#I want a mixture of him accepting the mantle and making it his own

[theshadowrealmitself]

It is always in the back of my mind that Olivia Octavius was the Doc Ock of Miles’ universe, like they were in the same universe the entire time!! That’s his Doc Ock!! Was she like a well known supervillain throughout his childhood? Did anyone have any clue to her identity (outside of the Parkers)?? Was it like a big deal to Miles to suddenly learn of this supervillain’s identity even if they hadn’t fought before because everyone in New York knows about Doc Ock??

Even if he had no personal connection to her, had never fought her before, had never met her civilian identity (I think), that’s still a big deal to suddenly find out what a supervillain looks like/is called outside of their costume, right??

[weebsinstash]

All the posts on the multiverse and ‘canon events’ has gotten me thinking. I love everything about the Yandere where having a relationship or family is meant to be canon. The inevitable destiny that feels like a chokehold. The peer pressure and complete lack of consideration to accompany an increasing loss of agency. But imagine if it were the opposite. The yandere looking through hundreds of different worlds and finding that they never even cross paths with you in the street. Hundreds more that where you do have a relationship, it always falls apart. The opposite of an MJ and Peter Parker. Just imagine them growing more and more unhinged as they desperately search for any justification, any way that proves their love could and should be reciprocated and have the universe consistently show that it’s not meant to be. Or worse, that you getting into a relationship at all could even constitute as an anomaly.

Honestly like, I'm almost absolutely positive Beyond The Spiderverse will "reveal the truth" because canon events as a concept is way too fucking depressing? I also feel like it's inherently making double meta commentary on, not just the whole "oh people don't want to accept miles/new mantles of a hero" but also, specifically for Spiderman, there's been a trend of trying to find new ways to make him suffer? Despite Peter Parker being literally one of the most friendly and pure hearted comic book heroes --his whole deal is literally being your friendly neighborhood Spiderman who friendly banners with his villains-- Peter has been given some absolutely AWFUL comic book fates

There have been comics where Peter has accidentally killed Mary Jane just by being in love and having sex and his radioactive seminal fluid gave her cancer. There have been comics where the world was overtaken by a zombie virus and Spiderman is running around trying to save a collapsing world from ruin, having to literally weave Mr Fantastic into his webs, literally put the stretching guy's skin in his webs, to try and stretch literal actual rotting people back together. Ironically one of the happiest comic book endings for Peter Parker is when he has to fake his suicide after society shuns him for not being a mutant and he actually stops being Spiderman and gets to live a private peaceful life of seclusion with MJ and their baby. So. His happy ending was literally only achieved by quitting being Spiderman because uh people were literally wanting to rip him apart over, essentially mutant based racism

There's this narrative that "oh with great power comes great reaponsibility" and for Spiderman it's pushing this idea that, in the scope of this movie, these heroes don't actually have a choice and truly ARE "destined" to suffer. It's like. No one wants that kind of story actually. At least not on the scale we are seeing it in this I dusty and franchise. Stories where the protagonist is being constantly spit on despite being nothing but good and doing nothing to deserve it isn't exactly uh, what the super campy hero comic books were made for? It's kinda like some grotesque mixture of writers trying to be edgy and capitalism trying to profit off of "shocking" new ideas. Superheroes are supposed to be campy and goofy and at the end of the day it's about saving the day and getting your happy ending and no one should "have to" suffer to achieve that

Like do yall see how awkward it is to see Peter B with Mayday while knowing that Mayday is absolutely already on her way to being a Spider herself with her own canon events. Like it's actually depressing. She's going to take over the mantle of Spiderman when her father gets his leg broken. Does Peter know? Does he ever think about his baby's future? Does Jessica? Are Spider people essentially being forced to have kids that they know are going to be miserable? Can you even imagine, being told "yeah you're supposed to have a child and also that kid is going to suffer just like you and no actually you don't get a choice not to have them"

Like by all means, upholding the canon is actually kind of frightening. Miguel is genuinely trying to save people's lives but some of these canon events are extremely personal things. I know it's kind of only damaging if you know beforehand but like.... wouldn't it fuck you up if you were in a happy marriage with someone who loved and accepted you and be doing your thing for years and then you join the Spider Society and you find out every version of you is with every version of your partner. I dont... know if I would actually find that romantic at all actually. I think my automatic reaction would be "wait are we made for each other? I literally never had a chance with anyone else? There's literally only one person who would ever love me? Did either of us really even have a choice?"

You go home and look at your spouse you've known for years and it's almost like your opinion of them has been permanantly changed. You're no longer looking at the other half of your heart who loves you. You're looking at the poor victim who got stuck with you. You're looking at your Canon Assigned Lover who is never going to get to experience true, actual love, because you're here. It's almost like, you still love them, but it hurts to love them now, and you're positive in your heart that, they don't ACTUALLY love you, their love isn't "true". And you leave them, straight up leaving signed divorce papers sitting on a table of a home you're never going back to. Somewhere at Spider Society HQ, there's a little light dinging or pinging or something in Miguel's face, "Canon Diverted/Canon Changed" and he's going to start physically tracking you down

I mentioned it before but I still like the idea of Reader somehow being in Miguel's Canon despite being in separate dimensions and he doesn't find this out until both of you are on really bad terms with each other, like the equivalent of not finding the search you need because you're off by a single letter or keyword, his systems miss that You are His future spouse because there's so much data it's combing through. Like, Miguel's obsessively researching all the different versions of you and he has who he thinks is supposed to be your future partner on his radar, he KNOWS basically everything about your future and is trying to nudge you towards it, pressuring you, basically breaking your heart when he and the Society kind of straight up tells you to go home and not come back until you're in a relationship, and after you basically hate his guts you have some idk a Miguel with an eyepatch emerging from the shadows with the rest of the Miguelvengers about "you're one of us, hurry, come, there's no time to explain" and there's some bullshit where this emotionally constipated ass man is told he has to apologize and woo you until one of his alternates is like "or you could just take em, that's what I did and my Canon was Just Fine"

I also like the idea of, lmao, "Miguel and Reader WERE canon but he fucked up so badly another Miguel was actually able to just come in and totally steal you and that's HIS canon and Miguel 1 is forced to watch you ride off into the sunset with basically his replacement when he was there first and loved you first"

Idk i just. I really want to break this barrier and write something 😩 its down to me not being able to decide which idea I have. I've been getting new drafts down but not finishing anything, just today I started something new for Batman/the Batfam/the JL even though we've been crooning over Miguel 😅 I just had like 5 days off in a row and I started more drafts so... I guess it's a start? Getting these drafts done is apparently NOT my canon event 😩

[harryspet]

why won’t you love me | peter parker

[Warnings] peter parker x dark reader, yandere reader, sub!peter, dom!reader, crime boss au, stalker au, senior year au, kidnapping, violence, underage drinking, noncon sex, oral sex (male receiving), bondage, peter and reader are 18

A/N: This is inspired by two ideas I received as well as the lyrics  “I will have you, yes, I will have you. I will find a way and I will have you. Like a butterfly, a wild butterfly, I will collect you and capture you.” Obsession- Animotion for @mariessecretfantasies​ 500 Follower Writing Challenge! Please go follow her and read her dark fics :)

TRIGGERING ADULT CONTENT AHEAD

In which Peter won’t love you so you force him to. 

word count: 3.4k

main masterlist 

Mr. Shum was famous. You, his daughter, were not. This led you to hosting parties at your father’s mansion to up your cool points. It was senior year and, since everyone wanted to party, you were often the one people called. Your father didn’t mind, it only solidified his cover as a gracious and kind businessman. His kind eyes and humor was enough to make a lot of believe it but you knew that you were the only person he was kind to. 

You’d seen enough severed limbs to know that was true. 

Brad had set the entire thing up and all you had to do was order your servants to get things in order. Peter was coming tonight and you’d finally get the chance to properly thank him for saving your life a few months ago. Maybe you’d even confess your feelings and the life you always dreamed of would start tonight. 

Maybe you’d start with like instead of love. You loved him but maybe telling him that would scare him away. You didn’t want him to run from you. 

You had known Peter since fifth grade but he still felt out of touch with him. You were never more than friends. Not even close friends, practically acquaintances. That was going to change. 

The dress you were wearing was completely out of your comfort zone but you did your best to dress like the other girls did at your school. It was a silver body con dress that gripped your curves and highlighted features that you didn’t even know you had. When Brad saw you, his mouth was completely agape, “Woah, you look great!” Your mouth began to tug into a smile but, before you knew it, he was shoving a large paper bag into your hands, “Put this in the punch, will you?”

You looked down to see several bottles of vodka, “Is that safe?” You asked, your tone worried. 

“Yeah, of course,” Brad insisted, starting to walk away, “This is going to be amazing, Y/N!”

You sighed walking over to the refreshments table. People were already starting to show up and soon the entire senior class would be there. You twisted open the bottles and poured them to the glass bowl. It wasn’t long before kids were shoving their red cups into the mixture. 

After you were done, you simply dusted your hands together and went to look for your spider darling. Your giant living room flashed with multicolored lights as a song by a rapper you didn’t know played loudly over everyone’s shouting. Like instinct, you could sense where he was. You found him slouched against a white pillar, sipping at a red solo cup. 

He was wearing one of his nice button ups and a pair of jeans. Oh god, you loved the color blue on him. Any color looked good on him actually, “Hi, Peter,” You smiled, tapping his shoulder. He seemed to be distracted but you blamed it on the alcohol, “Enjoying the party?”

As his head turned and those brown eyes looked into yours, your heart melted, “Y-Yeah,” He stuttered awkwardly, leaning his hand against the pillar, “Your house i-is beautiful … nice decor.”

“You think so?” You tried not to seem eager as you imagined Peter coming over all of the time. After school to study … maybe the two of you taking a dip into the pool. You imagined that his body was heavenly. Sculpted by a God-

“Yeah, it’s great,” Peter grinned. He grinned at you, “Y-You look nice. I’ve never seen you dress like that.” Did he think you were cute or was he trying to spare your feelings? Did he prefer how you normally dressed? You were overthinking. 

“I’m trying something new. You look nice too,” Peter nodded his thanks, “You’re drinking?” You gestured to his cup. 

“Nope, sprite,” Peter said, “May would kill me and I have to make sure Ned gets home in one piece. I don’t know if alcohol is really my thing…”

Did he look down on you because you were throwing a party that was serving alcohol? Did he look down on you because you were drinking? You held your cup close to your side as you said, “Me too. I mean, I don’t really get the people who can only have fun when they’re drunk …” You were sure your conversation wasn’t going well but Peter still seemed to be receptive to you. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe he did have feelings for you, “So, we’ve missed you at Academic Bowl.”

“I’ve missed you guys too,” Peter said, causing your cheeks to heat. You knew he was referring to everyone in Academic Bowl but you couldn’t help but take it personally, “I wish I had the time. This moment right here is the only freedom I’ve had in like six months.”

“And you’re spending it caring for a drunk Ned?” You raised an eyebrow. 

Peter shrugged, chuckling, “Well, when you say it like that it sounds crazy,” You loved his laugh. You loved how he nervously tucked his hand into his front pocket. 

“Peter, I’ve been wanting to tell you something for a while,” He perked up and looked at you attentively like he actually cared. You played with the ends of your dress nervously, looking down a bit as you decided to finally let your feelings go, “That day on the bridge when our bus was about to go over the edge … I never knew real fear until then. I thought I’d experienced all the trauma in the world but nothing could compare to that a-and you save me. I’ve never really met someone who’s cared for other people so much … It made me start thinking,like  actually thinking about things and-”

As you looked up, you noticed he was looking past you. He had completely tuned out of your speech, and as you turned your head, you got a glimpse of what he was looking at. MJ was standing by the mantle of the fireplace, talking to some girl. 

You couldn’t breathe. Your heart was shattering. Peter reached out to grab your shoulder, “I’m so sorry. Keep going, please.”

You shook your head, a fake smile on your lips, “It’s fine. I have to do something. Thanks for coming!” You scurried off before he could utter another world. The moment you turned back, he was already gone and walking over to MJ. 

You crushed your cup, causing the liquid to spill out. 

You could kill MJ. She already broke Peter’s heart so why was he running back to her? Why couldn’t she let you have him? Why was everyone so hell-bent on destroying your happiness? Your thoughts were overwhelming and the only thing that seemed to keep them at bay was Brad’s special punch. 

+

You tossed your cup down, watching it fall three stories to the ground. Looking over, you wondered if you could survive the drop. As you lost your balance for a moment, you pressed your back against the roof, giggling. Your world was spinning so much. 

It was a wonder that you hadn’t fallen off from climbing up here in the first place. You took a deep breath and pulled out your phone. You scrolled through your contacts, your vision blurry, before recognizing the heart emojis attached to his name. 

You closed your eyes for a moment as you pressed the phone to your ear. You guessed he was in the middle of a conversation, the hint of laughter and joy in his voice, “Y/N? You’re calling me from your own party?”

His voice only reminded you of why you loved him in the first place. You hated the control he had over your every emotion. You hated how you craved him and he remained oblivious to it.

“I didn’t … I didn’t want to throw the party. I just wanted to see you. I wanted you to see me in this dress,” Your voice was solemn as you slurred into the phone. 

“I got that you had to tell me something but then you stormed off … You sound very drunk. Where are you exactly?”

You shook your head as if Peter could see you right now. You opened your eyes and the night sky was above you, “I try so hard … nothing ever works out the way I want.”

“You try so hard to do what? Where are you, Y/N?” You could hear him moving around, his feet shuffling, and the murmur of Pop music. 

You looked around, “On the roof … I needed fresh air.”

“On the roof? And you’re drunk?”

“I think …” Your voice trailed off, “I just wanted to tell you that I’m over everything. I was being crazy. I get so attached sometimes even though it hurts me-”

“Please don’t move, Y/N,  I’m going to help you down,” You sat up from your position which only made your head spin more. 

“Peter, just listen to me! You never listen to me,” You pouted, “You never see me. I have to accept that it’s never going to change. You’re gonna chase the girls who break your heart, not the ones willing to love you …. Peter? Peter?” You heard nothing from the other side. 

Before you even had time to be disappointed, Peter’s head peeked over the side of the roof, “How did you even get up here?” Peter groaned, lifting himself up. He was still a good twenty feet away from where you had wandered on the slanted roof. 

Peter actually came. He cared enough to talk to you in person. You’d been wrong about him. It caused you to grin but Peter’s face only held worry. Peter began to slide towards you, even taking a second to look over and see how far the drop was, “Give me your hand,” He ordered you as he moved closer. 

You proceeded to pull your feet from over the edge and try to stand up, “Just let me tell you how I feel-”

“Y/N,” He whisper shouted your name, attempting to not frazzle you, “Sit back down, please.”

“If I don’t tell you now then I’ll never get the chance!” You slurred, trying not to stumble.

“You’re going to kill yourself, please sit back down,” Peter said back, every step closer only caused you to step back. Peter stopped, subtly trying to equip his web-shooters.

“It doesn’t matter! I don’t want to live in a world where you’re not mine-” A shriek left your lips as you finally stepped the wrong way and you fell over the edge. You waited for the impact but the jolt you felt was not from the pavement. You were spinning and, as you looked up, a web was connecting you to Peter. 

Peter let out a heavy sigh as he pulled you up. He carried you back to the balcony. The two of you didn’t stay upright for long because your knees gave out and Peter caught you with his arms. He softly brought you to the ground and you stared up into those brown eyes with admiration. 

He saved you. 

You reached up to touch his cheek, “Y-You love me?”

“Jesus,” Peter shook his head, “What?”

Suddenly, you were sober. 

You noticed a crowd had gathered around the two of you. You looked like a disaster, your dress riding high, and your mascara running down your face. Peter pulled your hand away, an exhausted look on his face. He stood up before saying, “Can someone get her some water? And find her somewhere to sleep?” That was all he said before he left the balcony. 

This was different than any other rejection you had ever felt. 

+

“Darling, it’s the ninth day you haven’t gone to school.”

You didn’t look up from your desk as your father entered your room. You were still typing at your computer, writing a scientific article for your organic chemistry class. You were still typing away as you felt a hand on your shoulder. It caused you to pause as your lips pressed into a thin line. 

“I’m getting my work done,” You said to him, still not willing to look at him. You weren’t going to school and you were using your work to distract you from the fact that you asked Peter Parker if he loved you in front of a bunch of people. Not to mention that you drunkenly fell off your own roof. 

Peter hadn’t attempted to contact you, and judging by the talk you heard online, you were officially psychotic in everyone’s minds. 

Your father set a white box on your desk and you immediately recognized the log. DONATELLI”S PASTRIES. You opened the box to find your favorite, a red velvet cupcake, “Thank you,” You said, your mood threatening to improve. 

Your father sure did know how to buy your affection. 

He sighed before saying, “I hate to see that boy breaking my little girl’s heart. First, he threatens my business, a goddamn child is getting my partners arrested, and now this. I preferred it when he was fighting aliens.”

Your fist clenched tightly as you listened, “Superheros think they can do whatever they want.”

Your father agreed, “I really came in here to propose an idea to you,” You perked up at that, “What if I told you I could take care of your spider-boy problem?”

“How?”

“It’s a matter of keeping him distracted long enough to strike. Putting civilian lives on the line seems to do it for him. Besides that, I’ve come into a very valuable resource that will keep him sedated long enough to toss him into the Hudson and makes sure he sinks to the bottom.”

You thought for a long moment, “I don’t want you to kill him, Dad.”

Your father cocked his head to the side, his eyebrow raised, “You know you collect things … Mr. Medina’s left pinky … that police officer’s badge,” Your father was well aware of what he did with his enemies but he had not expected his daughter to take after him, “I want to add him to my collection.”

“I see,” Your father nodded, “Then it’s done. Anything for my little girl.”

A spider for your collection. 

You smiled wickedly. 

+

It was a screaming bus of children. That’s what landed Spiderman in the clutches of Mr. Shum. Luckily, they had survived but Peter wasn’t sure if he would. His face was dripping with blood and the bullet wound to his abdomen didn’t look to be healing anytime soon. 

Peter hung from the ceiling by his wrist, the chains he suspected were made of vibranium or at least a knock off version of it. His spidey sense was completely off and his swollen eyes didn’t even allow him to see the punches as they came. 

Peter fought as hard as he could but the darkness eventually consumed him. 

He awoke to the feeling of warmth being pressed to his skin. As his eyes slowly opened, he found a smiling you hovering over you. Immediately Peter jolted up but was pulled back by chains attached to the bedpost. As he attempted to move his legs, he felt the same thing. 

You shushed him, “Hey, calm down, you’re going to tear your stitches,” You whispered, dabbing the wet cloth against his face. Peter flinched at your touch but you kept it up. You were straddling his waist and as Peter looked down he realized he was completely naked, “I didn’t think you’d wake up so soon-”

“Y/N, what the hell is going on?” Peter’s voice was tired, desperate, his face starting to turn red, “Where are my clothes?”

“I had to give you a bath, it’s been days since you passed out,” You told him and it frightened Peter how calm you were, “I’m not like my father, I’m going to take care of you. He just had to show you what would happen if you tried to hurt me.”

Peter watched as you hinted at his bandaged abdomen, “Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Because I love you,” You grinned, running your hands over his muscular chest. You assumed right. His body was completely perfect and now it was all yours.

“Don’t say that,” Peter winced.

You leaned down closer to his face, “I’ve loved you for a long time, Peter.”

“Don’t say that!” Peter started pulling at the chain again which only led you to press your fingers, hard into the bandage on his abdomen. The boy cried out in pain and it broke your heart. 

“Why don’t you love me too?” You asked, starting to grow frustrated, “I love you so much but you don’t even care! Why can’t you just love me back?”

“Because that’s crazy!” He shouted back, “We’re only friends and kidnapping me is not going to change that!”

“Kidnap?” You questioned, shaking your hand, “You are my one and only love, Peter. How can it be kidnapping if I must be with you? If I must have you as my soulmate?”

“Y/N, please. My family and this city needs me-”

“And MJ needs you?” You pressed your hand against his chest, staring him down, “Huh? The girl who rejects you and yet you chase her while I’m here willing to love you. If only you loved me back-”

“Y/N,” Peter tried to calm himself and ration with you, “If you just let me go, we could make this work. You’re right, I’ve been blind. I’ve been chasing MJ when I should’ve been chasing you.”

Your shoulders slumped and your eyes seemed to lighten as you heard his words, “You mean it?” 

Peter nodded eagerly, “Y-Yes, and we could go on a date together. We could get to know each other more,” You were nodding now, the idea of it sounding completely magical. This was all you ever wanted, “If you undo the chains, we could do that.”

Your mouth quickly turned to a frown and you sighed. Peter watched as you went still, “I can’t risk it. You’ve shown me time and time again that you don’t know what’s good for you,” Peter shook his head, the fear starting to settle in as your hands rubbed up and down his chest. Peter continued to flinch as they moved lower, towards the area between his legs, “You’ll have to learn to love me, Peter.”

“S-Stop,” Peter begged as you finger traced along his length. Like the teenage boy you knew he was, he easily started to grow hard beneath your grasp. 

“I’m not one of those girls who thinks you should save your virginity for marriage. I think you should wait until you meet the right person,” You palmed his cock in your hand, feeling it getting harder. You watched as he pulled at his chains and his face contorted into different expressions of disgust and desperation, “And you’re my person, Peter.”

You licked your palm, lubricating it before placing it back on his cock. You pulled and tugged, pumping up and down. You smirked as moans threatened to escape those pink lips. You leaned down and, as Peter turned his head, you placed kisses along his jaw. 

“Y/N, please…” He begged. 

“Please keep going? Please show your love for me by milking me dry?” He shook his head and you grinned, “My hearts been a toy for you all these years, perhaps now you'll understand what it is to be someone’s toy.”

You moved down Peter’s body, planting kisses and hickies before your mouth reached the member between his legs. Peter lifted his head, watching, “Okay, okay, I understand! Don’t please!” You felt his legs thrash as your tongue licked his pink tip. 

You held onto his muscular legs as your tongue swirled around his tip. Peter’s head flew back in ecstasy as you took him further into your mouth. You bobbed your head up and down, your tongue still swirling. 

His deep groans effectively soaked the area between your legs and you loved how they turned to whimpering and pleading. Peter lasted longer than you expected but it wasn't long before his body contorted and warm liquid sprayed down your throat and into your mouth. As you removed your mouth, you continued to pump his softening cock which caused him to thrash around even more from the over stimulation.

You swallowed what was left in his mouth and began to kiss up his body. His eyes gave a look of defeat, “It’s okay, you don’t have to tell you how much you liked it,” You said as you kissed his neck, “Baby steps, right?”

You laid down beside him, basking in his warmth. Now you weren’t just the awkward daughter of the famous Mr. Shum. You loved somebody and that somebody was going to love you. 

You deserved that love.

+

hope you enjoyed this!

[shortiedreams]

Nobles in the night

Requested by @jwxei

Pairing: Bakugo x (fem) Reader 

Synopsis: You’re a princess set out to kill the king of your nation. Will you succeed?

Word count: 1,821

CW: Attempted murder

A/N: Played ‘Phantom of the Opera’ soundtracks whilst writing this. Dying right now ✌️

_

“The hour of the ball has transpired.” a hushed voice came from behind the entrance.

With the help of his usual dynamic tone, Bakugo immediately recognises the familiar voice of his fidus Achates, Kirishima Eijiro. 

“Very well.” he sighs, and Kirishima could almost hear a frown through his raspy voice. 

None of this was going the way Bakugo wanted it to, yet he couldn’t back out anymore; it was simply too late.

“I’ll be taking my leave then, your majesty.” Kirishima reports.

“Please do.”

Bakugo examines his profile in the gilded mirror. He glowers at his own reflection, how outlandish he looked in his formal attire. Even short of the mantle cloak he was supposed to wear tonight, everything about what he’s dressed himself was far too extravagant for his liking.

He poses again with several new angles as if his judgements will change in one swift movement, but of course, it still feels improper.

He drops his eyes in defeat, succumbing to the unadorned fact that he was going to have to get used to the policies of being king.

He has no idea why everyone worshipped the throne. All he ever wanted was to live a secluded life with his family and friends. 

In actuality, that was what he had before the Mediterranean War a year prior to the present, wiping out the entirety of his family, ergo his newfound entitlement: the king. Kirishima was the only part of his childhood that remained, the only part of his childhood he still had physical contact with. It wasn’t surprising to say that he was very attached to the man, granting him the chancellor’s position. 

Which is why with Kirishima and his family’s former support, it was impossible for him to deny the tradition of the annual ball no matter how much he opposes it. He hates the notion of prattling aristocrats shattering his peace and quietness. Even more so of his invitation to you, the Princess of Agathinos, under the monarchy’s recommendation. This would be the first time a guest with royal blood would visit the palace ever since his family’s death. 

As always, Bakugo initially wanted to decline, but Kirishima advised him that he should accept it since it was ‘time’ for him to start courting. He thought Kirishima was being a nuisance, then again he also didn’t want to be looked down on by the aristocrats. He already knows there are rumours of him, calling him all sorts of names like ‘boorish to women’ or ‘ a  critter of another nation’. 

Bakugo was a smart man, so it didn’t take him much to realise that if he really terminated these accustomed traditions, the public would cause unnecessary commotions. Therefore, for the sake of his future peace and his reputation, the ball is set to commence tonight.

Bakugo snaps out of his sombre daze as he reaches the doors to his chamberlains. He fixes himself, coughs a little, before the doors open and he’s now striding out into the hallway. 

Two handmaids are waiting outside his chambers on cue, guiding him to the ballroom. Bakugo glances around the normally dimmed hall, spotting the marshals line-up in armour and the walls decorated with large candles and Renaissance artifacts. He could hear the distant melodies of the orchestra, currently playing some melodramatic composition. Amidst the lively energy of the hall, Bakugo thought that these attributes only made the area more inhumane.

Bakugo soon enters the top of the stairway, where he adjusts himself as he sits on his throne. He doesn’t even get a few seconds to himself and the guests are already flooding into the ballroom, producing a discord between the music and the chatters. 

“Just great.” he grumbles to himself, resting his chin atop a fisted hand.

_

“For the stead of my parents and the kingdom.” you remind yourself.

You too were sitting in front of your vanity mirror, questioning yourself of your affairs. 

You stare into the mirror long and hard. The dress you were currently wearing is the embodiment of an icy blue oasis. The crystal embroidery embellished on the outermost tulle of the skirt was your definition of a wintery wonderland. The rest of your body was touched up with matching accessories too: diamond earrings, silk gloves and silver hair ornaments. Everything about your outfit shone under the moonlight, but you didn’t, you merely blended in with the dark. Especially with the expression you were holding, no one was going to see you as a ‘princess’.

The reason for your morose mien was your parents, who weren’t attending the ball alongside you as they were busied with engagements arranged overseas.

The only thing they left behind for you was the invitation card, and a letter explicitly telling you to the murder the king. 

At the time you read the letter, you were shocked at how your parents could possibly craft up an assassination plot with such detail. You weren’t oblivious to your parents being megalomaniacs; it was why they were away most of the time, focus directed towards any other royalty overseas rather than their own daughter back at home. 

Another reason why they never really bothered with you was because you were a daughter. Although you were an only child, you understood that society’s misogynistic ways definitely influenced their lack of attention towards you.

It's not like you and your family had a bad relationship but you weren’t exactly close either, therefore you didn’t have enough memories to form any opinions on them. Well that is up until now, when the confidential letter telling you the kill the king ceaselessly echoes through your mind. 

Brazen of you, but you wanted to get some of your family’s attention for once. In a sense, you inherited their selfishness. 

You temporarily shake off your thoughts, and with the minimal amount of dignity left in you, tread along to where your chauffeur was, waiting to escort you to the plaza - the location of the castle. 

Inside the privacy of your cart, the thoughts of how the assassination will go runs through your mind as you fiddle nervously on the holster underneath your dress.

You just hope you’ll manage to come out in one piece.

_

The moment you make your ‘grand’ entrance at the ball, strangers are already gushing at you as a peculiar redhead announces your status. 

You realise that this was probably your first official appearance in public as your parents never let you out, contradicting their own actions. 

You waste no time to ask around for the location of the lavatories. Luckily, the same redhead fills you in on the information you need, and you manage to make a quick escape to the toilets. 

You shut the doors behind you, puffing in pure relief. You were never good with crowds since you haven’t even been outside after all, so the comfort of this cloistered space warms you a little. 

Anyway, you’re here to collect yourself before you even dare to think about killing anyone.  

It takes you a while to calm your breathing as the plan continues to play through your mind for what feels like an eternity. Killing really is all that disturbing.

When you finally muster up enough courage, you step out of the lavatory with undeveloped confidence. Flushing, you look down at your feet as you attempt to make your way back into the ballroom, not even noticing the man standing straight ahead. You stumble into him ungraciously, earning you a merited knock on the head.

“Ouch.” you wince in pain. 

Your eyes drift up to meet with a prepossessing blonde who gazes down at you with an amused guise. He was dressed in haute couture, a form-fitting navy suit pinned with the golden emblem of the Bakugo’s: a griffin.

Without a second glance, you instantly note that he’s the king. 

“Careful, Princess of Agathinos.” he alerts, his voice suiting as the most soothing cord of notes you’ve heard pour out of a mouth in a while.  

How did he recognise you?

“You dropped something, princess.” Stupefied, you watch in awe as he bends down to pick up your possession. 

Moments later, you finally knock yourself out to check what’s fallen off your outfit. In vain, you find all your accessories precisely in their designated locations.

Wait.

“A dagger?” he taunts, raising a brow in your way, “Mind explaining why you need this in a clearly guarded place?”

“My King, I-”

“Don’t have anything to defend yourself with?” Your eyes widen at his accurate observation.

Unnerved, you flee from his light grasp and begin pacing in the opposite direction witlessly.

“Running away from me in my premises. How fatuous.” he chuckles to himself, inspecting the dagger that played in his hands.

_

You dash tirelessly past the postern and into what appears to be a garden. You don’t give a second thought as you bolt through a vineyard, the chiffon fabric tufting together under the remiss handling of your silk gloves. 

Reaching the mouth of an inviting forest, you feel a pair of arms repelling you from going any further. Your eyes widen once more, not being able to tell if you were gratified or terrified, or a genuine mixture of both. 

“I wouldn’t go there if I were you.” the flattery music blows into your ear.

Absent from warnings, two strong arms spin your waist around to engage you with a  handsome physique under the moonlight. You shudder at the enchanting sight of the king. 

If he’s run all the way here for you unaccompanied, it is only alright for you to assume that he doesn’t care about the incident back there.

He seems to be more interested in you, like you are with him.

“Please don’t run, princess. I’m not the beast that everyone deems me to be.”

You show no apparent reaction to his comment, still fazed.

“Don’t be afraid.” he adds, sounding ever so sincere. 

“Oh, I won’t.” you promise. It was the only thing you could say after being completely infatuated by him.

“If you’re saying that on account of me releasing you, then you’re wrong, princess.”

“I mean it, your majesty.” you clarify challengingly.

He hums, palpably entertained, “Will you allow me to try something?”

Was the king seriously asking you for permission even after he knew you were a threat?

Oh lord.

“S-sure.” you stutter, making a downright fool out of yourself.

“Well then, forgive me for my bold deed.”

Before you could even say anything, you feel the sensation of his soft lips pressing against yours, juxtaposing to his unyielding image beneath the moonlight. It sent butterflies fluttering down your back impetuously.

Slowly pulling away for air, a silence hovers above the both of you, utterly enraptured by each other.

“Bewitching.” he comments as he leans in for another kiss. This time you lid your eyes, prepared to devote yourself to your king, Bakugo Katsuki.

[yandere-daydreams]

A Yandere!Atsushi/Reader piece for the lovely @ramannnn​, featuring our favorite were-tiger in all his clingy, emotionally confused glory. I get to work with him so rarely, it’s nice to just sit back and see how many times I can make him cry. 

Word Count: 3.0k

TW: Unhealthy Relationships, Toxic Mindsets, Non-Graphic Violence and Mentions of Cheating.

He should’ve known it would come to this.

Atsushi wasn’t a man of courage. Of faith, maybe, of blind hope and trust and irrational commitment to well-dressed father figures, but he’d never considered himself to be especially brave. It was different when he was with the Agency, when he felt like he had a purpose and an assignment and a goal to carry out or die attempting to see through, but he wasn’t in the agency, now, and you weren’t something he could punch a solution out of.

Or, you were something he shouldn’t punch a solution out of. Atsushi knew people didn’t usually punch their girlfriends. He probably wasn’t supposed to.

Either way, Atsushi sunk down in his seat, the cold leather pressing soothingly against his back as he willed himself to melt into it. You were sitting across from him, one arm resting against the thick, mirrored window, both hands occupying themselves with tearing open one-too-many sugar packets for a single cup of coffee. He was sure you were talking, but he couldn’t bring himself to listen, sinking further into his metal safe-haven every time the sound of your voice reached his ears. This wasn’t anything new, you visited during Atsushi’s breaks all the time… well, you hadn’t been visiting all the time, actually, that was the problem. The week was almost over, and you’d only made one or two impulsive stops in, a meek, worrying number compared to your usual four or five.

Maybe he could’ve ignored it, if it was just that. You two had been inseparable from the moment you found him in Yokohama. It was something out of a drama’s plot, really. Friends reunited at long last, distanced from the miserable, awful people who separated them and free to pursue a relationship deeper than whatever fleeting bond they were able to form in an orphanage so determined to keep them apart. He guessed the charm must’ve faded for you, though. The longer you spent together, the more time you seemed to want to spend apart, your dates often pushed back for a last-minute ‘emergency’ and your impulsive visits quickly becoming sparser and sparser, even if your demeanor never seemed to change.

It was worrying. He was worried. Should he say something now? Choke it down and put it out of his mind? Beat you to death and see if what’s left is anymore cooperative--

Something warm and soft brushed against his wrist, drawing Atsushi out of his thoughts just as your hands closed around his, cupping the lean appendage affectionately. He opened his mouth, letting something incoherent and nonsensical fall out, but luckily, you took up the mantle, continuing the one-sided conversation you’d been having for the past few minutes. “Everything alright, baby?” You asked, with just the right tone and inflection you knew would make him a blushing wreck. It took more self-control than it should’ve to keep himself from flinching away and reviving his efforts to hide within the loving arms of the cafe’s furniture. “You’ve been quiet all day,” You explained, gesture vaguely to the surrounding booths and lingering baristas. “It’s like I’m talking to a brick wall. I’m pretty sure the waitresses are starting to think I’ve bored the life out of my boyfriend, again.”

He gave a half-hearted chuckle, a mix of admissions, confessions, and accusations playing over in his mind. Would you catch on if he stayed quiet? Did he want you to catch on? That had to be easier than stepping around the topic. For Atsushi, at least. “The Agency’s just been busy, lately,” He settled, still finalizing the excuse as it slipped out. “It’s hard to think about anything besides case files and time-lines, right now.”

Your smile brightened as soon as he finished. You leaned in, glancing to your side conspiratorially, your volume noticeable dipping as you spoke. As if you were trying to coax a secret out of him, one he should be attempting to pull from you. “Another stake-out? Who’re the big, mean bad guys you have to catch this time? Or, is it going to be another one of those world-ending, fire and brimstone apocalypses, like last month?” You paused, but you didn’t give him time to interrupt, only thinking for a moment before you went on. “Is there any chance you’re going to drag yourself to my doorstep in the middle of the night, bloody and battered, and I’ll have to be the one to nurse you back to health because you don’t know who you can trust, anymore? I’m not saying I’m against the idea, but--”

“We’re not doing that again. Your neighbors almost called the police, last time.” His tone was more genuine than it was jovial, but you still brightened, your laugh hardly stifled by the fingers quickly barred over your lips. You squeezed his hand gently before pulling away, leaving Atsushi flustered and wondering how hard it would really be to bridge the gap. You were in good spirits, and that was a good sign, wasn’t it? You were happy to be with him, even in his worse moods.

That, or it meant something else was making you happy. Something that wasn’t Atsushi.

The thought killed his hope before it could begin to rise.

“So it’s not world-ending, then,” You confirmed, content with your deduction. You took a sip of your drink, casually, your demeanor overflowing with faux-professionalism. “Good, good. I mean, I’d hate to have my building demolished right after--”

“(Y/n)!”

The voice grated against Atsushi’s senses, unknown and jarring, cutting you off too abruptly, too suddenly. He stiffened, snapping in the direction of the intruder, but recognition washed over you, a small stream of muttered curses falling from your tongue as you ducked into the booth, trying to make yourself seem smaller before pursing your lips and forcing a smile, turning towards your acquaintance as Atsushi did the same. It was a man, unnoticeable and unremarkable by all accounts, but Atsushi still grit his teeth, squaring his shoulders as he moved to push himself up. Something deep and dark and burning flared inside his chest, possessive and territorial, and without thinking, he started towards the man, claws already beginning to prod at the skin between his knuckles. You caught him before his rage could manifest, though, grabbing his forearm and tugging him into your side of the booth, leaning over his lap briefly as you waved to the stranger, signaling you’d be over in a minute. He seemed to accept your answer, taking a seat at the counter without complaint. Still smiling like the idiot he was.

Atsushi huffed, crossing his arms. Childishly. Jealously. Pouting like a toddler who didn’t get the toy he wanted. “I don’t like him.”

“You don’t know him,” You countered, tugging on his sleeve before latching onto his bicep, letting your head come to rest on his shoulder. You sighed, heavily, barely trying to hide your own frustration. “Ito. He’s a coworker.” Atsushi shot you a glance. You responded without looking up. “Just a coworker. One I’ve been trying to avoid lately.”

“I can help with that,” Atushi offered, without hesitation. You were quiet, for a moment, and he shrugged. “It’s our job to look out for each other, right? If he’s bothering you, I could always--”

Another sigh. This one louder, deliberate. Atsushi didn’t need an explanation, going quiet as soon as he was cut off. “It’s just… it’s a work thing, another work thing. Management just changed the deadline for this project, so Ito and I have been seeing a lot of each other. We talked about this.” You paused, perking up, kissing his cheek fleetingly. “You’re right. It is our job to look out for each other, which is why I’m not going to let you tear someone apart because of your…” Trailing off, you looked for the right words. You found them with a stroke to his uneven hair. “Tiger instincts.”

Tiger instincts, right. Tiger instincts. Apparently, that was what you choose to call ‘being a good boyfriend’, now. He wasn’t sure what it was that set him off, your dismissal or the excuses or the threat you refused to acknowledge, but Atsushi found himself glaring at the tabletop, his silence earning another apologetic peck, this one to his forehead. He watched as you bit the inside of your cheek, following his stare, mumbling a quick ‘goodbye’ before awkwardly stepping over him, joining your coworker much too cheerfully. Atsushi had to take a deep breath, collecting himself as he remembered what he’d planned to do, what he had to do.

A talk. The two of you needed to have a serious, unpleasant, heartfelt talk. About your distance, about his resulting paranoia, and now, about Ito. You coworker that, for whatever reason, you didn’t want your boyfriend to meet.

But, you were already leaving by the time he was on his feet, and Atsushi’s break was probably long over. With as much reason as he had left, he told himself it could wait.

Tomorrow was another day, after all.

~

Tomorrow was not another day, after all.

Atsushi decided that abruptly and impulsively, when it was already more tomorrow than today, but there was little he could do to change his mind. It was a mixture of exhaustion and irrationality, really, a breaking point he couldn’t ignore. There was only so long one man could spend lying awake in bed, only so many nights he could waste mulling over the same topic and only so many days he could lose to paranoia and intrusive thoughts, but that didn’t matter, not as he climbed up the last flight of stairs to your apartment, hoping to convince himself to turn around by the time he got to your floor. He didn’t, though, he’d hardly budged by the time he arrived at your door, the only modification being the nails now embedded in his palms, his fists clenched at his sides. He reached for the doorknob out of habit, but barely made contact before gritting his teeth and knocking, instead.

If Ito was there, he wanted to give you a chance to hide him. It would only be fair, right?

He counted the seconds as he waited for you to answer, each passing minute only fueling the growing, unidentifiable itch slowly consuming what was left of his rational mind. Still, it couldn’t have been more than three or four before he heard the lock unlatch, the door swinging inward a second later. You didn’t make any more to let him in or step into the hall, rubbing your eyes blearily as you leaned against the doorframe. He must’ve woken you up, your hair in disarray and one of his shirts draped over your form, but any guilt Atsushi felt was minimalized quickly. There were things more important than sleep - you’d see that, once he started.

He opened his mouth, but you were already talking, a yawn interrupting every other word. “‘Sushi? It’s the middle of the night, and you didn’t… You’re not hurt, are you? I was just kidding about the whole ‘only one you can trust’ thing--”

“I’m fine,” He assured, hastily, almost having forgotten your earlier proposal. He took a step forward, hoping you would welcome him easily, but you didn’t make a move to, only blinking and waiting for him to continue. He did, albeit reluctantly. “We need to talk,” He said, attempting to get his desperation through as quietly as he could. “I love you, sweetheart, you know that, right? I love you so much, but you’ve been so distant, and it’s getting hard for me not to think…” Trailing off, he began to realize just how little thought he’d put into what he was actually going to say. He went on, regardless, stumbling over his declarations as gracefully as he could. “I know you’ve been seeing other people. If you’re… if you’re cheating on me, we can work through it, but you have to come clean. We can’t start, until you do.”

You were silent, for a moment, your stare as dead as it had been a moment ago. When you spoke, it was flat, passionless. “You’re right. We do have to talk.”

Atsushi swallowed dryly, attempting to maintain his composure. “We do.”

“We have to talk, because you’re always doing this.” Your impassivity faltered, this time, but you weren’t apologetic, you weren’t reassuring. No, no, it was your exasperation shining through, now, an exhaustion only thrust more into the spotlight by a groan and another rub to your eyes, as if you were willing him to disappear. He didn’t, of course, his feet suddenly rooted to the floorboards and his tongue a lead weight in his mouth, and you shook your head, going on reluctantly. “You want to know who I’m sneaking around to see? Who I’m avoiding you to spend time with? A presentation, Atsushi, a fucking spreadsheet, the same proposal I’ve been telling you about for the past three weeks. Maybe you’d know that, if you bothered to listen to a word I say. We’ve been spending less time together because I need a minute to breathe, every once in a while. I love you, Atsushi, but I can’t just love you.”

His heart dropped into his throat. Jumped? It didn’t matter, wherever it was, he was choking on it. “B-but Ito--”

“A coworker, like I told you.” You closed your eyes, but you were waking up, starting to focus on the man in front of you. “A coworker, one who already has a boyfriend. I would’ve introduced you, if I wasn’t so scared you’d tear his fucking throat out. I can only tell myself you’re just being protective so often, you know.”

He went quiet as soon as you finished, nervous ticks and fidgets dissipating into pure, frozen confusion. He wanted to believe you, he always wanted to believe you, but… he couldn’t. He wanted to believe you, but he couldn’t, and the guilt over his inability to do so nearly overpowered his anger, raw and primal and yearning for any sort of confirmation. With a wayward glance and a brief delay, you let your door fall away and held your arms out towards him, the gesture lethargic but no less inviting. That was the only sign Atsushi needed, his face buried in your shoulder and his arms around your midriff in a matter of seconds, the sigh you let out as you ran your fingers through his hair almost undetectable. “I love you,” You repeated. “I love you, but we really, really need to talk.”

Atsushi didn’t think he wanted to talk, anymore. “No.”

Your hands stopped moving. “No?”

“No.” Before he could think about what he was doing, he was lifting you off your feet and dragging you through the open entrance, barely pausing to kick the door shut. He didn’t want anyone interrupting the two of you, this time. You must’ve been surprised, your lips parting long before words could form, but he pressed his lips against yours in a hasty, fleeting attempt at comfort before finding the nearest wall, resting the brunt of your weight against it but never letting more than a hair’s width come between you. He wasn’t going to just sit back and watch that happen, again.

He wasn’t going to let you get away.

“We don’t have to talk, I don’t want to talk.” Both of you must’ve felt it at the same time. For him, it was the beast closing in, its arms spanning the length of his own and lending him its strength, its resolution, and for you, it came in the form of sharpened, curved needles driving themselves into your back, dragging across your skin with every writhe, every squirm, every breath. Something warm trickled over his hands, thick and stained, but he couldn’t bring himself to let you go. It had to hurt, he knew it had to hurt, but…

You’d already hurt him so much. This was fair. This was justified.

“Talking won’t get us anywhere.” He was breathless, now, his own voice hardly audible. He decided not to wait for a reply. Anything you could’ve said was already melting together and lodging itself in your throat, strangled sobs racking silently through your chest. You were trying not to scream, and he rewarded you with a fleeting kiss to your collarbone. “Talking is what got us into this. We can’t just talk our way through this. You need to trust me, and stop avoiding me and stop lying. That’s not going to work with me, anymore.”

He felt his claws recede, leaving striped trenches where they’d been embedded in your flesh, and you slumped against him, letting out a stifled groan. It might’ve been out of reflex, the underlying need to find something safe and curl into it, but Atsushi still let out a small laugh, more out of relief than anything else. His grip loosened, his arms falling to your waist but holding you upright as you struggled to stay on your feet. He’d have to take care of the gashes eventually, but it could wait. You just felt so small pressed against his chest, helpless and vulnerable and in need of something stronger to help you. Although he doubted he could ever say it outloud, Atsushi could get used to it.

He liked being the big one, for once.

“I’m sorry too, angel,” He whispered, beginning to rub small, slow circles into your lower back. “I didn’t expect you to understand. I know you don’t always catch onto these things quickly. But, that doesn’t matter.” You were starting to cry, by now, but Atsushi didn’t pay it much mind. By the time morning came, you’d see things from his perspective. The right perspective. “I’m going to take care of you, and no one’s going to take you away from me again. I’ll make sure of that.”

Another sob, this one coming as an uneven, scratchy croak. Atsushi only smiled, his grin pressing against your hair as he spoke.

“Everything’s going to be perfect, when I don’t have to worry about anyone but us.”

[awhitehead17]

Batfamweek2018: Day Three (July 31st) - Homecoming

Summary: Tim brings Bruce home from being ‘dead’ and at the same time Bruce brings Tim back to the family. 

A/N - This is my own take on Bruce coming back from being ‘dead’, so this doesn’t really run along with canon, just thought I’d mention that. 

Enjoy! :D

He did it. He actually did it.

Despite everyone telling him that he’s delusional, losing his mind, over whelmed with grief, he actually proved them all wrong. He brought Bruce back. In the back of his mind he just wants to throw his hands up in the air and exclaim ‘I told you so!’ at everyone who doubted him, of course he doesn’t actually do this because he has self-control but the thought to do it was there.

Once Wonder Woman and Superman had their reunion with Bruce and once they’ve doubled checked to make sure all the omega radiation has left Bruce’s body, the two of them leave the Watch Tower and head for the cave.

Getting there Tim immediately goes to the computer and starts to send out messages to everyone. The first message he sends is up to Alfred upstairs in the Manor, he requests for Alfred to come down to the cave immediately. He then contacts Cass, telling her to get to the cave as soon as she can. Next was Babs who was at the Clock Tower, he tells her to video in when she has the opportunity as there’s something she needs to see. After that, it was Jason, like with Cass he tells him to get to the cave as soon as he can. Lastly he sends a message out to Dick, telling him to get back to the cave when he could. 

Once he was done, Tim notices the heavy atmosphere in the cave. He looks over to where Bruce was staring at the mantle with his last Batman costume in it. Tim couldn’t work out what the man was thinking, he himself was still getting over the fact that he was even looking at Bruce to begin with.

Bruce looks up and meets Tim’s eyes and Tim opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out. What is he supposed to say? I missed you. Since you’ve been gone everything has turned to shit. Dick is now Batman. Damian is now Robin. I’m not a part of the family anymore.

Bruce starts to walk towards him but he stops short when they hear the cave’s entrance within the Manor open up. After the door closes there are footsteps coming down the stairs along with a voice, “Master Timothy, is everything alright...”

Alfred’s sentence trails off as he stops at the end of the stairway after seeing Bruce standing there. It’s not very often that Alfred gets phased by what he’s sees, but this has obviously caught him off guard. Of course it would, Bruce is supposed to be ‘dead’.

Alfred looks at Tim, “Is it…”

Tim allows a small smile appear on his face knowing what the butler was asking, “It’s him Alfred,” he confirms, “Bruce is back.”

Alfred raises a shaking hand over his mouth in disbelief. After a moment he seems to get a hold of himself and he’s suddenly moving forward with a purpose, he goes right up to Bruce and captures him in a hug. Bruce doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around him.

Tim feels warmth spread through his body as the two men embrace each other and in that moment he knows he’s done good. Everything Tim has endured the last several months haven’t been for nothing.

The two men separate and start talking to each other in hushed tones and Tim turns his attention away from them to give them some form of privacy. That’s when the computer beeps next to him, turning his attention to it he finds that Babs is calling in and he accepts it.

“Red Robin, what can I help you with?” Oracle asks as her face appears on the screen. Next to her was Cass, which surprised Tim but he took it in stride. Instead of replying Tim simply moves out of the way so they can see behind him. Cass’s eyes widen slightly and shock and confusion crosses Barbara’s face, “Is that… is that really him?”

Tim nods, “Yeah it is O, he’s back. Bruce,” Tim calls out to him, once the man turns to him he points at the screen, “someone wants to say hello.”

Bruce walks over and stands next to Tim while staring at the computer, “Hello Barbara, Cass.”

“Bruce.” Barbara greets back, her tone is full of disbelief. “How are you… when did…”

Bruce smiles at her, “I’ll tell you soon, when everyone else is here I’ll tell you all what happened.”

As soon as he finished that sentence two engines could be heard echoing throughout the cave. They look over to find the Batmoblie pulling up and coming to a stop, then behind it was Red Hood on his motor cycle.

Jason was the first to come towards them, “This better be good Red, because I-” Jason freezes in his tracks when he sees them over by the computer. There was a pause before he was saying, “No fucking way…”

Everyone changed their attention from Jason over to the Batmobile when the car doors open up. Dick in the Batman suit with Damian in the Robin suit appear from the car. “Tim? Is everything okay, what’s wrong because we got your message and…” They make their way over and much like Jason, they stop short and stare in their direction.

“Father?”

“Bruce?”

Without saying anything, Bruce looks at them for a long time, clearly taking in their uniforms. Eventually he says, “Boys.”

Yet again there was a pause where no one said anything and no one dared to move. Everyone’s focus was on Bruce and the fact that he’s standing there in front of them, alive and breathing.

To everyone’s surprise Damian is the one to break the silence with the exclamation of “Father!” The kid was then running towards Bruce but as he gets halfway he seems to remember his pride and slows down to a quick walk. He walks straight up to Bruce, “Father it’s good to have you back, Grayson and I have been taking care of Gotham.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything as he looks down at his son, then in one quick motion he has Damian locked in a hug. Tim watches as Damian freezes against Bruce, the sudden physical contact being a shock to him, but slowly the kid relaxes and then puts his arms around his father.

From where he was hugging Damian, Bruce looks up at Dick. They make eye contact and Bruce makes a gesture with his hand that has Dick immediately going over to him. He rips the cowl off his head and chucks both of his gauntlets to the side. Once he reaches Bruce he opens his arms up and engulfs Bruce, as well as Damian, in a hug.

Tim has no idea what to think as the three of them embrace each other. A mixture of conflicting emotions run through him, anger, hurt, jealously, happiness, gratefulness. Instead of trying to analyse on why he’s feeling those things he turns away from the scene in front of him and looks at the computer screen. Both Barbara and Cass are watching the scene with unreadable expressions.

When Tim turns back the trio have now broken up, though Bruce has a hand on each of their shoulders. Bruce looks up and makes eye contact with each family member, “I think it’s fair to say that I owe you all an explanation. What happened was…”

Tim sits and patiently listens to Bruce as he tells the story of how he was lost in time and how he came back. Tim inputs some information when he feels it’s needed but he mostly let’s Bruce explain everything. He studies everyone’s reaction to Bruce’s story, there was a mix of confusion, surprise, understanding and sadness.

After he finishes the story there a few comments about how unreal it is, how they can’t believe he went through all that, how he’s actually alive and how relieved they all are.

While all the commotion is going on in the middle of the cave where everyone else has gathered Tim gets up from where he was sat at the computer and starts to make his way towards the vehicle bay. His job was done. They don’t need him anymore. His mission over the last few months, the one which he bled for, cried for, nearly died for, was now complete and was successful. He brought Bruce back to the family when everyone else said he couldn’t.

Now Bruce was back everyone else will return back to normal, well almost everyone – he won’t be. Damian is now Robin, the title that was formally his. While Bruce will probably take back the mantle of the Bat, Dick will go back to being Nightwing and most likely work over in Bludhaven, Jason will stay the same as will Babs and Cass. So where does that leave Tim?

“Tim.”

Tim stops short of the bay and is cut from his thoughts when he hears his name. He turns around to find Bruce heading towards him, the man stops a few feet away looking at him with a slight frown, “Where are you going?”

The questions catches Tim off guard. He opens his mouth to answer but finds he can’t simply because he doesn’t know. Now his mission has been complete Tim needs to find another purpose to continue fighting. Batman has a Robin, the Titan’s have a Robin, Nightwing has his own city, Hood has all of Crime alley, Oracle has the Birds of Prey.

A hand on his shoulder startles him out of his thoughts. He looks up to find Bruce standing right next to with a concerned look on his face. Tim gives him an easy smile which was fake and gently pushes the hand off his shoulder, “I don’t know Bruce, somewhere, anywhere. I’m not needed here anymore, my jobs done so now I’ve got to find another one.”

Bruce continues looking at him for a while, behind him he can see the others all looking in his direction. He puts his attention back on Bruce when the man starts speaking, “What do you mean ‘not needed anymore’? Why won’t you be needed?”

Tim feels himself drop, Bruce doesn’t get it. “Bruce, you’ve been gone a while, a lot has changed. Damian is now Robin, he’ll join Batman on patrol, Red Hood has Crime alley, Babs has the Birds of Prey, Nightwing will return back to Bludhaven. Where does that leave me? I’m not needed.”

He turns away from Bruce and continues to the vehicle bay, but once again he stops short, this time it’s because of a hand with a good grip on his shoulder, “Tim-”

Tim cuts him off, “Listen Bruce, I’m glad you’re back, I really am but I’m not… this isn’t…” Tim let’s a frustrated sigh. Why is this so hard?

Bruce’s free hand lands on his other shoulder and both hands gives him a squeeze. Tim looks away from Bruce but the man turns his head back and forces them to make eye contact, “Tim, you’re right, I have been gone for a long time, but I can tell you now that you are still needed here. You are still apart of the family. I love you as my own son and the others love you as their sibling, even if they don’t show it. You have a place in Gotham and a place here with us, I’m sorry for whatever has made you feel like you don’t belong, but you do.”

Tim stares wide-eyed at Bruce, unsure about what to do with the words the man was saying. Is that actually true, it can’t be though right?

A hand on his cheek gets his attention, “Tim.”

“Bruce I don’t…”

“Tim.” He says firmly and Tim shuts his mouth. “We’ll talk more about this tomorrow, but for now I think Alfred is making snacks and if we’re all up for it we’ll stick on a movie and relax for the rest of the night.”

At this point Tim knows he hasn’t got much of a choice. He resigns himself and just nods his head. Bruce smiles at him, “Good. Now go get changed.”

Tim watches as Bruce makes his way back over to the others, they all start talking but Tim doesn’t join in. Instead he heads for the changing rooms where he showers and changes into lose clothes that’s been left in his locker. Once done he enters the main part of the cave and passes the others as they enter the changing room, as they pass Jason runs a hand through his hair and messes up his hairstyle.

Bruce was stood in front of the computer and Tim walks over and stands next to him. His not-dead adoptive father reaches out and loops an arm around his shoulders and pulls him in close. Surprising himself Tim allows the contact.

They stand close together for a few minutes and that’s when Bruce whispers to him in a fond tone that Tim hasn’t heard in so long, “Thank you for bringing me home Tim.”

[salmonshirtsforeverprod]

The X-Files: Squeeze review

(Warning: this review contains spoilers for the episode Squeeze.)

Squeeze continues The X-Files' early run of strong episodes that ably define what to expect from the show on a weekly basis. The Pilot gives us our first contribution to the series' long, twisted mythology. Deep Throat gives us the first of what I call "witness" episodes, stories in which Mulder and Scully bear witness to events they're ultimately unable to thwart or change. Squeeze gives us our first true "monster of the week" and our first true character-centric episode, effectively finalizing our introduction to the series. Squeeze is also our introduction to writing team Glen Morgan and James Wong, and their vision of The X-Files as a quasi-anthology series driven by genre homage and visceral body horror. Finally, Squeeze establishes Morgan and Wong's powerful push/pull dynamic with series creator with Chris Carter. Their willingness to prod the foundations of Carter's work, question his assumptions and explore his implications, is the core of one of the most fascinating working relationships in television history.

If Chris Carter's early work on the series is defined by his encyclopedic knowledge of UFO and conspiracy lore, Morgan and Wong's work is defined by pop-cultural pastiche. The two create tightly structured riffs on popular media, while always keeping their attention to character in sharp focus. In this case they primarily draw inspiration from Dan Curtis' 1973 film The Night Strangler and Stephen King's 1986 novel It. King gets a shout-out right from the jump as the teaser begins with a man walking into an office building, unaware he's being watched by a yellow-eyed man in a nearby storm drain. The dim lighting and slow truck-in make for an extremely creepy image, one of the best of the episode. The intruder sneaks into the building through the elevator shaft, and uses the ventilation system to reach his target's office. He unscrews the air conditioning grate from the inside, kills the man, and leaves the way he came. Cue opening credits. Just like that, we're off to the races. It's a fascinating teaser, challenging our expectations and presenting us with a delightful, X-Filesy twist on the locked room mystery.

The first act begins as Scully has lunch with Tom Colton, a former classmate at the FBI Academy. It's really a brilliant scene. Colton is a remarkably catty careerist, played with slimy zeal by a young Donal Logue, and each seemingly friendly exchange drips discomfort and venom. He's as contemptuous of those above him as those below, and he fully expects Scully to participate in the backbiting. When he turns his withering attention to Mulder and the X-Files, Scully defends her partner and asks if he really views her work with such disrespect. He defers, but bristles at her objection, angry and unwilling to meet her eye. It turns out he actually brought Scully to lunch in order to ask for help, he's just physically incapable of displaying even a modicum of decency or respect. He's been assigned what's seemingly a serial murder case, three men murdered and their livers removed by hand, the teaser being the last of the three. Even more confounding, none of the crime scenes have any identifiable entry points. Scully picks up that Colton is really asking for Mulder's insight. Colton confirms, careful to frame it as a favor he's granting Mulder in order to protect his own ego. He also suggests Scully's assistance on this investigation could be her ticket out of the X-Files by saying she won't have to be "Mrs. Spooky" anymore, leaving Scully to ask herself what she's looking for long-term.

Scully brings the offer to Mulder, who acts offended Colton wouldn't approach him, but really he's having a powerful reaction to the thought of losing her. He still accompanies her to the crime scene, where he immediately begins antagonizing Colton. He leans hard into his spooky reputation, spouting off-the-cuff nonsense about the importance of liver consumption to extraterrestrials from the Zeta Reticuli star system. It's another example of Mulder using sarcasm to cope with the animus over his tattered reputation, and it's humorous just how hard Colton bites on the obvious bait. Scully is understandably uncomfortable with the dick measuring going on in front of her, and has no tolerance for it. When they actually start looking around the scene, Mulder notices the ventilation grate and understands it could be a possible point of entry for the killer. In another of his patented intuitive leaps, Mulder dusts the grate and lifts a ten inch long print, much to Colton's chagrin.

Mulder takes the print back to the basement office, confirming its similarity to elongated prints lifted by police during two separate murder sprees, one in 1963 and one in 1933. This is another callback to The Night Strangler and It, both of which center around multiple sets of murders occurring decades apart. Since the earlier sprees contained five murders each, he tells Scully to expect two more. She's angry at first, tired of Mulder jumping to the conclusion of extraterrestrial activity with every case they work. He confirms he was only teasing Colton at the crime scene, and doesn't actually see any evidence of extraterrestrial activity in this case. Something else is happening here, and though the exchange is a little obvious it's important to signal to the audience not to expect aliens in every episode. Scully then decides to play ball in Mulder's old court, and tries her hand at building a profile. She follows sound technique, treating it like a mundane investigation, though the creepy fingerprint weighs on her mind.

She presents her profile to Colton and his team the next day. After a few gratuitous jabs at Mulder the team accepts the profile, Colton even stares at her with a discomfiting mixture of envy and sexual attraction while she reads it. Central to her profile is the idea the killer will return to the scene of previous crimes, so she organizes a stakeout of the three crime scenes.

Mulder joins her but doesn't take the stakeout, or her profile, very seriously. He views the perpetrator as a master B&E artist, driven more by the thrill of entry than the murder, and won't bother to return to a puzzle he's already cracked. This casual condescension will become a staple of Mulder's character going forward. Despite his radical ability to assume other points of view and his insistence on broadening the horizon of investigative theory, once he personally decides on something his mind is made up; he doesn't have much consideration for other possibilities or viewpoints. Scully's profile is quickly proven accurate, however, when they discover a man in a duct, emerging backward as if being defecated from the bowels of the building.

The man they apprehended is a young animal control officer named Eugene Victor Tooms, played perfectly by veteran character actor Doug Hutchison with only the barest hint of personality and a stare somehow both vacant and predatory. He passes a polygraph test but does get flustered when asked, at Mulder's insistence, questions referencing the murders in '63 and '33. These questions are poorly received by Colton and the rest of the team, and Mulder gets dressed down by the agent in charge. His excitement over Tooms' response is dashed, and he's clearly wounded by his ideas being dismissed.

Scully asks why he'd pursue his theory so overtly in front of the other agents and Mulder cracks an evasive joke about his desire to mess with people's heads outweighing "the millstone of humiliation." Scully sees through this and, despite some trepidation, asks why he's been so territorial. It's a great moment, with Scully trying to frame the question in a way that won't offend him then immediately turning away to downplay her discomfort. Mulder responds intimately and honestly, gently touching her necklace to keep her from turning away. He tells her how much her respect means to him and that he'd understand if she wanted to move on from the X-Files. He recognizes and treasures her talent, insight, and potential. This plaintive honesty stands in sharp contrast to Colton's sneering mendacity, and this is what wins Scully over.

Tooms is released with an apology, and he immediately sets out to commit another murder. He stalks a man home, deciding to enter through the chimney. We finally see Tooms' abilities firsthand, as his arms stretch and his joints pop out of place to fit inside. Meanwhile, the target goes about his evening, putting things away and going to light his fireplace. This gives us an inkling of hope, hoping he'll light it in time to smoke Tooms out. It's a good, tense sequence, reminiscent of Hitchcock with it's cross-cutting, misdirection, and use of color. Unfortunately it ends in tragedy: the guy is too late, Tooms is already inside. The scene ends with Tooms awkwardly grabbing the guy in slow-motion, kind of a lame way to pay off a good sequence.

Mulder and Scully visit the new crime scene. Mulder can't help himself and needles Colton yet again, who threatens to have them removed. Scully doesn't stand for this, reminding them they're here to find justice for the victim. It's another great Scully beat, showing that though she's sided with Mulder personally and professionally, she still has no time or interest in their schoolyard antics. They lift more elongated fingerprints and find a small object missing from the mantle. After leaving the crime scene they struggle to turn up any significant documentation on Tooms, so they decide to visit Frank Briggs, a detective who investigated the previous two sets of murders. Briggs is old now, living in a retirement home, but he's still haunted by the case, counting the days until someone calls about these new murders. Briggs sees Tooms as the human embodiment of mankind's potential for evil, comparing the murders to the Bosnian genocide and other atrocities. He produces a scrapbook with photographs proving Tooms hasn't aged since 1933, and directs the Agents to Tooms' old address: 66 Exeter Street. The conversation with Briggs is a weird scene that doesn't quite work. The exposition, at least, is intriguing. It's at once clarifying and elusive, building up to that ominously poetic address, 66 Exeter Street. Otherwise, it's a mess. Mulder vacillates between childlike interest in Briggs' grim story and quiet objection to his characterization of Tooms as a monster. Actor Henry Beckman does the best he can with the material, but Morgan and Wong just haven't really rooted the possibility that Tooms is the human manifestation of evil in the story. This could be another shoutout to It, where the titular villain's evil affects the mood and prejudices of an entire community.

Mulder and Scully go to Tooms' now condemned apartment complex. It's a creepy, well-lit sequence, culminating in the iconic image of Mulder and Scully walking into his apartment, a shot immortalized in the opening credits. They poke around, considering the possibility that Tooms sustains his youth by consuming human livers. This is another reference to The Night Strangler, in this case the film's villain Dr. Richard Malcolm.

The Agents soon make a gruesome discovery. They find an odd nest, constructed by Tooms out of newspaper and an odd, brownish-yellow adhesive. Mulder reaches out to touch it, rubbing the liquid between his fingers before Scully realizes it's bile. Mulder is disgusted, and makes a classic joke about how to get it off his fingers without betraying his calm exterior. This will be the first of many times Mulder instinctively reaches out to touch something gross, and it's a good example of Morgan and Wong's penchant for picking up on an aspect of a previous episode (in this case Mulder's imprudent excursion into the Ellens Air Force Base in Deep Throat) and running with it. The Agents also find the missing trophies from the previous murders. They decide to put the apartment under surveillance but not before Tooms, hiding in the rafters, snags Scully's necklace, suggesting he's found his fifth victim.

Colton goes behind Scully's back and calls the surveillance off in an effort to ingratiate himself to his superiors. When Scully objects to this Colton's mask finally slips, and he treats her with the same venomous contempt he's already spit at everybody else. Scully leaves him to his empty careerism and heads home. She gets home, runs herself a bath, and a huge drop of bile drops from the ceiling, landing on her hand. Tooms has broken in. Gillian Anderson's horrified gasp at this disgusting violation is a great little moment, one of my favorites in the episode. Mulder, meanwhile, heads to 66 Exeter Street, surprised to find the surveillance detail is gone. He finds Scully's necklace among the trophies Tooms took from his other victims, and races to her house. Now it's Scully's inaugural turn as damsel, except when Mulder gets there he really only acts as a diversion long enough to give Scully a chance to jump into action as well. The agents ultimately apprehend Tooms together, Scully handcuffing him to the tub while Mulder trains a gun on him. It's an effective sequence, ending with Tooms cuffed to the tub, jerking around like a cornered animal before relaxing, realizing he's caught, while Scully catches her breath against the window.

We have a few more quick scenes: one with Detective Briggs reading about Bosnian war crimes before seeing a headline about Tooms' apprehension, and crying in relief. We then move to Tooms in his cell, creating a new nest. Mulder and Scully watch him build, and have a conversation about the inability of society to find true security, and how the presence of anomalies like Tooms in the world undermines our conception of what it means to be safe. The conversation is a little heavy-handed, though these capstone conversations will become a regular feature to lend closure to subject matter that inherently resists it. They will improve as the show goes on. Sure enough, the episode ends with Tooms grinning at the realization that his cell door has a food slot. Even our most secure institutions are unprepared for a creature like him.

And there you have it. Squeeze is another solid early episode, introducing us to several more long-running narrative and thematic elements of the series. We're introduced to Glen Morgan and James Wong and their willingness to question Chris Carter's assumptions and test his foundations. We get our first outright horror episode, and our first classic villain. Tooms is a fascinating creation, beautifully realized by Doug Hutchison. He's a tangle of predatory urges, almost totally devoid of humanity, and he's constantly associated with the body: his excretion of bile, his sweaty skin, his consumption of liver, he's even introduced in a visual metaphor for a bowel movement. Seeing him onscreen is almost a tactile experience, reminiscent of the bracing somatic filmmaking of Gaspar Noe. Squeeze is definitely flawed. It isn't as scary as it could have been, probably due to the infamous behind the scenes issues with episode director Harry Longstreet. Longstreet didn't even make an attempt to shoot a piece of horror (perhaps indicative of how unthinkable horror on tv was in 1993), which resulted in his removal and significant last-minute reshoots directed by Morgan and Wong. Squeeze still has a strong story, however, exploring why Scully would continue to work with Mulder despite their disagreements. It shades in their character dynamic immensely, adding several aspects to Mulder and Scully that will become baked into the premise going forward. It also does a great job defining Mulder and Scully's relation to the FBI in general, not just shady arbiters of conspiracy like the Cigarette Smoking Man. It's also the first episode to be character-centric, rather than focusing on narrative or thematic exploration like the Pilot and Deep Throat. This episode essentially acts as the finale of a three-part pilot, completing the pitch of what The X-Files can be.

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, STASS! You’ve been accepted for the role of OBERON. Admin Rosey: G o d. God help me this application has taken my breath away and left my very bones bare. Oberon has always been a favorite of mine, quite different from a lot of other biographies I have written. His very force is nature, unbridled and uninhibited. Stass, with this application you have captured all of that and more. You have given us everything we could have ever asked for and then some. With Oberon you played our heartstrings, plucked away at them and made us fall in love with him in a very real way. His voice makes us catch our breath, his mannerisms has us trembling out of equal parts fear and respect. We cannot wait to have Oberon ruling his dark underground in Verona! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Stass.

Age | 21.

Preferred Pronouns | She/her.

Activity Level | 7/10. I’m currently on summer holidays, so I’m free most days and evenings. I’m starting university again in October, so will probably only be able to come on in the evenings or early mornings, but my weekends are usually completely free as I’m generally quite good at managing my time and workload.

Timezone | GMT.

Current/Past RP Accounts | x (Orpheus), x (Sirius Black in a Marauders RP), x (a criminal mastermind in the RP Thick as Thieves), x (James Bond in an MI6 RP).  There are others, but these are the important ones.

In Character

Character | O B E R O N .

O R P H E U S . Some struggle to believe that this is truly the name he was born with, assume that he must have changed it from something altogether more pedestrian as soon as he was old enough, think that it’s all part of some great act. Although the last of those assumptions is patently, clearly, undeniably true, the first two are not. When Orpheus Ahulani was born his parents looked into their eldest son’s forest-coloured eyes and knew what image they wanted the heir to their kingdom to be moulded into. He will be the Pied Piper, they agreed, the siren call that will lead the errant souls of Verona towards oblivion, the boatman who will entice them down to the gates of Hell and ferry them across the Styx towards their certain doom. Most children would crumble under the weight of such expectation, fold like a tower of cards and retreat into the recesses where the shadows of their invented legacy could not touch them, but Orpheus was not most children, and so where he might have been expected to capitulate, he flourished. He was performing confidence tricks before he could walk, drawing in oblivious passers-by with his winning smile and the glimmer of mystery in his eyes and stripping them of anything they had that he could take. His parents, his grandparents, they all claimed that the criminal path was one they had taken to stay afloat in the mire and the chaos of petty civilian life, that it was necessary to maintain the lifestyle they had become accustomed to, but to Orpheus crime quickly became less about obligation and more about pure enjoyment, about the thrill of enticing people to their certain doom. He had not adopted the darkness, like his forefathers; no, he was born in it, shaped by it, and the Black Prince came to wear that darkness like a mantle. He was not blessed with fortunes and titles and palaces like the rulers of the Capulet and Montague clans, but he had the same power they did, the same ability, the same influence, and when he ascended to the throne that he was born to sit on, aided by Cosimo, his dark star expanded a thousandfold. He had been powerful before, but now when Orpheus reaches out a hand, the shadow it casts darkens Verona’s every street, and when he opens his mouth to utter even a mere syllable, the whole of the city’s underbelly flock to his side, answering their master’s call. Just as the Orpheus of myth was able to charm even the rocks and the trees with the sweet melodies of his lyre, so the Orpheus of Verona is able to make the city dance to his tune if he so desires. There is not a soul he cannot touch, no fool he cannot deceive, and when he calls, fear not, for they will come. They will all come.

A H U L A N I . They were islanders once upon a time, his relatives, before his grandparents picked up their empire of swindling and trickery and brought it eastwards. The sun-kissed paradise they left in their wake was too serene for them, the spray of the sea and the caresses of the wind against the beachside palms were just too celestial to be sullied by crime, no matter how gracefully it was committed. They came to Italy seeking a refuge that was altogether more low, already dirtied by the indelible stain of wrongdoing, where the criminal life they sought to lead would blend into a colourful tapestry that had already been woven. It was there, on the dusty streets of Verona, that his father met his mother and her family of misfits, and as the two lineages merged a new dynasty commenced in the Underworld. Orpheus has lost most of his physical connection to his Hawaiian roots, has only seen the white-gold sands of Honolulu in photographs and paintings, but nonetheless there is a part of him that will always be tethered to the sun, the salt spray and the wind, and the sea that rolls in his veins gives him that easy, breezy confidence, a lightness of being and of touch that seems almost deceptively out of place for a man of such formidable stature. He has all the charm of someone who has been blessed by the island life from the moment he was born, the kind of easy smile that seems to have sprung from people’s fantasies of what it means to be Hawaiian. Little do they know, of course, those fools who look upon him and are entranced, that behind the sunny brilliance lurks a filth that runs bone-deep, a black scourge that could not be erased by even the brightest star. This grime comes from the Irish in him, the visceral, corporeal criminality his mother’s heritage brought to the Ahulani crime clan, the part of him that isn’t afraid to spill blood and break bone, that revels in crunches and grunts and cries of pain. Joseph Ahulani and Katherine O’Leary were formidable criminals on their own terms, but when they came together their vastly differing styles of con created the perfect mixture in Orpheus, merged to forge the master ruler of Verona’s seedy underbelly. Verona’s instigator is as alluring as they come when he needs to be, flashing pearly white teeth and twinkling eyes, using his Hawaiian radiance to promise the world. But beneath the dazzle and the beauty lies something altogether darker, more nefarious, befitting of the dark corners and muddy ditches in which he chooses to perform some of his darkest acts.

What drew you to this character? | Where can I start with this? I missed Orpheus so much, too much. I love playing characters with a dark side, and the idea of someone who was not only aware of the blackness of his heart, but who revelled in it with so much glee, was captivating and immensely intriguing. Rarely, if never, have I seen a character as multi-faceted, as darkly multi-faceted, as Orpheus. I love that his soul shines with gloom, like that colour scientists discovered that was ‘blacker than black’, a sponge to soak up all light that glances off it. I love the fire in him, the fire around him, that it spurts from his fingertips and his heels and flares up in his eyes when he laughs, when he lies and when he roars. I love how you’ve made Orpheus so completely, almost painfully self-aware, so completely in touch with the filth that coats Verona’s streets that he not only plunges his hands into it, but dives in and bathes in the muck. I like that he has a clear sense not of right and wrong, but justice and injustice, and that his governing maxim is very much ‘an eye for an eye’, that he’s fearless and heartless but somehow has become a beacon to the downtrodden and the low, and that he has built an empire of sorts without the inherited wealth and the pomp and circumstance of Verona’s two warring families. Essentially, I’m utterly, hopelessly in love with this minstrel of destruction, and I’d like to congratulate you once again on dreaming up this instigator. It sounds overblown, I know, but I really do love him with all my heart and soul.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

YOU CAN BE THE KING; The Capulets and Montagues might rule the streets and seek to fill them with the blood of their enemies, but Orpheus knows that the real power lies not in how many guns you have or how many bullets you spend, but how many bodies you have on your side, how many empty vessels you can whip up and fill with the pulsing beat of your agenda. His kingdom was handed to him by Cosimo on a silver tray, and, just like Hades took to his Underworld with perfect ease, Orpheus has found that he’s exactly where he belongs. I’d like to explore how Orpheus rules his kingdom, how he goes about raising his own empire with the backing of the Capulets. He’s always turned his nose up at an excess of money, but I’d like to see how he uses the protection and financial backing Cosimo threw his way, how he sets about positioning his dominion in the wake of the coming war, how he protects what is his from the long arm of Verona’s moneyed classes, and how he uses Measure by Measure to spread little rumours of evil here and there, how he uses his fighting pit to breed fear and respect in equal measure. He is on the Capulet side for now, because that is the side that currently brings him the most opportunity, but everything could change at the drop of a hat, should the tide of war swing a different way…

BUT WATCH THE QUEEN CONQUER; I want to explore Orpheus’ relationship with Theodora, to develop the toxic, intoxicating back-and-forth between them. They were never exclusive, neither of them belonged to the other, because they’re not bound by such earthly pettiness, and so Orpheus has, over the time they’ve been together, roamed as freely as he pleases, bedding anyone that took his fancy, as though it was his mission to cover the whole of the gender spectrum with his conquests. Orpheus knows that Theodora is sometimes jealous of his wandering eyes and hands and limbs, that they resent him bitterly, that they would gladly douse him in gasoline and strike a match, and I’d love to explore how he plays on this side of them, how he tries to goad them into lashing out, how they both stick knives in each other’s backs and then help each other bandage the wounds, knowing that no matter how much they hurt one another there will always be something cosmic and irrevocable that binds them together.

LET ME WHISPER IN YOUR EAR; His relationship to Halcyon. I want to see how Orpheus walks the tightrope between informant and deceiver, how he manages to sustain the balance between feeding her the information the Capulets need, enough to keep the war interesting, and obscuring those facts which should never come to light. I believe that Orpheus wants a war, has wanted one for some time, because there is nothing that burns as fiercely within him as his hatred for the wealthy, and although he would actively intercede in the battle against them, obliterating them like he did that family of idiots who dared to rob him of his loved ones, the opportunity to see the elite tear themselves apart is just too good to be missed. I think he will take to his role as informant eagerly, recognising the opportunity it brings to light the touch-paper and give the conflict the spark he feels it needs, although I imagine that if Halcyon tries to exercise control too fiercely Orpheus won’t hesitate to remind her just which side of the war he’s currently pretending to be on, and the damage he can cause if he chose to switch his allegiances.

THE PIED PIPER; Although he never intended it to be this way, Orpheus has inadvertently found himself wearing the cap of Robin Hood, scourge of the elite and folk hero of the poor. He’s not a kind soul, by any means, but over the years he has found himself becoming strangely proud of this unofficial title, even though he’d never admit this to anyone, even on pain of death. Something changed in him after seeing his brother struck down so carelessly by those who had more money than sense, and Orpheus decided after he’d wrought his terrible revenge that the best way of conquering the upper class was raising the lower classes to fantastic heights, to elevate them in any way he could, so that they could topple the wealthy of Verona from above and from below, rising from the underworld like magma and raining down like hellfire from their plane of moral superiority. Building on this, I’d like to develop how Orpheus relates to and interacts with those members of the Capulet mob who are not from the same privileged background as its leader, and although he’d never do this overtly I envision him attempting to convert some of them to his side of the ‘cause’, enticing them with the odd throwaway comment or lingering glance, reminding them where they came from and where they could go once freed from the yoke imposed on them by Cosimo’s money.

WATCH YOUR BACKS; Superficially, he’s a soldier, and his role within the hierarchy of the Capulet family is supposed to consist of him following orders blindly, obediently, to put his life on the line for the family he’s supposedly loyal to. But Orpheus has never been one for following orders, no; this Piper dances only to his own tune. He was already a king when Cosimo gilded his throne and gave him official protection, and I’d like to explore how these two sides war within him - the thrill of rule mixed with the expected subjugation and loyalty. I can’t imagine Orpheus actively following a single order, save for when Halcyon requests information from him, and would like to see what happens when he confronts and is confronted with the well-oiled, powerful machine of the Capulet army, such a dramatic contrast to the wildness and the chaos that Orpheus so proudly rules over. The Capulets may once have been friends to the working class, but they have become blinded by wealth and greed, and I want to develop how Orpheus interacts with the elite that he so hates, and how he attempts to undermine them from within.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Am I allowed to say undecided? Is that terrible? Part of me wants to say absolutely not, because I think there would be something beautiful in watching Orpheus rise from beneath the ground, clawing his way out of the dirt with his army trailing behind him like the hordes of the undead, to watch him turn around and not just bite the hand that feeds, but tear off the whole arm and throw it to the wolves for them to feast on. I’m a sucker for the traitor/saboteur plot, and I think watching Cosimo be destroyed by a monster of his own making would be entertaining as hell. But then again, even titans can fall, so maybe, if the circumstances were right (or wrong, as the case may be), Orpheus might not survive this war. I’m leaning towards no, at the moment, but my opinion may change depending on how things play out…

In Depth

In-Character Interview:

What is your favourite place in Verona?

He took a deep drag from the cigar pressed between his lips (stolen, of course, Orpheus Ahulani would never do something as ordinary as spend his own money on luxuries), enjoying the way the glowing end of the Cuban briefly illuminated his eyes in the half-light. Ash sprinkled onto the sticky surface of the table, clinging to the rings and mottled stains left by the drinks of countless previous patrons, and he allowed his hand to drop to the wooden tabletop, tracing idle patterns in the grime with practised fingers. Orpheus may have started rubbing shoulders with the elite, but this was his natural habitat, and like a king sat amongst his subjects he filled the space to the brim, so that the essence of the underworld’s prince seemed to seep out of every flat surface, to lurk in every dark corner. He leaned forward, removing the cigar from between full lips to blow a perfect ring of smoke, trapping his interlocutor completely in that tractor beam of a gaze, predator hypnotising prey.

Had the question been a test? He didn’t know, but as with almost every conversation he ever had, he would turn the answer into one, would make sure to pitch his words just right. His song would hit all the optimum notes, and the imbecile who thought that they could divine the inner workings of his mind would suddenly find themselves dancing to Orpheus’ tune and not their own, would see themselves laid bare in a matter of minutes. No matter whom he spoke to, he was both snake-charmer and snake, dictating everything he touched with a few choice tunes from his pipe, but ready to turn around and unleash the venom in his fangs if it was necessary, to wreak a long, slow and painful death on anyone who came too close. It would have been easy to miss Orpheus’ half-smile in the muted light of the underground bar, to lose the serpentine grin amidst the bustle and the murmur of customers on their way to being blind drunk well before midday. “My favourite place in Verona?” And there it was again, that smile, imbued with all the opulence of a thousand precious stones, so entrancing that no one ever saw the sting in the scorpion’s tail, the blood that lurked behind such charming eyes. “So many to choose from…”

A contemplative puff of smokey air, then, as his features shifted into a thoughtful expression, as though truly exerting himself to come up with an answer. “The library, for instance, or perhaps the charming florist’s by the corner of the Castelvecchio.” A pause, a knowing half-smirk. “But if you’re forcing me to choose…” Again, that tone, that fine line between jest and threat, deliberately pitched to make it clear that no one was forcing him to do a damn thing, that this question was being answered solely and completely because he had decided to deign it with a response. “It would have to be my dear Measure by Measure.”

Even at the mere mention of his precious establishment, of the den of violence and broken bones he treasured so dearly, his whole complexion changed, set ablaze by a fire stoked at the thought of the endless litany of brawls that he had presided over in his own personal hell-pit. “If you don’t know it, save whatever dignity you have left and don’t ask. Not all those who live… above ground can stomach knowing what goes on in the darkest corners of their precious Verona.”

What does your typical day look like?

“Why do you want to know?” An eyebrow was raised at the inquiry, and the expression that twisted his features was half something that looked like surprise (although anyone who knew Orpheus even in passing knew that surprise wasn’t an emotion he would ever deem worthy of feeling), half lazy amusement, a mirth to match the haziness of Verona’s late summer afternoons: sticky-hot like whisky, the kind of burn that felt pleasant on your skin and tongue. “Are you trying to keep tabs on me?” The amusement was still there, unfurling across his broad features like a ship’s sails in the wind, but there was a darker emotion behind it that was plain for all to see, an implicit threat that would not go unnoticed. Do not play with fire, it said, do not come too close, or I will burn you. Orpheus was a private person, his life was very much his own, and although he knew that many of the people he was supposed to be working for salivated at the opportunity of finding out exactly how he operated, he’d become adept at keeping his cards very close to his chest. It was the kind of threat that didn’t need articulating, one that seemed so out of place amidst the charm and the mysterious geniality that seemed to roll off him in waves that you could almost miss it if you blinked at the wrong time; an ember still glowing red in a mountain of black coal that had long since cooled.

Orpheus kept this tempestuousness, this fiery quality, firmly under wraps for the most part, because he knew the value of preserving a poker face, of biding his time and letting the sleeping giant lie, of waiting for the right moment to unleash the fires of chaos that he’d been slowly stoking since he was old enough to realise that life wasn’t fair. But there was a time and a place for anger, and this was not it, so he let his mask slide just far enough to reveal a glimpse of the danger that lay within, a reminder not to overstep the boundaries he had so clearly set, before returning to his customary insouciance.

“My typical day is just the same as any law abiding citizen of Verona.” (How enjoyable such blatant lying was, especially when he knew that he could get away with it every time.) “I eat, I drink, I make merry, I go about my business just like any regular guy.”

(Hah. As if Orpheus could be or had ever been regular.)

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

Momentarily, his hand stilled where it had been tracing patterns in the sticky sheen that coated the table, that curious mixture of alcohol, sweat and ash so often found in seedy bars, and his eyebrows pulled together in something resembling a frown. To anyone who didn’t know him, truly know him (to most everyone, then, since Orpheus Ahulani had made it his life’s mission to make himself an enigma to everyone but himself), it looked like an expression of derision, as though the great shadow-king was baffled by the mere notion of having ever made a mistake, as though the idea of him being fallible, somehow, was beyond human conception. But appearances are so often deceiving, to even the sharpest of minds.

Your biggest mistake.

(November 29th, 2003. A fight in a quiet piazza. The murder of a brother, and the other brother’s failure to react in time.)

It haunted him still, that day, when he let it. In the dark, still, stifling night air that blew over the city in the summertime, left alone with only memories for company, Orpheus would let the strongbox he’d pushed into the furthest corners of his mind unlock itself and spew out its poisonous secrets, would let himself be overwhelmed, for the briefest of instances, by the memory of his failure, of his complacency, and of the loss that had followed. It was a fitting punishment, he supposed, for all the wrong and the harm that he had done, and would yet do. Even the devil was punished for the kingdom he earned, had to sacrifice his angel’s wings for the fiery reward that awaited him beneath the earth. It had been his one great weakness, and he had been punished for it. He opened the armour-plates that encased his heart like a vice just wide enough to allow one soul to slip through, and it was through that crack that fate plunged its dagger, through that crack that fate reached in and dragged the love he had for his brother, still warm and beating, out through his chest, only to throw it in his face and laugh, mocking him for ever having thought that the only person Orpheus Ahulani had ever loved could have walked through the hellfire that surrounded him unscathed.

But no matter. The past was done. Gone. Erased.

(Fool me once…)

“My biggest mistake was letting you sit at this table.“

What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

“Honestly?”

Of course not; it wasn’t possible, wasn’t even fathomable. Truth and honest words were few and far between in a city so steeped in backstabbing and deceit, a city whose heart thrummed so resoundingly with lies and secrets and cruel words whispered from behind gilded lips, and the tide of truth reached its lowest ebb in this corner of Verona, in the heart and eyes of its very own prince of shadows. And it was part of the act, of course, carefully considered - he lied so wantonly and with such joy that if he were ever to tell the truth it would be disbelieved in an instant, cast aside to the realm of uncertainty and doubt. It was a game he enjoyed playing, when the mood struck him, dropping little pearls of veracity into his web of lies, waiting to see if any unsuspecting prey would pull on the thread he’d proffered. But they never did, of course, his mask was far too firmly attached to his face to ever let anything real slip, and so instead he let the word hang in the air, heavy and thick with the connotation of so many truths that went untold, of so many truths that were lost in the miasma that was Verona beneath the sheen of falsehoods that painted the city silver in the moonlight.

Honestly.

As if.

“All these questions of yours are proving to be quite the task. Why don’t you move along before I get bored?“ A beat, a silence that echoes with the cymbal crash of thunder.

“You don’t want me to get bored.“

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

“War?” Orpheus shook his head and laughed, the sound not sweet and sugary but dark and brittle, crackling in the still air like the snap of burnt caramel, any mirth undercut by an aftertaste of bitterness. “This isn’t a war yet, just a playground fight between two spoiled brats.”

The remark sounded facile, just another one of his many quips, a tongue-twisting barb designed to vex and shock and entangle, but there was truth to it, as far as he saw. Orpheus had spent the past few months watching, listening, waiting, sizing up the magnitude of the problem as the Capulets and the Montagues gestured and postured at one another, like angry teenagers who shake their fists at each other across the classroom, too afraid of teacher for physical confrontation.

Things had been tepid, so far, at least in Orpheus’ estimation of what a feud should look like (and he knew, of course, knew better than most what vindictiveness and vengeance tasted like). He had watched tensions bubble and brew and never quite spill over, as both patriarchs observed the situation and hand and decided that all-out battle wasn’t worth the loss of life it would inevitably carry with it.

(Cowards, they were, too afraid of their own shadows to relish in the chaos they could create, too timid and precious to realise that ‘there will be blood’ was not just a pretty phrase but a motto every man, woman and child should follow.)

For the most part, both sides had favoured inaction, whispered words in darkened alleyways, secret meetings and hushed threats. Until very recently, Orpheus had feared that this ‘war’ that everyone kept crowing about would turn out to be woefully boring, that the mutually assured destruction he yearned for from the wealthy elite would never come to pass. But slowly, things were changing. Changing for the better.

“But then someone went and killed poor Alvise Vernon.” A shrug, and he leaned back in a chair that was too small for his frame, but somehow, perversely, seemed made for him. “Now the Montagues are out for blood, and they won’t stop until they find the evil individual who put their dear departed underboss in the ground.” It was funny, almost, how incensed the privileged got when the mire of the real world threatened to stain their ivory towers, when they were all so eager to turn a blind eye when someone actually deserving of their pity was felled, when someone from the lower classes was mercilessly hacked down. How easy they found it not to care when the victim was not one of them and theirs. But such things were not worth wasting angry thoughts on. They would all know pain, soon enough. “Now, who knows what’ll happen?” Orpheus smiled, then, flashing all his teeth, the expression utterly devoid of warmth. It was a crocodile’s grin, one that said there will be blood, and I’ll be there to watch it spill.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m excited.”

In-Character Para Sample:

. PARA SAMPLE ONE .

[[TW: BLOOD, MURDER, VIOLENCE, FIRE]]

[one] - O R I G I N ;;

He wailed when he came into the world.

Howled and howled until his lungs should have given out, until his throat should have been scraped raw and hoarse from the effort of so much crying. He drowned out the other infants in the ward, filled the ears of all the parents and nurses with the ringing sound of a baby’s squeals. He cried until it drove the paediatrician a little insane, until the man snapped and ordered the dark-haired terror moved away from the other children and into his mother’s room, and then, suddenly, there was silence. Suddenly, the babe that had spent the past two nights caterwauling so loudly that it almost cracked the hospital windows lay serene, peaceful, content. Suddenly, the nurses, stepping closer in perplexed relief, realised just how angelic this little cherub was, how beautiful his forest-coloured eyes were. Suddenly, Katherine’s hospital bed was constantly surrounded by a teeming crowd of well-wishers, passers-by with wide eyes and enraptured faces who cooed at the little boy clutched in her arms, who complimented her and her husband on having made something so perfect. They were not intelligent enough to understand him, these fools entranced by pretty eyes and an oddly magnetic aura, but as they looked into that tiny face, his parents comprehended the truth of their son’s existence, knew exactly what to name him to best capture this infallible gift that the gods had blessed him with. He would captivate the world over, they knew, could lead all the citizens of Earth to a watery grave if he only asked them nicely, and so they gave him a name befitting of such power, named him after the greatest, most captivating soul the mythological world had ever produced. Katherine and Joseph knew precisely who their son was, and what he could one day grow to become.

He wailed when he came into the world, but it was not wailing borne out of hunger, or fear, or absence, like most infant crying is. When he was born, Orpheus Ahulani cried because even then he knew that he didn’t want to be surrounded by other children, that the place he would receive the most adoration was in the arms of his dear parents. Even then, he knew precisely what he wanted.

This is the story of how a monster is born.

(Or rather, how a monster birthed itself.)

[two] - F O R T I F I C A T I O N ;;

He wasn’t given anything as a child.

It wasn’t for lack of love, because his parents reminded him constantly that they were impressed with the man he was becoming, and even if this wasn’t always made explicit Orpheus learned early on how to read the signs. No, he wasn’t given anything because such an upbringing formed an essential part of his tuition, because his parents wanted to form him into their master thief, their ideal conman, as early as they could, because they believed firmly in legacy and knew that their first son would be the one who carried that torch forward.

As soon as Orpheus was old enough to comprehend what stealing was, his father sat him down in a sunlit room and told him that this was his life, now, that he had to learn that if he wanted something, he had only to reach out and take it, and that the only thing to remember in this new life he was entering was don’t get caught. If he wanted a toy, his father pointed him in the direction of a rich little boy or girl who wouldn’t miss it. If he fancied a new item of clothing, his mother ushered him into a clothes shop without any money or a credit card on hand and made it clear that they wouldn’t leave until he’d lifted exactly what it was he desired. It was in no way a conventional childhood, but it was the perfect one for the kind of little boy Orpheus was, and the kind of man he hoped to be, because ever since he was young enough to really think for himself Orpheus knew that this was the life he wanted, knew that even if his ancestors had not been thieves he would have sought out a life of illicit activity for himself.

Orpheus was five years old and already he didn’t believe in excess, believed in taking exactly what you wanted so that you had enough to get by, that surrounding yourself with trinkets and empty vanities would not make you feel as alive as the rush of taking something that should never have been yours. He stole the toys or books he wanted, and when he was finished with them they were gifted to those he saw as being in need, those who made his otherwise static heart throb with a beat of compassion, and once the charitable deed was done that compassion evaporated, replaced with a burning desire to seek out the rush of theft again. His parents, his grandparents, stole and conned for that rush alone, but as he grew Orpheus felt a new sensation coursing through his blood when he stole, a sense of indomitable power, of control. He learned that he could dictate the emotions of others by doing something as simple as slipping his little hands into their bags or pockets, could make even the most arrogant man crumple and weep for what he had lost. Orpheus was six years old when he realised that, whilst his relatives saw themselves as something akin to demons when they stole, that some distant part of them regretted that they had not been granted the wherewithal to be more honest, when he stole he felt like GOD. He was only a little boy, and already he saw himself as a divinity, possessed that unique, self-affirming grace that obliged people to love him so much and blinded them to the truth of the power in his heart.

He was nine years old when his brother was brought home to him, when his parents pulled open the door to his room and presented the bundle of limbs and baby hair to him with beatific smiles and luminous eyes, and Orpheus breathed a sigh of relief because Joseph and Katherine finally had the child they needed to fill the hole that had been present in their hearts. He looked at his infant brother and knew that they would both be perfect sons, in their own way. Hermes was the son to love and be loved by, who would fill their home with laughter and warmth and shower their parents with gratitude and appreciation for their efforts in building a family. Orpheus had never been that son to them, it was made clear from the moment of his birth that he was not the child who would inspire happiness, no. Orpheus was the son to be proud of, the son who would pick up the Ahulani mantle and fortify the legacy his parents endeavoured to build, and such a momentous destiny could not be hindered by something as banal as love. Katherine and Joseph looked at the two boys sat by each other one day and knew in their hearts that Hermes was the son who would inspire love, but Orpheus, Orpheus was the son who would move MOUNTAINS.

This cavernous expanse of difference between the two brothers was made abundantly clear at every turn. “What do you want for your birthday, my boy?” Katherine asked her sons in July and November.

“To go to the zoo!” a three year old Hermes giggled, stretching out chubby little arms towards his mother’s neck, knowing that even though he was too old for her to carry him around in her arms she’d lift him into the air anyway, laughing in the way that only a child of the sunlight can as he pressed his face into her auburn curls.

“A better mark,” mused a twelve year old Orpheus, gaze sharp as a laser and expression almost defiant, focussed, seeking bigger and better challenges wherever he could get them. His last task had been to rob some elderly lady; hardly a challenge. He was twelve and fired up and knew exactly what he should be doing with his life. His mother looked distant but proud and he was rewarded suitably for his enterprise, and when he walked away from the jewellery store on his birthday, pockets full and alarm blazing uselessly behind him, Orpheus knew that he had finally been gifted the freedom to go about his business unhindered, that the time had finally come for the phoenix to rise from ash and cover the world in fire.

He tried his best to teach his brother the life of a con artist, to instil in Hermes the same fervour that hurtled through his veins at the speed of a freight train, but knew from the very beginning of his tutelage that his little brother was ruled more by his heart than by his head, that he was too passionate, too flighty, to ever truly excel. He did his best to celebrate the difference between them, to look at his brother as the light that was lacking in his life, the lone rays of sunshine that he would allow to glance across his face. For the most part, he did, but a callous part of Orpheus looked at his brother and saw only a problem, a weak point, the tremor that could cause the entire house of cards to come tumbling down. He looked, and he listened, and he evaluated, and like any good problem solver he came to an uncompromising solution.

He was sixteen now, freshly tattooed and even more independent than he had once been (if such a thing were possible), and knew that his family could all let him down, with their emotions and their happiness and the familial bliss they seemed content to wallow in. There was potential to build a kingdom from their enterprise, to raise up palaces of iron and stone out of the dirt and to make themselves indomitable, but the Ahulanis had grown stagnant and lazy. For them, the things they had stolen until now had been enough, but Orpheus was never one to settle for sufficiency. He recognised that his family were resources, that if put to good use they could help him in his quest for immortality, and so like any chess grand master confronted with a board of uncooperative pieces Orpheus set about manoeuvring his nearest and dearest into position. He became prince and general to them all at once, an emperor to lead his troops into battle, to make ten men and women feel like ten thousand. If his relatives were shocked they did not know how to express it, and instead merely allowed this boy-king to manipulate them, knowing in their heart of hearts that he had already surpassed them both physically (he towered over everyone he met, and the breadth of his shoulders inspired both awe and apprehension) and metaphorically, intangibly, that his ambition and his drive were unparalleled and would likely never be seen again in any of their lifetimes.

”Why do you steal things?” Hermes asked him one day, nine years old and completely devoted to his older brother, ready to obey his every command without fail, overexcitable and unflinchingly loyal, firmly convinced that Orpheus was the most magnificent person in the entire universe.

Orpheus was eighteen now, officially a man (although he hadn’t been a boy for some time now) and didn’t care much about his younger brother’s devotion, saw it only as a useful weapon to be wielded, the perfect way of exercising control.

“Because it’s what I was born to do.”

[three] - P E R D I T I O N ;;

He should have known that it couldn’t last, that no kingdom could be erected from nothingness without a few complications, without the inevitable pitfalls and setbacks, but Orpheus saw his success and revelled in it, and in his revelry he allowed his eyes to fall blind to the dangers that lurked at the fringes of his accomplishments. But all fortresses have their weak spots, and weak spots are only discovered through the most bitter of tragedies, so that the castle can be redesigned, made ten times stronger.

He was out drinking when it happened, celebrating the latest in a long line of successful cons (everyone had told him that the Mary Jane couldn’t be pulled off by only one person, but as ever he’d proved his detractors bitterly wrong, and the look on that pompous dickhead’s face as he’d realised that he’d frittered away his ill-gotten life savings had been priceless), was enjoying his customary mix of expensive whisky and cheap cigarettes when his world shifted slightly on its axis, when its orbit fell out of sync for the briefest of moments.

His brother was seventeen and stupid like Orpheus had never been, and the latest in a long line of petty fights he’d gotten himself into (over a girl, no less) had taken a darker turn than usual. No one bothered to call the paramedics (rich people were too paralysed by centuries of inherited inaction, and too closely bound by a desire to protect their own), but even if they had there was nothing that anyone could have done.

Hermes Ahulani died ignominiously in the middle of one of Verona’s piazzas, hands, face and neck cut to pieces by shards of glass from the bottle he’d been attacked with, choking slowly, grotesquely to death in a pool of his own blood while his family looked on in horror, eviscerated by the sensation of their own utter helplessness.It had all happened in a matter of mere seconds, too fast for anyone to process it, too fast for Orpheus, normally so perceptive, so quick to react, to leap out of his seat and intervene as he had done countless times before. They had all ignored the conflict brewing between the two youths, had passed it off as nothing more than adolescent males trying to burn off some excess testosterone. None of them had anticipated the rich brat’s cowardice, had foreseen him using that damned bottle of wine too expensive for its own good to cut Hermes down. One moment he was standing tall, buoyed up by surging adrenaline and the cockiness of teenage boys, and the next he was on the ground, crushed underfoot like the flower he had been, so much vitality spent in no more than five minutes. Orpheus had tried to stop the bleeding, had fallen to his knees on the cobblestones and clasped his hands around his brother’s throat, a futile effort to plug the seemingly endless leaks, and watched in what he dimly recognised as horror as his brother’s life-force leaked out between his fingers, staining his hands and the pavement below a tragic crimson.

As they watched the rich boy run away, face contorted into an expression of disgustingly entitled horror, no doubt seeking the protection of his parents and their wealth, Orpheus felt the walls of his heart close up completely, so that no feeling could ever again be let through. He shouldn’t have cried, for rulers never wept at the demise of their subjects, merely strode out amongst the common people and found new followers to take the place of the fallen, but the eldest and now only Ahulani brother allowed himself to shed a single tear that day. He hadn’t loved his brother in the conventional way, in the way that families are supposed to adore one another, but he had felt something akin to his own brand of love.

Hermes had never been much of a thief, had always been impulsive, loud-mouthed, capricious, all qualities that Orpheus manifestly disliked and had eradicated from his own personality. He laughed too much and stopped far too little, never waited to check what was around the corner, told his deepest secrets to just about any stranger with a kind enough face, and couldn’t hold his drink. They were polar opposites, these brothers, and Orpheus should have disdained his younger brother utterly, should have shown him nothing but contempt - after all, that was how he treated others whom he deemed unworthy. But the bonds of family are a strange thing, and whilst Orpheus cared little for his parents and grandparents, seeing them only as tools to help him build the world he craved, Hermes had always represented the people for whom he was trying to build this better world. Orpheus had never exhibited much kindness or goodness but he recognised its abundance in his younger brother, and despite himself he felt the need to see that goodness preserved, felt an obligation to create a realm in which his brother could lead the life that he deserved. Of all the people that he knew, and of all the people he would ever meet, Hermes was the only one Orpheus Ahulani had loved, and he didn’t deserve to have met his end before he’d even become a man, at the hands of a coward who had nothing to show for his life but money.

Before that fateful fay he’d been happy to let the elite lead their own gilded lives, as long as they didn’t get in his way, but as he watched his brother die Orpheus realised that the wealthy didn’t deserve to be ignored. They deserved to be BURNED, and he’d be damned if he didn’t see it happen.

But the path to vengeance is never smooth, and for the first (and only) time in his life Orpheus was careless enough to let his rage cloud his better judgement.

It played out like a scene from an Oscar-winning film about the callousness of the wealthy, and the Ahulanis were all too crippled by their mourning to look up and see it coming. First the coroner ruled young Hermes’ death as accidental, having the gall to call the brat’s selfish action self-defence. Then witnesses began to fall curiously silent, saying that they hadn’t seen a thing, that all they had seen was the young poor boy picking a needless fight, that perhaps he deserved what he got, each of them singing to the rich family’s tune. The police were similarly uncooperative, muttering about the prevalence of crime in poorer neighbourhoods, the victim’s prior pattern of behaviour, the fact that he was known for being violent. One by one, each piece of the puzzle slid into place, until Hermes’ case was encircled by an impenetrable wall of bodies itching to exonerate Raffaello Brazzi at the behest of his parents. Outrage spread through the Ahulani ranks like wildfire, fuelled by a desire to see their son’s memory preserved, and when an emissary from Giuseppe Brazzi came knocking, offering the family their weight in gold if they were willing to chalk their son’s death up to a tragic accident, if they would just let bygones be bygones, Joseph Ahulani told the man exactly where he could shove his bribe. Orpheus had wanted to raze the Brazzi family to the ground from the beginning, to make sure that none of them ever drew breath again, but his mother, still on a perverse quest to reform her once criminal life, begged him to let them do things the right way, to try and build a legal case, and against his better judgement Orpheus ceded to her demands.

They must have banked on them all being home that day, must not have foreseen the possibility of Orpheus going out every day to search for new evidence. The fire was already out of control by the time he returned home, and he watched amber flames as tall as trees surge through the old building, a deathly cavalry tearing everything to pieces, a ravenous monster leaving no life in its wake. Had Hermes still been alive, had his brother been in the burning structure, Orpheus might have thrown caution to the wind and run inside to save him, but now he stood rooted to his spot, watching mutely as firefighters attempted to combat the unconquerable blaze, watching and watching and feeling nothing in his heart but anger.

Orpheus Ahulani was twenty-six years old and in the space of three weeks had lost all the family he’d ever known, and knew as he watched his childhood home, his ancestry, go up in flames, that he had been right all along, that his mother’s utopian desire for justice was untenable in a world such as this one, where the wealthy elite did nothing but take, smashing up people and things in their way without a second thought.

He wasn’t a religious man but in that moment he thanked whatever deity it was that had kept him alive, that had given him this purpose, and knew that no matter how far they ran or how well they tried to hide, the Brazzi family had signed away their lives the minute his brother had drawn his final breath. The wealthy were not afraid of anything except damaging their reputations, but Orpheus knew that his destiny was to make them experience real fear.

Orpheus was twenty-six years old, and he was coming for them.

[four] - R E T R I B U T I O N ;;

They didn’t run. It wasn’t a surprise, in the end, given that they thought their secret had been burnt to a crisp with the Ahulani home. A more patient man would have plotted his line of attack, would have ensured that there was no way for them to harm him, but Orpheus knew that he was indomitable, that the fact that he was the last Ahulani left alive made him untouchable by human hands. Ever one for boldness and grand gestures, he strode through the front doors of the Brazzi mansion with a machine gun slung over his shoulder and seated himself at the head of their dining table, and let the members of the family he hated most in the world crawl to his side, quivering like frightened sewer rats. He made no verbal or physical threats, didn’t utter a single word, in fact, merely sat there with his assault rifle lying on the table for all to see and cleaned his nails with a pocket knife.

The implication was clear.

Giuseppe Brazzi hid behind his wife’s skirts and shook with fear, and after what felt like a century of petrified silence his voice, cracked and weedy, echoed across the empty room.

“We’ll give you money,” he stammered, “more money that you could ever dream of.”

(He was wrong, because Orpheus had never been a dreamer but he could dream up quite a lot.)

“How much do you want?”

The silence as they awaited his reply was deafening, the response even more so.

“All of it.”

“All of it? You must be joking. Who the fuck do you think I am?”

Orpheus didn’t even deign to look at the old man, merely laid his knife on the table. His terms were simple.

“You took everything from me, I shouldn’t have to remind you of that.” Expression as blank and unfeeling as slate, he picked up the gun, caressing the trigger with a macabre kind of reverence. “All I have to do is squeeze.” Finally, he made eye contact with the Brazzi patriarch, and the fire burning in his green eyes made the man visibly wilt. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”

They should never have underestimated him. He was Orpheus, the last Ahulani, he walked in shadow and in flame, the prince who would one day rule the criminal underworld which had shaped him. He was the Devil’s advocate, his messenger, his brother, the same blood pulsed in his veins as had once flowed through the body of the first fallen angel. Marianna Brazzi hurled a litany of curses at him as he stripped her husband of his entire fortune, damned him a thousand times to the fiery pits of hell, and as Orpheus walked away from that house with all the money in the world he smiled Satan’s smile because he knew that her words had no power over him, that if there was damnation to come he would welcome it with open arms and an open heart. The Brazzis hoped fervently that it would be enough, that their riches would be enough to pacify the beast, to fill the void and guarantee his distance from them (his silence had been guaranteed long ago, the minute they chose to set his family ablaze). They should never have underestimated him.

It was not enough, Orpheus knew that from the moment they offered him the money. It would never be enough. He was not the kind man that so many of Verona’s poor made him out to be, he was not their saviour, their symbol, their martyr. The only pyre he would ever throw himself on was his own, and only when he was ready to leave the world that he had barely had the chance to make his mark on yet. It would never be enough. There was only one punishment that befit this crime, only one way to repay the bastards that had taken everything from him. He was good at stripping people of everything they held dear, of everything they loved, and this would be his magnum opus, his greatest theft. The Brazzi family had played with fire, and it was FIRE that would let them know the magnitude of their mistake.

Orpheus wouldn’t just fiddle whilst Rome burnt. He would conduct a whole fucking orchestra.

He came with darkness as his cloak, ensuring that the whole family was in one place before he acted, making sure that he didn’t make the same mistake they had. Once again, he strode in through the front door, but this time he had no gun on him, only a box of matches and a knife and the Devil’s hellfire in his heart. There were nine of them in the house - parents and seven children, and they all paid the price, because the question of their innocence had been rendered utterly void when they did everything they could to sweep his brother’s life under the carpet.

He made them bleed that night, stained the walls and the floors and the priceless antiques with vermillion and crimson and every other shade of red imaginable. He was an artist, like Jackson Pollock splashing the surface of the world, with the Brazzi home as his canvas and their blood as his paint. He took his sweet time with each family member, carving his rage and his revenge into their bodies, making sure that they were all awake to see the look in his eyes as he killed them, so that his face was the last thing they saw on this earth. Almost poetic, in a way; the most lyrical Orpheus had ever been in his life.

Raffaello was the last to die, a fate he had sealed for himself the minute he chose to raise his hand and end Hermes’ life. Orpheus let him crawl from his bedroom into the corridor, watched him leave a trail of blood behind him as he tried to drag his body away, and felt nothing more for the teenager than he would feel for a slug that had crawled into his path. The last thing Raffaello ever saw was the slow approach of Orpheus’ black boots and the twisted expression of cruelty on his blood-flecked face. Lying there, surrounded by his own blood and the blood of his relatives, Raffaello Brazzi, murderer and coward, started to cry, and amidst his sobs he looked up at Orpheus and begged.

“Please, please, please, God, have mercy!”

“Mercy?” All Orpheus could do was laugh, the sound bitter and piercing in the mansion’s cavernous halls, lips contorting into an expression of pure disgust. “My brother might have shown you mercy. No, the only thing I can give you, the only thing you deserve, is my name. I am ORPHEUS AHULANI,” he proclaimed, raising the knife one last time. “Never forget it.”

[five] - E N D U R A N C E ;;

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, one fire for another. Orpheus torched their mansion to the ground, obliterating their family from the face of the Earth and making sure that no one by the name of Brazzi would ever darken the streets of his city again. He walked away from the burning wreckage with his head held high, proud frame silhouetted against a background of embers and flame, knowing that he would never face judgement for the crime he had committed (although he didn’t see it as such - to him, his actions were entirely justified, completely necessary, for there had been filth in his life and it had been successfully purged). Anyone who knew anything about Hermes Ahulani’s murder and the subsequent cover-up believed that he was dead, thought his whole family had been erased in order to let a killer go free simply because of his wealth. Orpheus knew that he was untouchable, and that finally the stage had been cleared for his life’s greatest work to begin.

He began slowly but confidently, disseminating news of his survival throughout the streets on which he had grown up. The paupers of Verona had been mourning their fallen prince, had feared the demise of their Robin Hood at the hands of the wealthy he stole from, and they were overjoyed to hear that their hero had been preserved, claimed that it was his virtue that had rescued him from the deadly inferno that had stolen his beloved family from them. Orpheus could have laughed at the irony of being presumed to be virtuous, but he let the rumour spread, let the streets ripple with rejoicing and relief, knowing that this jubilation would raise up a horde of soldiers for him. He whispered in all the right ears, smiled at all the right people, and used the outrage that had spread through the community upon the death of his family to galvanise the loyalty of every woman, man and child he laid his eyes on. The fortune he’d acquired wasn’t spent on himself, instead he began to dip into the pot of the vast wealth he’d suddenly accumulated to further magnify the people’s adoration, making sure that his charity was never too overt, that nothing more was ever said about his power than the odd whispered phrase. Even the fight club he established went unnoticed by all but the most hardened of Verona’s citizens, its most masochistic residents, coasting through the city’s underworld under the unassuming name of Measure by Measure, but to those who moved in the right circles the violence Orpheus’ snake-pit harboured was legendary. It was better this way, to be king from the shadows. It made him stronger.

He was only twenty-six and already more powerful than most men could become in five lifetimes, let alone one, and the whispers about him grew louder and louder, sparks that eventually ignited a forest fire of speculation, of mystery. Fires demand to be seen, to be heard, and one by one the influential figures in Verona began to take notice. Many approached him with offers of treaties and alliances, hoping that by taming Hades they could make his Underworld dance to their tune, but Orpheus knew the value of the kingdom he was poised to rule and the music that he wanted it to play, and so he turned each of them away, these men and women who claimed to be powerful, seeing through their charades of lies and always wanting something more.

It was a rainy day in October when Cosimo Capulet requested a meeting, and as he strode into the Cathedral, hair damp from the deluge outside, Orpheus knew that the right offer had finally come knocking on his door.

It was the first time he’d been into church to do anything other than steal, although equally illicit deeds were about to be performed under the Lord’s watchful gaze, bargains between the dark and the even darker, a treaty between two black kings who had each removed the white knights who threatened to stand in their way. Cosimo was shorter than Orpheus had expected, and with something of a wry smile he imagined that his brother would have informed the Capulet boss of that fact before he’d even sat down.

“Mister Ahulani, good of you to come.”

Orpheus acknowledged the pleasantry with a brief cant of the head, but didn’t bother to respond.

“Let’s make one thing very clear: if you’re here to offer me some hollow alliance, a way to take what I’ve built and sweep me to one side as soon as you get the chance, I’m walking out of here. The streets are no place for a man from your background, and you will never be able to control them like I can, no matter how much money or how many guns you have. We both know that you need me a lot more than I need you, Mr. Capulet, so go ahead, make your offer. I know you’re a smart man.”

Cosimo had to smile at that, knowing that his instinct about this young man had been correct. “My offer is simple, Orpheus, if I may call you that…” he trailed off, then, pausing to savour his triumph. “A good name you’ve got there. I like it.” Suddenly, he remembered himself, still smiling. “Yes, my offer is very simple: I want to give you the keys to a kingdom. Your kingdom. You can rule the underworld of Verona,” he intoned, sounding every inch the emperor he was, “you can rule it — with my hand to guide you.”

Outside, he could see the city lights sparkling through the stained glass. The rain had all but stopped, and Orpheus felt like he was flying.

“So what do you say?”

They’d both known the answer to the question the minute they’d laid eyes on one another, but Orpheus felt triumphant enough to say it anyway.

“Yes.”

[six] - C O M P L E T I O N ;;

And so Cosimo Capulet opened the gates that Orpheus had been longing to see open for as long as he could remember. With the might of the Capulet name behind him, he acceded to the throne that he was always born to sit on, knowing that Cosimo was intelligent enough to keep his distance, that he would never interfere. But even the king of kings could not know the extent of the ambition that lurked in Orpheus’ heart, a volcano of energy and zeal that was lying safely dormant, waiting for the perfect opportunity to erupt. For all the bullets in the world, he had weapons that were just as powerful - passion, emotion, the kind of burning fanaticism that only those who have nothing can muster. He accepted backing from the Capulets, played their game when they wanted him to, all the while conducting his own ruthless chess match in the shadows their eyes could not reach.

One day, he knew, he would build up the force to throw off the shackles of Verona’s elite, and so he bided his time, content to play the long game until such a time as it felt right to act.

But can a king ever really rule without someone by his side, without an ally of sorts, another half? Orpheus had had many lovers and companions throughout the course of his life, but none had captured his fancy for more than a fleeting instant, none of them could ever be considered worthy, and then he met Theodora Moreau in a hotel bar one night and the final piece of the puzzle seemed to have fallen into place.

It was not love that drew them together across a crowded room - love was for children, and idiots - but necessity, a flame that danced and sparked and seemed to hypnotise them both. He had heard them spoken of throughout the underworld and indeed above ground, had been privy to many whispers of the street kid who had risen beyond the stars, and the rumours had piqued his interest. He was in a corner booth at the bar in the Hotel Emelia, enjoying the low lighting and the whispered secrets that floated over to his ears from neighbouring tables, when he felt eyes on him and saw that they was standing directly in front of him. “You want to have sex with me,” they informed him curtly, lips pursed and head tilted contemplatively to one side, and Orpheus had to allow himself a laugh at their brashness. They were even more perceptive than he’d imagined. He had been watching them for most of the evening, out of the corner of his eye, allowing his gaze to drift with pleasure over their perfect form and that face, those eyes that were far more intelligent than he suspected many gave them credit for, finding himself drawn like moth to flame.

“Yes,” he answered, responding to openness with openness, quite enjoying this game to which they both seemed to know all the rules, “but a name would be nice, first. We are civilised people, after all.”

They looked him up and down with a hint of disdain (and damn, he was sold already), clearly thinking ‘well I, at least, am civilised, whether you are or not remains to be seen’, but seemed to deem him worthy of more than just an anonymous fuck in the hotel bathroom and sat down at his table instead. “Theodora Moreau.” They didn’t offer him their hand but he took it anyway, enjoying the way they shivered slightly as he brushed a kiss against their knuckles.

“Orpheus Ahulani.”

“It’s a pleasure,” they responded, withdrawing their hand back to their side, and for the life of him Orpheus couldn’t figure out why they were doing him the courtesy of such trivial pleasantries, but was mightily, mightily glad that they were.

“No,” he responded, taking a sip of his red wine and grinning, cat-like, in the half-light. “The pleasure is all mine.”

. PARA SAMPLE TWO .

[[TW: VIOLENCE, BLOOD, MINOR GORE]]

He doesn’t fight often.

It’s not for lack of wanting (oh, how the desire sings in his blood, how his veins thrum with it, that urge that pulses just beneath the surface of his skin, always threatening to tip, tip, tip over into actual violence, a beast that waits impatiently within its cage and scratches at the bars to find release), but rather simple practicality – in any conflict to be settled upon the edge of a fist, he will walk away the victor every time, he knows, and Orpheus enjoys the thrill of winning but there’s a limit to how many predictable victories he can stomach before they come to bore him.

So for the most part he keeps his fists down, lets his stature and the glint of savagery in his eyes halt even the most foolhardy of opponents in their tracks.He doesn’t fight often, but when he does, there’s something almost Biblical about it, something perversely, crudely elegant.

This is no different.

Measure by Measure isn’t the usual place he chooses to hold his court, but there’s a certain urgent matter that demands to be dealt with by means other than simple, verbal intimidation, and the dramatist in Orpheus can’t think of a more fitting place.

There’s a fool stood snivelling before him, with bloodshot eyes fixed firmly on the ground, and Orpheus looks up at him from the armchair he’s sat in with just the faintest hint of cruel amusement. A spy, from a neighbouring city, sent to size up Orpheus’ kingdom and see if there’s room for a hostile takeover, no doubt sent to see if, in his association with Cosimo Capulet, the King beneath Verona’s streets has grown at all soft.

He hasn’t.

(His doubters will come to rue the day they ever had such thoughts.)

“You made a mistake, coming here,” Orpheus says, and although his voice isn’t raised it somehow booms in the small space between them. “You might just live to regret it.”

Once the warning has hung in the air for long enough he stands from his throne, rolls his shoulders and smiles almost cordially, then curls his hand into a fist and lets it fly at the man’s face. Predictably, his opponent crumples to the ground from the sheer force of the blow, and Orpheus chuckles darkly at the sight.

“Is that it?” he queries, looking at the other man down his nose, amusement lacing every syllable of the challenge. “I thought they made you tougher in Padua.”

They’re exactly the right words to say, he knows, because the man scrambles instantly to his feet, jaw set and shoulders squared, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles begin to widen, and Orpheus can feel the familiar sense of ecstasy begin to pool at the tips of his fingers as he takes in the full sight of the opponent opposite him, sees the other man’s wounded pride and blind fury fuel him, and lets it fill him to the brim with purpose.

This man is big (six foot two, perhaps more), but as always Orpheus is bigger, broader, and when the first fist comes swinging his way he takes half a step back and catches the hand in his own broad palm, trapping it in a cage of fingers, and panic flares up in the other man’s eyes because he knows, because he can sense full well what punishment is coming his way. There’s a wild, wicked grin that slashes across Orpheus’ face, carving up his visage into fragments of splintered cruelty, and with a frenzied look in his eyes he begins to apply pressure slowly, squeezing, squeezing until he hears the click-pop-crunch of bones shattering into a myriad of tiny shards, until he feels the hand trapped in his own disintegrate beneath his iron grip, and the howls of pain that accompany the vicelike movement of his hand sound like a victory fanfare.

His eyes are set ablaze in gleeful satisfaction, burning with all the intensity of a forest fire, and Orpheus releases the mewling man’s hand with a hum of joy, reaching out instead to grab him by the collar of his shirt. “You asked for this,” is the reminder that drops from his lips before he whips his head back and brings it crashing forward, and the fleshy crunching sound he hears is indication enough that he’s hit his mark. The blow leaves him feeling dazed as well, but somehow that only makes the experience more pleasurable, and as he leans back to admire the damage done Orpheus feels a familiar euphoria coursing through his veins. One hand drops to his side, then, a feigned show of reprieve, and he waits until a hint of relief begins to cloud the other man’s gaze before snapping his fist up again, ensuring that it connects squarely with the centre of his victim’s face.

After the third, fourth, fifth punch he stops counting, and it’s only when the blood begins to trickle in scarlet rivulets down the back of his hand that the king decides he’s had his fill, only then that he deigns to release his prisoner and sends him dropping to the ground below as though he were nothing more than feather-light.

(The only sound still audible in the gloom of the basement is the muted rise and fall of the Devil’s breathing.)

There’s something beautiful about this, he thinks, looking down at his handiwork from above, something picturesque about the mottled flecks of blood, the blue-black bruises that trace the outline of fractured bones and crumpled cartilage, and as he kneels down in the dust beside his victim Orpheus thinks he understands how the Old Masters felt when they stood back and knew that they’d produced a masterpiece.

“Tell your friends what happened here today,” he intones, lips forming around the words in a way that’s almost tender, as though he were addressing a protege or an accomplice rather than the broken bag of bones that lies spreadeagled before him, and lifts up a hand to pat the man ever so gently on a cheekbone he knows is shattered. “Tell them that the underworld of Verona is not for sale, tell them from me that next time any of you come back here,” his voice is low, now, hissing, eyes so dark they’re almost obsidian, “I will end you. All of you. You think the Capulets, the Montagues, they’re the ones to be afraid of in this city?” A laugh, then, that rasps like a knife being unsheathed, “Tell your pathetic little friends they’re WRONG.”

. PARA SAMPLE THREE .

[[TW: VIOLENCE, MENTIONS OF DEATH, BLOOD]]

– THE PAST IS A FOREIGN COUNTRY; THEY DO THINGS DIFFERENTLY THERE

One day there will be an argument in a quiet town square.

There will be two men present, two brothers. They will be completely different. They will be the best of friends.

One of them will be involved in the argument. The other will drink beer nearby, not watching because he will think that it is safe. He will have made the same assumption before, and on most days he will have been right. This time, he will be wrong. This will cost him dearly.

One of them will fall to the ground, and the well of red in his throat will gurgle every time he takes a breath. The other will be on his knees beside him, palms wrapped around the deluge. His hands are big, but they will seem too small.

Eventually, the well will dry.

The other one, the one who is not drained of crimson, the one who is a great thief with a cold heart and a fondness for shadow, will go into chrysalis, will burn. Out of his husk will rise a beast with a gaping maw and claws that will always slice at the jugular. Out of the flame will walk a demon whose greatest talent is tearing out hearts and stamping on them till they burst. As he rises to his feet in the piazza, reborn, he will smear his bloodied hands across his face and know what it means to taste failure.He will not taste it again.

But this is not that story, not yet. This is the story of everything that comes before, and some things that come after.

*  *  *

Two little boys play on a dirty street. The big one leads, the little one follows. Everything the first does is mirrored in perfect miniature. This is idolatry at is most pure.

“Can there be a good guy, this time?” The little voice tinkles like a jingle bell. “There are never any good guys.”

In the distance, thunder rumbles. The bigger voice has dropped already to the crash of cymbals. Green eyes are kinder now than when strangers see them. Fat drops of rain begin to fall. A big hand cups a small wet cheek. Two sets of feet are bare, beginning to turn sticky grey with dust.

“You can be the good guy, if you like.” Somewhere, a lightning flash. It seems to cast the world in black and white. “But you won’t win.”

*  *  *

A child is left alone with a baby. He is trusted to keep watch.In the next room, the bed creaks, and his mother mumbles his father’s name. Other children might be confused by the strange sounds, but he has heard them enough times to understand. That is what adults do when they are happy. Or angry, or sad, or lonely.

(Sometimes, he will learn later, when they feel nothing at all.)

He looks at the bundle of blankets next to him. The Thing in there is pink and wrinkled and its little mouth is curled into a perfect circle. The boy is happy, because he knows that this perfection will keep his parents satisfied, will give them the loving son that he never wanted to be.

“What is this?” he asks when they bring the infant in to show him, dark eyebrows pulled down into a knot. He knows the answer, he is a clever boy, but some part of him still does not quite understand.

“His name is Hermes,” his mother gushes, eyes awash with a hollow innocence. “Your little brother.”

The boy blinks. His mouth charts the line of the horizon. “And what is he for?”

When the creaking gets too loud he stands up to close the door, and rolls his eyes because he is always the one who has to close it. He stands over the little bundle, holds his pointer finger out.

Five little fingers, fat and pink like worms, reach out and trap it in a rosy vice. Suddenly, the boy feels something warm spread inside him, to the left of his body where he knows his heart is. Suddenly, he understands.

He will keep the baby safe. And in return, the baby will make his heart warm. No one else has managed to do that yet.

It seems a fair exchange, and the boy is satisfied. He does not move his finger until he has counted to ten thousand. Even then it does not seem like long enough.

He does not tell anyone about this silent bargain, and when they come to take the baby to his nursery the boy glares at them until they back away. His parents do not understand why, but they let him move the cradle into his own bedroom. Their son is nine years old but there is not much they can do to resist. His will is iron, a hardness openly defiant of the fact he has not yet lost all his milk teeth. The boy does not explain himself.

His parents are not important enough to know such things.

*  *  *

Mother and Father are fighting again. Throats hoarse from screaming, curses no longer muffled for the sake of the children. Hot, angry tears stain cold, angry faces.

“Why are they arguing?” the younger one asks, eyes big like saucers, round with not understanding.

The older one watches, stony-faced. In the doorway of the kitchen, lit only from above, he is carved from granite.“Because love is not real.”

*  *  *

The little boy runs everywhere after his brother, wings on his sandals. He does not stop even when he falls and skins his knee. He does cry, little face overcast and squeezed with pain, but he gets up and keeps running. It is a resilience that his protector has taught him.

“‘Feus, ‘Feus.” He could talk a stranger’s ear off, but the three syllables of his brother’s name are still out of his reach. “Wait for me.”

But he does not wait. Today, he is impatient.

“I thought you were big enough to keep up.”

Behind him, a sob. He stops. The pastries they have stolen warm his hands through the paper bag. They do not go hungry, though. They steal because they can.

(He will give half of them to the beggar-man with the black cat who sits in the market, and the money they did not spend will be dropped into the hands of the blind woman who is bad at telling fortunes. Charity is not something he enjoys, but neither is suffering. And loyalty comes cheaply in places of such poverty.)

He sighs. In the cafe, a waitress spills a jug of milk.“You promised to tell me. What was it like?”

Someone tries to clean up the spill. The wind steals away their napkins, carries them into the street. Two pigeons are disturbed, and they stop fighting to take wing, leaving messy, torn out feathers in a little pile.

He sighs again. He had sex for the first time yesterday.

His brother still plays with toy soldiers. He is too young to know what desire feels like. ‘Feus chooses the words he knows his brother wants to hear.

“I was good at it.”

*  *  *

The baby goes everywhere with a sentinel, an escort with dark, wild hair and gritted teeth. Wherever the infant squalls, watchful green eyes are not far away. The infant’s parents love their new arrival because he is innocent, and they cherish him. But his true guardian knows already that their dotage is not good enough. Already, he has drawn up battle plans.

Already, he is marshalling his family around him, pronouncing orders to make sure that he gets what he wants and that they are useful, always.

They listen, because he has the look of unfettered temptation about him, because when those eyes are turned on to their brightest they cannot say no. He is not much more than a decade old, but already he could entice them all to their doom. He knows this.

To mark the passing of ten years, his eyes acquire a fire. It is not the flaming matchstick-end there was before, but rather a pair of coals set into a cunning face. A face that already looks a little wicked in the right lighting. The first time he gives a command and it is obeyed, a boy-king is born.

Soon he is not a boy at all.

*  *  *

(Compare two things; one fruit left out in the sun to rot, and another wrapped lovingly in cellophane, hidden in the fridge to save its ripeness. Which one is good, which one bad? Who is at fault? Do you know the answer?)

The boys are older now. One of them plays in dirty streets, still. The other watches, pockets heavy with other people’s possessions. He wears the title of man, now. (He has worn it for much longer than he should.) He should be disappointed.

Today was the first time he felt someone’s bones break beneath his fists. He can still remember the sight, the sound, clear like the reflection on the surface of a pond. He wants to describe it all to the boy playing football in the dust, because he knows that he will be proud no matter what.

He pulls the cuff of his sleeve down to hide the blood on his wrist.

The younger one sees his brother. Happiness paints his face golden. “Join me?” he asks.

The football rolls towards him slowly. Green eyes are cold when they examine it. He wants to stab it with the knife at his back.

(Compare those two things. The distinction seems simple. But the thing that no one ever tells you is that the rotten fruit rolled away from the plastic wrapping of its own volition. Do you know the answer now?

Yes. The answer is clearer than before. Now you know the bad created itself.

Does that scare you?)

He kicks it back instead.He should be disappointed, but somehow all he feels is the warmth of that gold face.

This is the only soul to whom he will never be cruel.

*  *  *

The gravestone is too small.It needs to be, so that no one will know the magnitude of his outrage. He needs to seem indomitable.

With steady hands, he reaches into his chest and tears out his own heart. It is small and black and shrivelled and is not beating and the earth is cool under his fingers as he lays it beside the casket.

The gravestone is small, and that is right. Now no-one knows that one-and-a-half hearts have made this their final resting place.

He wishes the gravestone could be bigger. His grief, impossibly large for a moment, has dulled to a quiet pinprick at the back of his skull. He has suppressed it well, but it is a wound that he will carry always.

Only one other person will ever know this.

The rest of his family are buried somewhere else. He does not stop to remember where. He remembers the priest crying when he told him that he did not care.

*  *  *

One night he drinks too much. The air around him dissolves into mirage, and he is greeted by the sight of a familiar face, older than when he last saw it.

“You’re here,” he says, tongue thick and heavy with not just alcohol.

There is a small smile on the other’s face. A sad smile.

“I’m dead, brother. Can’t you see?”

“Oh.” He tastes ash in his mouth, all of a sudden, the ash of a burned-down house, and when he looks at his hands through quaking lashes there is blood on them again.

Can’t you see?

Next time he drinks too much he kills three people, and it doesn’t matter if they deserved it or not because at least now the blood on his hands does not belong to a ghost.

*  *  *

Two little boys play on a dirty street. They could not be more opposite, and yet they are the best of friends.

The curtain rises on their little game. As always, they are head and heart. One thinks and the other feels. It is a simple division of resources. Both are content.

They do not play cops and robbers, or cowboys and indians. The older one has a mind like a puzzle box, it will not allow for anything less than intricacy.

“Today you will be emperor of Rome. I will be your advisor, and I will teach you how to sack Carthage.”

“Why don’t you want to be the emperor? You are bigger than me.”

The younger one is fair, always. It is a consequence of the light that bleeds from his heart. Because of this light, he can never understand what the older one schemes about at night-time. The older one is glad of this. He remembers the fat, pink fingers and round little circle mouth and knows that this innocence must never be allowed to fade.

Because an emperor has no real power, is what he wants to say. Because influence is spread by acquiring loyalty, not by tyranny. An advisor with his ear open to secrets can rule the kingdom much better than a despot could ever hope to.

“Because you hold a sword better than me.”

The younger one smiles. It swallows his whole face. He has three big gaps where teeth should be.

The curtain falls.

Extras:

FACTFILE: [TW: VIOLENCE, SCARS, ALCOHOL, SMOKING] sexuality: pansexual. Romance has always been easy for him, for even if it weren’t for his impressive muscle mass and the sculpted shape of his face, he has enough charm to seduce even the most stoical of people. Women, men, and everything in between, flock to him in their droves, all eager to experience for themselves exactly what Verona’s Underworld king tastes like. Orpheus is gleeful in the way that he receives his lovers, welcoming each and every one with the cunning smile of a predator and the promise of sin written plainly in his eyes and across his mouth. He’s never disrespectful, although it might be expected from someone whose liaisons never last longer than a few days, instead always attentive, obliging, but always firmly in control, always in possession of all his faculties, and there’s something so entrancing about the way in which he goes about his romantic life that leaves all of his conquests unable to hate him even when they part ways, for it is clear to them from the start that this is a man whom they will never be able to tie down, that he belongs to no one but himself, and that any entanglement they have with him is fleeting at best. The rules of the game are always laid bare for all to read, and even though most people should run for the hills when faced with the proposition Orpheus puts to them, for some inexplicable, paradoxical reason it only makes the objects of his… interest want him all the more. The closest anyone’s ever come to tying him down is Theodora, of course, and even they cannot keep hold of him for longer than a few successive days, for each time the wind changes he is gone, blown away by the breeze like dust in a storm. He doesn’t love Theodora, and knows that they don’t love him back, and anyone who looks at the two of them closely would be forgiven for mistaking their relation for hatred, or at least contempt, but it’s as close as Orpheus could ever come to what the world might see as a traditional romance. He doesn’t love them but he needs them to breathe, needs them to keep his world spinning on its usual axis, and when people point out to him that that looks a lot like love, he shakes his head and rolls his eyes and says no it isn’t, that’s life, that’s something as fundamental as existence. date of birth: 19 November 1977, zodiac Scorpio. place of birth:Verona, Italy. nationality: Italian. ethnicity: Half Native Hawaiian, half a mixture of German, Irish and Native American. parents: Joseph Ahulani, father [deceased]; Katherine Ahulani (nee O’Leary), mother [deceased]. siblings: Hermes Ahulani, brother [deceased]. languages: English, Italian, some French and Spanish. height: 6′ 5″. weight: 230 lbs. hair colour: Dark brown/black. eye colour: Green. distinguishing features: The first thing you notice is his stature, all 6′5″ of him. This is a hulk of a man, more mountain than actual person, with broad shoulders and big arms and enough pectoral muscle for two men. You’d be forgiven for assuming that he was not of this earth, sculpted from some alien material and sent to Earth to show humanity just what it’s missing, and for the half-step back you take when you’re confronted with him, the air of apprehension that suddenly overtakes event he bravest and most foolhardy of souls. This is not a man to anger, not a man to insult. Then, once you’ve taken that step back, once your eyes are able to fully comprehend the titan before you, then the beauty of his features becomes apparent, the chiselled definition of his facial bones and the smooth, flowing lines of the rest of his body, so that he seems almost carved from marble, a Classical sculpture of Heracles, perhaps, or Ares, god of war, a model of virility and masculine strength. But he is not all brawn and brute force, and in fact there’s something oddly graceful about the way he moves, a grace that should not be possible for a man his size, a fluidity that speaks to years learning how to part people from their life’s possessions, years spent running and dancing through the streets of the only home he’s ever known, the only home he’ll ever need. Then there’s the hair, of course, the lion’s mane, black and brown, untameable, wavy locks stretching this way and that, somehow both impossibly tangled and immaculately sleek at the same time. This is a natural disaster of a man, some might say, hurricane and earthquake all wrapped up in one, with a frenzied wildness in his khaki eyes that cannot be contained by conventional human boundaries, and the kind of look on his face that lets you know that if he chose to conquer the world singlehandedly, he’d damn well do it, and there would be perilously few who could stand in his way. distinguishing modifications: It’s hard not to notice the tattoo when you first meet him, the thick, curling bracelet that snakes across his left forearm, a looping cuff of tribal patterns that entwine with each other, a maze of thick, black lines seemingly without a start of end point, a labyrinth of ink. When asked about it, about what it all means, Orpheus simply shrugs and turns his head away, unwilling to give up the secrets of his body to just anyone, knowing that his taciturn silence likely adds to the enigmatic, inscrutable persona he’s managed to cultivate for himself, the kind of reputation that means people will think twice about underestimating him, that will leave them always yearning for an explanation that they will never quite receive. The answer, the meaning, lies far in his past, beyond Italy’s dusty, chalky shores, in that gold-tinged time of his ancestors’ pasts when the world was still full of bright horizons, when they were bathed in love and light and sand, in that wholesome idyll the Ahulani line inhabited in a land far away from this one. The designs are tribal, Hawaiian, his father’s favourite pattern, steeped in tradition and legend. The twisting lines were Joseph’s only connection to the island he and his parents left behind, and, ever one to be intrigued by beautiful things (and seeking in his heart to see that beauty either raised to the heavens or crushed under the heel of his boot), Orpheus found himself captivated by the looping tendrils his father would sometimes draw, as though conjuring smoke out of thin air, the image staying in his mind long after the paper had been crumpled and set ablaze, Joseph’s attempt to purge the yearning he felt for his homeland. “Remember your heritage,” Orpheus’ father used to whisper to him sometimes, when the light of day had faded and the hallucinatory effect of moonlight afforded the man the opportunity to be sentimental, “remember your past.” Orpheus had never been one for sentiment, even as a boy, and would turn his head away from Joseph and his dreaming, but there was something elemental about the images his father conjured up that pressed on his imagination. As soon as he was old enough for his first ink (fourteen isn’t the usual age for a tattoo, but Orpheus wanted one and wasn’t in the habit of not getting what he wanted), the design he was to get seemed plainly obvious to him, a pointed and knowing departure from the skulls and guns that his peers spoke of in hushed and excited tones, eager to prove their virility by displaying an overt connection to violence. But Orpheus was not an insecure man, and so he avoided the trappings of boyhood machismo, instead emphatically selecting something traditional, rooted in the earth and the sun and the sky, something to ground him but also to raise him beyond the grind of everyday life and everyday people, no matter how much of a symbol he was to them. He looks at the markings not as a symbol of longing, of homesickness for a home he has never known, but instead a reminder of the reason that he’s here, of the reason his father’s family left the shores of Hawaii behind and took their illicit trade to Europe, the task that sits upon his shoulders as reigning king to expand the empire his grandparents and parents began to carve out of the stone of Verona’s houses and streets. It’s an embodiment of the fact that he is striving for something, that there is a goal in sight, that once the filth that encrusts the top of the society he lives in is washed away those relegated to the bottom of the pyramid will be able to rise up, that he is a conqueror in his own right, and that no matter how much the rich and powerful might wish it, he cannot be stopped. birthmarks: His skin, sun-browned and far smoother than you’d expect from someone who had spent his life on the streets, is almost unblemished, a rich, even shade somewhere between golden and olive, evidence of years spent out in the open in Mediterranean climes. He has one birthmark, on the back of his left knee, a small, oval blotch two shades darker than the skin surrounding it. It’s unremarkable to look at, and unnoticeable unless you’re really looking, but it’s one of the few discolourations on the canvas of Orpheus’ skin. scars: His frame is marked by scars, as you might expect, because he’s not invincible and he’s damn well not a saint, and he would never hesitate before throwing himself headfirst into the path of an oncoming fight if it could serve his own cause. But even with this in mind, his skin is relatively free of visible, arresting marks, as though in this sphere of his life too the Fates have smiled upon him, and absolved his flesh of all but a few scars. Most of the wounds he’s sustained over the course of his life have healed, most of the injuries that have befallen him have proved not to be serious, or at least, not as serious as the damage he has done to whoever dared to harm him in the first place. The few notable exceptions to this generally scar-free existence are all markings that he’s as proud of as he is his tattoo, for these are the stitches that make up the canvas of Orpheus Ahulani, brushstrokes that contribute to the formidable masterpiece he has become. There’s the long, jagged line that runs across his ribcage, about halfway down his left side, a remnant of a brawl he once got himself into in a small alleyway behind a bar, emboldened by alcohol and nicotine fumes and angry that the world didn’t seem to fall into line with his grand plan for future. He took a knife to the ribs that day but dealt out more than his fair share of punches, and it was only after he’d been pulled off his rival, knife still hanging from the hole it had made in his side, that Orpheus had realised that he was wounded. His opponent, who was older and should have known better than to antagonise an unruly eighteen year-old, was left with a smashed kneecap and two broken arms, and Orpheus got away lightly, stitched up by his mother in a matter of hours and reprimanded only for the fact that he’d failed to take the man’s wallet off him. It’s the only time, other than when he avenged his family, that Orpheus has ever truly exercised the violence that he’s obviously capable of, and he wears the scar like a badge, knowing that, should anyone choose to cross him, they’ll rue the day the thought ever crossed their minds. Most of his other scars were obtained through thieving and conning: scraped knuckles grazed on a wall whilst running away from a mark, small knife cuts to his forearms from people who try to fight back when he takes their possessions from them (if they ever notice, that is, and the percentage of people who do is so infinitesimal that Orpheus isn’t in the least concerned when it does happen), a few burns obtained through his unquenchable desire to play with fire, and a long scar that cuts through his eyebrow, obtained from cut glass, but whether the mark was made by an angry mark or a furious lover, he can’t quite recall. Perhaps Theodora left it there. It seems like the kind of thing they’re capable of doing when they’re angry with him (which is most of the time). myers-briggs: ESFP. moral alignment: Chaotic Evil. temperament: Choleric. deadly sin: Wrath. heavenly virtue: Diligence. habits: Smoking and drinking have become habits to him, at this point, drinking an integral part of his daily life since he was old enough to understand what alcohol was and the effects it could have, and smoking a childhood vice that never quite seems to leave him, even though he has the willpower to give up quite easily if he so desired. He’s often clouded by smoke, shrouded in mystery both physically and metaphorically, and usually can be seen with a hand-rolled cigarette tucked behind his ear or into the breast pocket of a shirt, always there in case his fingers feel the itch. When he can get his hands on them (never legally), he’s also partial to cigars, fat, Cuban ones that he can wedge between his teeth and puff on when the five year-old in him rears his head and he wants to remind everyone around him of exactly who he is, that he’s a big man with big power, and that they’d all best revere him, for not to do so would be a grave sin. phobias: Nothing scares him, not really. He’s seen too much, been through too much, to ever afford himself the luxury of fear, and in any case fear was stamped out of him as a young boy by his mother’s family, uncompromising folks who believed that terror made you weak and would eventually leave you dead. There’s nothing left for him to fear, anyway - his family have already been taken from him, and being as untethered as he is makes him untouchable, means that he can sit atop his throne and lock the castle gates, knowing that no one will ever breach them, that nothing is capable of scaring him: not death, not life, not the prospect of failure, because in his mind every situation he could ever find himself in is simply waiting to be turned into a success, into an opportunity.

AESTHETIC: upturned cups of wine; bare feet on cobblestones; eating fruit so that the juice runs down your chin; melting ice; wild flowers; the smell of burnt sugar and soil; the seductive quality of a whisper; singing hymns under your breath whilst you blaspheme; little braids tucked away inside your hair; unbuttoned shirts and bare chests; sweat-slicked skin; running down alleyways; the slow burn of whisky; dark corners; the smell of woodsmoke and leather; raised voices; rumpled sheets; broken glass; hair pulled back into a ponytail; no crying; spearmint chewing gum; worn, heavy boots; classic rock; lying eyes and lying smiles; charcoal and broken pencil leads; flick-knives; cigarette ash; beef steaks; cracking joints and clenched fists; screaming into the wind until your lungs are hoarse; sarcastic quips and raised eyebrows; bloody knuckles and split lips; sunlight and moonlight; cigar smoke; orchestral music; throwing open double doors; molten gold; secrets in the dark.

HEADCANONS:

1) Although he never seems to put much effort into his appearance, giving off the impression of being one of those people who just wake up beautiful and put together, in a perfectly disheveled kind of way, the aesthetic of careless casualness Orpheus exudes was in fact carefully thought through at one point or other in his life. Even as a much younger man that he now is, Orpheus knew exactly what kind of image he wanted to project to the outside world, how he wanted people to see him, knew the precise pitch at which the gasps he elicited from passers-by should ring in his ears. He most often wears white, black, or grey, and never, ever wears bright colours. The only injections of shades that aren’t monochrome into his wardrobe are dark, rich, sensuous colours like burgundy, deep emerald and copper, hues that blend easily into the darkness that he enjoys to cloak himself in. He knows precisely what looks good in him, wears his clothes as part of his armour, uses them to reinforce his status as king. He’s a fan of some more daring things, too; pinstripes and suspenders and hats that should look ridiculous on him but somehow fit seamlessly into the picture, suit trousers with combat boots, scarves and waistcoats and always, always odd socks. He owns some leather items, a rare luxury he afforded himself and paid for out of his own pocket, but generally his rule is never to spend more than thirty euros on a piece of clothing, and, if there’s something expensive that his heart truly desires, to steal it from an unsuspecting rich brat who can afford to have his pockets lightened. He may be broadly self-serving and callous, but Orpheus believes that it’d be wrong of him to adopt the mantle of king of the paupers and then to swan around in finery more befitting of an actual ruler than a prince of thieves, and so he tries to keep his possessions fairly modest, although this isn’t an active effort or something he’d admit out loud. One thing he is partial too is jewellery, and more often than not his fingers are stacked with rings of various shapes, sizes and materials, trinkets pulled from the fingers of the victims of his cons, his neck similarly draped with countless necklaces, his wrists bound with golden chains and leather ropes alike.

2) He stole a book, once. He was four years old, young enough to know that thieving and conning was to be his life’s work, but not quite old enough to figure out what it was that he wanted to steal, what was worth picking pockets and running scams for, and what was best left alone. He was four years old and he saw the businessman’s briefcase, and the opportunity was too exciting for the young boy to ignore. How disappointed he was, at first, to open the leather satchel and find little more than papers and documents, nothing more than a business proposal. But then something else slid out of the bag, a small, unassuming rectangle of paper, worn at the corners and scratched across the spine. Lord of the Flies, the cover read, and despite himself Orpheus opened it to have a look. He read, and read, and was surprised to find that he liked it. He dumped the briefcase in a nearby alley and made his way home, reading all the while, and when his family asked him where he had found the dog-eared volume Orpheus simply shrugged and told them he’d found it on the street. This event didn’t start an obsession, far from it, for he was too occupied by the desire for self-advancement and self-preservation throbbing in his head to ever devote himself completely to something as time-consuming as reading, but nonetheless it unlocked in Orpheus a desire to discover more. If he ever came across a book whilst working his favourite back streets, he would take it, provided that it was a classic and that it looked interesting (anything he stole that didn’t grip his fancy was donated to the local orphanage), and slowly but surely he built up a small library for himself, stashing books anywhere he could, and although now he’s all but forgotten the practice, if his eyes ever land on a volume that he feels his makeshift library is lacking, he’ll often go out of his way to pick it up. He likes to lift the odd book from the library, too, always replacing what he takes with trash literature, usually pulp, often pornographic, and makes sure he’s around when either the librarian or some unsuspecting budding reader comes across his substitution. His favourite novel? Why, Crime and Punishment, of course, if only because the title is so apt, and he finds it amusing to be seen reading it out in the open, especially when there is law enforcement present to witness it.

3) Orpheus can play the guitar, and isn’t half-bad at carrying a tune. As with most of the skills he’s picked up in his life, this happened entirely by accident (although to look at him you’d believe that it was all carefully engineered, like Orpheus has meant for his life to turn out exactly as it has). He stole a guitar, because his father told him it was expensive, and that it would be good practise to steal something so large, but once he had the instrument in his hands there didn’t seem to be much that it was useful for, unless he wanted to club someone on the head with it (a tempting solution to the problem). For a few weeks it sat in his corner of the room he and his brother shared, until finally Orpheus decided there was nothing left to do but try and play it, since the fence his father had contacted hadn’t come through for them and wouldn’t sell it. So he found a homeless man living in the corner of the piazza in front of the Cathedral, looked him squarely in the eye and said teach me to play, and that was that. He doesn’t play often - he isn’t a minstrel, or some sort of cheap travelling entertainer - but nonetheless it’s a skill that he keeps in his back pocket in case he should ever need it, and he enjoys the fact that he can make music as well as listen to it. Nowadays, he’ll most often play when he’s drunk, stretched out across whatever chair he’s using as his makeshift throne on that particular day, tucked away in the corner of his favourite bar, when daylight has faded and everyone’s just about tired enough not to care.

4) He has riches in his possession beyond anyone’s wildest imaginings, but he isn’t rich, and never has been. Plenty of the things he’s stolen are expensive, invaluable, priceless even, and he’s fenced or ransomed so many of them that he has a considerable amount of material wealth, most of it cash bills stuffed into vases and hollowed-out books (there’s something oddly cinematic about hiding wads of money that Orpheus enjoys), but he doesn’t ever spend enough of it for anyone who doesn’t know him to cotton onto the fact of exactly how much money he has. Despite the prolific criminality that runs in his bloodline, Orpheus is of humble stock, and to suddenly turn around after years spent living more or less on a level with Verona’s paupers and start spending the money he’s amassed frivolously, carelessly, emulating those rich families whom he hates so much, would feel deeply wrong to him. He doesn’t have much of a moral code, and what little morality he did have was utterly shot to pieces on the night his brother died, but this is a conviction that he holds and tries to adhere firmly to. He also likes to hand money out, to anyone who may need it, although these acts of charity are driven as much by the compassion he has for the poor and downtrodden (about the only people he’s capable of experiencing any sympathy for) as by his desire to keep them on his side, to sweeten the bonds between him and his disciples so that when the time comes, they will be amenable to the plans he has in store for them all, will be utterly servile, willing to fall on their swords for him a thousand times over. They’re not bribes, as such, more friendly reminders of exactly what he can do for his people, that he could be spending his ill-gotten gains on cars and expensive watches but instead chooses to safeguard his domain against the threat of Capulet or Montague influence.

5) Sometimes, in the darkened confines of the night, when he’s decided to go without a lover and sleep alone, when the only sounds he can hear are the slow rise and fall of his own breath and the distant wailing of owls, Orpheus allows himself to contemplate the facts of his existence, and his lineage. He is the final one of his kind, the last Ahulani, the last one to ever carry that fiery mixture of genes that was forged when his mother and his father came together forty years ago. It shouldn’t bother him, in fact being the last of his dynasty should help him feel even grander, increase the sense of momentous expectation and duty that he imposes upon his own shoulders, but for some reason, in these dark, quiet places, when the only thing keeping him company is the steady pulse of thoughts in his own head, it does. That’s part of the reason why he strives so hard to make the kingdom gifted to him something worthy of remembering, why he’s willing to fight tooth and nail to make his legacy a reality, to ensure that his name is inscribed in the stars as well as on stone monuments, that the four syllables of his surname are not lost to the wind and rain like so many other lineages. It’s partly why he wishes his brother was still alive - he doesn’t allow himself to miss Hermes, because to allow such emotion to intrude into the otherwise impermeable facade of his consciousness would only slow him down, and that is unacceptable - because of his value in furthering their bloodline. Hermes was exactly the kind of person Orpheus is not: warm, kind, unashamedly gleeful, and full of love, the kind of man who drew women to him not because of his beauty but because of his heart, who inspired deep romantic love in the few girlfriends he did have. Had he lived, he would have no doubt produced an impossibly, almost disgustingly large brood of children, who would have carried the Ahulani name and their fearlessness forward, would have made a new line of thieves. Orpheus knows that he can never be the person his brother could have been, and he isn’t suddenly about to start seeking ways to have a child of his own simply because of something as everyday as loss, but one of his few regrets about the loss of his family is that he will take their name to his grave with him.

EXTRA WRITING: I wrote a poem about Orpheus, once, because I’m a loser and he’s my tiny evil son:

– THE SEVEN AGES OF ORPHEUS AHULANI; told through bloodshed and darkness and a little too much pain.

i. there’s blood on your hands, infant. it’s your mother’s blood, her life and the life she gave to you. she brought you into this world, tried to bring you out of darkness and into light… except it didn’t really work, did it? because the light hardly affected you, little child, with your whirlpool eyes and that soul that was already far too dark. she could never have imagined, your mother, that her lamb’s blood would have raised a wolf. ii. there’s blood on your hands, boy. it’s your own blood, from where you’ve fallen and scraped your knee. get up, your father tells you, and his voice isn’t kind or gentle but you understand, know that big boys don’t cry. you’re only seven but you know already. you stopped crying a while ago. iii. there’s blood on your hands, young man. it’s your brother’s blood, you watch it pour between your fingers like river water stained an awful crimson, and amidst the rage that burns hot and white you can taste retribution on your tongue. (it tastes bitter-sweet, like you’d imagined, honey and vinegar.) it’s a waste, this, a life thrown away, because he was a happy boy. you don’t believe in happiness, not for a long time, but he did, and that’s important, somehow. maybe you didn’t love him properly, not like the story-books say you should, but you’ll avenge him. iv. there’s blood on your hands, phoenix. it’s a stranger’s blood, blood you’ve spilt, blood that runs down, down, down your arms and hands down past your feet down onto the too-expensive carpet you’re treading scarlet footprints into. you said you would avenge him, them, all of them, and here you are, and it isn’t really clear in the half-light which is sharper: your knife or the grin on your face. they thought fire would kill you. they were wrong, and when you rose from the flames you had been made anew. fire becomes you, now, it’s a weapon, not an enemy, and burning a mansion to the ground becomes so simple, the easiest thing in the world. you should feel some guilt, by rights, but your heart isn’t like other hearts, it’s cold and cruel and all things burn, in the end, so why waste a moment’s thought on the things you’ve razed to the ground. all things burn, in the end. (except you, perhaps; you have become the thing that burns others.) v. there’s blood on your hands, king. it’s your own blood again, but you haven’t fallen over this time. this time you’re fighting, and there’s a battered form in the dust in front of you, and you’ve proven a point to anyone who doubted you. so what if they got a lucky hit, scratched your face with the shards of a bottle? the blood you’re wiping away from your forehead is like armour, chainmail. your followers have always respected you, but now they’re afraid of you, too. you look at the cut over your eye in the mirror afterwards, and there’s blood on your lips when you smile. did that powerful man know what he was getting himself into, when he signed a pact with the devil’s right hand? no- not right hand- the devil himself. (it’s a nickname others have given you when they whisper about you in the dark and it seems fitting.) perhaps not, you think. king cap looked to buy a fighting dog, paid for a hellhound. vi. there’s blood on your hands, lover. it’s their blood, this time, the blood of someone who, despite your marble-steel exterior, means a lot to you. you’re bandaging their wounds - they don’t need you to - because, despite yourself, you have to make sure that they’re safe. you have to have them near you, always, you may go your separate ways often enough but there will always be a red thread tying your fingers together. (a passing traveller told you that myth, once. you don’t believe in fate but it seemed apt, somehow.) you find yourself looking for their face in crowded rooms, waiting, for the moment that they’ll sidle up to you and you’ll hear their voice, whispering in your ear, the slow lapping of waves on the sea shore. it’s not love, not at all, (that would be childish) but something altogether more prosaic. need, perhaps. vii. there will be blood on your hands, old man. it will be the world’s blood, when you’ve pulled its innards out and scraped all you can get from deep within, when you hold its bloodied heart beating in your hands. your parents taught you ambition but they never could have imagined the fire of hunger they lit in your soul. the best is not enough. you want it all, want the world, your world, to cower at your feet, want all those who wrote you off as nothing more than vermin to know that they were right. you are vermin, and you wear the slur with pride. more fool them, you’ll think, when the carcass of the world lies bloody at your feet. they forgot that vermin have the power to destroy.

MOODBOARDS:

1, 2, 3 & 4.

[blankdblank]

Baker Pt 10

Pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3 - Pt 4 - Pt 5 - Pt 6 - Pt 7 - Pt 8 - Pt 9

 ..

I’m a bit hard on Thorin in this, so warning you now.

 Tags –

@himoverflowers​​, @theincaprincess, @aspiringtranslator​​, @sweeticedtea​​, @ggbbhehe4455​​, @thegreyberet​​, @patanghill17​​​, @evyiione​​, @abiwim​​, @jumpingmanatee, adding for the request @jesgisborne​

…

The mansion around you was peacefully quiet as you grouped your hair to pull back into a long ponytail you pulled halfway through leaving it in a long curly loop down from the tight hair tie, lowering your arms back to your side and brushed your black tank top down over the top of your jeans. A few hours before sunrise yet the halls around you were chilled and the tapping your converse made on the polished marble floors only brought the thought that were you barefoot it would be freezing.

Turning the last corner your team came into view with sleepy smiles, including the softly grumbling Dewey with Legolas drooped across his shoulders with an exhausted groan while Bilbo fought to work his hand through the end of his long sleeve. Chuckling softly you joined his side and helped him through the pesky sleeve getting a soft chuckle and a thanks in return as you both continued the path to the large kitchen. “Did you sleep well Jaqi?”

You smiled at him with a tired nod, “Thorin had to get up a few times to work with the fireplace though.”

Dewey chuckled, “If that’s the only downside for living here it’s not that bad. Perfect temperature for snuggling.” He bounced his brother on his shoulder with a smirk at his next groan, “This one here didn’t want to get up, had to drag him from bed.”

Legolas sleepily mumbled, “It was so warm though.”

You giggled running your fingers through his long blonde hair swaying before you, working out the single pitiful attempt at a knot it had formed, “Don’t worry, today’s the last day and you can head back home to curl up in your own bed.”

Bilbo led the way to your trucks to gather your supplies and helped you tie your apron back on as the rest of the team started on the final steps to prepare the treats for the lunch that day. You pulled out fresh mixing supplies along with all the ingredients while you started the latest few batches of treats that you were adding to the menu after something you had heard the night before. Today the luncheon was meant for the women of the Durin clan as a larger scale tea party while the other half was for the men to enjoy in a room of their own.

Yesterday however through the reception you had heard a few of the women mentioning three of the younger Durin children unable to make it yesterday that had certain restrictions to their diets due to allergies, barring them from the sweets you had prepared. With an almond allergy yourself you knew just how much work goes into making sure nothing you ate included it along with the constant restrictions and work your relatives had to endure on your behalf. Sure, not being able to have a certain kind of candy bar in your home isn’t the worst thing to endure. But for children who just want to be children and feel forced out due to something they have no control over can be downright heart breaking. So, without mentioning it to the Bride or any of the Durins you got to work adding new variations of the selected flavors for the various treats and raced the clock, using the short time you had to make sure you would get it done and it would be done perfectly.

Your first batter finished easily as Bilbo completed the next mixture you had set out, moving at your side to add both of your trays of cupcakes into the preheated oven. Then moved to your prior spot collecting the measured ingredients Dewey had set out for you beside a clean mixing bowl to work out the first set of icing as Legolas followed your instructions for his latest lesson on how to create your restrictive recipes for your icing for this set of desserts. Mixing up everything as the time went on you had worked through the mixtures of dairy, gluten, nut free ingredients. Losing yourself your head turned as a familiar figure peered over your shoulder as you filled a piping bag, without looking back you coolly asked, “What are you wearing?”

A deep, “Hmm?” Came from over your shoulder on your right causing you to glance up and chuckle softly, turning back to your bag, setting the spoon back in the bowl and twisting the piping bag saying, “Sorry Frerin, wasn’t expecting you.” Catching a glimpse of the shirtless sleepy tall figure of the man bending down to watch you ice the first plate of cupcakes with a smirk as he saw the image of a unicorn being created on the top of it before moving to the end of the counter on your left.

He chuckled softly glancing from your peaceful focused look as you created the dessert before asking, “They told you about Tilly and her obsession with Unicorns?”

“Mhmm.” Turning your head gently setting down the piping bag to add the chocolate and candy finishes to the creature before carefully shifting it to the final plate as the photographer you had missed entering took a set of pictures of it alongside the other trays of the desserts.

You glanced over catching his impressed smirk as he raised up, resting his palms on the counter, “So what’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

You smiled collecting your piping bag to work out the next unicorn, “I was talking about your scent. Thorin doesn’t smell like that. It’s what, that glass bottle cologne, oh what’s it called, the one with the ship on it and the shield on the lid.”

Frerin’s smirk grew, “Impressive skill you have there.”

You chuckled softly, “My brother used to wear that in college after he heard a girl he liked loved the smell.”

“Did he get her?”

“No, but he did end up setting her up with her wife, and gave her the bottle when he found out she wanted it for herself.”

Frerin’s brows raised, “Hmm. At least he handled it well.”

You chuckled again, “Boromir never had a lull in potential dates.” Gently adding the completed cupcake to the tray alongside the others then grabbed the next one.

“I heard something from my sister, you used to be engaged?”

Your eyes met his briefly, “Not quite. We were expected to, he’d probably already planned a few ideas for it before he shipped out.”

“Is it a sore subject?”

You shot him a small smile shaking your head slightly, “No, ask away.”

He shifted his weight on his hands watching as you completed the last of the Unicorns, “Why’d it end?”

“He died in battle.”

His expression dropped, “I’m so sorry.”

You smiled up at him again, “He fought hard, nothing to apologize for. Made sure the rest of his unit got home safely. I can’t be upset about that.”

“Must have been terrible for you.”

“Losing him, was terrible, but his mother barring me from his funeral was just shattering.”

His brows pressed together, “She barred you from the funeral?”

Collecting the next set of cupcakes along with the matching bowl of icing you started the simpler design for the icing on them after filling the piping bag as Bilbo carried the tray of unicorn to add to the others in your cooler. “She told me to tell him not to enlist, and she should have known even if I had he would have hated me for it for the rest of our lives and possibly done it anyway. She hasn’t spoken to me since.”

“That’s just a despicable thing to do. I bet your family was furious about it.”

“My dad wanted to hurt her after what she shouted at me when she threw me out. Still a sore subject for him, especially since she hasn’t apologized.”

“So no other serious relationships since?”

You shook your head, “Thorin’s the only one I’ve had since then. I really focused on work and school.” His eyes sparked at your growing smirk, “Besides, men have a habit of imagining my brothers as my boyfriends.”

His smirk slid back as his fingers tapped on the counter, “Why’d you choose to do both, Lawyer and Baker?”

“My mother was a Baker, most of my memories with her are in the kitchen baking. Besides I graduated early, and there wasn’t anyone that wanted to hire a 16 year old lawyer, so I worked in the Bakery my mother and Dewey’s mother ran together. His mother helped show me the ropes as I got out of my training, and it just worked out that way. You don’t have anything but working in the office?”

He chuckled softly, “Used to play football, nearly ruined my right knee though. Now I’ve been looking into focusing on my sculpting.”

Your smile grew, “Well if you ever have a show and you need a familiar face there let me know.”

He smiled back at you, “I will remember that, though I highly doubt it will ever get that far.”

You chuckled softly, “When I started I never thought I could pull off catering anything, let alone a wedding of this size. You’ll relax as you get find your comfortable stride in the sculpting.”

“Who knows, I might have my own shop when I get older, when I grow tired of court.”

You chuckled softly again, “Sounds like a good plan.”

“Has Thorin mentioned his painting yet?”

“No.”

“Hmm, or his glass blowing? Those figurines on the mantle where we met are ones he’s made.”

Your eye met his with another smirk, “Really, quite an impressive bunch you Durins are.”

He chuckled softly and looked up as Dis came into the room in an excited trot revealing a large pair of orange duck footed slippers, stopping at her brother’s side, giving you a large smile, “It’s nice and toasty in here. Did you sleep well Jaqi?”

You nodded, “Yes, thank you. I thought you might still be in bed though.”

She narrowed her eyes at you with a playful smirk, “Vili got a work call, once he gets started he tends to get a bit loud, especially when it comes to his paperwork. Besides, we’ve been together over 20 years, can’t expect to stay in bed all day, even on the honeymoon.”

You chuckled softly, “No, but you can always demand it. Vow renewal or not, honeymoon’s a honeymoon.”

Her smirk grew as Frerin chuckled saying, “Oh Thorin’s got a strong headwind coming straight at him.”

You smirked at him accepting the tray of pastries for you to fill from Dewey as Bilbo finished the new set of cookies, drawing Dis to glance around eyeing the new creations as she said, “Also, above that our family has traditions after weddings, limiting the time together after to build the family around the new couple. It isn’t until the trip the week after, you get as much time as you want together.”

She stepped closer to your side eyeing the pastries, “Those look different.”

You smiled at her, “I heard some of your younger relatives have allergies, so I’ve added dairy, gluten, nut free desserts. All on me of course, just thought it would be good to include the little ones that can’t normally join in.”

Her smile grew as Frerin’s did behind her, setting down the pastries you moved to grab the bowls of icing and scrapes from the spare cupcake mixes after she said, “I’m sure if anyone can make these desserts actually taste good it would be you.”

Frerin moved closer accepting the small tasting spoon you offered for him for the first mix of icing with a clump of the shavings on top, “Every time I’ve had them they taste awful.” Timidly tasting the dessert his smirk returned as he gave a content hum, “Which one’s this?” Glancing at his sister with a matching grin.

“Gluten free,” You passed them both the next one, “This one’s the dairy free,” leading to another set of their hums as you led them through the tasting of each of them.

Frerin, “You can’t even tell the difference, other than the nut one, but that’s just an extra hint of vanilla.”

Dis, “How did you learn to do this?”

“My mother had a bunch of recipes and substitutions for baking. I would have mixed them all in one batch but I had to do seperate batches for each. For some reason the substitutes, if I try to mix them, everything tastes like grapefruit. Everything.”

Their smirks grew as you went back to finish the last of the pastries before passing them off to Legolas before a large set of arms curled around your middle for a tight hug leaving a kiss on your cheek before the deep voice nearly purred into your ear, “I’m stealing you away for breakfast.” He caught a sight of the Unicorn batch and smirked, “You made a batch just for Tilly?”

You nodded, “It’s a tea party, all the girls should be able to have a full tea party experience.”

He kissed your cheek again with a large grin, “Come on, I know you’re starving.” He stole another glance at Dewey who was helping Legolas wipe the counters as two of your team members were scrubbing the last of your utensils and Bilbo carried the last tray to your cooler behind the rest of the team, each holding a tray of their own. Content that he wasn’t interfering with your work.

His arms curled around your waist leading you into the large dining room towards the table the exhausted Dwalin was nearly slumped over on until he jerked up as Thorin slid your chair back. Settling you between them and claimed his on your left, grabbing your plate and piled it high with food as you noticed your team filing in to the tables after Dis. Accepting their town tables, mixing with the workers from Bombur’s catering crew. Glancing around, you caught the curious smiles from the full dining room that quickly shifted from you to Thorin with growing smiles, especially from his parents making you glance at Dwalin and ask softly, “Why do they keep staring at Thorin?”

Dwalin chuckled, “They haven’t seen him this happy in years. Normally he just fills his plate and sulks in the corner.” You faced forward with wide eyes at the large pile of food Thorin set before you making Dwalin and a few of the other Durins chuckle at your reaction as Thorin started to fill his own plate while Dwalin said, “That’s how he normally fills his plate, you have to get as much as you can, it runs out fast.”

You chuckled softly grabbing your fork and starting to eat as Thorin sat at your side giving you another large smile as he grabbed his fork and started eating his. Joining in on the conversation Dwalin had started with you that Fili and Kili had joined in on from their spot across from you. Breakfast went by quickly as the Durins watched you clear your plate and accept the smaller plate of seconds Thorin had claimed for you as well. When the food was gone Thorin’s hand curled around yours drawing a giggle from you as he led you back to bed saying, “You look tired. You should take a nap.”

Passing the table of crews Legolas stood with a soft chuckle of his own saying, “Good, nap time.” Yawning through a stretch as Dewey rolled his eyes and walked him back to his room as Bilbo followed to steal a chance to dive back into his new book as the rest of your team joined the catering crew for a set of games set up outside before they all had to get back to work. Thorin’s fingers slid between yours as he glanced down at you with a growing smirk, “Getting to know my siblings?”

You giggled softly as he led you through the main hallway giving you a good view of him shirtless in his favorite pair of sweats in a large fluffy pair of polar bear feet slippers, your giggle at his slippers made him chuckle softly and say, “My niece bought them for me. I always wear them when I visit back home. We all got different pairs of them, mine’s the best though.”

At the foot of the stairs his arms curled around you drawing you against his chest as he lifted you in his arms making you giggle again after you said, “Your siblings are nice.”

“I’m glad they’re behaving, normally they go on the offensive.”

Your arms looped around his neck as he carried you up the large staircase, “How many women have you brought to the family home?”

His eyes met yours with a growing smile, “Just you, all my other dates got ambushed at my place or theirs.”

You giggled, “Like when the boys barged into my place about your slippers before I went to the hospital.”

Unable to help but chuckle his eyes met yours again as he turned the first left corner to his hallway, “Exactly like that. None of them have gotten past the first barge in meeting, my family wouldn’t allow it.”

“So is this like a less than ten or more than twenty ‘all my dates’ list I’m on?”

Lowly he chuckled and replied, “Seven, including you. I tend to scowl.”

You giggled again as he carried you through his bedroom door and gave you another smirk, “Well if it helps my family likes you, and they don’t like very many people.”

His hand brushed along your cheek as he kissed you and gave a content hum as your hands slid through his hair. He walked you back to his bed, kneeling on it and laying you back with out breaking the kiss. Blindly sliding his hand along your legs to untie your shoes and toss them on the ground by the bed, breaking the kiss to ask, “Do you have an alarm on your phone?”

You nodded as he pulled your phone from your pocket and turned to set it on the table by the bed. Then turned back to you pulling the covers up over you and chuckled softly as your arms tightened around the back of his neck pulling him back into another breathtaking kiss that broke as he curled you tightly against his chest. Your legs wove together in your snuggling while his smile deepened as you softly whispered, “I love you.”

Sighing softly his hands slid across your back under your shirt as he settled around you, “I love you, get some sleep, Love.” Closing his eyes he felt you relax in his grip drifting off to sleep as he laid there holding you, and listened intently with a large smile as you started humming under your breath in your sleep.

.

The thick door to the room opened, causing your living pillow to shift, making you grumble and curl your arms tighter around his middle. Thorin chuckled softly curling his arms tighter around you as Frerin walked to your side with a growing smile as he caught you nuzzling closer to Thorin’s chest with a chuckle of his own and he snapped a picture of you both and sent it to Thorin’s phone as he said, “It’s nearly time for the lunch.”

His eyes went back to you at your grumble when the alarm on your phone sounded. Making you shift forward across his chest to blindly grab your phone to hit the stop button and lay back across Thorin’s chest with a soft whining grumble making them chuckle again. Drawing in a deep breath your eyes opened bringing a pair of legs into view that made you lean forward and raise the baggy pajama pants revealing a large pair of Pink Panther feet slippers making you giggle and pull back to roll on your back at Thorin’s side giving Frerin a small wave as he chuckled at you asking, “You don’t like my slippers?”

You blinked your eyes open meeting his gaze, “They’re lovely slippers.”

He glanced between you saying, “Well sorry to have woken you, just making sure Thorin didn’t sleep through the lunch.”

Thorin chuckled, “I would never miss a chance at Jaqi’s baking.” Leaning over to kiss your forehead with a large smile at you after making you giggle and roll over with a sigh, crossing your ankles, using his arm under your neck as a pillow. In a shift of his gaze back to his brother Thorin caught Frerin eyeing the scars on along your hip before he flashed Thorin a smile and went to change himself.

Opening your eyes again you giggled as Thorin curled around you again pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead as he rubbed your back drawing a content hum from you making his smile grow before he said, “I have to get ready.”

Sighing again you grumbled rising to your knees pulling up your jeans, and brushing your shirt down. Thorin sat up to give you a brief kiss before he stood and crossed to his bag pulling out his jeans and added a button down shirt, then added his socks and shoes. He smiled at you lovingly as you finished tying your shoes again. Helped you to your feet stealing another passionate kiss before he led you to the door after you’d grabbed your phone to slide back in your pocket. His hands curled around your waist as he strolled happily at your side leaving you back at the kitchen again with another kiss to your cheek before joining the men in their smoking room.

.

After a brief set up in the main garden dining room, the tables were coated and the women filed in, including Dis and her mother Diaa whose smiles grew at the delectable spread as they all claimed their seats making sure to point out the bare seat on Dis’ right was meant for you. Your smile returned and made theirs grow when you finished setting the five tier display trays in the center of the tables surrounded by three smaller tiered displays.

After a brief statement from Diaa the women served out the tea as you finished the last of your setup, hearing a small child with an un-amused sigh eyeing the deserts longingly. Her mother’s voice sounded clearly to you through the soft chatter filling the room naming the small child as Tilly. Your smile grew as you grabbed the small special display of Unicorn treats and slipped through the tables to set the tiered display of cupcakes and rainbow cookies before the wide eyed gasping child.

The women around turned with growing smiles listening as you crouched at her side and said, “I heard you liked Unicorns. These are rainbow cupcakes with orange and raspberry icing, all gluten and dairy free.” She gave them a timid glance as your smile grew, “And I promise they don’t taste terrible.”

Wetting her lips she grabbed one of the cupcakes and cookies, smiling at both of the designs before tasting the icing from the cupcake with a growing smile and a content hum that triggered her to scarf down the rest of it before tasting the cookies you had added as well.

Standing again you pointed to the treat table and said, “The blue trays are gluten free and the green is for the other dairy free and the yellow are nut free, so all the allergies should be covered. They’re all labeled too.” You glanced down again as the other children at the table rushed past you and went to grab a plate full of the desserts they were allowed and sounded out in muffled hums as they enjoyed their treats. Turning again you smiled at Dis who sat fighting the mist in her eyes as her mother patted her own cheeks drying the tear trails at how touching your extra measures had effected the small normally left out children and their mothers who had dreaded not being able to include all the children.

Claiming your seat you smiled at the pair and spotted Bilbo through the window in the distance alongside Dewey, setting out the trays for their room. Looking at the Dams again you got pulled into another lengthy delving into your life soon joined in by all the women as the children each asked you if you would make the cakes for their birthday parties.

Giggling softly you smiled through their lengthy inquiries on what sort of characters you could create with your baking. The lunch drew to a close as the last of the children leaned on your shoulder as he stood on the chair beside you while you looked up on your phone the character from his favorite cartoon he wanted for his cake. Glancing up you smiled at Thorin approaching you, holding the last of the desserts he had claimed to hug his mother and sister as you smiled at the boy saying, “I’m sure I can handle that.”

His smile grew and he gave you a tight hug replying excitedly, “This is going to be the best birthday ever. Hando’s party had a transformer, but it was mostly rice krispy treats so I only got part of the arm.”

You smiled at him, “Well it might not move but I promise you could have any piece of this cake you wanted to eat.”

His smile grew as he hugged you again before jumping down and running excitedly to his mother, bouncing at the side with the news as Dis said, “It seems you’re our new go to baker.”

You smiled at her after glancing at your beaming boyfriend, “As long as the children have the birthday party they want. The restrictive recipes I have are one of the main draws for children’s parties I bake for. That and it’s not costing an arm and a leg.”

Dis’ smile grew as Diaa said, “Oh it’s not about the cost at all, and don’t you worry, we’ll also be covering the costs for the extra treats you made this morning.”

You chuckled softly, “There’s no need, I always bring extras for a few batches to each event just in case anyone shows up who can’t eat what I’ve made, just a personal choice nothing I ever charge for.”

Her smile grew again as Dis said, “You really go all in don’t you?”

You giggled again, “There’s no other way to do things. Especially when kids are involved, I have allergies so I know how irritating it can be on them. And I rarely get the chance to make anything with Unicorns or rainbow mix.” Making them chuckle again as you stood, “Well I’ll help start cleaning up.”

Thorin stepped over to give you a quick hug and a peck on the forehead, “After that it’s all done?”

You nodded, “Then the team flies back and it’s what ever you have planned for the next few days.”

His smile grew as he said, “Good. I’ll help you clean up, get it handled quickly.” Following after you while the two women watched him brush down your shirt to cover your scars again to stop a couple kids from pointing them out giving you another loving smile as you looked up at him.

.

Back in the driveway when everything was packed up you hugged Dewey, Legolas and Bilbo tightly as they wished you a great vacation while they and your team made their way to the airport again.

Thorin drew another giggle from you hugging you from behind and kissed your neck, “So, what’s up first?”

“Family movie time.”

Leading you through the house Thorin aimed you at the empty spot he picked you up once he had reached to settle you on his lap and hold you tightly before him as Diaa gave you both a large smile switching on the first video that drew a groan from Thorin, Frerin and Dis, “Since Jaqi here hasn’t seen these yet I thought we should start with our vacation to the Blue Mountains.”

Thorin, “Please Amad, not that one.”

Dis chuckled, “You’re just nervous because it has your first attempt at kite flying on it.”

Frerin chuckled, “Put it on, and the trip that winter next too.”

Making Thorin groan as Dwalin laughed turning to you with a smirk, “Oh you’ll love these. Thorin is the kitten stuck in the tree every time.”

From video to video your heart melted as Thorin flinched behind you through the first few videos that switched between the Durins and the Findis families vacations. Then it was Dis’ turn to decide, standing and saying, “Now, one thing I learned a few weeks before the wedding was the first time Jaqi and Thorin actually met back in college, and flipping though the tapes I found their first meeting. Now we all remember that year that Thorin and Dwalin just couldn’t seem to beat Gondor U at the debate meets and now we know why.”

You giggled softly as Thorin and Dwalin groaned again and Fili and Kili scooted forward excitedly mumbling, “This should be good.”

Nearly two hours later they had gone through the final competition you had the first year you’d faced their school giving the family a clear picture on their irritation as you were sent after them by your team mates. When the tape ended you were fighting to hold in your laughter, hiding your face behind your hands and your legs. Thorin couldn’t help but laugh from behind you at your seeming inability to stop as the rest of the family chimed in with their own commentary and complaints that they hadn’t seen this tape before since Thorin and Dwalin had gone to such lengths to hide it for all this time.

The rest of the day you had been filled into larger portions of their childhoods through the videos of them and Vili growing up together. Through which you curled Thorin’s arms tighter around yourself as you settled back farther in his chest and he nuzzled his head against yours between silent kisses on your cheek feeling an ache in his cheeks from the large smiles he’d worn with you curled in his arms.

..

The week had ended with you seated firmly in the Durin Family along with a handful of requests for you to cater several birthdays and various family events, the short flight back went quickly giving you only a short time before you were driven back by Dwalin. Grabbing the latest batch of your mail you walked up to your apartment to add it to the stack Faramir had brought inside for you on your trip, and left on your dining room table. Walking to your room you heard the heavy steps from the floor above you as the Durins emptied their bags and changed into more comfortable clothes as you changed your shirt to a t shirt with a t rex across it and dumped your clothes before turning to head back out again.

Entering the elevator again you sighed softly after the weightlifter next door to you gave you a brief smile accepting your annual birthday card, containing a gift card to his favorite candle shop, handed to him sliding between you and the creeping Alfrid remaining there walking you wordlessly to your parking spot beside his before you parted ways.

.

The short drive ended as you pulled into the driveway of your father’s large house just outside the city and parked in the empty spot between your brother’s cars and walked to the front porch where your father was waiting for you. With a soft chuckle he stepped closer as you climbed the steps accepting the large hug you were curled into as he said, “Hello Angel. Did you enjoy your vacation?”

You nodded as he pulled back after giving you a peck on the cheek, “It was fun. Got to meet the family.”

He chuckled softly, “Must have been quite a task to meet all of them.” His hand ran over your cheek, “You were incredible,” Your smile grew as he continued, “I am so proud of you, putting all that together and working with their surprises for you. Did the second meal go well?”

“Ya, got a handful of requests for catering birthdays and events, handed out all my cards, had to start passing my number on napkins.”

His smile grew as his eyes searched yours noting your exhaustion, “Let’s get you something to eat. Bell got called into work and Eowyn should be off soon.”

Smiling again he led the way inside bringing the sound of giddy children and thundering footsteps storming through the house before you dropped to your knees to accept the crashing group hug from your nieces and nephews who soon claimed all of your attention. Showing off their self made ‘Kiss My Butt Cancer’ shirts at the latest clear scans for Mo, making you giggle, and guided you to the tv to watch the new Pixar move they had gotten and wanted to watch with you as they all snuggled around you on the large couch.

Through the movie dinner was passed out to your group as each of your brothers, Dewey, Legolas, Bilbo, the Twins, Aragorn along with Theoden and his sons gave you partial hugs and pecks on the cheeks settling around you. Two servings later after the second movie had ended, you helped carry the children upstairs to their rooms and rested along the wall outside in the hall. Your eyes opened as your father brushed your bangs from your face as he softly said, “Why don’t you stay here tonight, Angel?”

His arm curled around your back after you’d nodded, leading you to Boromir and Faramir’s shared childhood room to curl across Boromir’s side as he read his book and your father helped you out of your shoes before covering you up with the thick comforter before heading to bed himself. Snuggling closer to your brother’s side his smile grew as he asked over the sound of snoring coming from the men in sleeping bags across the air mattress on the floor between the beds, “You needed a break from the boyfriend?”

“He’s got court first thing. It was too far to get him back in time to sleep before work.”

He chuckled as Faramir said, “Dad might have let him sleep here.”

Boromir laughed again, “Probably on the couch in his room.”

Faramir giggled, “More like under his bed, or locked in his closet.”

You giggled softly as Boromir chuckled underneath you, “Just wanted a family night after that wave of Durins.”

Eowyn raised her head from Faramir’s chest sleepily asking, “It didn’t go well?”

“It did, just, there were so many of them.”

Boromir kissed your forehead gently, “Get some sleep, Sis.”

His smile grew as you snuggled closer to his side and drifted off to sleep swiftly as he curled around you.

.

An alarm drew a groan from Boromir and he reached over your back to shut it off. In his ease out of the bed he left a gentle peck on your cheek stepping over the waking pile of Aragorn, Elladan and Ellohrir between their beds, all pulling out of their sleeping bags finding their way to their feet as Aragorn mumbled, “It’s getting harder to get out of these things as I get older.”

Brushing your hair from your face you rolled over curling around Boromir’s pillow stretching out on your stomach with a sigh that turned into a grumble as Bilbo, Legolas and Thranduil entered and sat down around you as Bilbo said, “Ready to go back to work?”

Opening one of your eyes you forced yourself up feeling your phone slide from your pocket, turning to collect it Legolas had already grabbed it and held it out for you with an equally as exhausted look on his face as you said, “Thanks.” Gently clicking the power button to see the empty battery image flashing that drew a sigh from you. Climbing off the bed you grabbed your shoes and following the trail down to the kitchen. You accepted a large hug from your father as he passed you your plate full of pancakes while Theoden slid a spatula full of scrambled cheese eggs to your plate.

Claiming your normal corner of the table at your father’s side, you shared a chair with Bell in the full room of exhausted adults that brought a smirk to your face as the dishes were stacked and added to the dishwasher after Theodred rinsed them while you all crowded around all the sinks in the house to brush your teeth. Followed by a collective gargle and spit through the cramped house before the men scrambled upstairs to pull on their fresh suits and you forced your hair back into a bun and followed the rest of the bakers outside after another hug for Bell, your father and brothers.

.

Sitting in your car you dug for your phone charger waiting for your turn to pull out of the driveway only to abandon the search when you came up empty handed and followed the trail of cars to the bakery to start your day pulling together the first set of pastries. A tap came on your shoulder from Legolas who was holding his phone charger gaining a large smile from you as he pulled out your phone and plugged it in on the corner of the long counter. Before he washed his hands and returned to your side to help you drizzle the chocolate over the tray of pastries you had just finished filling.

Hours passed and finally at your lunch break your phone was fully charged and turned itself on, a ding came from your phone bringing your attention back to it. Across the screen read the missed calls and texts from Thorin stemming from a simple request if you wanted to join the pair of Durins for breakfast to a slew of apologies for something he had assumed he had done to upset you after he’d found your apartment untouched since you’d gotten back. Groaning you rubbed your forehead realizing you hadn’t told him about the family movie night.

Though when you looked up you turned as the bell sounded as the door opened bringing Thorin into view with a large bag of food and a timid smile, crossing the floor meeting you at the end of the counter and saying, “I brought lunch.”

Your smile grew and you cut him off as he opened his mouth again, “My nephews invited me over for a movie at my father’s. I fell asleep after and my phone died, I just got your messages, sorry.”

He let out a relieved chuckle running his hand through his hair, “That’s a relief, I couldn’t think of what I could have possibly said to upset you. After my family, I know they can be a bit much.”

You giggled softly, “How long do you have for lunch?”

He checked his watch, “Not including the drive time, half an hour.”

Turning you grabbed a slice of berry pie and a fork as he grabbed the bag following you to the table to share the food he’d brought for you along with the pie you slid closer to him, “We need an unbiased opinion on this.”

He smirked grabbing the fork and let out an approving hum as Dewey and Legolas watched form the other side of the counter eagerly, “Not bad. Needs, I want to say chocolate, like a drizzle maybe.”

Dewey turned to Legolas who groaned as his brother playfully caught him on the arm softly with a small cloth, “Ha, told you.” His voice shifted to a slightly softer mocking tone, “Just add some mint oil.”

Legolas turned to face him, “I like mint oil, it tasted amazing.”

Dewey leaned forward resting his hand on the counter on his left, “Ya, sure, until you got to the second piece and you got nauseous and had to run to the toilet.”

Legolas huffed and turned, returning to his next set of tasks, “It’s fine if you only have the one. We could mark it as a diet food, you break the diet you spend three hours hurling.”

You couldn’t help but giggle covering your face before dropping your hands and smiling at Thorin who chuckled softly from across you as he smiled at you brightly before turning his attention to his plate again. When his phone buzzed he stood accepting the kiss you pulled down for then turned to head back to work after promising to have dinner together that night.

A promise he’d unfortunately have to break as his new case exploded and he had to stay to dig through the endless slew of files forced on him. Returning back to your place finding you curled up on your couch asleep as a movie played with the smell of dinner filling the room. Sighing softly he left his things by the door after locking it. Walked to your side where he gently kissed your forehead waking you making his smile return at your sleepy smile as you said, “You look hungry.”

He chuckled softly, “I haven’t eaten since lunch.” You stood and pulled him to the table, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Turned you grabbed his tie and pulled him in for kiss, “Sit, we’re going to eat then off to bed.”

His smile grew as he helped you finish the meal and filled you in on his day and mentally took down your tips and suggestions you had offered at his request before you both cleaned up and he stripped as you shut off the movie and climbed into bed. Feeling him curl around you mumbling soft Khuzdul endearments then instantly fell asleep gripping you tighter as he did.

Day after day reality sank in as you schedules were back in full swing leading to several missed encounters through the day paired with more than a few times the two of you ended up waking up alone. All due to leaving early or Thorin having fallen asleep upstairs when he’d gone to change before coming back downstairs.

All leading to a near breaking point for the three of you in the bubbling emotions mix at the lack of order. At least until you had to sit the fuming and exhausted Thorin down with a schedule you had made. The growing tension dissipated as you had worked out the three days a week you would share your apartment leaving the four longest and worst days for Thorin’s schedule to have him sleep in his own bed. Giving him plenty of time to sleep through your late shifts in the records room at your brothers’ firm.

.

The first week following it was far easier but still stung at the drastic change from day in and day out at each other’s sides. Through the second week however it sank in in Thorin’s mind as a chance to properly court you, bringing on the start of a string of weekly dates and requests to stay the night leading to heated and amorous nights spent in bed reminiscent of the first night you had shared together.

And sure enough his promise to keep you blushing and leaving you feeling impossibly cherished in each and every moment you could spare together was being impossibly well kept. Each glance and smile from Thorin stirred an unknown feeling deep within you as they grew more and more loving. Between the darkening and heated lustful gazes for your shared amorous tangles he made sure to take the time to ensure there wasn’t an inch of you he hadn’t kissed or touched before curling you tightly in his arms.

Making sure to not leave out a single thing he’d wished to share with you that day for the long lonely nights he would spend alone straining to hear you finally returning home after work. Not to say he didn’t slip and sneak his way back downstairs just to sleep near you. But he knew for the most part there had to be a balance, and as you both drew each other deeper into your families he held back. Ensuring you both had times and places to call your own so he wouldn’t smother the still budding relationship.

A few months it worked until he’d gotten a sudden text from you during his shift asking if you could discuss something. A message that sent him through a tailwind of panic until he had finally made it to your door to give it a gentle knock.

 *

Your brows pressed together as you walked over to your door at the out of place knock and answered it, curiously smiling at the backs of the two young Durins that barged in once again. Headed straight for their usual tour of the place as you closed the door containing your giggle as you waited in the kitchen to finish the dinner you were preparing after switching your clothes to the dryer. Entering the kitchen they both crossed their arms as Kili asked, “So, nothing seems amiss, what exactly is so wrong you need to throw our uncle into a panic?”

You turned from the oven after checking on the chicken asking, “Which uncle and why is he panicking about my apartment?”

Fili raised his brow tilting his head down as he stared at you intently, “You texted uncle Thorin you wanted to ‘discuss something’.” Lowering his hands back to his sides.

You chortled making Kili step forward, “This isn’t funny! If you’re going to dump our uncle we deserve to know why!”

Your next giggle escaped you as you stepped closer putting your hands on the counter between you, “And just who said I was dumping him?”

Fili, “No one just sends a text like that without breaking up with someone!”

“For your information,” You pointed between the two of them. “And neither of you are allowed to repeat this,” dropping your hand back to the counter, “My lease is up the end of this month and I was going to ask Thorin if he wanted to sign the new one with me, and if he’d read the message correctly I invited Dwalin as well, we can’t leave him out of the discussion.”

Kili, “You can’t afford it on your own?”

“I can,” Your eyes dropped to the counter as you turned back to the gravy on the stove, “I just thought he might want to live with me.”

Before you could say another word your hands released the handle of the pan and the spoon inside as a tight pair of arms circled your back into a lifting hug before Kili covered your front in a tight group hug as they chuckled and Fili said, “About time Auntie!”

When they released Kili asked, “I thought you were already living together.”

“Not really. He stays over. But he doesn’t keep more than a change of clothes here.” Their brows pressed together until you moved the gravy from the hot burner turning it off and led them to the bedroom, “I need your opinion on something.” They walked into your room and through to your closet giving it a glance around at the half empty shelves and racks as you asked, “You’ve seen his closet, do you think this is enough room for his clothes?”

Kili, “Maybe for his sleeping clothes.” His chuckle ended as Fili swatted his arm catching your anxious gaze before he said, “Spotted the new dresser. That for Thorin too?”

You nodded, “I haven’t seen his closet and I don’t have a clue how he keeps his clothes. I already moved the rest of my clothes just for special occasions to the closet in the spare room, so we can share that too.”

Fili, “Hmm, let’s have a look.” Turning and leading the way to the second closet leaving the pair of them nodding.

Kili, “Should work with both dressers and closets. Maybe add some rolling racks in here too so his suits won’t fly out like shuffled cards in selecting one.”

They both smiled at you and opened their mouths to say something else, seeing the flash of insecurity in your eyes as another knock sounded on your door making you mumble, “Better not be the rest of his cousins, nieces and nephews.” Making the pair of them chuckle as they followed you to the door that you opened revealing their two uncles starting their mischievous plan.

The idea left the pair of them to exhale and shake their heads as they walked past their stunned uncles, grabbing Dwalin’s keys as Fili said, “We’ll be upstairs.” Leaving the stunned pair to force out quick smiles with timid glances at you nearly making you giggle at their fear as they walked inside at your hand motioning inside. The pair of them looked around and moved to the table as you said, “I made dinner, you both hungry?”

They nodded slowly taking their seats laying their jackets over the backs of the chairs as they heard footsteps and muffled whispers coming from their apartment above them while you set the food out in front of them with a smile as you claimed your seat.

Thorin glanced at you from his plate of food he was poking with his fork in the now deadly silent apartment and asked, “You, um, wanted to speak about something?”

You nodded, “Yes, we’ve been together for a few months now,” he set down his fork laying his arm on the table that promptly slid off breaking his attempt to appear calm before he planted both of his arms on the table before him with an interested gaze at you as he said, “Yes we have.”

Dwalin slowly chewed on his forkful of chicken glancing between you two unable to look away from the car wreck before him as you continued, “And it started, really fast, and we sort of just plunged right in,” Thorin nodded and gulped trying to keep his breathing steady, “And lately there’s been some, I wouldn’t say distance, between us.”

His heart sank as his doubts about possibly pushing you too far away by trying to take a step back seemed to be blowing up in his face as Dwalin added his next forkful of chicken into his mouth to quietly chew. “And my lease is coming up and obviously moving came into my mind when I got the notice.” His hand rose to cover his mouth through a shaky exhale at the thought you weren’t just dumping him you were moving away as Dwalin lowered his fork to fill it again, as a door opening and closing was heard from above them. “And I just bought a second dresser, and you have the key already, and I wanted to ask the two of you if it would be okay if you moved in with me, if you wanted to that is.”

Thorin drew in a shaky breath as Dwalin’s fork fell from his hand and he swallowed hard saying, “Say yes, Thorin.”

Staring at his cousin before nudging his shoulder as he sat frozen blinking at you until he swayed back into his former position clearing his throat as he lowered his hand from his mouth, nodding his head still locked in shock as he shakily said, “Yes.” Clearing his throat again and pausing as your door opened again and his nephews walked in with armfuls of his clothes, both on hangers and in the bags he had upstairs, headed straight for your closet making you giggle softly.

Their eyes trailed the boys before they looked back at you and Thorin cleared his throat again sliding out of his chair moving closer to you. Gently curling his arms around your back and lifting you in a tight hug making you giggle as his head was nuzzled under your chin while you curled your arms loosely around his head and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head. Giggling again as the boys walked out of your closet saying, “Come on uncle Dwalin, we’ve got a lot more trips for all his clothes.”

Dwalin chuckled, standing and walking around the table patting you on the back gently before he joined the impatient boys at the door for the next trip leaving you two alone. Thorin’s arms tightened and you heard a soft sniffle from him making you curl around his head and rub his upper back firmly as you said, “I wasn’t aware about the ‘we need to talk’ text rule, and I didn’t meant to upset you or make you think that I was ending things.” Your fingers gripped his hair firmly pulling his head back so he would look at you.

Dropping your hand from his hair you wiped away the tear that had slid down his cheek as you kissed the tip of his nose making him chuckle softly. Your curled fingers brushed down along his cheek as the rushed steps above you pounded heavily, “I love you, and even if you’re already asleep when I get home I’d still prefer climbing in beside you rather than an empty bed, and the other nights where you’re the late one then I can know you’ll have something warm to eat waiting for you.”

“There is nothing I would love more than to come home to you every night. I love you.”

You giggled again leaning in and kissing him and breaking apart as you heard Dwalin call out, “Why are there so many?! You get up here, I’m not lugging all your suits down myself.” Stomping his foot twice making you both chuckle softly before he kissed you again and set you down.

Sliding his fingers between yours and hurried with you to the elevator where he stole another kiss before being joined with the three of them with armfuls of suits. Making you giggle as you swapped places and he led you into his room to help you load up your arms as you squeaked out, “Do you even wear all of these?!” making him chuckle before he filled his and leading you back down crossing paths with the three again as he replied, “Yes I do.”

Continuing this for nearly an hour until everything of his but the furniture had been moved to your apartment, filling your closet the new dresser and two of your spare closets. Surprisingly with the volume came an incredible system Thorin used to sort his suits, jackets and day to day clothes to mix in nicely with your wardrobe giving you plenty of room in your shared closet still for your clothes in the dryer. All while the boys secured their plans with Dwalin to move in with him after Thorin had officially signed the papers, giving them time to clear out of their dorms at school.

The three of them joined you in your dining room to help you set out the meal you had reheated as Thorin walked in a circle in the closet clutching a thick leather jacket in his hands. Pausing as he knelt down to the shoe rack at the base of the closet and tilted it back with a smirk realizing it was hollow inside.

Glancing at the door his hand reached in the inner pocket of the leather jacket drawing out a small box and opening it as his smirk grew eyeing the engagement ring he’d designed for you. Quietly he closed it and slid it under the shoe rack and lowered it before raising it making sure it was still there and unharmed. Inhaling deeply he stood and tossed the leather jacket onto the shelf above the tallest rack in your closet and joined the four of you with a growing smile as he sat down at your side. Sliding his hand over your knee as you shot him a dazzling smile through a soft chuckle before turning back to your food.

  Pt 11

[bughead-is-riverdale]

Riverdale Imagine: The Game Part 2 (Reggie x Reader)

A/N: Had quite a few requests for Part 2. Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to leave you guys hanging!!

Summary: After the reader discovers that Reggie only asked her out to win a bet, she is heartbroken and angry, promising herself that she would never talk to him again. However, she wasn’t expecting Reggie to try and explain himself the following day at school.

Approx. 1250 words

Part One Here

“Can I kill him now?”

I raised my eyes lazily as Archie stormed into my bedroom, a mixture of anger and concern showing on his face. He had always viewed me as his little sister rather than his twin, perhaps it had something to do with how much taller than me he was, and therefore in his eyes I needed protecting from everything. I smiled weakly, patting the space on the bed next to me to encourage him to join, and shook my head slowly. After he had climbed into bed beside me and put a reassuring arm around my shoulder, just as he had always done when I was upset, I leant into him and sighed.

“To be honest Arch, I think Ronnie has beaten you to it.” I joked.

“I sure do love that girl!” he laughed. Archie and Veronica had been together for a few months now and – although it was weird initially since she is my best friend – I now idolised them as a total power couple, Veronica held all the power of course. “You liked him though, right?” he asked sympathetically.

“Yes” I whispered. “I never thought I would, but I liked him very much. But, now he has shown me his true colours and it turns out that the person I liked never existed. The boy that I liked wasn’t real; he was just a player in a game, trying to win a bet with his friends.” I said bitterly. Archie nodded and rubbed my shoulder comfortingly.

“Well, I have something that might cheer you up...” he began. Just then there was a knock on the door and Veronica peeped into the room, holding a box of cupcakes.

By the following morning, after I had spent all night spilling my heart out to Veronica and eating my favourite red-velvet cupcakes that my best friend always ordered from New York when I was upset, I had decided that I was done with Reggie Mantle, he wasn’t worth my tears after all. I was sitting in the student lounge during lunchtime, reading a new book while my friends – Veronica, Archie, Betty, Jughead, and Kevin – chatted contentedly around me, when someone approached our table. I wasn’t even going to look and see who it was, nobody ever came looking for me, when I heard two chairs hastily scrape back as two people rose quickly to their feet. I raised my head to see what was going on and to my absolute horror; Veronica and Archie were standing in front of Reggie who was clearly trying to get my attention.

“She doesn’t want to talk to you Mantle. When is that message going to sink into your stupid head?” Veronica spat maliciously.

“Why don’t you let Y/N decide that for herself, Veronica?” Reggie shot back in irritation as he tried to step past her.

“I know, let’s bet on it. You’re good at that” she said pointedly, raising her eyebrows at him questioningly.

“That’s not what happened” he hissed at her, “I’m trying to explain myself to her.”

“She doesn’t want to hear it Reggie, back off” Archie warned as he took a step forwards and put a hand on Reggie shoulder, urging him to leave. Reggie cursed loudly and kicked a soda can that was lying on the floor before he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. I bit my lip as I watched him leave, he was clearly upset and that pained me, but I reminded myself of what he had done and returned my attention back to my novel, avoiding the sympathetic glances of my friends.

For the rest of the day I had tried to forget the incident in the student lounge, but I couldn’t. The expression of hurt on Reggie’s face in the split-second that we made eye-contact before he left the room haunted me like a recurring dream as I left class and headed home at the end of the day. I wondered why he had been so upset. If going out with me had just been a game all along then surely he had won, why was he still trying to talk to me? I sighed, cursing my own weak-mindedness as I remembered that I had promised myself that morning that I was done with him. At that moment my phone made its familiar text-sound.

RM: Meet me at Pop’s now? I needed to talk to you. Please?

I clenched my jaw in annoyance as my heart fluttered unintentionally at the sight of his name on my screen. Why couldn’t I just hate him? It would make my life so much easier. I sighed again and I typed out my reply.

Fine. But you’re buying.

Ten minutes later, I was sitting opposite Reggie in my usual booth at Pop’s. I watched, scowling and with my arms crossed, as he tentatively pushed a chocolate milkshake towards me like I was a wild animal that might attack him at any moment.

“You have until I finish this milkshake to give me an explanation as to why you screwed me over” I announced bluntly. He nodded.

“The first time I asked you out, after the football game last month, it was for a bet. Chuck and I made a deal that whoever scored the most points during the game got to ask you out on a date, and I won” he began.

“How delightful for me” I muttered. “I’m glad I refused.”

“That’s just it Y/N! I never expected you to actually turn me down, that doesn’t really happen to me” he said, somewhat excitedly.

“This isn’t really helping you case Reggie” I said, rolling my eyes which made him chuckle.

“You have never made me work harder for a date in my life! That’s why I began to like you, because I had to know you better in order for you to actually accept my offer. By the time you finally agreed to go out with me I was so excited, I never thought you would actually say yes, and I had completely forgotten about the bet with Chuck until he announced it in the student lounge the following morning” he pleaded, looking up at me with his dark eyes, making my heart melt. I bit my lip and looked down at my now-empty milkshake glass.

“You really hurt my feelings, Reg” I whispered, refusing to return his gaze.

“I know, and I’m so sorry Y/N. Please can you give me another chance?” he begged. I smiled slowly and nodded, watching his eyes light up. He jumped around to my side of the booth and slid in beside me, pulling me swiftly into his lap and hugging me tightly as he softly kissed my shoulder where my skin was exposed.

“I have one condition Mantle” I warned, causing him to pull away from me slightly as he nodded.

“Of course Y/N, anything!”

“I want another milkshake” I announced with mock seriousness, making Reggie chuckle. He leant towards me and kissed me sweetly on the mouth, he tasted of the vanilla milkshake that he had been drinking and I smiled into the kiss. Just at that moment the bell on the door chimed as two people walked into the diner, it was Veronica and Archie. Reggie shrank down into the safety of our booth and pulled me down with him in an attempt to hide.

“Oh god” he muttered, “Can I buy you that milkshake tomorrow instead?”

TAGLIST: @kelly27crickett @cjhorseback @rory-is-in-ravenclaw @littlefearsdoodles @happyyjensen @otaku-fangirlse

[diddlesanddoodles]

COOKING

100 GT theme challenge!

This story takes place in the same universe as Bitter Lemons Make. 

Astrid watched from her comfy spot near the windows as Bastian went about his morning routine. The tall dark haired Feirgian ambled out from the upstairs bedroom as he did most mornings, almost tripped on the small rug at the bottom of the steps as he did most mornings, went on to curse at the small rug at the bottom of the steps as he did most mornings, and then blearily stumbled into the kitchen to set the kettle on to make tea. As he did most mornings.

“Mornin’, squeaks,” he yawned, mouth stretching wide to show off the pointed fangs indicative of the Feirgian giants.

Watching as he dug inside the fridge for his usual breakfast fare of pickled fish and Rhrpatche, a weird lumpy kind of pancake made with onions and fried in lard, Astrid picked at the crust left over from her own breakfast and munched on it. Cyrus, as the only one of the Feirgian pair that held a job that required an actual commute, awoke very early in the mornings and had taken up the mantle of feeding Astrid before leaving for the day. It was discovered in her first week with the pair that Bastian, as well meaning as he was, could not be held accountable for the feeding of the small creature that he had brought into their home at any time before noon. His particular occupation required long late nights sitting in front of a large console in his office filtering through codes and endless looping numbers that Astrid could not comprehend even when Bastian had attempted an explanation.

“They call us code divers,” he had told her when the more technically accurate explanations failed to take root. “I fix broken codes for big companies who never bothered to convert to the newer systems in the 80’s. So to fix little problems in their systems, they pay people like me a lot of money to go through their computers and fix whatever is wrong.”

As such, he was not a morning person and quite unintelligible until his first cup of tea.

“Cy...uh...food?” Bastian was saying, blinking inanely at her from across the room as he waited for the tea to steep. “Fed?”

“Uh-huh.” she replied, having deigned his meaning from the disjointed words that made up Sleepy Bastian Speak for ‘Did Cyrus feed you?’. It was another fifteen minutes before Bastian was alive enough to start speaking in coherent sentences, by which time Astrid had gone back to her puzzle box. She had almost solved it three times already, but there was always one piece that didn’t match and she would have to redo the whole thing. She liked the puzzle boxes her two new Feirgian guardians gave her because if she solved them, there was a chocolate inside. But whenever she solved one, they’d give her a more complicated one.  

“Auuuuuugh, Cyrus!” Bastian abruptly cried out from the kitchen. Astrid peaked over to see Bastian holding a plastic pouch. An empty plastic pouch that Astrid recognized as the one that Rhrpatche came prepackaged in. “He could have at least thrown the empty package away!”

Disgruntled at the prospect of a Rhrpatche-less breakfast, Bastian tossed the empty puch in the bin and slammed the top back down with a little more force than was really necessary. “Hito Rhrpatche vares. Perkul!”

Astrid perked up at Bastian’s use of Feirgish as he rarely spoke it when she was around. Even Cyrus has gotten into the act of speaking English exclusively in the apartment so as not to leave Astrid out of the loop. Unless they were saying things they did not want her to hear. Like on the rare times they fought or when someone was cursing. And seeing as Cyrus was not around...

“You said a bad word!” Astrid called out while pointing at the offender with an accusatory finger. All twenty something feet of Bastian froze and he turned to gap at the little human.  

“No I didn’t,” he replied.

Astrid grinned. “Yes you did. I don’t know what it means, but I know you said it.”

Moving around the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room, Bastian made his towards the small sofa in front of which Astrid was sitting. He squatted down and leveled a mildly annoyed frown at her before the thin veil he had been hiding his guilt behind melted. He sighed. “If I give you a cookie will you pretend you didn’t hear anything?”

“A cookie and you solve the puzzle box for me,” Astrid countered. “Then we got a deal.”

There was a flash of surprise on Bastian’s face before he laughed and quirked an eyebrow at her. “When did you become such an extortionist?”

She just grinned and held up the puzzle box.

“Alright, alright, little miss loan shark,” Bastian replied and plucked up the little puzzle and, much to Astrid’s consternation, solved it with only four simple turns. Even with giant fingers. The top popped open and he held the small object out to her. She took it and retrieved the brightly colored foil wrapped chocolate bon bon. Instead of stuffing it into her face, she got up from her spot and walked over to where he bed was set up and placed the bright confection near her pillow.

“I’m gonna save it,” she said in answer to Bastian’s mildly inquisitive expression and then gestured expectantly with her hands. “Cookie?”

He laughed and reached out to scoop her up. “Alright, alright. Cookie it is.”

As Astrid munched away on her cookie, a hard square biscuit with a lemon sugar glaze, Bastian went about the kitchen and began to pull out various utensils, pots, and ingrediants.

“What’cha doing?” Astid asked around a mouthful of crumbs, kicking her feet idly off the top edge of the counter just above the sink and facing Bastian.

“Well, since Cyrus is a dirty pancake thief,” Bastian replied, pulling out a large container of white flour from the cupboard. “I’ll just have to make my own Rhrpatche.”

Astrid tilted her head and made a face.

“What?” Bastian asked, body drawn up in offense. “I can cook.”

“Not according to Cyrus,” she replied. “Isn’t that why all the food you buy is already made?”

“Convenience is not the same as lack of ability,” he said, pulling out a bowl and scooping flour into it without measuring. “I’m lazy, not stupid. There is in fact a difference, kiddo.”

“Don’t you usually measure flour?” Astrid asked.

“You only measure if you’re baking,” Bastian replied, grabbing the glass bottle of milk from the fridge and pouring half of it into the bowl with the flour. He waved his hand in the air as though to disperse any incredulity that might be hanging in the air. “This is cooking. Totally different.”

“Oh. Okay,” Astrid relented and went back to munching on her cookie. “If you say so.”

“Say so, I do.”

She watched him struggle with the onions next. She had watched Cyrus cook several times and he made it look so easy that the true level of difficulty was only highlighted by Bastian’s near complete lack of skill. She winced several times, fearing the dark haired giant would end up slicing his fingers open as he attempted to dice the yellow onion. After a good ten minutes and with some tears in his eyes, Bastian added the onions to the flour and milk.

He held a small jar in front of his face, examining the small printed words on the side. “Mum always added baking soda to her Rhrpatche.”

He tipped the little jar over the mixture and liberally sprinkled the baking soda into it. And then a little more for good measure. “I guess it’s what makes ‘em fluffy.”

Next came the frying part. A wide shallow pan was heating on the stove to which Bastian added several large spoonfuls of pale translucent lard. As the kitchen began to fill with the smell of bacon, Astrid stepped down from the top counter to the main one, standing amongst the carnage of onion skins to get a better look at what Bastian was doing.

Bastian spooned a great heap of the batter and held it above the hot lard, but paused. He looked down at Astrid standing close by and his eyes flickered to the pan. A spark of concern furrowed his brows and wordlessly, he put the spoon back into the bowl and used a single hand to usher Astrid back a good bit.

“Trying to fry Rhrpatche here,” he said with a smirk. “Not little humans. Best keep away from the really freaking hot oil, Squeaks. Can’t think of a way to explain to Cy why I had to rush you to the vets with horrible burns. Y’know. Without sounding like an ass.”

His eye widened at his slip of the tongue and he glanced down to see if Astrid had caught on his use of the curse word. And her triumphant grin informed him that yes. Yes, she had. With a sigh, he fished out another cookie and handed it to her.

“You’re gonna get so fat,” he muttered, giving the batter a good stir before lifting up a heaping of it.

“Then stop saying bad words!” Astrid retorted with a mouth full of cookie. Bastian just smiled and turned back to plop the gooey mixture into the bubbling lard. It splashed and hissed viciously, sending out fleck of burning oil as the heavy goop landed. Bastian leaped back from the flying lard, wiping at his arms where little spot of the hot stuff hand landed.

He was very proud of the fact that he was able to keep from letting out a string of curses that immediately sprang to his lips. And keep one more cookie out of Astrid’s hands. For now.

“Hooooboy,” he said, flashing a grin at Astrid. “Good thing I kept you back huh?”

But Astrid was not looking at Bastian. She was watching the pan. The batter had swollen into a near perfect sphere and was lazily trailing about the hot pan in a circle, it’s spherical shape causing it to turn all on its own. Bastian watched for a moment, transfixed by the sight.

“That does not look like a pancake,” Astrid supplied inanely. “It’s like...the opposite of a pancake.”

After the odd ball of dough had turned an acceptable shade of golden brown, Bastian sat it aside to cool before he cut it in half. The inside was hollow and the outside hard and crispy. He and Astrid exchanged dubious glances.

“Oh well,” Bastian replied with an unconcerned shrug, holding up one half of the ball. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

He tossed it into his mouth and Astrid watched with reserved concern. As he chewed, his eyebrows raised up in a thoughtful expression. “Not bad. Weird, but not bad.”

He offered he the other half and she shook her head.

“What? It’s not poisoned. Try it.”

“Full,” she replied lowly, holding her middle. “Tummy hurts.”

Bastian threw his head back and laughed. “Well no wonder, you silly thing! You ate half your own weight in cookies!”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

[jazzraft]

HC for Nyx/Noct: Canon ending, noctis has to die.... but it doesn't mean he has to stay dead. Prompt where nobody thought to use phoenix feather except Nyx cause hey, why the hell not? It's not like he's gonna lose anything more than he already has and surprisingly it works.

oh yeah, i’m desperate enough to make this work. be prepared for the cheesy af happy ending we deserved, damnit! ;A;

“It’s been far too long since we’ve talked like this.”

Regis’s smile went wistful and sad. A mountain of regrets climbedhigh above his shoulders. Luna reached over to give his hand a squeeze, herexpression open with forgiveness.

Noctis could barely remember a time where the both of them lookedso… light.

Thirty years must have been sloughed off of his father. He lookedas young as Noctis remembered his eyes always being. A child’s gaze in an oldman’s face. A youthful longing restrained by the reserve of royal duty. Here,he looked like what Noctis had always wanted him to be and, he suspected, whatRegis himself had always wanted to be, as well. His smile came so much easierthan it used to. It spread broad and white from cheek to cheek and madeNoctis’s heart feel a little less heavy.

And Luna was incandescent in the dawn light. The profound sadnessshe’d hid behind her stoic stare for all the years she’d borne the mantle ofOracle was erased. She radiated joy, was practically floating above thesylleblossoms. Her gaze was wide and clear, as boundless as a cloudless sky.She was so far beyond the limits which had once bound her, and so much morethan an icon of the people now that her duty to them was done.

“I’ve missed you.”

They smiled at him, the light of freedom between them both sobeautiful and bright it could have made him cry. But there were no tears indeath, he was starting to understand. If the dead took their tears with them,it would rain every day on Eos, and there would be none left for the living toshed.

Maybe it was that thought which helped him hear the voice in thedistance. At first, he hardly heard a thing, just mistook it for a whistle ofthe wind through the flower petals. Like a thought that was forgotten, but juston the verge of becoming remembered, it nudged at the back of his mind. Itslowly grew into a faint, confusing whisper.

“It’s not going towork…”

He turned to look across the fields, searching the ivory horizonfor a face to match the voice, but it was as bare as unwritten paper. For amoment, he imagined that it could have been a remnant of his own voice. Thethread of mortal doubt that strung itself around him as he’d approached thethrone of Lucis.

“Get out of my way!”

No, it wasn’t his own voice… although he knew this one as if itwere. The sound of it, so far away and desperate to be closer, tugged insidehim, made him tilt a little towards it.

“Noctis?”

“You don’t hear them?”

He looked back at Regis and Luna, curiosity plain on their faces.They shared a brief glance before looking back at Noctis. Regis’s smile sobered,a mixture of relief and remorse swirling in his eyes.

“They’ve accomplished what I could not, it would seem,” he said,peering out at the field as if he could find them, too.

A new light, red-gold and familiar, began to illuminate aboveNoctis’s skin. He couldn’t quite place where he recognized it from, but it madethe distant voices draw even closer, until it felt like they were yelling rightnext to his ears.

“He’s gone, man! Wedon’t want it to be true either, but…”

“Fuck that! I’m notaccepting that! They can’t have you, do you hear me?”

The flowers began to shiver, bending against a strong gust of windthat suddenly sailed across the field. Strange silhouettes appeared in thedistance. Like outlines of objects sketched on an artist’s canvas, slowly fillingin beneath a brush he couldn’t see. When he turned back to the others, he foundthe opposite effect afflicted them. Color was beginning to drain from the twoof them, turning them into transparent lines the more the rest of the world wasfilled in. Yet, neither of them seemed concerned by it, both of them continuingto smile at him.

“I’m grateful that I could finally say goodbye the way you deservedto hear it, my son,” Regis said. “And as much as I miss you, I’m grateful thatthere is still so much more life left for you to live.”

“Can’t you have it, too?” Noctis asked as the golden light grewstronger.

“It’s far too late for us, I’m afraid,” Luna said, her hand movingas if she wanted to reach out and touch him before she held it back. “I don’tenvy you this second chance. I’m only proud that you’re so loved as to begranted it. Please, live the life you deserve. And please… pass on my eternalgratitude to Nyx. For all that he did for us. And for being there to love youwhen I couldn’t.”

His heart pinched in his chest, wishing that he could bring herwith him so that she could tell Nyx herself. Why did it have to be too late forthem if it wasn’t for him? They smiled at him again, hearing what he didn’tsay, and the contentment in their faces soothed the pain in his chest.

“I love you,” Noctis said, before he lost his chance to say it everagain. “And thank you.”

The light engulfed him then, erasing the phantom lines in a burstof white and gold and red. He couldn’t feel time passing as he lay suspended inthe light. He couldn’t tell if an eternity passed or just a single momentbefore the rest of the world’s colors were filled in, and the voices began totake form.

Faces winking into existence all around him. Voices ringing againstthe walls of a room both like home and not. Friends that had never beenstrangers, even in all the time that had passed where they could have been lostto him. And a lover, wrought with passion and spite, half-mad with the threatof loss posed before him.

His eyes shone like glass, sharp enough to kill, but ready to breakat the slightest fault. Red around the edges, but dry of any tears to shed.Grief made him angry before it ever made him sad. It made him spit unfaircurses at the friends that were already struggling with tears of their own. Ittook a tired reprimand from his king to pull him back into line.

“You think after ten years you might have learned to play well withothers.”

All four of them stiffened before snapping their eyes to him, thecolors and hues like well-worn paths Noctis had walked along all his life. The lastcrimson sparks of a tuft of phoenix down simmered from Nyx’s hand to sink deepinside of Noctis, warming through his very soul and binding it back to hisbody. Nyx bit down on a sound that Noctis had never heard him make. Somethingcaught between a sob and a cheer that summoned the shimmer of tears he didn’tthink he had left to the corners of his eyes.

“You stupid, selfless son of a bitch,” Nyx cursed before heavingNoctis into his arms.

The motion made Prompto, Ignis, and Gladio all jump forward too,piling onto the throne around Noctis and fighting to pull them all into eachother’s arms. It was messy and painful, wet with tears and loud with laughter.

“You’re insane, Nyx!” Prompto said from where his face was buriedinto Noctis’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry I called you an asshole, idiot,” Gladio apologized in ashuddering voice from somewhere above Noctis’s head.

Ignis didn’t say anything, curled around Noctis’s waist and tryingto contain a slight tremble that racked through him, unable to maintain any composurebeyond it.

Noctis managed to wiggle his face free enough to find Nyx’s,smiling at the glimmer of tears that he was stubbornly trying to keep off hischeeks. “My hero,” he said, reaching around the bodies clutched around him totouch the tears at the corner of his eye.

That was enough to make them fall, dropping onto Noctis’s fingerslike morning dew. Nyx shook his head and hid his face in Noctis’s hair. “And you’remine.”

And that’s when Noctis noticed the light streaming throughout thethrone room. When he turned his face to it, the sun nearly blinded him. In thewhite softness of it, he thought he could see the smiles of Luna and his father,spreading that light he’d seen in them in death for all the rest of the livingto share.