#Sorry this was neither elegant nor eloquent

[noodyl-blasstal]

I adore your writing! you are so creative. what are some of your inspirations?

Thank you so much for this - what a lovely message to receive! I'm really glad to hear that you enjoy it.

Inspirations is a good question, obviously I have now forgotten all of them. I think a big part of it is lots of fantastic writers like @ceilingfan5 (go check out their cruise fic, it's unhinged and wonderful in the best way), @iwilltranscend, @barry-j-blupjeans, and lots of other fantstic people. It's fun to see them running wild and enjoying themselves.

@blupjeansweek was the thing that actually inspired me to have a crack at writing again too. It's nice to have a bit of structure.

Aside from that, I won't lie to you, it's usually just a stupid idea which I grab and chew and chew and chew until it's a story. I wish I had something more poetic, but yeah, just thinking of something like sword mermaids and getting to run with it.

[twistedtummies2]

The Price May Be Right - Number 16

Welcome to “The Price May Be Right!” I’m counting down My Top 31 Favorite Vincent Price Performances & Appearances! The countdown will cover movies, TV productions, and many more forms of media. We’ve officially reached the halfway point for this countdown! Today we focus on Number 16: Nicholas Van Ryn, from Dragonwyck.

Honestly, it’s very fitting this performance lands smack-dab in the middle of this countdown. In many ways, this film could almost be perceived as a crossroads in Vincent Price’s career. I say “almost” because…well…chronologically speaking, it really wasn’t. But the SPIRIT of the film, to put in the most pretentious terms imaginable, feels like a crossroads between Vincent’s earliest endeavors on the screen, and the kind of work he’d be most known for by the time his career hit its greatest stride. “Dragonwyck” came out in 1946. At this time in Vincent’s career, the actor was only starting to make his name well-known as a portrayer of dignified and complex villains, and while he’d done a couple of spook shows, it would be some time before he became well known for his work in Gothic horror movies. In the 30s and 40s, Price was best known as a character actor in period pieces, and that is essentially the reason he was picked for the role of the main antagonist in the film. The plot of “Dragonwyck” focuses on a young lady, Miranda Wells: a country-grown, God-fearing girl wo has many optimistic ideals and far-flung dreams for her future. Her dreams seem to find a possibility for reality when she meets a wealthy New England landowner by the name of Nicholas Van Ryn. Nicholas is an elegant, eloquent gentleman, and Miranda is soon smitten; he, too, ends up falling in love with her…even though he’s already married. Hiring Miranda as a servant at his estate, Nicholas brings her to his family manor house, known as Dragonwyck. From that point on, various strange and unfortunate events befall the pair, as their relationship goes from a dream to a total nightmare. While not by any means a horror film, this movie has many elements that certainly feel reminiscent of the kinds of movies Vincent would be most well known for later on. The story involves murder, ancient curses, supposed ghostly occurrences, and all takes place in an old mansion on a lonely hilltop. The way the film is lit and shot often evokes feelings of unease, as well; it may not BE a Gothic chiller, but it often FEELS like one. I guess the best way to describe it is that it’s neither a horror thriller, nor a period drama, but something in-between: a “period thriller,” if you will. The character Vincent plays is similarly fashioned: Nicholas is both the love interest and the main antagonist, and as such, he’s a character we are always finding ourselves second-guessing. He flip-flops constantly from being someone we care about and even feel sorry for, to someone we utterly despise and fear. He and Miranda’s twin arcs mirror each other, as both have any aspirations and ideals they long to hold onto, and both are forced to realize that, as the song goes, “there are dreams that cannot be, and storms we cannot weather.” What separates the pair is ultimately how they react to these things. Price plays the character absolutely beautifully, making his pain just as palpable as his perversions, and thus creates one of the most sympathetic yet still shadowy villains he ever portrayed in his entire career. Tomorrow, the countdown continues, as we move into the Top 15!

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Makeup [S.B]

Sirius Black x plus size!reader

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: a toxic relationship history and a bit of insecurity because of it.

A/N: I did a questionnaire a few days ago to see what kind of reader you would like me to do. This is the first one I do base on that questionnaire and I want to say the following:

The only reason the reader is specified as "plus size!reader" is that if there is someone who fits this description, feel comfortable.

You will never see something like "her FAT body" NO, NEVER

Much less that the One shot revolves around their weight (neither nationality, nor gender identity, nor sexuality nor all the things that they put in that questionnaire). I only write about NORMAL people in normal situations. All bodies are beautiful, we are all beautiful.

So, if you are a plus size person, welcome. If you are not, you can also read it without feeling left out in any way.

I really hope that you feel comfortable with everything I write and that you know that I seek to be as inclusive as possible. Without more to say, thanks for taking the time to read my stuff. Tell me your opinion, if you want!💕

You looked in the mirror one last time.

Sirius, the boy of your dreams, had asked you out on a date and you wanted everything to be absolutely perfect.

You had met him because you both lived on the same floor of the condo block and it was inevitable to bump into him from time to time. It wasn't the best place to live, it was small and a little dirty, but it was the only thing you could afford and the fastest you could find after that happened.

You liked the way Sirius smelled because when he crossed the corridors, you could perceive a mixture of leather (you supposed it was due to all the clothes he used of this material) and an elegant cologne that drove you crazy.

At first, it scared you a little to see him with that piercing in his eyebrow and his multiple tattoos, but later you realized that he was really nobody to be afraid of, on the contrary, he turned out to be a very tender and sweet boy.

The first time you spoke to him it was because you were struggling to open your door while carrying boxes and bags that you had brought from the supermarket. The boy noticed you were having trouble and walked up to you to offer his help, so (still a bit wary) you said yes.

Once he held your purchases, you could open the lock, but when you turned around, you noticed that Sirius was secretly looking at the contents of your bags and when he realized that you had caught him, he blushed.

"Sorry I'm a little gossipy," he said shyly "I'm Sirius"

"I thought you were a gossip"

"No, my name is Sirius" he laughed and it was your turn to blush.

"Oh, sorry"

"Okay, anyone can get confused" he murmured with his charming smile, handing you what he was holding in his hands "I live in the 512" he informed you. Of course, you knew he lived in that apartment; you had seen him come into its thousands of times "In case you need anything. You know, some plumbing or things that have to do with tools and that shit of men" he murmured kindly. You frowned a little and then he quickly added "I mean, it's not that girls can't do that and it's okay if you know how to do those things, you seem like a smart and capable person. It's just that sometimes it's tedious and requires strength... and it's not that you don't have strength, I mean...” Sirius couldn't continue because he heard you giggle and then realized he was looking like an idiot “Just call me if you need anything and if you want to do it, yes?” he explained to you and you nodded with a smile.

"Thanks for offering your help Sirius" you replied, looking at him over your bags.

"You’re welcome, miss..."

"Y/N" you completed. He smiled and wrapped a dark curl around his finger that fell unruly from his ponytail.

"I'll see you later then, Y/N. It was nice to greet you" he said by way of farewell and you nodded to respond.

You haven't felt like this with any guy since you met your dear (sarcasm) ex-boyfriend. The insecurities that he had created in you kept you from thinking about having something else later and you honestly didn't feel ready to have your heart broken again.

But Sirius continued to be kind to you. Whenever he looked at you, he made an effort to have a topic of conversation, even if you were not so eloquent, and little by little, he was gaining your trust and your affection. As the weeks went by, you became good friends who chatted in the elevator or occasionally (when you weren't late for work) went downstairs just to share a little more time.

Until one day Sirius showed up at your door with his clothes stained with something that looked like paint, his hair tied up in a messy way and smelling of burned food. He was so beautiful in his own way and you were so afraid of falling in love with him because you knew beforehand that having something else would be impossible.

After all, no boy would ever love you. It was something that your ex-boyfriend had commissioned to get very well into your head.

"Go out?" you asked a little confused after he asked you. You didn't want to misunderstand things.

"Yes! We could go wherever you want. For ice cream, to dinner, to a park, to the cinema... I don't know, wherever you can think of”

"Why?" was the first thing that occurred to you to ask. Now it was Sirius' turn to look confused.

"Well, I thought it would be an opportunity to meet and... spend more time together" he explained and although you had understood the idea it seemed impossible to think that the boy had any kind of interest in you "But it's fine if you don't want to, I don't pretend be upset"

"I'd love to," you rushed to say, fearful that the opportunity would slip through your grasp. You saw him smile and after exchanging a few more words he left with a smile that you couldn't see, but that was pure joy.

Finally, the day of "go out" arrived and you were about to tell him that you could not go. You were nervous, more than nervous you were anxious about what could happen or what he could say about you.

You had searched your entire wardrobe for something decent to wear and after pulling and removing and taking out the clothes and trying them on, none of them convinced you. You looked in the mirror and didn't feel like it was enough of an outfit to date a man as handsome as him. In the first place, you did not even know why he had chosen to go out with you, because, although you considered yourself a nice person, you could not boast of being the most interesting.

Don't think about it, don't think about it, you kept repeating yourself as you continued to get ready and looked at the wall clock waiting for the time for Sirius to knock on your apartment.

Once you were with your outfit ready, you looked yourself up and down and although he did not completely convince you, you decided to tell yourself that you looked beautiful. Still a little nervous you looked at the makeup bag that was under some things on your dressing table. You hadn't put on makeup for years, because you were still scared to hear the comments in your head with that horrible voice.

You look like a whore.

You shook your head to ward off all the negativity and taking a breath you plucked up the courage to open the zippers and remove the beautiful makeup that you had abandoned. When you were finishing and without giving a chance to regret there was a knock on the door that took you by surprise. You went out and found Sirius wearing a striped t-shirt and ripped jeans that reminded you of that blond singer... Kurt was his name?

"Wow" you heard him say and he caught you staring at him adoringly. But you noticed that he looked at you the same "You are beautiful" he said with a smile. You frowned, again a little afraid that he was lying, but you tried again to push away those ideas of self-sabotage and smiled widely.

"I'm glad you like it. You look very handsome, you look like...”

"A rock star? I know” he said winking at you and managing to make you laugh “It's a joke, thanks for the compliment, sweetie” he replied, with his pretty smile of sealed lips. Just when you were smiling at him you watched him pay special attention to your makeup and put on a face that completely terrified you, taking all your confidence.

"Something wrong?"

"Your makeup" he pronounced. You felt your heart squeeze a little.

"You do not like? I can go take it off if you find it ugly or something like that…”

"Ugly?" he asked offended "No! It’s beautiful, but I feel like it lacks a touch. You know, the cherry on the cake that stands out in your eyes” he explained. You looked at him confused for the third time and he snapped his fingers as if the answer had suddenly come to his head "Eyeliner"

"Eyeliner?"

"Of course! Don't you like to use it? " he said kindly, turning his head to the side. You denied.

"I never learned how to do it" you lied. There was a bit of truth to it, but it also had a lot to do with the fact that he kept repeating that you looked vulgar with the eyeliner.

“I'm good at it! Come with me,” he murmured. He took your hand carefully and dragged you gently through the hall until they reached his apartment. You were a nervous wreck when he invited you to join him. "Sorry about the mess, I'm really the most distracted person on the planet and I forget to arrange things," he said with an embarrassed smile. You looked at some vinyl lying around, clothes, food packages, paintings, a guitar. There was a certain peace and beauty within all that mess, completely reflecting the boy who was desperately searching for his favorite eyeliner.

"Come," he asked once he left his room. You sat in a red leather chair he had and he leaned in your direction, very close to your face "Raise your head and look slightly down" he asked you and you listened. He took you by the chin with one hand and you saw him stick his tongue out just a little bit (as a sign of his concentration) while drawing on your eyelids. When he indicated that he had finished you saw him smile from ear to ear, which you imitated when he saw yourself in a mirror.

"Wow..." you whispered. Years ago, you loved putting on makeup and especially eyeliner, so seeing you again like that you were surprised. Besides, he was right, his hand was excellent at it.

"Now it's perfect, right?" he said excitedly. Perfect, that's how Sirius described what was in front of his eyes.

"Yeah... it looks much better" you admitted shyly. You couldn't believe that Sirius could make you feel so comfortable and calm, as well as help you maintain your confidence in yourself.

"I just hope I don't meet jealous guys for not having someone so pretty accompanying them," he said flirtatiously, making you laugh because of your nerves and making you blush "Shall we go?" he asked smiling and extending a hand to help you up.

You looked at him, still amazed to have found someone like that in your life, and took his hand with a smile.

Who would say that sometimes love stories begin like this?

TAG LIST: @aleksanderblack @voidamy @blackst0nes7077 @bruxa0007 @fictionalcharactersworld @falcvns @iwritesiriusly @navs-bhat @aleksanderwh0r3 @myalupinblack @bohologyc @ itzzzcookie @sexysirius

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[dottiechan]

Tempest (Pt. 3)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 

 Read on AO3

Pairing: Ava Du Mortain x f!Detective

Wordcount: 2031

Warnings: murder, mentions of prostitution & drugs

Summary: Ava and the Detective must pull an all-nighter working on a case on Christmas Eve, 1896.

A/N: Happy Holidays! What better way to celebrate or relax this December than with some soft Ava? Huge thanks to @sparkedupsilver​​ for being an absolute delight and giving me brilliant ideas about locations! <3

Image credit: Pixoloid Studios, Alienist: The Angest of Darkness concept art

London, Christmas Eve, 1896

A woman appears on the street, retreating into the shadows as she heads into the heart of the district, avoiding the light of the gas lamps illuminating the road in yellow circles. She is barely wearing anything to fend off the chilling wind and the snow - a torn shift several sizes too big for her underneath a corset, the sleeves spilling down her upper arms to reveal a set of bony shoulders. Even through the darkness, Ava can see the way she shakes, the dried blood sitting on her upper lip she haphazardly tried to wipe off with the back of her hand. She can almost smell her craving.

She’d put her money on cocaine if she had to guess what’s left the young prostitute in such an abominable state. That is, if she gambled, of course. Or cared much about the poisonous substances humans consumed for medicinal use or - as in this young woman’s case - their temporary bliss. The most accurate label for her as a whole would be a misanthrope, as Nate has so eloquently stated it on many occasions before, but she finds herself shifting and morphing into something else – she can feel it. She cares what she puts in her body. She cares what she does to herself. What is the term for a woman who would give herself up in a heartbeat solely to ensure the safety of another?

Her eyes shift from the window as she dares a glance inside the office. She snaps her head back in an instant when she realises what she’s doing. Don’t be a fool.

It’s her personal mantra these days.

Instead, she focuses on the woman outside, watches her as she leaves High Street and hurries down Whitechapel Road. She takes a sudden turn left, and disappears down an unlit alley. There are conventional ways to celebrate a white Christmas, and many of the Whitechapel residents seem to re-think what that festivity means for them. Not that Ava can particularly blame them - the circumstances in the worst slums of London are hardly its residents’ fault, and more so that of the authorities’. This area is relatively safe, but that is only because the recurring police patrols end with High Street – a necessary but superficial effort to quell the legacy of terror Jack the Ripper had left behind. (As if mere policemen could keep anyone safe from a werewolf like the Ripper was, Ava scoffs inwardly.) Beyond High Street is chaos and misery, and unfortunately cesspools like that offer the rot of rogue supernaturals a place to fester and spread quickly. Despite Ava’s best efforts, the detective has refused countless times to even consider selling the small flat she uses as her office to relocate to Chelsea or Marylebone or even Westminster.

And the thought of another rogue element potentially rising so close to the private detective’s office upsets Ava more than she cares to admit.

While other agents pursue the rogue supernatural, Ava is still assigned to her protection, loaned as a partner to her small detective agency she’s inherited from her father - at least that is what the detective thinks this setup means. Normally, Ava would be deeply offended by such a role. A mere bodyguard, compelled to deal with the crimes of mortals, a true retrogression in her career. But she finds herself caring, and that alone is more alarming than the Agency’s decision to keep her in her current position. This little act she puts on, the game she plays that plants the fallacy of their partnership in the private detective’s mind, it rings truer than it should, means more than what is allowed. It has been like this for months now, and with each passing day, the lie grows a little heavier. She wonders when it will finally crush them both.

She listens to the detective bustle in the tiny kitchen of the office, and the moment - heavy with the honeyed comfort of quiet domesticity - is enough to make her heart ache. She would never in a million years admit it, but leaving this place, this job, this woman... It would be the hardest thing she’d ever have to do.

So when she joins Ava by the window and offers her a cup of steaming, strong coffee - she doesn’t even like it, and she doesn’t understand why the detective would drink it to keep her awake, let alone consume it on the regular - she accepts wordlessly. The night casts long shadows across the office, hiding them both in a world where no one else exists other than the two of them. Ava never had neither the heart nor the mind for poetry the way Nate does, but in this moment, as their shoulders absent-mindedly touch, her skin burning up with the heat of her body even through her shirt and the detective’s soft leg o’ muttons sleeve, she could attest to her fatal attraction in a fashion that would shame even the great poets of old.

But that is all it really is. Fatal in every sense of the word.

Ava contemplates speaking to her about what is on her mind, but the words get stuck in her throat, and she forces them back down with a sip of strong coffee.

“There’s work to be done.” Too  callous, she scolds herself inwardly, even if it is true. There are many old articles about relating murders they have to revisit, along with what they know of previous victims through the morsels of information Commissioner Bradford has loaned the detective out of respect for her late father with whom they served together in the military. The woman on her right mistakes her tone for annoyance, and Ava finds herself steeling her insides when her concerned gaze finds her deceptively pallid face.

“I’m sorry I’ve dragged you into this. It’s Christmas Eve, I understand if you wanted to be anywhere else than here.”

I don’t. I really don’t. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. “I have nowhere else to be.”

“No family?” the private detective asks, eyebrows raised in a way Ava knows she has her undivided attention. She never wants this moment to end, never wants her to look at anyone else like this other than her.

“Not anymore.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Silence settles on them for a while, and they watch the snowfall in a quiet trance. They have work to do, and yet they stand side by side, unable to move, unwilling to break this moment of silent admission that yes, yes, this can work, this can be home, you can be home...

Ava is shocked when the detective’s fingers - scorching hot from the cup of coffee she’s been cradling - graze her knuckles lightly, so lightly that she’d wonder if it was even on purpose if she couldn’t feel her eyes on her once more.

“I don’t have anyone left anymore either. I know what it is like. Which is why I’m thankful that you’re here now,” she begins softly, her bare honesty so alluring Ava finds herself turning to her. She knows she shouldn’t. She knows she will force herself to punish her for this open admission with coldness and retreat, but for a second, she wants to pretend that this is allowed, that this is as right as it feels in her no longer trustworthy bones.

“You’re thankful you’re chasing a murderer on Christmas Eve?”

“I could do without that,” the detective snorts, deciding to take Ava’s blunt question as a joke. Her face grows serious too quickly, and before Ava can react, her hand is in her gentle grasp as the woman closes whatever little distance is left between them. “But not without you. Not now.”

Ava opens her mouth to say something, anything other than the truth, ready to take a full step back when the detective raises her eyes, poorly masking the pain that finds itself on her beautiful features. The agent feels cold dread seize her spine, like icy rain slipping down and over each vertebra - for a split second, she thinks the detective can feel her inner turmoil. That she always pulls away and retreats because she is terrified of her desire to do the very opposite.

“Ava, just... Please don’t say anything. I know what you want to say now. I know. But I don’t want to hear it,” she whispers, paralysing the vampire with mere words. “I know we don’t think the same way about voicing what we feel for each other. It is plain. I understand. But for a second I want to pretend that us holding hands and sharing a tender moment is just as innocuous as anything else.”

“But it isn’t,” Ava quickly speaks, the lie coming out almost seamlessly as she pulls her hand back slowly, clutching her now cool cup of coffee with both hands to prevent any further contact between them. “It is harmful. Can’t you see that?”

“I can.”

“And yet you don’t much care for it.”

“Do I look like a woman who cares much for societal conventions?” the detective asks as she finally steps away from Ava, gesturing around the room. The agent can’t help but silently agree - a woman who’s also a private detective, well, in a way she should have seen this argument coming.

“That doesn’t mean you don’t have to abide the rules,” Ava breathes, her usual strength still annoyingly eluding her as she takes a seat in one of the armchairs, the files and newspaper clippings once more within reach as she sets her cup down on the side table.

“You do not have to go to such lengths to prove what I already know,” the detective sighs in defeat, retreating behind her great mahogany desk, the only piece of furnishing aside from the once elegant, but now rather decrepit chaise longue that is worth something in this office. There’s a painful distance now between them, one that hurts them both, especially when put in stark contrast with their earlier close proximity.

“And what it is you think you know?” Ava means for her tone to get under the detective’s skin, to dislodge this idea stuck in her head that there’s something going on between them - instead it comes out too slow, too pleading, too deep and raw. A dead giveaway that perks up the woman like a hunting dog picking up on a scent. But she soon deflates - what she thinks a momentary victory is gone the second Ava looks away and focuses on the neat stack of folders she insisted on organising herself.

“That you’re afraid,” she replies anyways, opening a folder on top of her own stack and peering at Ava over it in a way that makes the vampire swallow her quip in an instant. There is truth in her words, and while she cannot, will not confirm it, she silently wants to speak to her. She silently wants to tell her the twisted things she makes her feel after 800 years of blessed solitude.

“But one day, you won’t be, Ava. And when that day comes, don’t be too surprised to find me waiting for you still.”

I am immortal. By the time I could rid myself of all my fears and stand in front of you as the uninhibited and unapologetic woman you deserve, you’d be long gone.

Immortal doesn’t mean infinitely wise, that is something Ava learns in another 365 days. Afraid doesn’t mean not being uninhibited. Cautious doesn’t mean not being unapologetic. The detective blurs the black and white of her world, and with this action the confining borders are gone too.

Four months and she won’t pull her hand away.

A year and she’ll let the detective tilt her face down to meet her lips with a kiss.

Two years and she will be long gone, four and the detective will be dead.

But now, she doesn’t know all that. Now, she buries the confusing conundrum of her love for the detective deep inside her and sets out to work in blissful ignorance.

[wyrd-weaver]

𝔏𝔧ó𝔰á𝔩𝔣𝔞𝔯

Word Count: 982

～～～～～～～～～～

Loki had anticipated nothing of this calibre - neither his survival, nor his descent into a foreign realm. Fortune never truly favoured him, did it? Perhaps this was penance for his envy...his misdeeds. Perhaps it was deserved.

Resigned to this sorry fate, he sighed, eyes protesting against the harsh sunlight. There was no sensation of pain pirouetting throughout his body, no broken bones, and crucially...no blood. He allowed his gaze to wander, yet not a single injury could arrest it. Was this by the blessing of magic, or the curse of death? It must have been the former, considering his heritage and nigh-vengeful treatment of Thor were unlikely to bid him welcome into Valhalla's halls.

But then...magic? Was it Seiðr?

"Have you awoken?" A voice...silky, seraphic, lured him from such trivial questions.

Loki craned his neck, desperate for a mere glimpse of his visitor (and presumed saviour). "Barely. Might I ask...where exactly is this place?"

"This is a clearing amid the Sóldanzleikr forest." The confusion knitting his brows caused you to add, "Alfheim. You fell from the sky. Not on to that spot, however - in order to tend to your wounds, I needed to reposition you. Forgive me."

Loki shook slightly, though his adversary was not discomfort. "No...you were perfectly within your right. I'm in your debt. How...um, how might I address you?"

"(Y/n). Although, there are some to whom I am called Inn Draumspaki." You captured his hand in yours, the intimate gesture making him flush.

The moment you graced his line of vision, he swooned...just like a maiden. He couldn't pretend to be uninterested, or underwhelmed by your majesty.

He swallowed, praying all the while that your pointed ears weren't as attuned as he suspected. "...The Dream Reader?"

You were aglow with beauty to rival the sun, and grace beyond his wildest fancy. The Ljósálfar were claimed by both ink and mouth to be the fairest creatures in all the nine realms. But as his body lay strewn before you, he could boldly declare that an understatement. The elegance with which you carried yourself, and the tranquillity you seemed to exude...they spurred his heart to erratic action. And when a smile, weaved of benignity and infinite wisdom, settled upon your lips...he nearly fainted. He wondered if you were able to read his every thought, or hear with clarity the song of his heart.

For, a fierce and hopeless love had befallen him. He hadn't believed it possible to embody perfection to such an extent. His silver tongue turned to lead, refusing to grant him even a shred of eloquence. How in Odin's name was he supposed to talk to you, to discover the personality beyond the body...the person beyond the name? The Ljósálfar weren't wanderers; Loki had never so much as lain eyes on one before this day. And in some regard, a gladness lit up his veins. After all, his poor heart might have exploded sooner, given that you could elicit awe...even yearning from him.

"Well...you certainly live up to your reputation." This was the greatest concession of his lips.

Your smile remained, never faltering, yet never growing. "Are we perhaps lost acquaintances, Prince of Asgard?"

"I...I don't believe we are." He breathed, trying to rein in these new feelings. "...How do you know my title?"

"If you think us ignorant, Laufeyson, then you are quite mistaken. The Ljósálfar are an intelligent and curious race. We shy from neither fact nor rumour, and the would-be coronation of your brother aroused much excitement here." You mused, softly tracing the lines of his palm.

Loki scoffed, despite himself. "And what of you? If Thor had taken the throne, would you have been begging for his hand?"

"I do not require a second Queendom, nor to be consort to an arrogant and prideful man." You responded, stroking his skin in an adoring fashion.

Loki managed a laugh. "No-one in Asgard would dare to call him that."

"I am of Alfheim. While our appearances may be similar, our minds are not." Your tone was laced with patience, like no matter his disposition, you would wait...you would listen.

And you hadn't yet enquired about his arrival. "Are you truly the ruler of this realm?"

"Do I look under-qualified, Laufeyson?" That name still carried unpleasant connotations. When he winced, you asked, "Would 'Odinson' be preferable?"

"Loki. Just...Loki." Were you empathic, or simply observant?

Either way, he found himself subscribing to the Doctrine of Elven Supremacy. How did you not revel in divinity? How were you not already courted? Not that the latter presented a particular issue - in fact, so much the better for Loki. Elven royalty was knelt before him. What a delightful image. Could he tempt you into his embrace, until the end of time? Could he ensnare your heart with whispered words and tender kisses, or would he resort to force? That wasn't an option he cared to consider, but Loki couldn't fathom rejection. Not from you.

He briefly wondered if, as a baseborn, you would be half as ravishing. But it was foolish, for status rarely determined beauty.

"Loki. You must have fallen from a great height." The smile that danced upon your lips grew coy.

"The Bifrost." Although, it was obvious you needed not his input. "I had fully intended to..."

You nodded, understanding his hesitance. "You are safe here. I swear it."

"With you?" The question seemed so pertinent - he had wished for your shelter, your protection and love.

Only the final one lingered, threatening never to reach fruition unless he pleaded desperately with your heart.

"Yes. You may roam the palace, the grounds and this land evermore, if you choose. Or...I could spirit you home." It was an invitation, a game of sorts.

Loki recognised this, grinning in acceptance. "Asgard is not my home, but I wouldn't oppose to spending eternity with you in my arms."

[cle1024]

beyond the silver horizon | lfl

member: lee felix 

genre: angst 

summary: everything you told me, the words you whispered into that stinging winter atmosphere, was spoken far too late.  mafia!au 

warnings: violence, death 

a/n: an anon requested mafia angst with felix, i hope this lives up to expectations <3 i got inspiration for this story after listening to seventeen from the heathers and watching a quiet place, i didn’t think a horror movie could make me that sad but i’m also a notorious crier! also i’m very sorry i disappear for such long periods of time i’m in my final year of school and suck at time management anyway love you 

The sky pooled with the blue of faded jeans and snowcloud grey, the abysmal winter taking the common popularity far from the sandy miles and crashing tides. It was at its peak in winter, despite being a beach. It flawlessly transformed from a bustling getaway to a tranquil sanctuary, one you had come to share with another. Felix’s silver hair often matched that of the beyond skyline, the sun’s muted rays being overpowered by cool-toned clouds. Words often went unexchanged in such moments, as the two of you preferred to bask in all the peace and serenity. In those moments, you would feel free—no longer looking over your shoulder with caution, watching your friends walk out of doors they may never walk through again. Instead, it was just waves. Crashing water flowing back and forth, back and forth. They never went away. Felix had never spoken many words while you found yourselves sat on the cold sand together, though the few he aired always stuck in your mind. They were words you’d unknowingly yearned to hear, words that allowed you to escape to a fantasy each night as your eyes closed until the morning. 

“Someday, we’ll go far beyond that silver horizon,” he had promised you, “we’ll leave it all behind for a new beginning.” 

“You really think so?” 

He smiled at you reassuringly as he nodded gently, “I know we will.” 

The day Felix met you wasn’t unusual, nor was it anything special at the time. He couldn’t remember how he found himself caught up in the world of drug lords and shady business, but he remembered exactly when he laid eyes on you — four in the afternoon he witnessed Minho leading you to Chan’s office, neither of you with pleasant facial expressions. Minho looked bored, you looked irritated, he didn’t want to know how Chan looked. As much as he expected to watch you disappear into the confines of his boss’ office and never reappear, at five o’clock he observed you leaving the office with Chan, the man smiling with satisfaction, victorious. Felix could remember watching you navigate your way around the base for a few days before Changbin grew tired of the male’s intense observation, said he looked like he was “trying to turn the damn kid into ice!” 

From what he understood, though never confirmed, you were down on your luck, broke, and made the mistake of robbing Minho—successfully, much to the dismay of the male’s ego. It didn’t take the bright haired male long to track you down and drag you back to base, not with the expectation of grievous punishment, but with the intention of acquiring you a job. Minho was frequently forgiving, unlike most, and considered you lucky to have chosen him instead of someone else—someone much more ruthless, bloodthirsty. Chan wasn’t hesitant in persuading you to join, Minho was one of the most perceptive people he’d ever met; he was observant, strong-minded, soft-spoken and thought in ways he had never once considered. And he was usually right, but Chan didn’t want to inflate his ego too much. 

Three months into the job, as unconventional as it was, you spoke your first words to Felix. They were words he’d heard in countless variations prior, yet something about your voice resonated deep within him, almost as if a ray of moonlight had struck his soul and encased it. 

“Chan said we have business together, can I trust you?” 

“Always.” 

Felix didn’t question you back, despite tradition. Somehow, he knew you’d give the same answer. It was laced in the gentle smile you futilely suppressed. 

Trickling down the glass windows, beads of perspiration and rain water scattered across the window pane. Your eyes watched the droplets slide from their original position on the glass to the bottom, replaced by another splash of crystal liquid. Felix glanced at you momentarily; it was bizarre how things had changed so swiftly. Three months since the first time you spoke — the same amount of time it took the two of you to verbally communicate for the first time — yet it felt as if you were engaged in a three year long friendship. The two of you had found freedom, paradise, in the sandy shores of an unpatrolled beach, no matter how abysmal in appearance. The two of you were yet to experience a beach in nice weather, together at least, instead sticking to the depressing atmosphere of chilled winter days, the scenery a colour scheme suitable to Felix’s ash blonde, white, or silver strands of hair. It was coincidental to begin with, then it became an innocent rendezvous requested in moments of loneliness and exhaustion. The freckled male wished he could take credit for the organisation of such ‘bonding’, so to speak, but it was your proposal, spoken as poetically as ever — “perhaps we should make this our own utopia, hey? Watch the oscillation of murky water plunge into abysmal depths.” Felix wasn’t sure how to respond the first time around, the eloquence of your words stunning him momentarily. All his brain could think was: “yeah, whatever that means.” He had simply nodded instead. Though, truthfully, he didn’t really care what it meant. If it granted him time with you, he would be willing to make it a tradition. 

That beach became your utopia, a hideaway from the consequences of the lifestyle the two of you found yourselves entangled in. Whether you sat under the shelter of Felix’s clunky black buick or amongst the scattered sand grains, the soothing sound of crashing waves washing the shoreline put the two of you at ease. It was escapism at its finest. Even when the topic of your line of work—if it could even be considered a form of employment—was brought up, it felt as if it were a hypothetical scenario. “If you were a part of the mafia, would you want to escape?” rather than “do you think we could ever escape being in the mafia?” You always answered no while Felix maintained hope, but you both seldomly pondered how you could escape a lifestyle that was so omnipresent. 

The pair of you found yourselves sat within the same clean car three weeks later, travelling down a long stretch of smoothly paved highway with obscured chatter being emitted from the silver radio. It wasn’t for a blissful escape this time. Rather, a job—or mission, you still didn’t know how to appropriately refer to the actions you were sent out to perform. Felix knew more of the situation than you knew, mainly because you zoned out halfway through Changbin’s explanation of the whole situation. Then again, you didn’t really care to know the extensive reasoning Changbin had for why certain things had to be done, as long as you got the job done and weren’t fucking murdered for not doing so, you didn’t really care. You’d spent the majority of the four hour car ride staring out the window, watching cars wizz past at illegal speeds, even for a highway, and trees blur into green masses of indistinct leaves and skinny branches. It only became evident that you had reached some form of civilisation when the pine trees evolved into small convenience stores and quaint homes, then towering skyscrapers and elegant apartments. The buzz of the radio, a sound you’d become accustomed to over the hours, was intercepted by Felix’s deep voice, “we’ll have to leave for the museum at six tomorrow evening. I’ll explain the situation on the way, I know you weren’t listening,” he teased cheekily. 

You smiled mildly with a roll of your eyes, “you’re the boss—oh, wait.” 

Felix scoffed and smacked your shoulder lightly, “get out of my car before I throw you out and leave.” 

“Shut it, Lix’. You love me.” 

A shit-eating grin was spread across your face as you took your gym bag from the boot, turning on your foot to enter the luxurious hotel. Felix smiled fondly at you—shit. Perhaps he did. 

The hotel room was what Changbin would describe as ‘comfortable’, but that chandelier-swinging prick was born into a lengthy ancestry of money—and criminal activity, though you supposed that was irrelevant. It wasn’t really, but it was a four-hour presentation you didn’t want to mentally sit through. Instead, you took in the opulent hotel room with awe and appreciation. White marble tiles spread along the floor, a light gold chandelier adorned with rhinestones dangled over the large dining table. The room was overboard in every possible way, though Chan had brushed it off as “getting into character”. You supposed that it would be more covert to retreat into a hotel equally lavish to the gala the two of you planned to intrude on. That part had almost slipped your mind—the whole criminal part of it. He’d subconsciously experienced the trip as a getaway. It wasn’t a work expense, it was a sumptuous getaway to escape that lifestyle, ignoring the stress of money, drugs, and being tailed by the police. It was freedom—except it wasn’t. It was nothing more than business; everything was just business. Felix, on the other hand, was painfully aware of the situation, in a way that you didn’t know or understand—not yet, at least. The male didn’t hold contempt towards the situation for being ‘just business’, he held contempt for what it should have been. It wasn’t the kind of goodbye he’d wanted to give you, sitting in an over-the-top hotel room preparing for a mission before leaving, for good. He had it all planned out, people who would help him—even Chan knew about the whole plot, for goodness sake, he’d sworn to cover it up as an untimely death. Though, as it drew closer, Felix couldn’t help reject the original plan. It was a solid plan, but it didn’t include you. How could he ever leave without you? 

Felix, foolish as it was, didn’t sleep that night. Tossing and turning around in the silky blue sheets, feeling them twist around his bare torso, felt much more comforting than sleeping—despite the fact he would escape from the thoughts he felt tormented by. At one point he’d left the room entirely, standing on the balcony as the cold air pricked at his exposed skin. It was winter, how fitting. He’d watched you lay peacefully in the sheets for a few moments, the steady rising of your chest putting him at ease momentarily, until those thoughts came creeping in again. In all honesty, he hadn’t even planned on telling you—or anyone. He would just slip away into the night, run as if his life depended on it—it did, he supposed. With a sigh, the male slipped back into the warmth of the hotel room, sliding the glass door closed to forbid the frosty air from plaguing the room and ruining your peaceful slumber. Fuck, he really couldn’t leave you behind. The frosty bathroom tiled stung the soles of his feet as he splashed water on his face, patting the freckled skin dry with the lightest touch possible, as if he would break if too much force was used. Felix had never felt so close to the edge — the edge of what, he wasn’t certain yet, but something told him he’d understand soon enough. 

The sun was steadily disappearing behind the uneven horizon, and you were taking advantage of the last pungent rays of sunlight to prepare for the gala night—you supposed it was better to be early hours before you had to leave instead of minutes. Plus, Felix had encouraged you to do so and he had far more experience than you. He also had ulterior motives in the form of telling you heavy news and a proposal he prayed you wouldn’t reject. Truthfully, he hadn’t even considered how to approach the topic. Did he just spit it out: “I’m leaving”, or was that too harsh? Why did it even matter? It’s not like he would be around to watch the fall out—that didn’t make it any better, though. 

“What time do we leave?” Felix’s thoughts were intruded by your querying voice. His head turned in your direction and, fuck, you looked beautiful. 

“Uh- seven. Weren’t you listening to Chan?” The slight teasing edge of his voice prompted a playful smile to stretch across your face as you raised an eyebrow. 

“When have I ever listened to Chan?” A deep chuckle vibrated in Felix’s chest as he shook his head gently. Of course you hadn’t, you remained as independent as ever, “besides,” you sigh gently as you move to sit next to him on the unmade bed, “the stuff he says just reminds me of the shitty situation I’m in.” 

“What do you mean?” The freckled male raised an eyebrow in question. You laughed bitterly. 

“The fact I’m a dimestore criminal and always will be. The only time it will end is when I’m thrown in prison—and I’d still be bloody miserable,” your words hung heavy in the air as Felix chewed on his plush lower lip. Fuck it. 

“We could leave, together. You know. Start a new life, be happy.” 

A sigh passed your lips, a mix of exasperation and misery, “Felix, you know this isn’t the kind of life you can just run away from.” 

“It’s worth a shot, isn’t it? Don’t you want to be free?” 

“Living in fear isn’t living freely!” with slumped shoulders, a posture of defeat, the exasperation dissipated from your face, “you should know that by now.” 

Mustering up the necessary courage, Felix allowed his deep voice to break through the tense atmosphere, “well—I’m leaving.” 

You visibly froze, shoulders rigid and jaw tense as the news simmered in the air. The silence was thick, Felix could feel it melting through his skin and coating his bones, “I’m leaving tomorrow night,” it was the affirmation you didn’t want to hear. The news that, no, this wasn’t some sick joke, this was real fucking life and Felix was leaving you, “I know some people that can help me out, but—” he sighed with hesitance, “I’ll stay if I’m what you choose.” 

Felix failed to realise it at the time, but from this distance, painfully aware of the emptiness of the grey grains of sand, Felix knew that the sandy shores were never his idea of paradise. It was the person who sat beside him, enduring the cold weather in a comfortable silence. 

It was easier to put on a happy face than either of you had expected. Though, thinking about it, you weren’t sure why you had such little faith in your acting skills—you’d managed to hide your criminal occupation under a law-abiding facade, after all. Felix had briefly run through the plan, meaning he had told you to keep a low profile and follow his lead. You had assumed it was an ordinary job—steal their stash, take out anyone who got in your way, get the fuck out of there. Suffice it to say, you found yourself in awe at the beauty surrounding you. The museum was painted in tones of gold and white, with lush velvet lounges and curtains showcasing the large pristine glass windows. All exhibits were on display, allowing the museum to brag its gorgeous vintage paintings and unique bone collections — you were pretty sure you’d heard Minho brag the same thing, and you were absolutely certain you didn’t let him explain it any further than that. Feeling Felix’s hand brush gently against your arm, you turned your attention to the silver-haired male, suppressing the attraction blooming in your eyes. He looked marvelous. Hair swept back effortlessly with a crisp suit adorning his slim frame. To say he didn’t look intimidating would be a blatant lie, and to act as if you weren’t already immensely attracted to him would be pointless. With an internal reprimand, you raised an eyebrow at Felix, inviting him to proceed with his words. 

“Just mingle for a little bit. Go through that door,” he discretely gestured his head towards a set of large dark oak doors, “about ten minutes after I do. Wait in the hall, and if anyone asks, you needed a break from socialising.” 

Nodding with understanding, you watched as Felix sent a reassuring smile your way before sauntering across the large room, smiling and greeting other primly dressed men he probably didn’t know. An unpleasant thought plagued your mind, one you desperately wanted to push away from contemplation: as soon as this mission was over and you returned to the base you called home, you would have to watch as he walked away once again, a stride towards freedom. It was something he so desperately craved, you couldn’t bring yourself to take that away from him—no matter how much you wanted to. The sound of the ebony wooden grandfather clock was lost in the sound of absent-minded chatter and fake laughter, yet the hands still moved as each second, minute, passed by. Five minutes had passed. What was Felix doing? Six minutes had passed. Why did you have to wait so long? Seven minutes had passed. Was he in danger? Eight minutes had passed. Would you see him again? Nine minutes had passed. Why didn’t you agree to leave with him? Ten minutes had passed. You were tired of this life. The thought struck you as you clandestinely stride towards the large doors Felix had disappeared behind, pacing a few strides down the hall before leaning against the wall, waiting. 

How much time had passed? You weren’t certain, it felt as if time had stopped moving since you leaned against the wallpaper-covered surface. Footsteps alerted you to another’s presence, your head turning in the direction to scope out a potential threat — though your shoulders relaxed as the familiar chocolate eyes of Felix met your own. Fixing your posture, you waited until he was standing beside you, “we happy?” 

Felix smiled gently at your Pulp Fiction reference, “yeah, we’re happy. Now let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

Placing his hand on the small of your back, he prepared to escort you from the grand location, all the while you pondered why Felix needed a partner when he did everything alone. Though, your questions were answered. 

“Not so fast, pal,” you had often feared being murdered by Changbin for not completing a mission, yet for some reason you didn’t fear the potential of being shot in the head by a rival gang. 

“Ah, Mr. Hyunsuk, what a pleasure it is,” the freckled male’s response was short yet polite, a false smile stretched upon his face. How did he still look so angelic in the face of death? 

“Yongbok,” Felix’s smile faltered, “let’s not pretend. Just return whatever you’ve taken from us and everyone will leave here safely.” 

“With all due respect, I believe you’re wrong,” you spoke up — that was your job — “we’ll be keeping our new possessions and leave safely,” to jump in recklessly when things began going sideways. Then, guns were drawn. You can’t recall who drew first, who shot first, but you knew you and Felix had split up to take different vantage points. Peeking from behind the cabinet you crouched behind, you fired a shot towards the muscular bald man shooting in Felix’s direction, who narrowly avoided a bullet between his eyes. How many people had come? You weren’t sure, you weren’t counting. It was pure adrenaline, shooting almost blindly at those who threatened the success of your job. The sound of a gun jamming snapped you out of your daze, forcing you to watch as Felix struggled to identify the problem with his gun. Ah shit, you supposed it was time to do your job. Leaping from behind the bullet-riddled cabinet, you fired towards the moving human targets in rapid succession. One down, two down, a bullet fired into Hyunsuk’s knee, another into his hip. Another gun joined you, Felix’s pistol shooting at the men attempting to pull their boss from the fray. 

The pain shot through you before you could process what was happening. It was searing, a deep burning sensation that had you clutching the spot in agony, struggling to stay on your feet. Vaguely, as if rooms away, you heard Felix’s gunfire halt as a thud echoed from the other side of the hall, then you heard footsteps against the polished floor. Rapid, either rushing to help someone or rushing to take their last breath. A pair of arms snaked around your waist and supported your back as you swayed, disoriented. 

“Hey, what’s going on?” Felix’s gentle hold on you prevented further stumbling on your behalf. The words couldn’t form upon your lips, your eyes glancing around haphazardly, as if blinking more would help you process the situation you were in. His eyes trailed downwards, widening as he finally noticed the hand haphazardly clutching your abdomen. 

“No. No, no, no, no, no,” his speech was rapid, his gravelly voice coming out in a corybantic manner as he struggled to find the right action to take. There was a short period where he struggled, laying you down as he attempted to assess the bloody patch hiding beneath your stained hand. Weakened, you found yourself unable to fight off Felix’s movements as he peeled your hand away delicately, breath quickening at the extent of your wound. If he didn’t get you help in the next minute, he knew you wouldn’t make it, “ah, okay—shit. Just—keep your hand on there, pressure, yeah?” 

There was no effort to move on your behalf, thus Felix’s hand found its way pressing atop your bleeding injury. Though, your fingers wrapped around his wrist as you smiled gently towards him, “don’t.” 

Confusion laced his eyes, “don’t? Y/N, I’m not going to let you bleed out here. I’m not going to let you die!” 

You only nodded slightly, “you are. You have to.” 

His eyesight grew blurry, his stomach twisted in knots, the croaks of sobs were climbing up his throat as he mulled over your words. His voice quivered, “b-but, I can’t let you die. I need you.” 

There were no words to respond to his statement, just a weak and gentle hand caressing his cheek. He could hear footsteps approaching, but he couldn’t find it in him to look away from you—he didn’t care if it was a fatal mistake or not. A deep breath filled your lungs, a stray tear leaking from your eye and sliding down your temple as you mustered up the strength to breathe out the confession you’d been suppressing for years. 

It was gentle, angelic in the other’s ears, the words the both of you wished you’d said earlier, “you’re the one I choose.” 

Not every story has a happy ending, but at least they have an ending. Even if it tore the soul from someone and stomped on it, that sense of finality was necessary. Felix had seen a lot of pain in his life, far too much loss, yet the final chapter of a story involving him—your story—had never felt so… wrong. Out of place, missing. It wasn’t the ending he wanted for you, though who was he to change fate? There was nothing Felix could do to go back to that time, to redo anything and everything to fix the ending. All he could do was think of how much he loved and lost in a matter of moments. 

Sighing as he watched the waves carry your ashes past the skyline, Felix’s voice broke into the crisp air, “one day, I’ll meet you beyond that silver horizon,” he sniffled slightly as the autumn breeze caressed his face, “I know I will.” 

[mewtwo24]

HyLink Fic Preview: What Blooms in Darkness

Hey guys, so @redprincessofdawn came up with the best headcanon ever?? Basically the idea was that the goddess Hylia posed as a young woman under the alias ‘Zelda’ that attended to the first inarnation of Link when he was imprisoned, as depicted in the manga. Over time, they become sweet on each other because I’m a hopeless romantic. And since I’m utter trash for these two and loved her idea, I started writing a fic. I’m sorry this took so long? I always take forever, just thought I’d leave this here to give people a little preview and confirm that I am indeed working on it.

Not so subtly tags @notsosilentprincess , thank you for your support as well I hope you look forward to the full fic!

If anybody else wants to be tagged for the full fic, feel free to let me know!

Hazy azure eyes followed the slow trickle of water seeping along the worn grooves of mortar, a siren song weaving between mold and bricks stained a darker red. Long ago the sight might have made him bite his chapped lips, straining against the chains in desperation. Instead he attempted to swallow against the sandpaper of his tongue, averting his eyes as he forced his breathing to slow. With what little energy he could spare he strained to look up at the heavens, the raw ache of his wrists and ankles no longer drawing a pained hiss as his head fell back. Were there stars above, gracing the children of Hylia with their twinkling courage as they drowned in a similar darkness? Or would the sky be the color of his mother’s eyes? A blue so soft and bright it made him long for the summers before he became a knight, dozing beneath the sky beside their little abode in the woods.

Too soon his limbs collapsed, the harsh clang of his chains filling the enclosed chamber. A sigh clouded in the low draft that carried winter’s chill, eliciting a mindless shudder as goosebumps alighted across his exposed flesh. Whether a blessing or a curse, it dulled his wounds enough to help him think clearly. It was the reason why he could now sense the elegant footsteps descending the longest staircase in the fortress, sharp with haste and slowing every so often with fatigue. Funny thing—that slip of a girl—always in a hurry to see him. For what, he could never fathom. He was little more than she, a disgraced knight with nothing but shame staining his hands.

Finally the door opened with a slight creak, the newly replaced obstruction already suffering in the dampness as it closed behind her with an answering groan. The tray in her arms trembled as she began to shiver, small puffs following in her wake as she clattered her way to his motionless form. His head was still bowed; weak and unwilling to face the pleading concern in her gaze when he refused to partake. It was enough to suffer her insistent stare, boring into his skull coupled with a misery that made her voice hoarse with unshed tears. He never understood the depth of her despair at the sight of him; why she spoke as though she were the one bruised and bloody.

He didn’t want her pity. What had befallen him had been his own fault. Where he thought his people would see reason, they were blinded by envy.

“Sir Link,” She began, as she always did. “You should try to eat.”

Her answer came in the myriad, grating sounds of doors being wrenched open throughout the fortress.

She tried again, and he could feel the heat emanating from afar in the small space as she stepped closer. “You must regain your strength.”

He could hear the water lapping at the sides of the waterskin she held it inches from his face, but besides the twitching of his fingers, he didn’t move.

“Please,” The whisper urged, “At this rate you’ll die.” She grew louder with each word, voice hoarse and cracking midway under the weight of her own thoughts.

He stifled a dry cough of a laugh, exhausted and bitter.

After a long, obstinate moment the routine was sure to come; he would hear her sigh as she placed the tray by his feet, waiting for the telltale scrape of the one left behind long before leaving with her. And what little peace he had come to make with his fate would return as soon as the door closed behind her and her footsteps faded, mercifully anesthetized by the relative silence she left in her wake.

He flinched when frigid, trembling fingers brushed the nape of his neck instead, adjusting a scrap of white cloth to cover as much of his exposed flesh as possible. When she was satisfied after a few tugs, her tiny hands retreated and curled around each other before they disappeared from his line of sight, a relieved sigh her only explanation. Only then did she move to exit the room, the audible clatter of teeth chattering and shudders wracking her small frame amplified in the empty space.

“Why?” He managed to croak, her hand freezing inches away from the door.

“I wanted to,” She eventually replied, voice soft. “It’s freezing down here.”

He pursed his lips, frowning. He would have expressed further disapproval had there not been an undertone of steel in her answer, a fierce insistence on his behalf unlike anything he’d ever known. Though her motive remained unclear, one thing was certain—she was being honest. Whether by a whim or some notion of compassionate obligation, she had done this of her own volition.

Before he could ask her further she departed, his head rising on its own to catch naught but a glimpse of a white dress and long, flaxen hair bathed in the glow of the torchlight. She seemed to be a peasant girl—as most prison attendants were—of simple dress and station. So what reason could she possibly have to help him? Had somebody bribed her? No, the thought was immediately amended, she stood too tall and seemed too stalwart for that. Though the hands around his neck had been dainty and clean, despite the cold peeling away at her fingers. Anything she had suffered was notably recent, no scars lining the expanse of her pale skin. A noblewoman in disguise, perhaps? It would explain why he had never seen her once in the Hylian settlement.

The night was spent wracking his brain as to the identity of the strange girl determined to aide him—even at the risk of her own imprisonment for treason, his once detached mien eluding him as curiosity took hold. When sleep finally took him he dreamed of the fields of wildflowers he often visited as a young boy, chasing the lazy bumblebees weaving among the stems—reminiscent of the scent that would cling to his neck long after she disappeared.

“You waste your efforts on a disgraced knight,” He murmured wearily before she even crossed the room to him. It was her fifth attempt—this time toting a fresh pastry—to coax him into eating, the intoxicating aroma of freshly baked bread and sweet filling blooming from her form. The scent wafted to where he was chained, a low gust of air behind the door carrying it across the room. His fingers twitched.

“I don’t see any disgraced knights here.” She replied calmly back, unperturbed as always as she approached his form.

He scoffed, though his voice was hollow. There was no anger or indictment to punctuate it’s cadence; only frank apathy. “Then you are mistaken or misinformed. Surely you were witness to the trials,”

“All I witnessed was the public humiliation of a good man. No more, no less.” Her words flowed so easily as she set down the tray that he almost believed them. “And I’m certain I’m not the only one who thinks so. Lord Dagianis may be a cunning man, but he is neither noble nor courageous. He will fall before the flowers bloom with the call of spring, and the people will be in desperate need of a hero when the Demon King rises again.”

He blinked at her bewitching insistence, her strange eloquence. Was this woman truly a peasant girl? Or even a disguised noble, for that matter? Everything about her opposed the notion. She did not cower, her speech was not broken and uncertain. Her wit was sharp and complex, but also unabashed and willful. Her presence was so compelling, invigorating; her prediction more akin to a prophecy than an offhand observation. Every word tugged at his numbed senses, peeling back his reasons for becoming a knight in the first place—why he’d accepted the title hero with grudging yet hopeful determination. The face of the priestess who relayed the divine message of his hero status surfaced, the faces of all the children who followed him excitedly to the outpost on their way to school, chattering away with relentless curiosity. The faces of his mother and father—long since departed and with Hylia—and the unsatisfied flame within him burning to make them proud. The statue of the goddess herself imbued with the strangest aura as he stood before it, gentle words steering him forward on the path the gods had evidently paved for him. How had he lost sight of all of those things in his time here? Would he really be satisfied, cowering here in the dark, simply because his people doubted him? Was he meant for more, or was it his destiny to rot in this prison? Did he care if it was? He felt even more confused than before.

He let out a low laugh, raising his head for the first time to lance her in place with a cold look—pale eyes frosting over. “Even if I was the hero of prophecy, what makes you so certain I wasn’t the one who killed them? What if Lord Dagianis was right?”

She gazed at him, deadpan, before walking up to stuff the pastry in his mouth. When he made a muffled sound of scandalized protest, she merely shrugged. “Just in case you were going to spout anymore nonsense. Don’t be absurd, anybody that knows you knows you would never do such a thing.” She finished, pulling off what was left of the pastry as he chewed and swallowed.

“And what could you possibly know of me?” He shot back, irate.

She met his glare with a vehement one of her own, before she sighed. “Henry.”

His brows furrowed, unable to make out what she said. “What?”

“I was curious,” She rubbed her arm and looked away, worrying her lip. “So I asked around, and eventually people pointed me to Henry. He said you were both stationed at the same outpost for a long time.” His eyes widened before he sagged into the chains, deflating. He began to laugh, the sound stolen from him at the thought of his best friend’s gushing. A rueful smile crossed his lips as he remember how long it took to convince the young man not to storm the court room on his behalf.

“That dolt. He spilled everything didn’t he?” He shook his head. “No wonder you kept trying. He’s convinced I’m going to save the settlement.”

“He was very convincing,” The light sound of a giggle shocked him, his head snapping up to find a brilliant smile on her face. “I believe him.” She murmured, voice soft.

[hysterialevi]

In the Smoke pt. 1 (Cobblebats)

(I’ll post 2 parts today just to give this story a head start!)

From Bruce’s POV

20 YEARS AGO

“Here ya go, kid,” Falcone said with pride, handing me the present. “Happy birthday, Bruce.” 

The present was neatly wrapped in extravagant, golden paper and was decorated with an elegant ribbon on top to match (exactly something you’d expect from Falcone). It was also decently-sized, and felt rather heavy. Whatever was inside must’ve been expensive. Curiosity filled me as I eyed the gift like I’d be able to see through it if I looked hard enough.

Taking the box into my arms, my father gently patted my shoulder from behind. “What should you say, Bruce?” He reminded.

I smiled shyly, practically hiding behind the present. “Thank you, Uncle Carmine.”

He grinned at me. “Anything for my nephew.” Falcone glanced up at my father. “Someday, he’ll grow up to be just like you, Tommy. I can see it.”

He laughed. “That’s the goal.”

“And a good one, at that. Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure there are other guests who’d like to see the birthday boy. Meanwhile, I think I’ll help myself to the wine. Enjoy the evening, fellas.”

“You too, Carmine.”

Once Falcone and his little group had wandered off, my father gestured over to a small table in the middle of the foyer that had multiple other presents already sitting on top of it. 

“Why don’t you go put that with the rest?” He suggested. “We’ll open them together later. For now, I’ll see if I can’t find Hamilton. He should be here by now. Ah, he’s probably just stuck in traffic somewhere. I’ll give him a call.”

“Okay, Dad.” I said.

“Good boy. If you need anything, your mother shouldn’t be hard to find. Last I saw her, she was in the parlor, talking with the Zellerbachs. I’ll be right back.”

And with that said, my father walked off while he searched through his phone for Hill’s number, disappearing into the thick crowds of guests while I stayed put. The entire manor was full of people tonight including colleagues of my parents, close friends, and even neighbors who probably just wanted free food. All the guests were dressed in formal, fancy attire and they each held a glass of wine in their hands, chattering amongst themselves in small circles.

There was also a band playing eloquent, classical music in the background, and with every passing minute, more and more people walked through the front door. 

Heading over to the table, I carefully lifted the heavy box up with a quiet grunt, trying not to drop it as I attentively stacked it on top of another one. A short tower of presents was starting to build, and the idea of having to rip all of them open later already exhausted me. Though, I was excited to see what everyone had gotten me. I just hoped no one got me school supplies like last time.

“You’re gonna put mine on the top, right?” Someone said from behind. I turned around.

Standing only a few feet away from me was none other than Oz, my closest and best friend. He was wearing a simple suit with a yellow bowtie, and his hair had been neatly slicked back. It was quite the change from his normal, casual appearance. His parents were also with him.

“Oz!” I exclaimed happily, running up and giving him a friendly hug. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come. I hadn’t heard from you in days.”

His father chuckled. “He wanted to surprise you.”

Oz extended his arms out, holding his gift. “Hopefully, you’ll forgive me?”

I gladly but cautiously took the box, just in case it was heavy like Falcone’s. “Of course I will. I’m really glad you’re here.” 

Standing on my tippy-toes, I placed it next to Falcone’s, making sure it was just a little higher than the rest.”Thanks, Oz.” I looked at his parents. “And you too, Mr. and Mrs. Cobblepot.”

His mother, Esther, bent down until she was eye-level with me. “You’re very welcome, sweetie.” She gazed around the foyer. “Bruce, do you know where your parents are?”

“I think my mom’s in the parlor,” I replied, “and my dad’s looking for Hill. He said he was supposed to be here by now.”

Esther’s usually cheerful expression seemed to dim slightly at the sound of his name. “Ah, I see. Thank you. Well, you boys go on and have fun. And don’t get into trouble.” She sent a light-hearted glare at Oz.

Oz smirked. “I won’t, mum.”

Oh, yes he will.

Mr. and Mrs. Cobblepot went off in their own direction as they started to acquaint themselves with other guests, staying particularly close to one of the snack bars. The ornamental, silver food trays still appeared rather full. I hoped that at least some people would take the desserts. Alfred had worked incredibly hard getting all the orders done.

Oz nudged me. “So...” he reached into his pocket, “I got you another present.” He pulled out a pack of firecrackers. 

I laughed, knowing exactly where this was going. “What happened to ‘don’t get into trouble?”

“It ain’t like I’ve written my name on these. No one’ll even know it was us.” He could see that I was still a bit hesitant. “C’mon,” he urged, “it’ll be fun! It’ll be even better if it’s Hill.”

I sighed, crossing my arms. “All right, all right. But we have to be quick, okay?”

“Yes! I knew you’d agree. Follow me.”

Grabbing my hand, Oz dragged me through the crowd and to the nearest bathroom, the two of us scurrying in before anyone could see us. Fortunately, no one was inside at the moment, leaving us free to get to work immediately.

With a mischievous chuckle, Oz lifted the toilet seat up and carefully put the firecrackers into position while I kept watch, making sure no one would be around when we left. 

“Hey, Bruce,” Oz said as he gathered more fireworks. His tone was oddly serious. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“...you don’t like Hill, do you?”

Honestly, no. I didn’t. Uncle Carmine had always been friendly enough to me, but something about Hill creeped me out. He wasn’t rude or anything, but his kindness towards me never seemed sincere. He always looked like he was secretly scheming something, and everything about him just screamed, “don’t trust me.”

“No. Not really,” I answered. 

“Good.”

“Why do you ask?”

Oz scoffed. “Hill’s tryin’ to kick my mum and dad out of the estate. He wants the land for some reason, and he’s tryin’ to convince my parents to sell it to him. I don’t want them to, but my mum says we might have to.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Worry spread across his face. “...actually...well--no, never mind. I don’t wanna get you into more trouble.”

“No,” I persisted, “what is it? If I can do something to help, tell me.”

He thought for a while. “...maybe...maybe you could talk to your dad? I know he and Hill are close. It probably wouldn’t do much though. Adults never listen to us kids, but it’s worth a try.”

I nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Oz’s face lit up with appreciation. “Thanks, mate. Really.” He snapped back into his mischief mode. “Anyways, enough of that.” He steadily put the toilet seat back down. “The firecrackers are ready. C’mon, let’s wait outside. This is gonna be great.”

Quickly escaping the bathroom, Oz and I tried our best to act as casual as possible and calmly waited at a reasonable distance, pretending to be occupied with one of the multiple snack bars. Oz eyeballed the bowl of punch. 

“I know that look,” I said, slightly concerned. “What are you thinking?”

He grinned and glanced at the salt shaker. “...should I?”

I looked around, checking both sides to see if anyone was watching. “Go for it. That’s not the only bowl of punch, after all.”

Hiding away from people’s sight as best as he could, Oz hurriedly twisted the shaker’s top off and emptied its contents into the punch, stirring the ingredient in with the rest of the mixture thoroughly.

“There. All done.” He announced, wiping his hands clean.

Just then, I spotted someone walking into the bathroom. I repeatedly tapped Oz’s arm with the back of my hand, pointing in that direction as the two of us got closer so we could hear better.

Sitting idly by, we eagerly waited for the poor victim to fall into our trap--quite literally--and had to hold ourselves back from laughing too much from excitement.

After a few moments of silence, we suddenly heard a loud series of frantic pops along with an outburst of swear words, the man inside clumsily stumbling around before a heavy thud reached our ears. Neither I nor Oz could help it at that point. Both of us broke into laughter, playfully giggling with our hands over our mouths.

“And just what are you two doing?” 

Oz and I froze at the voice. It was Alfred. 

I slowly looked behind me, addressing the butler. “...uh...nothing.” I replied sheepishly. The man inside the bathroom shouted another curse.

Alfred raised his brows, folding his hands behind his back. “Doesn’t sound like ‘nothing’ to me. Oh, well. Seeing as how it’s your birthday, Master Bruce...” he winked with a smile, “I won’t tell.”

Oz laughed. “I like your butler.”

“And I like you as well, ‘friend-who’s-clearly-a-bad-influence-on-my-master’s-son.” Alfred cleared his throat. “Anyways, Bruce, I come to inform you that your mother wishes to see you. She’s waiting in the parlor. You may bring Master Cobblepot along with you, if you wish.”

“I’ll go see her, then. Thanks, Al.”

“Well,” Alfred straightened his suit, “I shall return to my duties. There’s no shortage of them tonight. If I can assist you further in any way, please do not hesitate to ask.”

As Alfred began to walk away, I turned to Oz.

“So, you wanna come with me to see my mom?”

He shrugged in a “why not” manner. “Sure. Let’s go.”

We strolled away from the snack table, hand-in-hand, and braced ourselves as we prepared to navigate through the sea of guests once again, when the distant sound of someone coughing suddenly caught our attention. Looking for the source, Oz and I saw a struggling woman holding a cup of the punch that he had filled with salt earlier, her face twisted with disgust. It was amusing to watch--that was--until she caught us staring.

“Uh-oh,” Oz shoved me into the crowd with a forceful push, “run! Go!”

Laughing hysterically, the two of us quickly vanished behind the tall figures of the adults surrounding us as the lady speed-walked in her tight gown in a pathetic attempt to catch us. 

Before this party started, I had been worried that it was going to be boring and that I was going to spend the rest of the night doing nothing but introducing myself to random grown-ups, but with Oz here now, I knew that it was going to be nothing but fun, and I didn’t want the night to end. The only thing that concerned me right now was what Oz said about Hill earlier, and I hoped that it wasn’t true.

Oh, well. That was an issue for another time. As much as I wished it would, tonight wasn’t going to last forever, and I intended to make the most of it with Oz at my side.