them. He leaned against a stone column a few feet away as the bishop pointed along the second storey railings where the flower arrangements would be set.

Louisa clapped quietly, excitedly, curling into Christian’s side and he rubbed his hand over her back. Daniel watched them silently, watching how Louisa’s eyes flicked to Christian’s lips and how her fingers tightened a little on his sleeve, both little actions which meant she wanted him to kiss her. Daniel knew them well. He also knew his brother well, knowing that Christian would never dare to kiss her in public, especially in a church and in front of the bishop.

Louisa glanced back at him, catching Daniel’s eye, and she sent him a half smile. He called her over with a light nod of his head and dipped around the corner. A few seconds later, she joined him.

“What is it?” Louisa whispered.

“Come find a place with me. Just for a few minutes.” Daniel asked, taking her hands in his.

“I cannot do that right now, Dani. We are here for me.” Louisa replied softly.

“Please? I’ll be quick. I just wanna kiss you.” Daniel leaned in but she set a hand on his chest to stop him and took a step back.

“Not here, Daniel. This is a church.” Louisa said sternly under her breath.

“Confessional is at the end of the wall there. Easy access.”

“Daniel, no.” Louisa frowned.

“Please?” Daniel tried again.

“I am marrying your brother in a week. We need to stop this now, okay?”

“No. No, you don’t mean that.” Daniel chuckled, disbelieving.

Louisa eyed the workers across the church, and she stepped back from him again, “I got to get back.”

“Louisa.” Daniel frowned.

She sent him a small smile as some sort of weak apology and she was rushing back to Christian and their little group. Daniel swore under his breath and smacked his hand against the stone wall, the loud echo reaching high into the church and a few workers glanced his way. He stomped off down the aisle to wait for his family outside on the front steps, being stuck between Jack and Zach as he was never allowed in the city alone for safety reasons. All he wanted was a moment for himself to think and collect his thoughts and spiraling emotions, but the two Royal Guards were stood on either side of him and nearly breathing down his neck.

“Can you leave me alone?” Daniel snapped, staring up at them from where he sat on the front steps of the Abbey.

“We are not permitted to leave your side outside of the Palace grounds, you know that.” Jack answered without looking at him.

“Why not? No one’s gonna shoot me.” Daniel grumbled.

“We do not now that for sure.” Zach retorted.

“I hate being from this stupid family.” Daniels aid through his teeth, holding his face in his hands. “I hate all their stupid rules and never being left alone ever.”

Jack and Zach glanced at each other over Daniel’s head but didn’t answer, letting the youngest son have his moment to vent.

“I don’t want to live like this! I don’t want to have you two breathing down my damn neck all the time! I don’t want to be silent until spoken to. I don’t want anything to do with the stupid government. I don’t want to be forced into some random marriage with some ugly stupid girl from a trashy country…I want to pick her myself. Hell, maybe I don’t even want to be married!” Daniel tossed a pebble onto the dirt road in front of him before pushing both hands through his hair in frustration and he tugged hard at the roots, “If I’m such a bloody disappointment to my family anyway I wish I was the kid that died of stupid typhus. Would have saved them so much trouble.”

Jack and Zach didn’t reply, keeping their expressionless stares forward. Their only job was to keep Daniel safe from potential attacks. The job description didn’t say anything about keeping him safe from his own mind.

[sidereal-fantasies]

Sincerely, Not You

[Choi San]

02: The Genius Writer’s Mind

WARNING(S): None

College AU in which Choi San and many others receive letters that threaten to break their already fragile hearts

“A new opinion can certainly turn the world upside down.”

Everything felt like a mistake with each passing second.

You had only taken this writing class to get one of your credit requirements out of the way, yet the thought of having to produce something not out of logic and real-world evidence has also caused a tremendous amount of stress to fall on your shoulders. You glanced back at your laptop that sat on the makeshift kitchen table, keyboard most likely still burning from the rapidfire typing you produced from earlier in the ungodly hours of the morning.  

With the sound of keys dropping on the counter, you peered up to see Yoona, your roommate, walk in with multiple envelopes in one hand and what seemed like another cup of oddly sweet coffee in the other. Knowing Yoona for quite some time now, you were surprised that her signature drink didn’t change as much as her hair color (which was currently blonde due to not knowing which color she should tackle next). You couldn’t tease her about it, though, knowing that your extremely bitter choice of straight black coffee with the tiniest bit of sugar never settled well with most.

“[Name], I picked up your mail for you,” Yoona’s voice echoed as she entered the room. You murmured a quick thanks as you gently placed your now empty mug on the tiny side table before picking up said mail. Other than the usual letter from your parents, a small envelope with only your name written clearly on the front accompanied it as well. The corners of your mouth turned down slightly as you turned the envelope every which way in hopes to find some kind of hint as to who it was from. Weird, you thought. “No return address...”

“Oh? A secret admirer? Seems a little old-fashioned, but look at you,” Yoona teased which only caused you to roll your eyes in response. “Didn’t you say you were going to have a date with some guy from the music department?”

“Didn’t you say you wanted to finish up some of your classwork at the campus cafe?” Yoona called out. The blonde nearly dropped her morning beverage at the sight of you jumping to your feet suddenly.

“Thanks for reminding me, Yoona! I should get going before I lose the chance to snag a seat!” You exclaimed as you began gathering all your essentials.

Your roommate remained by the small counter as she watched you scurry about the room, quickly tossing your things in a bag without a second thought before seeing you bolt out the door without another word spoken. 

“Oh, [Name]...”

“You met [Name] last night?”

San hummed in response with a slight nod of his head. “Is there a problem?” he inquired as he stopped typing.

Yeosang shook his head before he rested a hand on the back of his neck. Of course he had no issue with it, seeing that he wasn’t exactly close with you after all. But, it didn’t ease the sudden bemusement that washed over his thoughts. He never exactly received a friendly impression of you, but perhaps he was too quick to judge a book by its cover. Then again, Yeosang had to remind himself that he was speaking with San who always viewed the world through a rather unique perspective.

“I’m just surprised, that’s all. [Name]’s always so curt with a lot of people, but here you are saying they’re much nicer than what everyone says.”

“You’re the same, hyung. When Wooyoung told me you’ve been his friend for several years, I couldn’t wrap my head around how someone as quiet as you are could be dragged into so many of Wooyoung’s schemes,” San responded.

Yeosang hummed softly. “Five years and still going,” the quiet man mumbled as he peered out the window.

Yeosang let San’s remark slide this time, acknowledging his point instead of shooting back one of his infamous retorts. He’s a writer after all, or soon-to-be one, at least. It was in his nature to dissect and characterize people in an oddly poetic manner that defined them in more ways than one. Anyone who caught San’s interest was automatically caught in his neverending story of life. To San, everyone was a character in life that was waiting to be unraveled by the genius writer himself.

“So, that’s it?”

San tore his gaze away from his computer screen as he arched an eyebrow at Yeosang. The elder sighed softly and pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. Before he could utter another word, three booming voices came through, interrupting the serene morning. By the small corridor entered a teary-eyed Wooyoung who was accompanied by a beaming Song Mingi and Jeong Yunho.

Song Mingi was a force to be reckoned with at times. As co-captain of the university’s dance team and San’s dual-natured roommate, Mingi was a blazing fire, burning the image of a passionate and intimidating man into most strangers' minds, but also warming the hearts of his friends with his oddly cute side of his personality. Infuriating at some points since he likes to disagree with the group for fun? Quite so. Yet, it still caught San off guard at times to see the man he hears everyone is hesitant to approach fond over the simplest cat video he just so happened to scroll past on his social media feed. 

Jeong Yunho was very much different from the scarlet redhead despite being just as tall as him. He carried a calming aura around him, always attracting anyone and everyone and befriending with such ease due to his already gentle nature. An open-minded individual who wears his heart on his sleeve and charms everyone with his dazzling smile. A potentially hopeless romantic doomed to suffer if he isn’t careful with his glass heart in the eyes of the Genius Writer.

“San! You’re planning on hanging out with the rest of us this saturday, right?” Mingi’s voice boomed, earning a short chuckle out of the shorter male.

“Saturday’s the only day Hongjoong is ever not working,” San responded as he closed his laptop. The raven haired male casually slid the device back into his bag before he stood up and began making his way towards the door.

“Seems like San’s in a rush to leave already. Did he tell you what he was doing today, Yeosang?” Wooyoung inquired.

Yeosang shrugged his shoulders as he slumped back into the chair. “There’s a new café around the corner, so that’s one option. Or maybe he’s going to meet up with [Name].”

The trio all raised their eyebrows as they gawked at Yeosang for a moment, causing the light brunette to shift slightly in his seat as he turned his gaze away from the three. The feelings are mutual, he guessed. A miracle, perhaps, to all four of them as they contemplated over how the Genius Writer was able to befriend [Name], a fellow college student who always appeared to be much more devoted to education than socializing.

“Is there something wrong, Mingi?” Wooyoung questioned the redhead as he frowned slightly in the direction that San had walked off to.

“[Name] sounds very familiar for some reason…”

The café, as Yeosang had pointed out earlier, was not a far walk from San’s dorm. It was fairly new to the area, having only opened just a month ago, yet it was already gaining some popularity amongst the college student population. Another source of short-lived energy from drinks that most likely only contained a touch of coffee that barely broke through the uniquely flavored beverage that it was mixed in, if you will. Nevertheless, it was a café that many claimed as a spot for comfort and relaxation. The interior was brightly light by the few artificial lights that hung above café-goers as well as by the natural light that flooded through the windows that surrounded them completely, giving the area a fresh feeling of endlessness. There was comfort in the thought that the day’s weather was what encompassed the mood of the tiny café.

San slipped into the café to escape from the bustling crowd of students moving towards their first class of the day. Despite it being a little early in some ways, the café was moving just as much as San’s fellow peers outside. Popular in convenience, he supposed as he approached the counter.

The workers behind the counter did not take long and passed San’s order of a small latte. As San turned on his heel, he spotted you at one of the tables, eyebrows furrowed and a near permanent frown upon your lips, rapidly typing away with no hint of interest in your surroundings. He shook his head gently before deciding that it may be a good choice to distract you from your work for a few minutes.

“Funny seeing you here, friend” San spoke up as he slid into the seat across from you, earning a small smile in response. Judging your slightly tinted cheeks, San assumed you must have gotten here just a little earlier than him. 

“I needed to replenish my caffeine levels,” you answered sharply. “As I have found out, I still can’t type up a decent essay to save my life.” San chuckled before tapping the top of your laptop. You peered up at San with a faint frown gracing your lips, as if pleading the genius writer to bless you with the ability to forge an essay that would satisfy not only yourself, but your professor as well. “You probably don’t take the time to look at your surroundings,” San noted.

You tilted your head to the side slightly before motioning San to explain his statement. Heat brushed the dark haired male’s cheeks as he rested a hand on the back of his now burning neck. A sudden tightness in San’s throat accompanied the odd sensation he was experiencing which caused him to clear his throat before he averted his gaze away from you.

“Sometimes, when you are struggling to write, it’s because you’re set on staying within a tiny box. If you stay in that box, you miss a few details about the world around you,” San explained. He stole a quick glance at your features before he waved a hand in front of himself. “Tell me, when you look around the cafe, what do you see?”

Slowly, you let your eyes travel towards the peaceful scene of the cafe before you. It had calmed down since you first stepped in to save yourself from the bitter cold. More tables were empty, you noted, as the handful of workers slowed down and began taking their time in perfecting the orders that were coming in now. You then observed the other students as they furiously scribbled or typed away to finish an assignment that they have also procrastinated on for too long. Others chattered away with each other, basking in the glory of having their lives together. Funny, you thought. Stress plagued most students minds here, leaving nothing but an ominous feeling at the back of the mind. An impending doom from the possibility of not finishing an assignment you had all the time in the world to work on if you only had the motivation to start early. Despite that, it was evident to both San and you that you had missed a major point that San was trying to make.

“Students and baristas are working. More tables are empty- San, what are you trying to get out of this?” You grumbled out of frustration. 

San gently shook his head in slight disappointment after he stole another quick glance from you. “Like all other computer science majors, you view everything so objectively at times.”

You weren’t exactly amused with this answer until you caught a certain gleam in San’s eyes. The slight curl of the lips and the knowing gaze revealed an entire story to San. To San, the cafe’s atmosphere was placid, the natural light filtering in as if helping to chase away the anxious dark clouds that followed students too closely at times. The aroma of coffee, faintly bitter or sickenly sweet, traveled and filled every space in between, leaving only a pleasant sensation for all. Tired students remained scattered, eyes glued to the screens of laptops that most likely were burning just as much as an impatient mouth who needed to refuel on caffeine. Friends gossiped and giggled long after their mostly sugar and barely coffee drinks have gone cold. Busy, but not bustling. Scattered, but not nearly vacant. A perfect place to unleash creativity, as San would have commented.

“You need to make up a story sometimes just to achieve what you want in writing,” San stated.

“That’s easy for you to say, Genius Writer,” you countered with a huff. 

San quirked an eyebrow at your response before he let out a breathy chuckle. “Maybe so, but you somehow recognized me last night.”

“And what’s that supposed to prove?” you inquired. A soft hum left San as he placed his cup of coffee near his lips, blowing gently on it before savoring a small sip. He placed the cup down and gave a simple shrug of the shoulders. It took you a moment as you caught on to the fact that the slight simper San wore never disappeared in the first place.

“I’m not interested, if that’s what you’re implying,” you stated flatly. 

San blinked a few times, his confidence faltering slightly as if he was struggling to process the words that effortlessly slipped out of your mouth. It didn’t help his case either as he caught your gaze boring into your laptop screen again, completely ignoring San’s moment of embarrassment.

“I was gonna say you pick up on tiny details when something interests you, but thanks for friend-zoning me?” 

No response was uttered from your already slouching form, too focused on this frustrating assignment that has yet to meet your expectations of satisfaction. It didn’t sit well with you, of course. With how San sees and conveys everything as if it was a new story unfolding in front of his eyes; it was unnerving, for it seemed as if everyone was transparent as glass. But it also intrigued you. For you, who is so used to seeing the world as an endless code that continuously needs tweaks to function properly, seeing such vivid details and hearing new perspectives never crossed your mind. Perhaps that is one of the reasons why you seeked out San. Maybe, just maybe, your world would gradually expand its horizon and welcome in new experiences that you’d never expected to live in.

The time flashed in the right corner of the screen, signaling you to close your laptop with a soft sigh of defeat. “Well, I have to get to my class now. Have a fun time doing whatever future writers do,” you suddenly announced as you stood up. You quickly gathered your belongings, shoving most into your bag without a second thought before grabbing your laptop and scurrying away with only a nod of the head. Unbeknownst to you, your unopened letter had fallen out of the side pocket of your bag along with your earbuds. Having noticed this, San immediately picked up the forgotten items, but was just a second too late as he already saw you at the door.

“[N-Name]!!” 

With the chime of the bell, San slumped back into his chair as he wrapped your earbuds into a neat bundle before placing them in one of the pockets of his jacket. He then turned his attention towards the envelope before humming in amusement as the corners of lips curved upwards at the sight of the familiar penmanship that decorated the front of the envelope. Quietly shaking his head, he retrieved his own letter out of his bag before setting the two down on the table in front of him.

It seemed that you got a letter as well, [Name].

[vesperlionheart]

For the Paulo Sebastian writing prompt if you feel like it! KakaSaku and the Nightingale series, specifically the fifth dress that is embroidered/diaphanous because whooooah would Kakashi sweat

The Nightingale Who Screams - KakaSaku

Kakashi tipped his flagon back and drank sparingly. He wasn’t too keen on getting sloshed when there was reason to be on guard. True, they had made it to the grand hallways of the Hyuga estates without issue, and the security detail had taken over so that Kakashi could move as Sakura’s official escort, but his habits were to be weary, and old habits were hard to break.

From over his shoulder he could hear the sounds of Sakura’s handmaidens fussing with the last minute alterations in the waiting room behind him. The sounds would sometimes make him blush, but tonight he only sulked for the slights his mistress had been forced to endure.

Ever since her meeting with the house head had ended her mood had been a foul one. His lady was not one to take kindly to the ideas of the eastern most noble houses. They represented everything she abhorred; thoughtless obedience, untenured servitude by virtue of one’s birth, sexism in roles of inheritance, conservatism in their daughters and wives…the list went on.

A waiter passed by and Kakashi stored his flagon, least they chastise him for that too. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t trust their food or wine. The bad blood between them and the Uchiha was legendary.

“But my lady-!”

“Enough,” Sakura bellowed, her voice cutting off Shizune’s with an authority she wielding like a knife. “I have been humble long enough. My shoes, now.”

Kakashi tilted his head to better hear what went on behind the doors, anxious for the sound of her voice again. She spoke like a queen, as was befitting the betrothed to their dumb but kind king. Between the two of them it was a small mercy that at least Sakura had the stomach for authority. Still, to hear that tone here of all places…

Kakashi knocked softly on the door and listened, keeping a spare eye trained on the hallway behind him. “My lady?” he called softly, not daring to raise his tone any louder. “Are you well?”

“I will be with you shortly, Ser Hatake,” she called back regally, voice full of a heavy confidence that made him wary. It was only him, but she still spoke like that?

He stepped away from the door and continued to watch the hallways, an itch on the back of his neck begging to be scratched. He knew why. His nature recognized the reason for his agitation before the doors behind him could open and let Sakura stride out.

The blood left his face and drained elsewhere while a heat pooled low in his belly, rough and rolling. His voice caught between his teeth as his throat went tight. Thank the pantheon for his mask otherwise he wasn’t sure how dumb he’d look, struck into awe by the look of her.

Sakura stood before him posed in the long-sleeved dress with a high collar that came up to the base of her neck and even reached the floor, all in accordance with the Hyuga customs and dress codes. However, those customs failed to take into account the innovation of modern fashion and the advancements of see-through textiles.

The dress was sheer, invisible in its bounders apart from the beadwork and embroidery. Her modesty was saved behind a pair of silver tailed swallow birds that were frozen in mirrored poses over her pale breasts. His hands itched into fists at his sides. Kakashi had never seen the curve off her before, but now it made him weak.

And in his weakness his eyes drifted lower. Another pair of swallows were embroidered over the soft curve of her hips, wings outstretched and nearly touching, yet not close enough to connect or conceal the dip between her legs. Kakashi didn’t know if he should rejoice or lament when he spied the line of her nude colored undergarments, protecting the most imitate of her shadows.

Kakashi took another half second to behold his lady before the stark reality of what her appearance meant hit him.

His lady was on the hunt.

“My lady…” he breathed, master of his voice at long last, “how did you manage such trickery?”

“I simply cut out the under layer. The silk does me no good here where I am hated regardless.”

“Diplomacy did you no favors?”

“Their laws of branding and enslavement have not been lifted, so one must resort to extreme measures.” Sakura gestured to the swallows before offering Kakashi her arm. “Their caged birds deserve to sing, and if I must scream until they are freed then so be it.”

“You will make no friends tonight.”

“That was never an option,” she all but growled, looking forward with eyes ready for war. “One can not befriend such irrational failures of the human form. This will be the last night for them to regret their evils.”

“My lady?”

Sakura shut her eyes as if the sight of the hallway before her was too much, but she lifted her chin and opened them a moment later, steeled and resolved. “Why else do you think I asked what I did of you?”

Kakashi chuckled low, patting her hand on his arm as they made their way down the rest of the hall. “I try not to think when it comes to you, I only end up lost and in awe later on when it all comes together. But, why didn’t you ask Itachi for his private army? Surly the Draconic Band is just as good as the Wolf Pack.”

“Silly Kakashi, you should know the answer by now,” Sakura sighed.

“I told you I’m dumb.”

“Don’t lie,” she chastised lightly.

They turned the last corner and Kakashi caught sight of their reflection in the last looming mirror hung in the great hall. He was a pale and faded shadow next to her, but he was next to her. Sakura, his beautiful, radiant, daring queen…

“After all,” Sakura whispered as they stood at the top of the stairs, “you’re the only one I trust in this god-forsaken world.”

[gatortavern]

The Jang and the Snowball Spectacle

Yo @godhatesverizon, I was your @pnatsecretsanta this year! You said you liked some good ol’ fashioned Jang and some snow, and who doesn’t love some seasonally appropriate shenanigans from the Mayview bullies? Apologies that this is so late, but I hope you enjoy the lunacy these goofballs get up to!

For all its quirks and oddities, one would expect the weather itself to be one of the last things to distinguish a town such as Mayview from its neighboring areas. This would, of course, be incorrect for freak hurricane-related reasons, but also for the small fact that in its geographical niche, the temperature can jump from pleasantly middling weather to negative five degrees in the span of half a night. So it was that when the people of Mayview awoke from their slumber that they were greeted with so much snow it buried their feet, when mere days before it was only cool enough to warrant a jacket.

The whoops and hollers of children and children-at-heart alike echoed in RJ’s ears as they set off for Johnny’s place, bundled in their warmest snowflake-patterned hoodie and steel blue gloves. The rest of their friends greeted them with a wave as they approached his house, and the group pulled into a huddle to discuss the day’s proceedings. “So what’s the plan for dealin’ with the mutant nerds today?” Stephen asked as the group turned their eyes to their crimson haired leader.

Johnny took a deep breath.

“Nothin’.” “WHAT?!” Ollie and Stephen cried in unison.

“We’ve been goin’ over this for too long and we’re clearly gettin’ a little burned out. I had ta force ya to sleep yesterday, Stephen, and the rest of us weren’t much better. So this is gonna be our day off. No thinkin’ about weirdo flyin’ people, or shootin’ lightning, or purple gunk. It’s just gonna be us an’ the snow. Tomorra’ we’ll look over everythin’ with fresh faces an’ we’ll get all the info we need outta the nerds. Today…” He threw his arms out, inviting the rest to take in the white wonderment surrounding them.

“Today we make the biggest ball of death this town has ever seen!” If the fire in the group’s eyes could leave their ocular prisons, there would be no snow left.

“YEAH!” Stephen whooped. “We setting it loose on Wicker Road again?” “Can we please not push the whole thing uphill like last year?” Ollie said through his smile, knowing his plea would be futile.

Purple gunk? came the message from RJ’s phone. Their leader’s eyes flicked to it for a second, before sliding to the side, as if unsure. Within an instant the phone was put away and the message forgotten, his wide grin returning and the flare in his eyes reigniting.

“Trust me, it’s gonna be the biggest and best ball we’ve done yet! NOW LET’S GET TO IT!” “YEAH!!” the others shouted, and the four took off to mold doom from the innocent fluff.

---

After ten minutes, the Jang regrouped to see the fruits of their labor and to pick a starting ball. Stephen’s ball, barely bigger than the palm of his hand, was the smallest of the lot. He attributed this to thinking he had found Mothman prints, but closer inspection had just revealed them to be raccoon tracks. Johnny tried to move his ball a little more and groaned when it fell apart in his hands. Ollie’s was bigger than the rest, but rebelled against its circular bretheren by taking the shape of a football. RJ’s ball was the roundest of the four, if a little on the smaller side. The group set RJ’s ball off to the side, and held somber eulogies for the other failed balls.

The subsequent pummeling back into the powder they were born from was markedly less somber.

The beginnings of the Deadly Doom Ball of Ultimate Destruction (named by Stephen) were humble, as the small orb graciously munched the snow laying neatly behind Johnny’s house. Its appetite grew with its size; by the time it devoured the last white flakes daring to exist in Johnny’s backyard, it reached RJ’s torso. The desecration of snow spread as the ball, now guided by two pairs of hands, absorbed the fallen flakes lying beside the sidewalk, making its way up the street.

“So,” Ollie said, turning to stare at Johnny, who was eyeing the path ahead for obstacles, “we taking it to the Usual Spot, or somewhere new?” “Can we not do the steepest hill again? That was so disappointing,” Stephen said, remembering how the previous year’s ball went only a few feet before cracking in half.

“Yeah, pushing that thing up there was a nightmare,” Ollie added, reminiscing on the four of them desperately digging into the snow with their backs to the ball, taking victory in inches.

“Nah, we’re gonna go partways up t’ the school and run it down the road!” Johnny cried out.

“Ngh..I really hope it doesn’t break this time,” Stephen huffed.

The four continued up the street, the ball greedily adding to its mass as they huffed and chatted about things such as potential fort designs and seeing how many snowballs they could throw into Jeff’s hair.

---

As the Corner Store came into view, a sniffle caught Johnny’s attention, and he turned to examine his pals. With his red nose and cheeks, Ollie looked like he had just walked out of a Christmas card, his face as puffy as his jacket. Stephen wasn’t much better, trying to hide his shuddering beneath his grape scarf and Jersey Devil jersey, and RJ kept rubbing their face with their sleeve. The small sneeze from RJ cinched it. “A’right, detour time. We get this ball to the store and then we get ourselves some goodies. Stephen, you still got that ten dollar bill in your pocket?” “Yep.” “Cool. You three go in and get yerselves some’n warm, an’ I’ll guard the ball.” The bully bunch made it to the edge of the store’s door in due time. Stephen, Ollie, and RJ dashed into the store, eager for something warm to slide down their gullets.

“Ho ho, little elves!” cried the wiry shopkeeper as he slid onto the countertop, decked in green and jingling bells. “What can I do you for, on your fine detour from Santa’s Shop?”

“Got anything warm?” Ollie asked as he tried and marginally succeeded at preventing Stephen from ransacking the isles.

The spark in the man’s eyes immediately threw this decision into question. As the green elf declared that he had just the thing and dashed up the stairs, the boy wondered what he just got them all into.

He barely had time to ponder calling for Johnny when the man returned, arms full of small packets, the lid of a small pan, and a coffee pot filled with piping hot...water? Before Ollie could say anything, the man had already ripped the small packets into pieces with his teeth, scattering the dust-colored powder into the pot. He then leapt onto the counter with a flourish, slammed the pan lid onto the pot with a clank!, and began to twirl. The pot quickly frothed with a chocolate swirl as he spun and spun, giggling manically all the while.

Ollie couldn’t figure out when the snowman-adored styrofoam cups had manifested onto the counter, or when exactly the other two had joined him, and at this point he was almost afraid to question it.

The three stared in a mix of bewilderment and awe as the shopkeeper slid backwards, filling each cup to the brim with small dips and pivots. He then threw himself backwards, his face underneath Ollie’s chin. “That’s three for five dollars, or four for seven,” he said without skipping a beat.

“Four, please,” Ollie said, at a loss for anything else to say.

Money changed hands, another batch was poured for Johnny, conversations about agents of Krampus were held, and the three turned to head out the door with the warmth in their gut once again matching the fire in their hearts. Their eyes caught glimpse of the new kid, his jaw set tight and his face as red as theirs were upon entering, although perhaps for different reasons.

Their gazes met. Seconds went by as the group and the nerd stared each other down, Max’s bewilderment fading back into his usual snarky look as he entertained their glares.

Wordlessly, the three turned and headed out the door, finding their fourth member with his back to them, staring at their not-so-little orb of doom.

“Yo bro, you’re not gonna believe what just happened in there!” Stephen called out to Johnny. The bully swirled around, and for a second the three glimpsed his mouth hanging askew, eyes wide with pinpoint pupils, face a touch paler than when they went in. Then his gaze darted from their faces to the cups in their hands, and he relaxed, his hand reaching for his share. With flailing arms and just a tad exaggeration, Stephen shared the details of the shopkeeper as the rest sipped their cocoa.

“And as we left, we fell upon the mutant new kid! I think that store guy did some kinda psychic damage to him ‘cuz he looked totally freaked out.” As if on cue, Max groan from inside the store fell upon their ears.

“We let him off though, ‘cuz of the pact.” “Mmm.” “Then he talked to Stephen for like ten minutes about Krampus and Santa’s secret ninja squad. Had to practically pry him out of the store,” Ollie added.

RJ pulled out their phone and showed them the image they got of the clerk, caught in a perfect backslide, the delicious liquid forever frozen halfway into its destination. The group oohed and aahed at their friend’s impeccable ability to take super clear shots with a little flip phone camera.

With a few more gulps of their cocoa and a desire to finish the rest on the way up, the bullies repositioned themselves and resumed their slow ascent to the top of the hill. RJ spared a glance at Johnny, who was staring daggers at the ball.

Johnny, in the meantime, put all of his focus on the conversations of his friends and on making sure the ball didn’t go off course.

He was not gonna mention the weird hissing that started when they got near that store.

He wasn’t gonna mention the purple thing that had taken an interest in the ball.

He wasn’t gonna think about how the purple thing had a human face and a child’s voice.

He definitely wasn’t gonna think about how all of that just disappeared right as the purple thing looked at him, as if it was never there, right in front of him.

He had made a pact with his buds and he was gonna keep it.

No weird mutant stuff today.

---

Pushing an ever-growing snowball up one of Mayview’s hills with only one hand quickly proved more difficult than expected. Ollie found it easier to lean into the mound with his shoulders providing leverage. RJ and Stephen followed suit, guzzling down the last of their now nearly lukewarm beverage and jamming the empty cups into their jacket pockets. Johnny, having chugged down his cocoa at the urging of his friends, merely rammed his entire frame into the ball. The slow rate of movement up the hill was matched by its growth, though by this point it had begun to dwarf its creators. By the time Johnny mentioned that he could see the school, it had overgrown Ollie by half a foot. Muscles strained and groans and grunts abounded as their fight against gravity reached its zenith. With one last shout from the children, the damned, doomed sphere nestled itself peacefully on the level footing of the school pavement.

The Jang locked eyes on each other, whooped, raised their fists triumphantly in the air, and promptly leaned on each other for support. As breath was sucked down their lungs and muscles left to rest for the first time in hours, the bullies gazed at their creation.

“She’s beautiful, guys.” Stephen said.

“She’s bigger than last years for sure,” Johnny beamed.

“...I don’t think what we just did is reasonably possible.” Ollie said, “and I don’t care.” “YEAH, physics is for WIMPS and NERDS and she doesn’t even have any lunch money!” “Physics is why pushing this thing back down is satisfying at all, Stephen.” “OI!” Johnny called out. “Getchur butts round Deathknell Mk. II! RJ wants a pic!” “Aww, that wasn’t what I called it earlier!” Stephen called out as he ran into position. So it was that a snapshot became immortalized (using Ollie’s phone, as it had a wider screen and a timer) of the four youths, burning cheeks accentuating beaming grins around their carefully cultivated sphere of chaos, Ollie’s one hand slung as high up on the ball as it could go. This was soon followed by pictures of each of them perched atop the ball mid-manic cackle, of Stephen splayed across the top frozen in triumphant shouting, of the group split into stacked pairs on both sides miming a struggle, and many more.

At last, after each photo was evaluated and deemed acceptable, the moment arrived. With more grunts and heaves, Deathknell Mk. II took position in the center of the road, adopting bits of gravel as it went.

“THREE!” came the cry as the ball inched forward.

“TWO!” came the shouts as the slope drew nearer.

“ONE!” came the call as the ball perched on the last few bits of level ground its front end had.

“GOOOOO!!!” With one last running shove and a cry, the obliteration orb teetered..

and tilted…

and slowly slid forward.

As momentum took hold, all caution was thrown to the wind as the deadly orb rocketed down the slope. Trees and buildings flew by as it claimed the hill as its own, tiny smushed white packets on the pavement the only sign it was there. The boys and RJ, with cold-kissed hands desperately clutching onto hoods and hats in the wake of the creation’s tailwind, could scarcely hope to keep up with its joyride as it spun down the hill with the pitter-patter of an army of spiders. It whizzed past the Corner Store in seconds, blew the soft covering of snow off the nearby oak and elm branches, turned slightly to the side as it neared the lower residential areas and chose what would be the bearer of its wrath.

A godawful scrunching brought the ball to a stop, and as the Jang neared it, their jaws fell open and their whoops died in their throat as they drank in the scene.

There at the curbside sat a jet-black SUV, toppled onto its side, buried on all fronts by piles of stone-colored, gravel-filled, leaf accented snow. Its side could hardly be called that now, crumpled and twisted into a metallic sinkhole and probably what Ms. Baxter would call “concave”; one would think an elephant had T-boned it. The lamppost behind it lurched forward with a broken spine, its light shining over the body in fits and spurts over the fresh body, as close to wincing as it could get. A wheel, badly misshapen and hissing something awful, fell into the mound with a plunk.

“I-is that…” Ollie started. “Principal Pleezdo’s car!” Stephen cried in shock, his mittens at the sides of his head.

The house beside them began to wail, a spine-tingling siren that wouldn’t be half-bad as an air raid warning.

“RUN!!!” Johnny screamed, and the bullies hurriedly scrambled as fast as their legs would carry them away from the crime scene, through slush and streets and powdered panic, eager to relive their revelry in the safety of Stephen’s living room.

[neroesecuzioni]

watching your devil side

two.

The conference room in the Passione headquarters was barren with small windows and harsh white lights. You lounged in the leather office chair at the table, already regretting making a deal with Giorno. The convincing little shit.

You crossed your legs and waited.

La Squadra di Esecuzioni had said they’d meet you at headquarters if only to assess the proposal you sent to Giorno. The deal you’d cut them was nearly too perfect for people in their field. A steady flow of money wasn’t always guaranteed for the mafia, especially assassins. It was nearly perfect, if their client wasn’t you.

The conference room doors opened and you blinked when three men walked through.

Three extremely attractive men walked in.

No one warned you about that.

Two were giants in their own right and would tower over you even in heels while the other was tall but dwarfed by the others in comparison. They were all built like Grecian statues and wore outfits on par with Buccellati’s gang’s penchant for flashiness.

In the center was a man with tanned skin, deep rep eyes, and silver hair hidden beneath a hat with bells. His serious but serene expression rested on you with a weight you were used to. To his left was a taller man with a much deeper tan and deep brown locks tied into several pigtails but his plum purple eyes sparked with a mischief. His outfit looked...a little strange but you forgave it considering it clung to every inch of him. The man to the right was the shortest with bright blond hair tied back into several little buns and he wore a fashionable suit complimenting his blue eyes. Despite being the shortest of the three of them, he looked the sternest.

Armani, you surmised.

“Hello.” You stood up to greet them. “La Squadra di Esecuzioni. I’m your client... people in the business know me as Devil Yin but you can just call me Yin.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” the man at the centre said, eyes surveying you. “My name is Risotto Nero. The Capo of La Squadra di Esecuzioni. This is Prosciutto and Illuso.”

Prosciutto? Risotto?

Well, Bruno had Pannacotta and you couldn’t exactly rag on anyone when people still referred to you as Devil Yin.

“It’s a pleasure. Take a seat. I trust you have some questions considering my proposal isn’t....one of your typical assignments.”

They all sat on the opposite end of the conference table and settled in, all of them guarded and packed. They all carried some type of weapon on them along with their stands.

“You’ve requested us as your bodyguards,” Risotto said, eyes intent, “are you aware of our position in the Passione?”

“You’re assassins,” you acknowledged, “and stand users. I’m well acquainted with the inner workings of the Passione.”

“There are squads dedicated to protection and guarding. Why did you ask for us?” Prosciutto asked, his shoulders tensed beneath the sleek indigo suit

“The squad is ran by Bruno Buccellati, I’m well aware,” you said and decided to drop the bomb. “I’m friends with Giorno.”

The three of them exchanged glances.

“Friends with Don Giorno?” Illuso asked flatly.

“Long before he came into contact with the Passione,” you said, “I also know Buccellati.”

“You would not prefer Buccellati’s squad as your protection detail?” Risotto rested his arms on the table.

You tried not to run your eyes along the defined muscles on his arm. It was a terribly difficult thing to do.

“I’ve had Buccellati as a bodyguard before and while we are...friends, it is not an arrangement I’d prefer. I’d be scolded the entire time for my lifestyle,” you said breezily. “I hope some of you don’t sleep early. I typically don’t get home until four in the morning but I have rooms in my villa for you to stay in when you’re guarding me overnight.”

“What do you need guarding from?” Prosciutto’s eyes narrowed.

“Kidnapping, being held hostage, someone trying to steal my art from the studio, those kinds of things. It’s pretty mundane.” You shrugged. “Giorno didn’t appreciate the fact I was held hostage a few months ago and insisted I take on some bodyguards. I offered a payment plan for the whole group since I know your specialties might be needed for different hits outside of my schedule. As long as there’s two of you for most of the time, I don’t mind whatever you do outside of guarding me.”

“And the pay?” Risotto’s deep voice filled the quiet room.

You didn’t know what you regretted more; stepping foot into Italy, contacting Giorno, or thinking of this idea.

“As outlined in the contract. Two hundred dollars per hour per guard on a twenty-four hour detail. I’ll even pay overtime if someone clocks in more hours than they’re supposed to and you’ve seen the clause about vacation pay? I’d also prefer if you’re able to allow two members travel around Europe or to the Americas on short notice when needed.”

Anything to get Giorno off your back about becoming an assassin again when you finally got out of the business.

"And you can afford us?" Risotto asked.

"I thought you'd ask that." You stood up and reached under the table. The men tensed but you brought out a few briefcases and set them down on the table. You slid them over. "Here's two-hundred sixty-nine thousand dollars in payment for the first month to split between your seven members."

The three of them flipped open the briefcases and scanned through the euros.

"So, do we have a deal?"

Risotto glanced at his companions before he gave an imperceptible nod.

“Fantastic, here’s my schedule on a daily basis and the addresses of the places I’ll be frequenting. The safest trade-off times would be nine in the morning, five in the evening, and one in the morning and you can start tomorrow if your team is ready." You slid over a folder towards them.

“It would be best if you met the team beforehand,” Risotto said after he finished flipping through the papers.

///

La Squadra di Esecuzioni’s headquarters was a discreet series of townhouses connected together, hidden behind walls, gates, and bushes. The pale stone exteriors were a little worn by time but the iron gates were polished despite age dulling the metal slightly.

You walked along the paved path towards the front door obscured by foliage, behind Risotto, Illuso, and Prosciutto. They opened double-layered iron-wrought doors to a barren entryway.

You frowned as you looked around. This place had so much untouched potential with the stone floors and walls; a house like this would cost a fortune to make today but there were few decorations and even fewer signs of life. It was as if no one had inhabited this place in years and from what you knew, La Squadra lived here.

Risotto lead you to a larger room with threadbare couches where four other men lounged. 

“This is our long-term client,” Risotto said, tone brooking for no arguments. “Become familiar with her. Formaggio, Melone, you begin with her tomorrow at nine in the morning. I’ll give everyone their schedules tonight.”

“You can call me Yin,” you said and stepped up. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The man with a buzzed grey-blue hair and a playful smirk leaned deep into the couch. His studded jacket clung to his lean muscles as he flexed subtly and winked at you. “Well, if you had said we’d be guarding such a cute girl, I wouldn’t have argued at all. I’m Formaggio, babe. You’ll be spending the day with me tomorrow.”

“...hello?” you said.

“Don’t mind him.” A man with pale lilac hair and bright blue eyes framed by thick lashes smiled at you and took your hand into his, placing a kiss onto your knuckles. “I’m Melone. It’s rare we have such a beautiful woman for a client. I’ll also be guarding you tomorrow.”

“Thank you?” You pulled your hand out of his. How were you supposed to introduce yourself to fellow assassins outside of the job and not across rooftops or while on the run? “I hope we’ll get along.”

Prosciutto clicked his tongue. “Pesci, Ghiaccio, introduce yourself.”

A man with neon green hair styled upwards and black eyes shining with hesitance stepped up. “H-hello, I’m Pesci! It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” you said, sending him a gentle smile.

The last man on the end of the couch scowled harshly, the red glasses perched on his nose contrasted against his bright blue hair and barely obscured his black eyes.

“I’m Ghiaccio,” he mumbled reluctantly.

“And now you’ve met all of us,” Illuso said, smirking as he looked down at you. “Regretting your decision yet?”

“Better than being kidnapped,” you said and turned to Melone and Formaggio, handing them a sheet of paper. “Well, here’s the address to meet me at tomorrow. I hope you bring yourself something to prevent boredom...I’m not really doing anything interesting as of yet.”

///

Prosciutto rested in the chair across from Risotto in his office, long legs crossed as he leaned in the chair.

He rolled a cigarette between his two fingers.

“Do you think Giovanna is planning something?” he asked lowly, meeting Risotto's black and red gaze.

His Capo folded his hands on his desk bare of anything besides pens, paperwork, and a laptop. “Be prepared for anything. We’ll warn the others tonight.”

He ran his tongue along his overbite.

///

The sun gleamed through the front door of your villa.

You waited in your entryway for your newly hired bodyguards, already dressed for the day in sleek black leggings beneath a loose, blue one-shoulder sweater and a black lace tank top.

A knock sounded at the door five minutes before nine.

You opened the door to Formaggio and Melone. The former was dressed similarly to yesterday in studded clothes, leather pants, and a half-open top from the bottom. The latter, however, was dressed in a skin tight purple outfit revealing a lot of skin unlike the long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants from yesterday. Somehow, you were the only normal looking one in this trio.

Formaggio whistled as he looked into your home and ran his eyes over you. "Hello, hello."

“Uh, hello, welcome to my home? Sorry, I’d offer refreshments but the driver is arriving in five minutes.”

“It’s not a problem, babe.” Formaggio grinned. “We’re all ready to go.”

“We always come prepared, bella.” Melone rested his hip against the door, lips curled almost like a cat. “We’ll be given a tour of your home another time, yes?”

"If you'd like?" you said. "Oh, there's the driver. We better go."

///

The driver parked outside of a large apartment building near an old library close to the heart of Naples.

Your bodyguards followed you out and into the building, past the security already patrolling, and you took the elevator to your new studio.

It was a second-floor, concrete loft you bought to convert into a studio and there were already boxes of furniture, unfinished seating, and decorations sitting on palettes inside. The small kitchen was tucked beneath the stairs leading to the second floor. A drink fridge with a clear door was the most prominent feature besides the bar counter on the opposite side.

"This will be the most boring job you've ever had I hope you know,” you said idly as you dragged a sofa off the palette. "At least until my brand of luck turns up. Hold on, please take a seat on the bar stools. I'll have the sitting area built soon."

"Your brand of luck?" Formaggio grinned. "Want a hand, babe?"

You sent him a dry look. "Have you ever had to learn archery to prevent a Prince of Brunei from marrying your friend while being held hostage in his palace?"

"And he didn't want to marry you, cara?" Melone leaned over your shoulder, voice barely a murmur.

"Not at all," you said idly as you set down the couch on it's back and flounced back to the kitchen. "Hold on, do you have a drink preference? I don't think there's much besides iced coffee and flavoured sparkling water."

"Aren't we your bodyguards?" Melone asked, lips tugging into a smile.

You blinked. "I guess Risotto didn't explain everything? Your team is just a precautionary measure but really, this is a way you're making quick money unless another Prince decides I'm a good morsel to kidnap. Oh, we have fruit juices as well."

"We'll get our own drinks, babe." Formaggio leaned against the bar counter. "You didn't answer my question though, need any help? Looks like a lot of work for someone like you."

You hummed and went back to the sofa to start attached the legs from the box it came with. "Not right now."

You glanced at the two men's heavy gazes following you and went back to building the sitting area. You weren't sure what to make of them but they definitely were better than becoming an assassin again when you could be an artist.

///

(ao3 link)

Author Notes: I normally write fiction that’s more literary but this is purely here for self indulgence so if you see something that you squint your eyes at....skim over it. We’re in horny hours.

[daisy-constellations]

Il me l’a Dit, l’a Juré Pour la Vie - Part Twenty

Marinette didn’t think inviting Chat Noir in for milk would lead to this.

The heroes were 20 years old, in university, and it was now time to trust each other better than they ever did.

CHAPTER LIST

Rating: Teen/ Mature.

Angst and fluff, and all that good stuff.

Disclaimer: This story was written based off season 1.

Il me l’a Dit, l’a Juré Pour la Vie - Part Twenty

Milan

Adrien walked down the runway with ease, his hands loosely hung next to his body. His shoulders shrugged with every step, adding more emotion and swagger to his features.

“Good job Adrien,” Gabriel noted as he strutted past him. The event was approaching quickly, less than 24 hours, and Gabriel was as calm as ever. Everything was organized and meticulous, as he always liked it. His schedule allowed for a few problems if they were to arise, but everyone knew better than to ruin Gabriel’s plans. They arrived in Milan a week in advance just to make sure everything went smoothly.

Gabriel’s show was one of the most anticipated of the season. He was revealing a new fashion line with an overarching theme of darkness. All the pieces had a sort edgy and obscure looks to them – something different from his usual pristine designs. Gabriel was a chic and simple man; he really portrayed that through fashion. Adrien was excited for this new turn in his father’s career and was proud of him for changing it up, however he did not like to be right in the middle of it. Leading up to the show, interviewers always tried to get him to spill some spoilers on the fashion line; a trap he obviously never fell into and distracted them with a charming line and dazzling white smile.

Rehearsals were long and tedious, but it made the day go by a lot faster and kept Adrien’s mind busy. As he finished his lap, he hopped off the low stage and headed towards his father rather than going backstage like he would during the show.

Gabriel was having a conversation with the stage manager, his hand holding his chin as he processed what she was saying. As Adrien approached, his father quickly wrapped up the discussion which caused Adrien to slightly roll his eyes. His father never wanted to have him listen or participate in his conversations with the staff as if he were a child.

The stage manager hurried off and Gabriel turned to clasp his hand over Adrien’s shoulder, “Keep it up. You’re doing well.” Adrien nodded and asked what else he should prepare.

“Everything is pretty much done,” Gabriel answered. “I’m going to gather all the models to have a full walk through in order before we finish for the day.”

Soon enough, all the models were backstage, getting ready to walk across the stage. Adrien was last in line for the first walk. He stood with his hands stuffed in his jeans, waiting for the practice run. He watched everyone else chatter around him, stage managers, directors and producers talking to the models ahead of him. His phone buzzed and he pulled it out. His eyes scanned the screen, hopeful for something that never came. Of course it wouldn’t – why would it?

He looked up from his phone and exhaled loudly, trying to not let the disappointment wash over him; he had no time to think or worry about this. Despite all the bustling around him, he could hear his name being called out behind him. He turned towards the sound and found a group of young giggling models huddled in a corner, hands covering their pink cheeks and shy grins. He gave them a close mouthed smile before someone called out his name again and he realized where the voice was actually coming from.

Loud, steady clicks from her black pumps came marching in his direction; her ponytail swung fiercely behind her head, “Adrien!”

Adrien’s eyes widened as she jumped into his arms for a big hug. He hesitantly put his arms around her tiny waist.

“Come on, say something! We haven’t seen each other in like a year,” she pushed her big Gucci sunglasses onto the top of her head, and batted her eyes at Adrien. “You could at least pretend to be excited to see me!”

People started whispering around them. Adrien let out a soft chuckle, “You always need to make yourself known when you enter a room, eh Chloe?”

“Of course, I’m your best friend after all. They need to know we’ve been reunited again.” She swung her beautifully manicured hand towards the people behind her. She was speaking just as loud as usual.

“Yeah. It’s good to see you Chloe,” Adrien said softly, and he meant it. It was nice to see a familiar face. “What are you doing here though?”

“Nathalie invited me and Daddy, so here we are!” Chloe smiled. There was something about her that made her look different. Maybe it was the fact that her face had become more angular rather than round, or the fact that she is wearing less makeup than she used to. Either way, she looked older; more mature.

“Oh. She did?” Adrien was confused. His father didn’t try to keep in touch with the Bourgeois family since his mother left.

“Yes! I’m glad she did. This show looks phenomenal already.” Chloe gave Adrien’s forearm a squeeze.

“Yeah it does. Father really upped his game.”

“All right models! We’re starting in one minute!” A person with a big headset on exclaimed at the front of the line.

“That’s me,” Adrien pointed forward.

“Right. Okay so,” Chloe pulled her purse straps over her shoulder, “I’ll be here when you’re done if you want to do dinner tonight to catch up. I won’t keep you out late. I know you have a busy day tomorrow, and you hate being late or whatever.”

“Sure,” Adrien smiled. How could he say no? It has been a while and she came all the way to Milan, so why not?

“Cool. Just text me when you’re done. I’ll be around. Daddy wants me to meet a few people,” and with that, Chloe gave his arm one last squeeze before turning away. He watched her until she twisted around the corner, out of sight. He never expected to find her here, and he was honestly thankful for it. Sometimes Chloe was a lot to handle, but she was a good friend to him since they were young. He was happy to have her there to support him.

--- The Next Day ---

Adrien stood with his hands behind his head as a stylist fitted and fastened a deep purple body harness over his black button up shirt and around his waist and chest. His blond hairs were swept over to the left, revealing his forehead. A nice shade of copper covered his eyelids, making his green eyes noticeably fiercer.

Everything backstage was bustling; the makeup artists were finishing up their detailed work, models were slipping into their first outfits, and the runners were scrambling to accomplish whatever anyone needed.

Soon enough, the show was about to begin and Adrien was back in line with all the models. They all wore similar style clothes and the female in front of Adrien nervously jumped in place. She must be one of the newer models that his father was talking about. She was no doubt a beautiful woman; his father obviously saw something in her. She shook her arms on her sides and the buckle and chain wrapped around her upper arm jingled. Adrien placed his hand on her back gently; she spun around quickly, the braids in her hair smacked the other side of her head.

“Good luck,” he smiled, “You look nervous.”

“A little! I’m more excited than nervous, but thank you. You too Adrien Agreste!” Her cheeks reddened and she faced the other way again.

Adrien smiled to himself. All he wanted was to forget the night before so he could focus on the evening.

--- The Previous Night ---

After Gabriel dismissed everyone for the day and they all finished up, Adrien headed to the back. He texted Chloe while he grabbed his jacket. His father was with Nathalie when he peeked back on the stage. Nathalie nodded slowly as her boss spoke, and he paused midway, glancing over at his son. Adrien raised a hand.

“I hear Miss Bourgeois is here tonight,” Gabriel said.

“Yeah, I was just going to go out with her.”

“Don’t be back late, the show is tomorrow. And be careful of the paparazzi.” Gabriel focused his attention back to Nathalie.

Chloe was waiting in the lobby of the venue, swiping on her phone in a plush white leather seat. She had changed into a different outfit than what she was wearing before, though it had only been a few hours. She wore tight black jeans with a cropped black top and pointed stilettos, but what really brought it together was her big, fluffy rose coat.

“Adrien!” She chirped, waving at him.

“Hey!” He slipped his hands in his camel jacket as he approached her. “Where are we going?”

“Hmm. Just you wait.” Chloe tapped her smirking lips.

As the doorman opened the heavy venue doors, security guards on the other side made sure to keep the crowd with their flashing cameras a respectable distance away. A car waited for them by the curb and they slipped away into the night.

---

Chloe brought Adrien to a dimly lit, quiet restaurant. It was absolutely lavish – crystal chandeliers hung above every table and the seats were covered in a soft navy velvet. Adrien was used to these kinds of restaurants, but he was a simple guy and would have honestly been okay with the quaint restaurant around the corner that sold pizzas for just ten euros. Adrien closed the menu, finally deciding on a gnocchi and asparagus dish. Chloe mimicked his actions, placing her menu on top of his.

She smiled, her elbows rested on the table, chin in her right hand. “So, how are you? I haven’t talked to you in like forever!”

Adrien pulled up his sleeves and leaned on the table, “Uh, good… Just modelling and stuff. Nothing crazy. And you?”

“Great! The usual! I went to New York for work. You know, I’m a social media influencer and model too, so I go and shoot commercials.”

“Oh that’s awesome! What kind of commercials did you do?”

“Make up, fashion, all that good stuff. Last week I did a shoot with Chanel for their new sunglasses. They had me do this whole Parisian shoot – it’s like I never left home at that point.” Chloe laughed and grabbed her wine glass, bringing it to her lips to take a sip, her pink lipstick smudging the pristine crystal. Adrien liked how the two of them could be apart for so long, but always be so comfortable around each other. Chloe made sure that if Adrien was uneasy, and she was quick to push those feelings away for him. It was always something made him feel better – her confidence was admirable.

Adrien chuckled, “Are you still living in Paris, or did you move to New York for good?”

“God no. I only go when I need to. Paris is my home. Besides, my dad needs me all the time anyway.” The waiter came by the table, his white shirt pressed and crisp to perfection; his hair swooped to the side seamlessly. He asked the two friends if they were ready to order- Chloe went first. As quickly as he came, the waiter picked up the menus and left.

Chloe started rambling about New York when suddenly Adrien felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, startling him. His knee jerked forward and hit the table. Chloe bounced back surprised, “Jesus Adrien.”

He apologized and pulled out his device in a haste. The screen showed a news report in Paris – someone had been akumatized.

Adrien unlocked his phone to read the report. He clicked the video at the top of the article and watched it silently. Ladybug was on her own fighting the akuma. Though she looked stronger than before, her actions and attacks were flimsy and uncoordinated. The headline read “Where is Chat Noir?” Adrien squeezed his eyes shut before opening them again, deciding against reading all the comments on his alter ego. He knew what he was doing coming to Milan.

Luckily, Ladybug was able to defeat the akuma on her own. The news report claimed that the akuma was an easier feat than the other ones that had been appearing around Paris recently, but nonetheless Adrien couldn’t help but feel guilty watching Marinette struggle. The anger he felt towards her dissipated for a second before he remembered her words. He put his phone face down on the tablecloth, and reached for his own wine glass, taking a big gulp.

Chloe’s eyebrows furrowed, “Take it easy there. You don’t want to get drunk. Your dad will kill us if I let you do that.”

“I won’t get drunk,” Adrien grumbled, sighing deeply. He raked his fingers through his blond hair, the fluffy locks failing to fall back in its place. 

She didn’t beat around the bush, and raised her perfect eyebrows at her friend expectantly, “What’s wrong?”

“I…” The young man began. He never actually verbalized his break up with anyone other than Nino or Plagg. “I started seeing someone, but she dumped me.”

Chloe blinked at Adrien, “What on Earth is her problem? You are a catch Adrien Agreste! The fact that she would leave you like that is ridiculous! I’m sure all you did was treat her right. Are you okay?”

“Meh…”

“What a dummy. What was her name? Let me have a chat with her,” Chloe pulled up her sparkly phone from her purse.

“Chloe, honestly it’s fine. Don’t worry. It just hurts. It was complicated. It’s probably better this way,” Adrien rubbed his hands together. “I’ll get over it. It’s okay, really.”

The girl stared at him, “Who is she? I know her, don’t I?”

“What? No! How would you-“

“It’s Dupain-Cheng isn’t it?”

“Chloe no! What? Not even!” Adrien stuttered over his words, scrambling to make her believe. He laughed uncomfortably, “It was just someone I worked with.” Not entirely a lie, Adrien thought to himself.

“I’m just kidding Adrien. Don’t worry. She was just the first person who popped in my mind. You know she had a crazy thing for you in high school right?”

“So I’ve heard,” He leaned back in his seat, taking another sip of wine.

“God, she was so obvious too. You were so blind,” Chloe laughed; the same loud laugh she always had.

Adrien smiled uneasily back at her. He wanted to change the subject so bad. He didn’t want to think about Marinette having to fight that akuma alone. He didn’t want to think about her pretty smile or how small she was in his arms. He didn’t want to think about her at all. He needed to focus on his work. The show was tomorrow and that was the most important thing. Hundreds of people will be watching him – his father will be expecting the best of him.

A couple of hours had passed when the duo finally decided to head back to their hotels for the night. When they stepped outside, there were a few people waiting for them. They started heading down the street for the car that waited for them at the end of it. The paparazzi didn’t wait to start asking them questions. “Adrien! Is this your girlfriend?” A man yelled in a heavy Italian accent.

“Oh yeah…” Chloe said sarcastically. “If you knew anything, you would know I am Chloe Bourgeois, and that we are just friends. Trust me, if we were dating, the world would know about it.”

Adrien reached for Chloe’s hand and pulled her away, bringing her close to him “Don’t engage with them,” he mumbled in her ear.

“What? I’m just letting them know of their ignorance,” she said turning around to blow the camera a kiss anyway.

Finally, Adrien opened the car door, helping his friend in the seat before walking around the car and opening the door on the other side for himself to slip in. The tinted windows protected them from the outside. Chloe told her driver to head for Adrien’s hotel, before going on about how media is so annoying some times.

As they drove away, the streetlights lit up the car as they passed them. The serenity found within the vehicle was nothing compared to the turmoil Adrien felt inside. He worried about Marinette, pulling out his phone to check for messages. He debated on texting her, to make sure she was okay… Would that be stupid? He sighed and decided against it. Nothing had happened to her – she was fine. The akuma was defeated. The only matter that he had to deal with is the fact that Chat Noir didn’t show up, but that’s a problem for when he gets back.

He needed to focus on the show.

---

Marinette laid on her bed scrolling mindlessly through her Instagram feed, Tikki resting by her head on the pillow. She sighed and went back to her explore page, refreshing it for new content. She hit the first box in the corner, and a paparazzi picture of a couple appeared. She rubbed her eyes and took a closer look. She sat up abruptly, causing Tikki to look up at her.

“Holy shit,” she whispered. It was Adrien and Chloe Bourgeois. He was holding her hand. He looked distressed, however Chloe was shooting the camera a kiss.

He was in Milan for his father’s fashion show. How could she forget?

She examined the picture, glazing over his hand holding her high school enemy’s. He was so close to her…

“Ugh!” Marinette groaned. She couldn’t feel jealous. This was stupid. She clicked her phone off and laid back down on her pillow, looking at Tikki.

“You can always win him back…” The kwami said.

“I know…”

[ninzied]

you should see me in a crown

for @garglyswoof and her word prompt ‘dinner.’ a kastle au.

“You want to try not fidgeting over there?”

Frank scowled at his friend but did as he was told, smoothing out his lapels one last time before folding his hands together in front of him. “Sorry. It’s been a while.”

“Rule number one on the job,” said Curtis, with a great deal more patience than he strictly deserved. “You gotta learn how to stand still in a suit.”

“Right,” muttered Frank absentmindedly, scanning the crowd while his trigger finger tap, tap, tapped away, carefully covering the movement with his other hand. People were coming through from all sides, dressed to the nines and hardly sparing a glance for the men guarding the door. “Look, Curt, I, uh – I know I haven’t really thanked you, for puttin’ in a good word with Madani.”

“You didn’t,” said Curtis, with a sidelong smirk in his direction. “But you’re welcome. Wasn’t hard, anyway. She was more than ready to have you back on the team.” He gave a shrug and looked casually elsewhere for a moment, nodding politely at a couple that passed them. “So was I, I guess.”

“Ah.” Frank waved him off, crossing his arms and glancing down toward Fifth Ave. All the black service cars looked the same from the top of the stairs, which would make it that much easier to spot Fisk’s white Escalade when it arrived. “You always were a big old softie.”

Curtis outright chuckled at that. “Don’t even pretend like you didn’t miss me too.”

[read more below or continue on ao3.]

They were silent for a while after that, taking in their surroundings as the swarm of people started to thin. Trust Fisk and his family to make a late entrance, thought Frank, and he knew Curtis was mulling over the same. His friend got winked at more than once by a few of the older ladies, but the smile he gave them was tight, distracted.

There, boomed a sudden voice in Frank’s ear, and he grimaced at the accompanying feedback. Chrissakes, Lieberman. Turning down East 85th. Do you see it? Copy.

“Where’d you find this guy?” grumbled Frank, and he smirked at the noise David made in protest on the other end. “Yeah, I see it.”

“You good?” said Curtis, as the Escalade came to a stop at the light on 83rd. Frank gave him a brief nod, gaze never straying from the car. “You got this.”

But Frank couldn’t help but pick out the question in his tone, and he ran back through it again, all the briefing Madani had done on Wilson Fisk’s daughter, figuring a hundredth time wouldn’t hurt anything. This wasn’t supposed to be the hard part.

“You know, you say that like I haven’t done this before.”

“And it’s like you said.” Curtis’ words were firm but kind. “It’s been a while.”

Go get her, Frank, said Lieberman into their comms, and Frank came just shy of tossing his earpiece altogether. Times like these, he almost missed flying solo, not giving two fucks about breaking the rules. For a while, there were no rules, after he’d lost what he lost.

But he’d promised Curt he was getting his act back together, and if that involved playing nice, being the good guy and all that shit, so be it.

“Remember, if this thing goes south—”

Frank grunted a “Yeah, yeah,” taking the steps two at a time to get Curt’s voice out of his head. He was striding up to the curb just as Fisk’s car pulled up, windows tinted black and reflecting the sunset back into his eyes.

He reached for the door, gripped the handle, and pulled.

He had to blink several times before he knew what he was looking at.

She was – goddamn, she was beautiful.

Even at this angle, with her turned slightly away from him, he catalogued as much as he could, letting it slow-burn its way into his memory.

Her pale, delicate features, lips full and tainted a bare shade of pink. Blonde hair pulled into some kind of twist down by the side of her neck. The slender curve of her shoulders, sloping down into these sheer elbow-length sleeves.

Her dress was simple, sleek and blue, and it brought out the sky in her eyes when she finally turned and glanced up at him.

She was, in fact, even more stunning than all the photos and tabloids had prepared him for, and Frank was utterly caught off guard for a moment, finally managing a nod and a rough-sounding “Evening, ma’am.”

She looked almost – bored wasn’t exactly the right word for it, but she didn’t seem particularly moved by this first impression of him either, rearranging her shawl in a preoccupied fashion before gliding a leg down to the ground.

She chose not to notice the hand he extended to help her out of the car, and for the first time that Frank could recall, he didn’t know what to do with his body, how to stand, where his hands were supposed to go now as she eased past him onto the sidewalk.

“You must be my new security detail.” She said it matter-of-factly, without much feeling behind it, but there was something tired about the way she squared her shoulders at him, head tilting.

“Yeah,” said Frank, feeling more and more like a complete imbecile the longer she stood next to him. He wanted to cringe, just to picture the shit his friends must be thinking at his expense right now. “Yeah, that’d be me.”

She was watching him closely, and he knew she was waiting, for him to crane his neck around the door and realize that she’d come here alone.

“He’ll be in the other car,” she said finally. “He was running a little bit late. Is that going to be a problem?”

“No, ma’am.” Frank looked her in the eye as he said it. “I’m here for your protection, and yours alone.”

He was still having a hard time reading her, whether or not she doubted the sincerity in his tone. She crossed her arms, handbag jangling slightly with the motion. “So what do I call you?”

“Uh. Pete.” He cleared his throat. For whatever reason that he wasn’t going to dwell on right now, lying to her about his name sat strangely with him, and he moved to close the door in order to avoid looking at her as he said it. “Pete Castiglione. Ma’am.”

There was a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth when he turned to face her again, like something about him was amusing to her. “It’s Karen.”

“Right. Of course, m—” and he gave her a sheepish look as she bit her lip at him, a full smile starting to bloom as though against her will. “Sorry. I may have to call you ma’am at least one more time.”

“Well, then. Mr. Castiglione.” There was a slyness to the way she drew the name out, like it was some secret between the two of them. It was probably then that Frank should’ve realized Karen Fisk was going to be a hell of a lot more than he’d bargained for. “Shall we?”

“At your service.” He held out his arm, unthinking – Jesus, Frank, act like her bodyguard, not her date to the prom came with a half-choked laugh in his ear that he’d make Lieberman pay for later – but Karen only settled her hand in his elbow and smiled.

“You’re not what I was expecting.”

He let out a low chuckle as they ascended the stairs. “That bad, huh?”

“Jury’s still out,” she told him, perfectly deadpan.

“Sounds promising.”

She was smiling again. “I’ll have to get back to you.”

They were nearing the door where Curtis stood watch, and Frank carefully ducked his head down, knowing full well the look his friend would have to refrain from making – silent, and entirely exasperated with him.

“Do you mind holding this for a second?”

Frank took her handbag, gold chains weighing heavy as she slid out of her shawl, gauzy blue to go with the sleeves of her dress. Three feet away from them, Curtis coughed into his hand, and Frank was willing to bet that David’s camera eyes had not left them for a moment either.

Karen drew closer to him, and he couldn’t register much beyond the bare swath of her collarbone, the lightest tease of her perfume – soft, something floral – before she was stepping back again, tucking her handbag over one shoulder.

“Trade you,” she said, and he looked down to find the shawl in his hands, unable to hold back a disbelieving laugh as he folded it over his arm.

“You coming?” She arched an eyebrow before turning away, and Frank hastened after her, endeavoring not to meet Curt’s eye as he passed him through the door.

There was a whole other world across the threshold, the air transforming almost instantaneously into something thick and cloying. He was sorely misplaced here, he knew. Always had been. Madani had taken precautions not to assign him to go undercover at events like these again, after. Before he’d completely gone off the rails.

He’d still take the grit of an alleyway over this kind of bullshit any day.

Karen hadn’t made it far. She’d already been flagged down by a middle-aged couple, so Frank hovered some steps behind, feeling vaguely irritable. The man flashed some cufflinks that probably cost a small island, and Frank didn’t much like the way he was eyeballing Karen whenever the wife looked away, but it was his job to be inconspicuous. To lurk in the background while—

“And this is my friend from undergrad, Pete,” Karen was saying, and Frank blinked at her, hard, as she gestured him over. “Pete. Come on, don’t be shy.”

“It was nice knowing you, Frank,” said Lieberman cheerfully into his ear.

Karen took him by the hand, and he stared down his arm at their joined fingers, a strange warmth prickling upward, like this hand did not belong to him, this body was no longer his.

Christ, he really was done for.