#but you can look at the original italian right next to it which allows you to understand the rhyme scheme being used

[cookinguptales]

By the way, if any of you really want to read and learn about Dante's Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso, Columbia University has a free web course about it.

If you click that link, they have free versions of the text (in the original Italian but also both the Mandelbaum and Longfellow translations) that you can use to follow along with the lectures. They also have pretty extensive commentary on the text as well as galleries and audio recordings to help you understand things better.

It's a really excellent free resource!

[musicinstrumentsins]

Things You Didn't Know About Piccolo Instrument

The piccolo, often outranked by its larger sibling of the woodwinds heir- the flute, packs a surprising punch. Did you know the meaning of the word in Italian? It's small. Irrespective of its size, this high-pitched tool injects a spark of brilliance and mischief into orchestral works. Yes! You read it right. However, beyond its sharp notes, there is a globe of charming facts and hidden talents waiting to be discovered. It let's delve into the surprising world of this tiny woodwind!

The Highest in the Land (and Orchestra): Forget about the violins – the Piccolo rules highest in the orchestra's realm of high notes. Yes. It's pitched an entire octave higher than a concert flute. What does that mean? It means Piccolo plays notes twice as high. This sky-high range allows it to imitate birdsong with surprising accuracy. It lets it add a touch of nature's theme to compositions.

A Mighty Mite with Military Roots: Despite its delicate appearance, don't be misled. The woodwind boasts a surprisingly tough history. Its origins trace back to 17th-century military bands. In that era, it was used to boost the piercing melodies of the flute. This, in turn, allowed commands and signals to be heard over the din of battle. However, owing to its delicate body, you need to protect it from the blows of uncertainty. And how can you do that? The answer is pretty simple - by buying a comprehensive Piccolo insurance plan.

More Than Just Birdsong: While it excels at mimicking feathered buddies, its talents extend far beyond. From the playful twinkle in Tchaikovsky's "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy" to the urgent calls in Beethoven's "Egmont" prelude, the woodwind adds a layer of drama, excitement, and even humor to countless compositions.

A Tiny Titan of Technology: The piccolo may be small, but it's an engineering marvel. Its high notes are a product of its short length, which creates smaller vibrating air columns. Over time, the design has been refined while incorporating keys similar to the flute to improve its playability and add a wider range.

Material Matters: Today, these woodwinds are most commonly made from grenadilla wood. The latter is a dense and durable African hardwood. However, plastic and even silver piccolos also exist! The material choice affects the instrument's tone and weight. The wooden piccolos offer a warmer sound and plastic piccolos are lighter and more budget-friendly.

Double the Trouble? (Not Quite): Although the piccolo and the fife look like twins, they have distinct characters. Fifes are often associated with marching bands. They have a simpler design with fewer keys and a louder, sharper sound. The piccolo, on the other hand, offers more versatility and a wider range of tonal possibilities.

A Friend to Famous Composers: From the iconic opening of Mozart's "Magic Flute" to the thrilling chase scene in Rossini's "William Tell" Overture, the piccolo has been a favorite of many renowned composers. These masters recognized the instrument's ability to add a touch of magic, whimsy, and even a sense of danger to their works. So, if you have one, you should get a dedicated Piccolo insurance policy to ensure it's protected.

Beyond the Orchestra: The piccolo is not restricted to the concert hall. It has found a surprising abode in popular music, adding a bright, unexpected element to recordings by artists like Jethro Tull, Stevie Wonder, and even Queen's iconic "Bohemian Rhapsody."

Bonus Fact: The powerful woodwind has a mischievous side! In some cultures, folklore depicts the piccolo as having the power to summon fairies and other magical creatures. So, the next time you hear its piercing notes, who knows what whimsical being it might attract?

Now that you know the fascinating aspects of this amazing woodwind equipment, make sure to purchase a standalone musical instrument plan to take a sigh of relief from the financial burdens that may bother you should something wrong happens to your device.

[skelezomperman]

Revising A Tale of Star-Crossed Knights - Chapter 8

Link to Chapter 8: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39015690/chapters/100327227

This chapter is the end of Part I, and it marks the point where Erinys and Finn separate forever. When I first thinking of this piece, this was the first scene I thought of: a tearful goodbye where Finn gives his Brave Lance to Erinys as something to remember him by. In fact, it was the first scene I wrote, and it was published under the title So this is goodbye in October 2021.

This chapter is the best-written one in Part I, in my opinion. There wasn't too much that had to be changed in this one. The only thing was that I did end up changing Finn's mannerisms a little bit over Part I to make him sound less awkward and more natural sounding. In the original A/N, I said that I was concerned that I made Erinys too emotional, but I think looking back it does make sense - Erinys has a right to be emotional because she's getting pushed around by Finn, in a way.

One thing I do want to note is that I'm cutting out most of the "and then it turned out bad" things that I ended chapters on. I feel most of these are cringy and don't really add much when the reader is expecting tragedy. However, I left this cliffhanger in at the end of Chapter 8 because it's the end of an entire part - it's supposed to signal that the fleeting hope at the end of this chapter was, in fact, fleeting.

Oh, and of course I cut out language stuff. So Ced's childhood nickname for Finn is Dada, not Tata. It's for the better to not get cringy with that.

--- Original Author's Notes

We've made it to the end of Part I. This is the last time that Finn and Erinys will ever actually be together. Their married life arc is over. The last scene by the way is adapted from "So this is goodbye," which is the first sketch of the couple that I wrote back in October 2021. I think it's the most pivotal scene that these two have together. It's powerful especially since we as the reader have knowledge that the characters don't - that they're going to go on to never see each other again (barring an afterlife).

Looking over this chapter after I finished it, I think my main concern is that it may have portrayed Erinys as a bit too emotional compared to Finn - that Finn doesn't really show his anxieties while Erinys becomes outright violent at one point. But I think it fits the characters. Finn (unfortunately) keeps his emotions bottled up for the most part, and he will keep his anxiety about his wife within himself in Part II. And Finn is really the one who made the "bad" choice here, not Erinys, because he *chose* to go to Leonster despite Quan offering to allow him to stay in Silesse. That will become more self-evident over Part II.

I might take the next week off from this fic before starting on Chapter 9, which is the first part of Part II. I'm impressed because this entire story was supposed to only have eight chapters. Part I alone has lasted longer than I imagined this story going. Feel free to give kudos and comment what you think of the story - I really do appreciate comments.

Miscellaneous notes: Amore is Italian, I mean Leonstrian for love (which I would assume that most readers would know), kohanie/kochanie is Polish, I mean Silessian for beloved. I realized upon proofreading that the scene where Erinys screams at Finn has a lot more...conjugal tension than I thought. I did not intend it at all, but I kept it because it's dramatic. Tata is Silessian for Dad and Mama is obviously Silessian for Mom. Erinys will probably try to teach Ced what little she knows of Leonstrian in the future. Yes the fade to black when Finn comes home to Erinys for the last time is meant to be an indication that those two did The Funny that night. You can probably guess who got conceived as a result of that. Erinys gives Finn a few strands of her hair - I haven't decided what to do with that in the future. Finn will probably keep the lock of hair but he might get it sewn onto his sleeve so he "wears his heart on his sleeve" so to speak. Maybe, as unrealistic as that sounds. In the original sketch "So this is goodbye," Finn was already promoted when he left. Here, Finn will promote after he arrives in Silesse. Ced was also completely not present in that sketch, but I also originally envisioned the timespan from Sigurd's arrival in Silesse to Quan and Co.'s departure to be around two months, not a full year. So I saw Ced as a very young infant still, not a one year old who is old enough to stand. Ced has heterochromia because I said so. Some people say his FE4 sprite has that. I don't personally see it but I'm writing it in anyways. The Brave Lance of course will figure as a symbol later in the story. It lampshades that a common strategy in-game is for Finn to give his Brave Lance to Erinys so she and Fee can use it during the three-ish chapters that Finn is gone, especially since Finn does fine enough without it when he joins in Chapter 7. We'll see how it goes because I haven't decided how I'm going to reconcile the FE5 timeline with this.

Hope you enjoyed and I'll see you guys in a couple week with Chapter 9 :)

[rhysismydaddy]

Casual Ruin Pt. 3 (Elriel)

Elain’s part of the Damnation Series.

Part 1 | Part 2

God help yall this shit was a rollercoaster to write

________________________________________________

~Elain~

For a second, no one breathes, let alone moves.

Azriel’s hands are steady as he grips the gun, body lined with tension, eyes so cold I shiver. The barrel’s close enough that if I leaned forward an inch, it’d brush my forehead.

The man next to him holds a cigarette halfway to his mouth, looking at me like he’s never seen a woman before and has absolutely no idea what to do. 

And me? I’m frozen in place, horror rushing through my veins and mixing with the shock to create a nauseating cocktail I’m not sure I’ll survive.

It’s the brutalized man in the chair slumping over and hitting the floor with a loud thud that finally snaps us out of our momentary haze.

Azriel blinks and throws the gun to the side so hard it makes a dent in the wall, the stranger drops his cigarette and reaches for me, and I sprint like my fucking life depends on it. Because at this point, I’m pretty sure it might.

What the hell did I walk into? 

I race up the stairs toward the garage, where less than a minute ago, I’d heard Azriel’s voice and gone to surprise him. By the look on his face when he turned around, I’d at least succeeded in that.

I can practically feel the man behind me, can tell he’s reaching a hand out to grab me.

I’ve never been a violent person in my life, but with the amount of adrenaline coursing through me, I don’t even question the urge to use the wine bottle in my hands as a weapon.

It breaks over the man’s head, but unlike in the movies, he doesn’t go down immediately. However, he does lose his balance enough that with a firm shove to his chest, he goes crashing back down to the hellhole I’m running from.

I make it to the garage and slam the door to the basement closed, locking it for good measure. Then I drag the heavy workbench next to the line of pristine cars over in front of it for even better measure. 

I refuse to let myself stop and think, because I’m pretty sure if I do, I’ll break down into a pool of tears and never get up. I’m running on nothing but adrenaline, and I know I’ll crash soon, but I force myself to keep going.

For a moment, I’m tempted to steal one of the cars to get away, but the sound of angry Italian shouts behind the locked door makes me hesitant to waste any more time.

I also definitely don’t have time to call the cab driver that dropped me off and beg him to come back.

The fear and terror don’t give me time to doubt myself as I take my heels off, take off up the driveway, and pray I’m fast enough to escape the devil on my trail.

~Azriel~

“Get that goddamn door open,” I shout at Luca, who’s dripping wine all over the place and has a gash on his forehead from where little Elain Archeron shoved him down the stairs.

I almost fucking shot her in the head. Her. 

Dolcezza mia. The girl I’m stupidly obsessed with. The one who’s always quick to smile--the same one who sighs when I kiss her and lights up when I walk into the room.

I almost shot her between those beautiful brown eyes, almost snuffed them out forever.

I run a hand over my face, listening to the sound of Luca throwing himself into the door repeatedly. “I’m trying, boss, but I think she pulled something in front of the door.”

Smart.

Fucking annoying as hell, but smart.

If I wasn’t so damn pissed at myself for not locking the basement door behind me and allowing her to find us down here, I’d be mildly impressed. 

Two of the most dangerous men in Italy, trapped in the basement like idiots. 

I pull up the app to track her phone--which was originally for her safety, not because I’m a complete stalker--and see that she’s on foot, going behind the houses instead of down the road. She probably thinks I’ll drive by her while she gets away right under my nose.

“Fuck,” I mutter, sending out a text to all my neighbors to tell them not to shoot the beautiful young woman trespassing through their properties. She has no idea the people around us have security systems better than the President’s. “Luca!”

“Working on it,” he grunts back.

“If that shit isn’t open in the next twenty seconds, you’re going in the incinerator after this asshole,” I warn, nudging the dead body on the floor with a boot.

The threat must work, because a second later, there’s a loud bang and the telltale sound of the workbench from my garage toppling over. “Got it!”

I storm up the stairs and tell him, “Run interference with the neighbors and local police. Anyone talks-”

“Got it,” he interrupts, grabbing his phone to start threatening people.

Pulling up the app again, I track the path she’s on, curse when I see she’s headed to the bus station about a mile from here, and take off after her.

Technically, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if she got away. She’d probably go to the police and tell them what she saw, not knowing that Marco, the deputy on duty, has been on my payroll since the day he passed the police entrance exam.

Having done her civic duty, she’d probably try to recover from the trauma of what she saw, eventually finish her classes and move on, and leave. Forgetting all about me in the process.

Technically, for her, this option would not be the worst thing in the world.

But in my head, it feels worse than being stabbed. In my head, there isn’t a question about it. 

I’m going after her. 

There’s this weird, itchy feeling in my chest I’ve never felt before as I run and run and try not to think about the look on her face as she saw the body fall to the floor.

I realize the feeling in my chest as panic, something I haven’t felt since I was a teenager getting booked for stealing my first car.

She knows.

She knows, and the look on her face... she looked at me like I’m a monster. 

And fuck, maybe that’s true. Maybe I am beyond saving.

But having her look at me, and having her take away the easy smiles and bright eyes I’d grown strangely accustomed to... it feels like being robbed.

And it makes me panic.

So I’ll chase her, and catch her, and do whatever I have to do to get her back. 

Because I need her, and damn if I’m going at this alone. 

After a surprising amount of time, I see the thin outline of her off in the distance, sprinting like the devil himself is chasing her. 

I take a deep breath and try to stay quiet, but it’s hopeless. Like she’s the one with the tracker on me, she can tell the second I’m close. I can see it from the way her shoulders go stiff and her pace increases.

“Elain!” 

I call out again for her to stop, because I don’t want to tackle her and risk hurting her. She ignores me and keeps running, turning behind the coroner of one of my dealer’s house. 

That sticky, awful, panicky feeling in my chest grows as she disappears from sight, and without thinking, I follow.

Which, if I had been thinking, I never would’ve done, because shit like this leaves you open to attack. 

Which reminds me: I’ve now broken all three rules for this woman, because I don’t have a single weapon on me to defend us if something happens.

I hit the ground hard enough the wind rushes out of me and my stupid brain rattles around in my stupid skull. 

Blinking through the blur, I look up to find Elain standing over me with an empty metal trashcan raised like a bat, ready to strike again. 

I need to explain, need to talk to her, but all I can seem to say is her name.

“Elain,” I croak, trying to force air down my lungs.

As my vision clears, I notice she’s crying, beautiful face streaked with tears and dirt. 

She pauses and looks at me, like the sight of me knocked on my ass hurts her just as much as it does me, then shakes her head to clear it. 

She throws the trash can at me and turns to flee, but I know I can’t let her go, at least not like this. Grabbing her ankle, I yank her down to me, making sure she lands on me instead of the ground. 

She screams, the sound scraping away another layer of the trust we’d built, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so desperate in my life. Elain flails around, but I use my weight to pin her, trying not to hurt her. 

She has to let me explain. She has to.

I hate what I’m about to do, but the only other option I have is making her pass out the old fashion way, which I know I could never bring myself to do.

The second the needle goes into her neck, she goes stiff underneath me, looking at me with wide, panicked eyes. 

“You drugged me,” she sobs, the betrayal in her voice making my chest hurt.

I brush the hair off her face, press my forehead to hers, and start telling her things I haven’t told another living soul.

I’ll never hurt you.

I’m sorry.

~Elain~

Am I dead?

Why does it feel like I got hit by a bus?

Where am I? 

These three questions rattle around in my brain at the same time, all demanding answers, as soon as I open my eyes. 

And the weird part is... I don’t have any.

I have no idea if I’m alive or dead, but the headache I have that seems permanently settled behind my eyes points to the latter.

I blink the haze in my brain away and realize I’m at my house in bed, but my extend of knowledge seems to stop there. 

There’s a voice in my head whispering something, but it’s too quiet for me to understand what she’s saying. All I know is that I feel like I need to do something, need to get out of here. 

I rub my sore eyes and see there’s a note on the bedside table, written in precise, calm handwriting I recognize better than my own. 

Come downstairs. 

He’s here? I thought I went to his house, not the other way around.

The blinds are closed, but when I make my way to the window and peak out, I see a dark night sky, the moon reflecting off the water and making everything seen calm.  

What the hell happened to me?

I start to leave the room, intent on going downstairs and asking Azriel that very question. 

Except as I’m passing by my closet, I see something. 

Something small and so inconsequential, I almost don’t think anything about it.

Like I’m in a dream, I feel myself walk over to the corner of the room. I feel my knees hit the floor, see my finger extend to the floor and touch the tiny drop of liquid that caught my eye.

I pull back and look, and somehow, I’m not surprised to see that it’s blood.

The floors are dark enough I shouldn’t have been able to see it from so far away, but it’s like a part of me was looking for it. 

And that’s when it comes back to me.

Coming to surprise him, seeing the door in his garage, going downstairs... I press a hand to my mouth and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to fight the tidal wave of nausea washing over me. 

I remember seeing the blood first and wondering if someone was hurt, then coming further into the room to find myself in the middle of a nightmare. If I wasn’t so strangely sure it had been real, I would think it was a horror movie.

The man strapped down had been so brutalized, I doubt I would’ve recognized him even if I’d known him my whole life.

I remember running without a thought more, giving into the fight or flight impulse to get the hell out of there. 

I remember hitting Azriel, seeing him fall to the ground and looking up at me with those deep, wounded eyes that will haunt me more than the torture he inflicted on that poor man. 

Eyes that told me everything and nothing at the same time.

I remember looking into those eyes and crying at the pain in them that was surely reflected in my own. 

And then nothing. 

Why don’t I remember? How did I get back here?

I’m sorry. 

I finally recall that last whispered promise, and if I hadn’t already been sitting on the floor, I would’ve fallen to my knees as I realize what happened.

He drugged me.

Azriel, the same man who slow-danced with me in an empty restaurant and drove me along the coast and held me in his sleep, drugged me.

And he’s downstairs.

I start to hyperventilate, because I don’t know what to do or what he’s planning to do. Why is he still here?

What am I going to do? Should I call the cops?

I realize I don’t have my phone, probably a countermeasure on his part. 

I also realize there’s no way for me to run. I remember how fast he’d caught me, how easy it had been for him to render me useless. 

There’s no escaping him. Not if he’s already down there waiting, evil plan cooking in his mind.

I have no other option, unless I want to stay in this room for the rest of my life.

So with confidence I don’t feel, I walk downstairs. 

I find him sitting at my breakfast table, leaning back casually and sipping a cup of coffee despite the late hour. 

The moonlight clings to him like it loves him, playing off of his sharp cheekbones and illuminating his features. His face is carefully blank, but there’s a flicker of something as he looks at me, something that seems almost like relief. 

He’s calm and collected and everything I’m not, and it pisses me off. My world’s on fire, yet he’s sitting here like nothing’s wrong? And he’s drinking my coffee?

I stomp over to grab the stolen drink, then sit across from him and cross my arms. 

And wait.

Because I sure as hell am not talking first. 

He stayed because he has something to say. I don’t have anything to say to him. 

For a long time, we just stare at each other, because he’s apparently playing by the same rules. 

Then he accepts his defeat, sighs, and asks, “Why did you come to my house last night?”

I purse my lips, narrow my eyes, and try to stop myself from throwing the coffee in his face. 

Because he said that almost like an accusation. 

Like the problem is that I came over unannounced, not that he was torturing someone. 

“I’m not justifying that with a response,” I eventually tell him.

He gives me a hard look. “Answer the question.”

Something about the entirely male way he demanded that, like he expects a response immediately, makes me tilt my head and ask so sweetly I almost choke, “Why? Are you going to torture me if I don’t?”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, showing the first sign of imperfection I’ve ever seen from him. “What you saw-”

“Was horrifying, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

He acts like I didn’t even speak. “-was something I meant to keep private from you.”

I don’t tell him that’s pretty fucking obvious at this point. 

Instead I ask, “Why?” 

I’m not sure why I want to know, but it suddenly feels important. 

He doesn’t takes his eyes off of me as he says, “Because you’re you. You shine so brightly it should be illegal, and you look at the world like it isn’t a terrible place. I didn’t want to take that from you.”

My throat feels uncomfortably tight all the sudden, but I clear it and say, “Well, you did.”

His jaw clenches, and he looks down. “I know. If I could go back and walk away, I would. Shit, I told myself I would more times than I can count. But I just... couldn’t. And I couldn’t tell you either. I wanted to, but I didn’t know how, Elain.”

The sound of my name on his lips makes my heart finally start beating again, but I still call him on his lie. “That isn’t why you never told me. You never told me because you knew I’d hate you the second you did.”

“Maybe,” he admits, looking back up at me. “But now you know, and I’m glad you do. You know everything now.”

It’s my turn to look down, because while I’d wanted to know the real him, I’d never imagined I’d find something like this. 

“No, I don’t. I don’t know anything, because you haven’t explained anything.”

He tilts his head. “What needs explaining?”

I ask the obvious question. “Who do you work for?”

“Myself.”

Once again, I don’t feel like justifying that with a response. He still isn’t saying anything that explains what I saw or why he’d do that to someone. 

If he isn’t going to say anything meaningful, I’m not having this conversation.

Eventually, he seems to realize this. Because he says, “I’m Capo of the Sicilian Outfit of the Cosa Nostra, Elain.”

I bite my lip so hard I taste blood, trying to keep my emotions in check. I don’t know how to feel, other than confused and angry.

“Any other questions?”

“Why did you drug me?”

If he just wanted to talk, he could’ve dragged me back to his place or maybe just say that. Not chase me down like a rapid animal.

“You were panicked, and I didn’t want to hurt you. I needed time to explain, needed to tell you this was never the plan.”

There’s something else there, and I narrow my eyes in a silent demand for him to continue.

Azriel sighs and admits, “My neighbors are business associates-” aka fellow criminals, “and I didn’t want them to hear you yelling and come to... investigate-” aka kill me, “or watch me get knocked unconscious by a twenty-four year old woman with a trash can.”

I give him a smug smile, more than ready to give him a repeat of that show, and try to decide what else to ask. 

But before I get the chance, he says, “I don’t see why this changes anything.”

My mouth falls open.

He doesn’t see- is he serious? “You’re joking.”

“I’m not known for my humor.”

I’m still stunned into silence, so he tilts his head and asks, “Why does it matter? Why does what I do make me a different person?”

When I don’t answer, he says, “It doesn’t. Nothing I do will ever come near you. You won’t ever have to see it again. I promise.” 

“It’s not about seeing it! It’s about knowing what you do when we’re not together. You kiss me goodbye, then go home and... there is absolutely no way I can go back to what we were doing before. You killed someone, Azriel.”

He straightens his cufflinks and shoots back, “He deserved it, Elain.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

“First off, murder is illegal. So is torture, which from the way that man looked, you’d definitely been inflicting on him. Not only is it illegal, it’s wrong! He was an innocent human being-”

“He wasn’t innocent.”

I keep going. “You aren’t judge, jury, and executioner! You-”

He’s on me before I can finish, sliding a hand over my mouth and leaning over my chair. 

God, the man is fast. Has he always been that fast, or have I just never noticed?

“Let me explain something to you, Elain. On this island, I am. I decide who’s guilty, which he confessed to being. I decide the punishment, which was a bullet to the brain. I’m the executioner, and I pull the trigger myself, because I’m not a fucking coward.”

I fight his hold, trying to push him away, but he doesn’t even budge. 

“I play by different rules, bellissima. Just because you’ve never been exposed to them, or my world, doesn’t mean it hasn’t always existed. I’m the judge, jury, executioner, and the goddamn king.”

A shiver goes down my spine at his words. 

He pushes my head back, forcing me to meet his eyes. “And it doesn’t matter.”

I shake my head, bite his finger, push at his chest. But it doesn’t do any good.

“It doesn’t matter, because like I said, we live in two different worlds. I’d never let mine impact yours.”

I want to tell him that isn’t the problem, but his hand is still on my mouth. 

“Have you even asked yourself why you’re not afraid?” he asks out of the blue, surprising me. 

I stare blankly at him, no longer fighting, waiting for whatever he’s about to say.

“You’re scared of what I do, but you aren’t scared of me. Not really. If you were, you never would’ve come down those stairs.”

That’s why he looked relieved, I realize. He was worried I’d be scared of him.

Everything he’s saying makes sense, which makes no sense at all. 

Because if he’s right, and he certainly seems to think he is, it begs the question... why aren’t I scared of him?

He seems to see my ask myself that, because he answers it a second later.

Eyes growing softer, he murmurs, “It’s because you know I’d never hurt you, nor would I let anyone else.”

I remember him whispering that right before I passed out. I’ll never hurt you. 

He comes so close I can see the individual flecks of green in his dark hazel eyes. “I may do terrible things, and I’d do terrible things for you, Elain, but I’d never do them to you.”

“So you aren’t afraid. Just angry,” he concludes. Then he looks at me like he did the other day in the sea behind his house, right before he called me his. “Do you know why you’re angry, Elain?”

Currently, it’s because he’s explaining my emotions to me, which has to be the most male, obnoxious thing that’s ever happened in all of history.

But I have a feeling that isn’t what he’s talking about.

And I have another feeling that I’m not going to like what he’s about to say.

I take another glance at the look in his eyes and realize what he means, starting to fight again. I push at his chest and hands and try to get him to not say the words I know he’s going to. 

It doesn’t work. 

“You’re upset,” he says a moment later, slow and sure like always, “because I lied to you. You feel betrayed, like you don’t know me. But that isn’t why you’re angry.”

One hand on my face, the other in my hair, he holds me perfectly still as he whispers, “You’re angry because you were falling for me.”

I press my eyes closed, trying not to hear the words he’s saying as if that’ll make them any less true. 

But it doesn’t, because they are true. 

Every easy smile, midnight whisper, and lingering kiss he’s given me in the past month has given him a permanent place in my heart, and it hurts to have that all feel like a lie.

It hurts to look at him and not know if I recognize the person holding me.

A sob escapes me, which seems to confirm what he said, and he takes his hand off my mouth to wipe away a tear. 

His brow comes to rest against mine, and I breathe him in, unable to stop myself. 

There’s a war happening inside me, and it distracts me enough I don’t stop him from pulling me closer.

My heart plays me a montage of the past month, showing me countless moments where I’d been so positive I’d found paradise, so positive I’d found someone I could trust completely. It tells me Azriel has always felt like home, like something so inexplicably right I don’t even know how to describe it.

But my brain reminds me the hands cupping my cheeks softly are covered in blood and gunsmoke and victims’ tears. It tells me I’ve never really known the man I’m currently begging myself not to have feelings for. 

The battle inside of me rages on, and I cry harder, not even knowing who I want to win.

It only gets harder to choose as he murmurs, “Ance io mi sto innamorando di te.”

I’m falling for you, too.

I don’t know what to do or feel or think, and I’m so helplessly confused it makes me want to scream. 

Yet even though I’m confused, something about this makes sense. Something about knowing what he really does for a living makes everything in my head just click.

The way he’d redirect the conversation whenever I asked about his job. The way I’d always suspected him of hiding something about himself from me. The way every movement he’s ever made with me has been lined with restraint.

He could hurt me, has had the opportunity for months, but he never has. He’s always been careful with me, has always held and looked at me like I’m something precious to him.

My brain starts shifting to his side of the argument, and I can feel my morality ripping to shreds under his hands.

Before I can think, I shove him away, getting to my feet to point at the door. “Get out. You lied to me. You’re a murderer. A monster.”

Feelings or not, I know I can’t do this. I can’t just ignore what I saw, what he’ll continue to do. So he needs to leave.

He doesn’t.

Azriel just leans against the kitchen island counter and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it as he watches me for a long moment. 

“Maybe I am,” he says eventually around a mouthful of smoke. “But just because I’m a monster, Elain, doesn’t mean I can’t give you what we both know you need. Nothing has to change.”

It already has.

“I don’t need anything from you.”

“No?”

“No.”

He prowls toward me, the intent shining so clear in his eyes I take a step back for every one he takes forward. My back hits a wall, and he traps me between it and himself, caging me in with strong arms.

The line between right and wrong, good and evil, seems to blur as he gets closer and closer, and by the time we’re sharing air, I don’t know which way is up. All I know is him.

He takes a deep inhale of his cigarette, tips my head back with his thumb, and then breathes the smoke into my mouth. 

It should be disgusting, considering I don’t smoke and make it a point to avoid cancer-causing products in general. 

It should be. But it isn’t.

It’s the opposite of disgusting. 

There’s a buzz in my veins that has nothing to do with the nicotine, and I realize too late that he’s the vice I can’t quit. 

I’m too far gone, too addicted already.

He pulls back slightly, tucking the still-burning cigarette behind his ear. His eyes burn with intensity, and his dark hair and shoulders are surrounded by the smoke clinging to his shoulders like a shadow. 

He looks like the villain of a movie I never even knew I wanted to watch, and it physically pains me to have him this close and not be touching him, so I put my hands on his chest, fingers fisting in the expensive material of his suit.

His are on the wall by my head, bracing himself as he leans in and slowly licks a line across my lower lip, like he’s tasting me. 

My want for him is a tangible thing, and I have to ask myself if he’s right. Does it matter what he does, when he makes me feel like no one else ever has? Do I care enough to stay away from him?

“You don’t need me?” he asks again, so close his lips brush against mine.

I shake my head, even though I know it isn’t the truth. I do need him, and that’s why this hurts so damn bad. Why this betrayal cuts so deep.

Even though we’re so close he’s nothing but a blur, I can feel his eyes on me, burning a hole through me. 

And then he says something that changes everything. 

“Well, I need you,” he whispers, so softly it breaks my heart.

I’m lost.

I’m so goddamn lost in him, I forget everything we were talking about, forget everything he’s done. 

My knees go weak, and I cling to him, pulling him into me as I slip down the wall.

His lips crash against mine, and I know instantly that this is him. This is all of him. I finally know exactly who he is, and he doesn’t have to hide anymore.

It’s probably our hundredth kiss, but it feels like the first, and I’m drunk on it, drunk on him.

Hands in my hair, he kisses me like he wasn’t lying--like he needs me. 

My hands pull tighter, until there’s not an inch between us, and he makes a low sound in his throat. His are on my waist, gripping me tightly and telling me he wants this just as much as I do.

The restraint from before is all but gone, and I tremble at how much power is in his grasp, how small and fragile it makes me feel in comparison. 

My willpower crumples further, like a napkin in his fist, as his tongue teases mine, making me chase him for more.

Azriel pulls my lower lip between his teeth, pulling it between us as he draws back. It’ll be bruised tomorrow, but a sick part of me likes that he’s leaving his mark on me.

“Say it,” he say roughly, voice deep and scratchy with lust.

I don’t get a change to say it, or anything else, before he’s kissing me again, running his hands up my back and into my hair.

“Say it,” he demands again.

Maybe I’m not as lost as I thought, because I know what he wants but stay silent, refusing to give it to him.

Because I can’t.

Everything he said tonight makes sense, but I just... can’t.

He kisses me again, a lingering kiss that makes my chest ache, and almost pleads, “Say it, Elain. Say it doesn’t matter. Say you need me.”

The air grows thick as I stay silent, because it’s response enough.

His eyes narrow, and even though everything inside me begs me to, I don’t stop him as he steps away. 

“Only two more months here, and you want to spend them lying to yourself?”

I hadn’t even thought about the fact that I’m leaving so soon, but I don’t let myself get distracted. “I’m not lying to anyone.”

Except it feels like I am.

A smile pulls on his lips, but it isn’t friendly. “You’re fucking lying, and you know it. You know it doesn’t matter, you just can’t admit it, because then you’d be like me.”

Heart pounding, I shake my head, but he keeps going. “Fucking a monster would be condoning the devil’s work, right?”

He takes a step in, catching my wrists as I try to push him back, pinning them above my head, and laughing. 

“You saying you don’t want me is the most pathetic lie I’ve ever heard, carro. ”

“Azriel-”

Mouth next to my ear, he growls, “You’re really telling me if I slip my hand between your pretty thighs, I won’t find you wet and ready for me?”

I push against his hands and look away, all the confirmation he needs. 

He tsks, feigning disappointment. 

I close my eyes and fight my response to him with everything I have. I try to tell myself it matters, that what he does disgusts me, but it doesn’t sound believable to even myself at this point.

“I could prove it to you, make you come right here and now, but I don’t think I will.”

I’m breathing heavily, two seconds from passing out at the intensity and violence in his voice. 

“I think the next time I fuck you, Elain, you’re going to have to tell me you need me just as much as I need you. You’re going to tell me you want me, and you’re going to beg me for more.” He licks up the side of my neck, and I press my lips together to hold in the moan that wants to escape. “You’re going to tell the goddamn truth, and you’re going to fucking apologize for lying to me in the first place.”

I glare at him, silently conveying that that will never happen. He lied to me. I’m not apologizing for shit.

He sees that and everything else in my gaze, and he shakes his head slowly. 

“I’ll get your confession, Elain,” he promises, going to the door and almost ripping it off its hinges as he opens it. “I always do.”

___________________________________________________

Part 4

@perseusannabeth @cursebreaker29 @a-bit-of-a-cactus @elriel4life @girl-who-reads-the-books @shinya-hiiragi @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @bamchickawowow @live-the-fangirl-life @ireallyshouldsleeprn @nahthanks @highqueenofelfhame @autophobiax @rowaelinismyotp @ghostlyrose2 @lovemollywho @inardour @tillyrubes10 @claralady @tswaney17 @rowanisahunk @superspiritfestival @thegoddessofyou @awesomelena555 @booksofthemoon @greerlunna @jlinez @studyliketate @over300books @justgiu12 @maastrash @aesthetics-11 @b00kworm @sleeping-and-books @musicmaam @hizqueen4life @maybekindasortaace @elorcan-trash @loosingdreams @januarystears @emikadreams @swankii-art-teacher @thedarkdemigod @full-tilt-diva @biggestwingspan-az @bookstantrash @mari-highladyof-feels @pilesofriles @teddytdr

[bunnysuit-femboy]

The Worst Wingman - Tiger’s Eye and Gold

(Chapter 2 / 3)

Jean x Reader

Word Count: 5.6k

Previous Chapter

Warnings: Mentions of vomiting, Implied sex

Summary: Jean sucks at picking blind dates for you, but at least he’s trying. After one final attempt at finding love at the hands of Jean, he goes on a double date with you and the newest boy he’s thrown onto you. The boy is everything you never knew you needed, and Jean has to push down his growing feelings at the idea of you being happy without him.

Notes: I am not shitting on polpette di cavallo or the consumption of horse meat in general, I understand that it is a popular Italian dish and I was only mocking my ignorance towards the subject! (Plus, I thought it’d be funny to make a horse joke in a Jean x Reader)

Second Saturday

The night air wasn’t chilly, but you stayed by Jean’s side nonetheless. You pressed against his arm, using his body heat to keep yourself warm. And, Jean didn’t mind the close company - he actually liked it when you got close to him, it was the same reason he cuddled with you so often.

You and Jean stood outside of an unfamiliar restaurant, waiting for the last two people of the party to show up and to inform the hostess of their reservation. You normally hated double dates because the other couple always seemed to have more fun than you. But, you felt safe by Jean’s side, you knew he’d go as far as blatantly ignoring his date if it meant he got to have one conversation with you. Maybe that was selfish to think, but you didn’t mind, you’d probably never use him anyways - only keeping him as plan B in a worst case scenario.

But, you surprisingly had faith. Maybe - just maybe - this date will be your last one in a very long time. Maybe you would fall in love with this football player. Maybe you’d marry him and eventually start a family. Maybe you’d make sure to visit this same restaurant every anniversary - a physical monument of where your love had sprouted.

And then, as the years ticked by in your relationship, maybe you’d find yourselves growing sick of each other. Maybe you’d come home early from work and find him fucking his secretary over his desk in his home office. Maybe you’d stay with him, but only for the kids. Maybe - just maybe - you’d be able to ignore the whole affair just to pretend you love him for a few more years until your eventual death.

Oh God, love was exhausting - even to think about. And, it always seemed to end in pain, no matter how in love the couple seemed to be once upon a time.

It was hard to ignore the facts, and the inevitable ending to all things good. It was hard to ignore the over 50% of people who got divorced each year. And, it was hard to pretend you were more deserving of a lifelong fantastic marriage full of love and laughter just because-

“What are you thinking about?” Jean asked with a giggle.

You looked up at the boy, your eyebrows furrowed, “Huh?”

Jean smiled wide, “You look like you’re going to be sick.” He looked around quickly, taking in the sight of the other couples also waiting for a table inside. “Do you want to leave? We can go back to mine and forget this entire night was supposed to happen.”

“No,” You said quickly, “I want to meet him. You went through so much work to convince him to go on this date, why would I throw that away so easily?”

“Not really.” Jean frowned lightly as he looked past you, clearly reliving memories in his head, “I didn’t really do anything, actually.”

It was true, all Jean had to do was show the football player a picture of you and he was in. Jean had started the conversation by asking the football player’s schedule for the next weekend and if he was free for a date that Saturday. At first, the boy continuously refused any date, saying he needed the day to practice before the next game, but Jean showed the boy a picture instead of arguing with his words.

The football player fell completely silent, staring at Jean’s phone with widened eyes. It was hard to say no to a date with you - to put it simply, you were a goddess. The football player continued to stare at the picture of you, taken last Halloween when you and Jean had dressed as a witch and her black cat familiar; you being the witch and Jean being your cat. It was Jean’s favorite picture of you because you showed your candid smile as you laughed at one of Jean’s jokes, instead of your fake smile you saved for pictures.

The football player quickly agreed to the date after seeing the picture. He gave Jean his number, urging Jean to text him the time and place. He’d be there, the football player promised, he wouldn’t miss it for the world.

“Sure,” You said sarcastically, “I’m sure you had to promise him a month’s supply of-” You took a moment to remember what football players liked other than football- “Steroids.”

“Seriously?” Jean asked with a laugh, “Keep the steroids jokes to a minimum when he shows up, okay?” Jean furrowed his eyebrows. “Actually, don’t mention steroids at all when he gets here.”

You sighed, “If it’s any consolation, I was going to say protein powder.” You turned to Jean, slightly tilting your head. “Can I make protein powder jokes when he’s here?”

Jean frowned at you, “I guess-”

“And,” You added with a grin, “Can I make shoulder pad jokes?”

“I suppose-”

“And, can I make football field jokes? Or, is that too much as well?”

“Okay,” Jean said as he threw an arm around your shoulders, “I see what you’re doing.” Jean shoved your face into his chest which had always been his favorite way to shut you up. You inhaled the familiar scent of his clothes, and the unfamiliar scent of a new cologne he wore specifically for this date. “You’re such a smart ass.”

You pushed your head out from between his chest and arm, “You’re ruining my hair, you bastard!”

Jean laughed as he pulled you closer to him, “It still looks great, don’t worry about it.”

“Hey, Jean,” A new voice said from only a few feet away, “And-”

Jean pushed you from his body, allowing you to extend a single hand in the blonde boy’s direction, “Hi, it’s lovely to meet you.” You told the boy your name before he finally introduced himself.

The boy shook your hand with a strong grasp, “I’m Reiner-”

“And, I’m Pieck,” A black haired girl said as she poked her head out from behind Reiner’s broad back. The girl stood in front of Jean and smiled up at him, “And, I suppose you’re my date. Unless she is-” Pieck glanced at you- “Which I’m more than okay with as well.”

“No,” Jean said quickly, “I am.”

“Awesome,” Pieck said with a smile, “Is there a table being readied for us inside or-”

“I have a reservation,” Reiner said, “The table should’ve been readied about ten minutes ago, when we were supposed to be here - Pieck - if you didn’t take an hour just to pick a dress.”

Pieck smiled wide though her words were drenched in venom, “I thought you said you’d stop mentioning that once we got here, Reiner.” Pieck turned to her friend with a tilt of her head. “Am I correct?”

Reiner’s face dropped as well as his stomach, “Of course, I’m sorry, Pieck.”

“So,” Jean said to fill the new silence that had settled, “You all think we should head inside now?”

“Yes!” Pieck said as she ran to Jean’s side, sliding her arm around his and pulling him off towards the front doors of the restaurant. You couldn’t help but pout at their backs as they walked off, noticing how close they immediately got with each other and even the new smile plastered across Jean’s face.

“And,” A gentle voice said suddenly from your left, “‘You ready to head inside as well?”

You looked at the boy by your side and took in the sight of his arm thrusted in your direction. His arm was thick, as much as a football player’s arm is supposed to be. And - if you looked close enough - you could see where his muscle was bulging beneath the fabric of his button down shirt and where the veins of his arms were protruding from within his skin.

You walked inside the restaurant by Reiner’s side, intertwining your arm with his. He talked briefly with the hostess at the entrance, and then walked with you as the group was led to a large table in the back. The table was sensually dimmed and if you were here with only one person, you were sure you would end the night in their arms - the atmosphere was enough to cause your heart rate to accelerate and butterflies to flutter around in your stomach.

You took the seat across from your date, and Pieck quickly took the seat to your right. The night started slowly, a light stream of conversation amongst the four of you. You talked about the general information of each person; their college major, their hobbies, their living situations, their weekend plans, and anything else someone could think of in the heat of the moment.

The night was going swimmingly, you ordered the white wine and a dish going by the name of polpette di cavallo which you hadn’t given much thought to before ordering. It was a smaller dish than what you were originally expecting, a white porcelain plate with a mysterious brown substance surrounding three meatballs.

You pushed your fork and knife through the slightly charred meat, cutting the balls into consumable pieces. You continued to talk with the group and - more specifically - Reiner. You found out more about the boy you were on the date with, from his personal life to his football career to his plans after college.

He was sweet, he was funny, and he always gave you time to speak - continuously asking you questions about yourself.

But, unfortunately for him, you couldn’t take your eyes off of Jean. He talked with Pieck to your right, and you couldn’t help but listen to every word exchanged between the two. Even going as far as cutting into their conversation a few times and answering a question clearly directed at Jean.

“And then,” You said in response to Pieck’s question, “Jean went back to the party to pick Connie up because he finally realized he left him behind!”

Pieck giggled loudly, “That’s amazing!” She completely turned in her seat, now facing you instead of her date. “Then, what happened?”

You leaned closer to the girl, “Then, he called and begged me to meet him at the party.” You grinned wider. “Because, he didn’t want to leave again after going back.”

Pieck quickly turned back to Jean, “Why didn’t you want to leave? Even after Sasha threw that drink in your face?” Pieck then looked back at you. “And, why did he call you to come to the party as well?”

You furrowed your eyebrows at Pieck, “I’m actually not sure-”

Jean shrugged lightly, “I just- I wanted another beer and I needed somebody to drive me home afterwards.”

You turned your gaze to Jean, your eyes lit  with a new fury. That was why he called you that night? For a damn ride, not even for your company? It was always strange to you how Jean could be so casually cruel. He’d speak before thinking and end up breaking a piece of your heart without  noticing - and he did it frequently.

“Seriously,” The word was drenched in hurt as you shouted it across the table at Jean, “That’s seriously all you called me for? You just wanted a ride, Kirstein?”

Jean scratched the back of his neck, “I know you don’t really like drinking so I wasn’t worried about you getting drunk-”

“What do you mean I don’t like drinking?” You thrusted your hand towards your half-full glass of white wine. “I drink all of the time, I’m a real maniac.”

Jean smiled, “Oh, you’re crazy-” Jean leaned on the table, coming closer to you- “I mean, you really are a maniac -  How can you possibly slowly sip white wine at an Italian restaurant?”

And, as quickly as Jean could upset you and break your heart, he could just as quickly mend your broken parts.

You bit your lip to hide your new smile, “I can go crazy-” You leaned towards Jean as well- “Sometimes, I sip from your beers and then I immediately regret it because it’s gross.”

“Oh,” Jean giggled with the word, “You’re wild.”

It was like time had stopped completely - which seemed to happen a lot when around Jean. You were sure it was because he was too beautiful not to stare at, and Father Time helped you by stopping everything altogether. Or, you thought the effect of time stopping was purely psychological considering how deeply you knew the boy. But, whatever the reason, time stopped nonetheless.

You sat motionless, only looking into Jean’s eyes - a color reminding you of a tiger's eye crystal. And - like a tiger’s eye crystal - Jean seemed to radiate confidence and strength, and gave you an unknown balance to your own being. Jean was your second half, a part of you that you hadn’t known was missing. He was like the second half of an undone puzzle or-

“How’s your-” Reiner said, suddenly breaking the moment between you and Jean- “Your- uh, po- polpette-”

“Polpette di cavallo,” Pieck finished Reiner’s sentence for him.

Reiner nodded briskly, “That.” He smiled wide at you. “How is that?”

“It’s good,” You said as you scanned the plate in front of you, “It’s very thick, I think they used a different part of the cow than what I’m used to.” You glanced at the three faces watching you intently. “Maybe the stomach? I don’t know what part they use for hamburgers, I don’t really like thinking about it.”

Pieck giggled and pushed your shoulder lightly, “You’re kidding, right?”

You widened your eyes at the girl, “Oh, is it not the stomach?” You cleared your throat. “Then, the- the thighs?”

“No, silly,” Pieck said with a smile, “That’s not beef-” Pieck thrusted at the meat still sitting on the plate in front of you- “That’s chavelin.”

You gave Pieck a blank face, “Chave- what?”

“Chavelin.” Pieck tilted her head at you. “You know, horse meat?”

Suddenly, the chavelin was making another entrance, just this time coming back up. You smashed a hand over your mouth as the horse meat mingled with your stomach acid, begging to be back on the plate in front of you. You made quick eyes around the table; first at Pieck who was rubbing your shoulder soothingly and asking what was wrong, then to Reiner who was leaning across the table with wide eyes, and then to Jean who was already standing, gesturing you towards the bathroom.

Jean, sweet Jean, you felt strangely guilty for consuming the meat but - oddly enough - he didn’t seem to mind. At least, he didn’t look like he minded as you ran off towards the bathroom, your high heels clicking quickly against the fancy tiles of the Italian restaurant.

You swung the bathroom door open, ignoring the cringeworthy smash that erupted through the room once the door hit the wall behind it. There were other women in the bathroom, but you ignored them as you made your way to the first open stall you could find. The women watched curiously as you fell to your knees in front of the toilet, threatening to throw up the food you had so mindlessly eaten for the last hour and a half.

Nothing came out though, only a few breathless burps into the toilet bowl. You sat there for a few minutes longer than you needed to, sitting against the marble-tiled wall beside the toilet. You pressed your face against the tiles lightly, letting the coolness calm down your sweating skin.

“This is the women’s restroom,” A woman’s voice said from beside the sink.

“I’m sorry,” A familiar voice said back, “I’m just here checking up on somebody. She got sick, I’m here to-”

You lightly pushed the bathroom stall open, leaning against the edge of the door. You smiled weakly at Jean, standing with two middle-aged women who you remembered briefly from when you ran in here. He seemed to be aggressively convincing them of his honesty, swinging his arms around ferociously with his words. And upon seeing you standing in the doorway, the women finally believed him and didn’t try stopping him any further.

“Hi,” You said delicately from across the few feet separating you and Jean, “This is the women’s restroom, what are you doing in here?”

Jean bit back his smile, “I thought you might want some company.” Jean crossed the steps between you, now only a few inches away. “Nobody deserves to puke alone.”

You lightly pushed Jean’s shoulder with a giggle, “You’re ridiculous, but thank you-” You turned around and opened your arms to the inside of the empty bathroom stall- “And, welcome to my humble abode.”

“Oh,” Jean said with a smile, “I like what you did with the place.”

You grinned, “Thank you, I just got done with renovations, so I appreciate that.”

“And,” Jean quickly added as he pointed towards the lone sink in the corner, “The kitchen area looks very nice.”

You shrugged, “I tried to go for something a bit more modern and minimalistic.”

Jean breathlessly giggled by your side, “Well, you succeeded.”

Jean let you take the first seat, watching as you found your spot beside the toilet with the side of your face against the tiled wall. Jean then joined you on the floor, sitting by your side and pressing the side of his face against the tiled wall, but only so he could make eye contact with you.

The bathroom got silent a minute after Jean joined you in the stall. You supposed the other women were either staying quiet in order to eavesdrop or left to return to their dinners. Either way - you didn’t care if the women were there or not - you were going to talk to Jean freely in your secret space.

You weren’t sure why the bathroom now felt sacred to you. It wasn’t at the end of the Labyrinth for only the worthy to find. Instead, it was a bathroom in an Italian restaurant with a purely Italian menu that you should have used Google Translate for. But, it felt like you and Jean’s secret space, a place where you two could always find each other and could spend the rest of eternity together. Nothing bad happened within these stall walls, and nobody was eating horse meat for the past hour and a half within these stall walls.

“Do you remember when we first met?” Jean suddenly asked in an attempt to fill the comfortable silence in the bathroom.

You nodded lightly, “Yeah, of course I do.”

You had met Jean at a house party freshman year of college. You were invited since your roommate at the time was sleeping with the home-owner which happened to be one of Jean’s closest friends. And - ironically - you met Jean on the bathroom floor in that house at that fateful party nearly two years ago. It was strange how things went full circle.

Jean leaned his shoulder into your own, “Do you remember why we even started talking that night?”

You grinned to yourself, “Yeah, I do.”

You only started talking to Jean that night because you found him crying on the floor of the bathroom when you went to find your roommate. He was tipsy and had just seen his ex-girlfriend - who he was clearly not over - downstairs, dancing with another man. You had a bag of popcorn that your roommate begged you to make for her, but you instead offered it to Jean and joined him on the bathroom floor.

Jean tilted his head towards you, “Do you remember what you said to me?”

You looked into Jean’s eyes through your thick eyelashes, “Yes, I remember.”

While sitting on the bathroom floor together, Jean ranted to you about his ex-girlfriend and even the new guy she was dancing with. You heard about why they broke up, who she moved onto, and why he couldn’t bring himself to move on. You then leaned into his side on that bathroom floor, whispering one phrase you had been telling yourself for years.

Jean smiled to himself, “When you go looking for gold, you end up finding fool’s gold - so don’t go looking at all.”

“Let the gold come to you.” You whispered back to Jean, finishing your own quote from two years ago. You hadn’t known the words were so monumentous, you thought nothing of the quote and yet it stayed with him all of these years.

“I followed your advice,” Jean said matter-of-factly, “I followed your advice so well - actually - that I even started to push the gold away when it was just within reach.” Jean looked down at his fingers fiddling with the fabric of his slacks. “I set her up on a hundred horrible dates hoping I could forget about her for only a moment. But, I couldn’t forget about her, even if somebody wiped my memory.”

You felt your cheeks grow hot as you smiled at Jean, “That doesn’t even make sense.” Jean looked at like a wounded deer, wide scared eyes taking up all of your sight. “You can’t remember me if your memory was wiped - that’s not possible.”

“I’d manage,” Jean said with newly red cheeks, “I couldn’t forget you, even if the government tried to make me.”

You pushed Jean’s shoulder playfully, “Nuh-uh - you’re a liar, Kirstein.”

Jean shook his head, “Nope, I’ll always remember you.” He leaned his head in towards you. “I’ll remember your laugh and that little wrinkle you get between your eyebrows when I do something stupid.”

“Oh,” You said with a playful furrow of your brow, “‘You mean the wrinkle I get when you do anything?”

Jean grinned lightly, “Yeah, that one.” He continued leaning in closer until he was only a whisper away. “And how you taste like tropical fruits - like lemons and coconut.”

“And,” You whispered to his mouth, “How do you know what I taste like?”

Jean smiled, “I just intend on finding out.” His lips were pressed lightly against your own, his hand on the side of your head. “So, can I find out?”

You nodded, “Please do.”

Jean gently pressed his lips to yours, and the feeling made your stomach flip with excitement. You moved your legs closer to his, bare thighs on clothed thighs and the hem of your dress shifting up to your hips. You didn’t mind the new coldness spreading over your legs because your insides felt unbearably hot when kissing him.

The softness of Jean’s lips weren’t anything new to you. You had kissed Jean before, a soft smooch during a drunk game of spin the bottle - but never like this. His lips tasted like blueberry vodka last time you tasted them, but now his lips tasted like rosé and mint - a byproduct of the wine he had been drinking all night and the mint he sucked on before you ran off towards the bathroom - It wasn’t the best taste, but you weren’t complaining.

“I’m glad you waited for me,” You whispered into Jean’s mouth.

It became extremely clear to you at some point of the night just how much Jean means to you. Maybe because of one of the many times when you caught Jean’s eyes looking into your own. Or, one of the many times you noticed Jean talking to you when telling a story, as if you were the only one there with him. Or, one of the many times when you watched Jean fiddle mindlessly with the top of his wine glass, his eyes never leaving your frame - mentally undressing you in front of everybody in the restaurant and both of your dates.

He couldn’t help it though, he’s always loved how you looked in that black satin dress. It seemed everybody liked the dress, considering both Reiner and Pieck couldn’t keep their eyes off of your frame as well. Reiner and Pieck, who were still waiting at that table, hoping for some word from their dates who now found themselves sucking face in the women’s restroom.

“Jean,” You whispered, “We should head back.”

Jean sighed, “Okay.”

So, you did. You left the bathroom with Jean and eventually the restaurant, planning on going to where you normally did after dates - Jean’s apartment. It wasn’t easy saying goodbye to such a nice guy like Reiner knowing there wouldn’t be a second date, and it wasn’t easy saying no to Pieck’s offer of a second date with just her, and it especially wasn’t easy staring into that half-finished plate of polpette di cavallo until you and Jean finally made your exit.

The car ride was mostly quiet, both of you ignoring the obvious elephant in the room - what the hell happened in the bathroom. You didn’t regret the conversation on the bathroom floor or even the kiss that came afterwards, but you did regret ever cutting the kiss short. You searched your mind for some way back to that moment, thinking of a plan of either building and operating a time machine or trying again with Jean.

“So,” You said, “Pieck seems nice.”

Jean grinned to himself, “So does Reiner.”

You nodded slowly and turned to look out of the window, “‘Think there will be a second date with her?”

“If you’re having a second date with Reiner.” Jean spared a glance from the road in order to look at you. “‘Think there will be a second date with him?”

“Eh, he’s not really my type.”

Jean stopped the car at a red light. The color red seeped through the windshield, turning the inside of the car a bright crimson. Jean’s features were lit up by the light as his gaze danced across every inch of your face.

“He’s not?” Jean asked, “Then, what’s your type?”

You furrowed your brow, “Are you stupid?”

Jean smiled wide, “What are you saying?”

You shook your head and leaned forward, caressing Jean’s cheeks gently. You pressed your lips to his, smiling against his mouth. Jean kissed you back, quickly turning a sensual peck into a feverish makeout.

You felt Jean’s hands as they moved up the soft fabric of your dress. His fingers moved across your side and then wrapped around your body, landing on your back. He used the new position to pull you closer, much to your surprise considering the gasp that escaped from between your lips to the movement.

You wrapped your arms around Jean’s neck, pulling his face in closer. You pushed your tongue towards his mouth, and he gladly let it enter between his lips. You felt his breath hitch in his throat when you curled your tongue and swiped it across the roof of his mouth. Jean responded to the kiss with a tight grip on your dress only bringing you in-

A car suddenly honked it’s horn from behind you. Jean and you pulled apart as quickly as possible, ignoring that anything had happened. You slowly wiped your thumb across your bottom lip, smearing the wetness from the kiss onto your fingertip.

The rest of the ride was brutal, your desire for Jean was only getting unbearable. He didn’t even have to do anything. His fingers curving around the steering wheel made your heart pound. His slight head bob to the music quietly playing from the radio made your stomach inflate with nerves. And, his perfect posture in the driver’s seat made you want to groan with how badly you wanted him.

It was ridiculous, you were turning into a prepubescent boy - finding anything and everything Jean did as the epitome of attraction.

The car couldn’t have pulled into the apartment building’s parking lot any sooner. You were practically melting in Jean’s passenger seat and you needed to feel him again, you didn’t care why. You opened the car door and eventually walked alongside Jean towards his apartment complex.

You silently walked into the apartment building with Jean, and even rode up the elevator just as quiet. You waited beside him as he unlocked his apartment door. You watched as the muscles in his back moved under his shirt as he attempted to hold the door and unlock it at the same time - a trick the lock needed since the apartment was so old.

Once inside, you quickly kicked your shoes off, leaving them to lay with his shoes. You dropped your purse with the shoes as well, leaving it on the floor beside the door. And once you had discarded your unneeded items, you stood there - waiting for a sign from him, any sign at all.

Jean crossed his arms against his chest, his eyes landing on anything in the room but you. He peered across the kitchen and living room, even eyeing his bedroom door for a few seconds. Jean sighed before mumbling into the awkwardly silent room.

“So,” Jean said, “What do you want to do?”

You pressed your lips together, “I liked what we were doing in the car.” Jean suddenly looked at you, his eyes widened. “And, in the bathroom at the restaurant.”

Jean grinned to himself, “‘You wanna do that again?”

“Yes.” You nodded. “I do.”

Jean crossed the space between you, swooping his arms around you and pressing your chest into his. You bent your head upwards, giving Jean more room as his mouth pressed kisses into your neck and cheek. You giggled with your words as you attempted to speak.

“Jean,” You said as you pushed your fingers through his soft hair. You moved Jean’s face back enough to make eye contact with him. “‘Race you to the bedroom?”

Jean never thought he could let go of you in general, never mind quicker than he’s ever done anything before in his life. As soon as you were out his arms, Jean was running towards his bedroom door. You tried to beat him though, grabbing his arm and pulling him backwards, but nothing stopped him - he beat you into the bedroom.

You left the door open in front of you, standing back as Jean threw his discarded clothes from the bedroom floor and into his laundry basket - a half assed attempt at cleaning up. You supposed the gesture was nice, considering he wanted to clean up for you. But, it was even nicer knowing Jean had never seen his date with Pieck ending here.  

Your eyes peered across the entirety of his bedroom, something so familiar now with a different connotation. You’ve touched Jean plenty of times in this very room, but not the way you’re about to. You knew that after tonight, everything would be different between you two - but a good type of different that filled you with hope.

Your eyes landed on the alarm clock on his bedside table, the red numbers flickering suddenly from 11:59 to 12:00.

Second Sunday

Jean’s body weight was crushing on top of you, but a type of crushing weight that was comfortable. You swore you could live under Jean’s body for the rest of eternity. He was warm and strong and his kissing only made the position all that much better.

Your dress was on the floor and you were mostly naked, lying on Jean’s bed with only a bra and panties on. He pressed his bare chest into your chest, the only clothes on his body being his pair of slacks and the brown belt holding them up.

“Jean,” You breathed into his mouth, “I want you.”

Jean groaned against your lips, the sound coming from deep within his throat. He had never thought he’d hear those words from your lips, he never thought he’d be good enough to. But alas, here you were; underneath him, mostly naked, whispering gut wrenching phrases into his mouth.

You moved your hands down his lean body, dainty fingers finding the waistline of his pants. You undid the belt around his waist and threw it to the floor once it was out of the belt loops. You then brought your hands to his zipper, undoing that as well.

You pushed Jean’s slacks down his legs, moving them out of the way in order to free enough space for what you really wanted from him at the moment. You curled your hands around his body, digging your nails into his back in an attempt to bring him closer. You pressed your fingers into the small of his back as you bucked your hips upwards towards him.

You felt as Jean’s hardness pressed down between your legs, and you couldn’t help the moan that escaped from between your lips. Jean moved his lips from yours, allowing more panting breaths to escape from your mouth as he continued to press down into you. He instead kissed down your neck, taking in each moan and ingraining them into his memory.

You moved your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, and pushed them down over his hips. He was just as big as you had always assumed. You weren’t perverted or dirty minded per say, but some nights you’d catch yourself with an excessive amount of questions; you’d wonder about his size, if he were good in bed, and if he had ever satisfied a woman before.

Sure enough, your questions would be answered after tonight.

You brought your hips to his, feeling him through only one layer of clothing now. You brought your hips off of the bed, pushing your panties down over your thighs. You awkwardly moved your legs around Jean’s, attempting to kick the fabric to the floor.

Jean brought his mouth to your ear before breathily whispering, “Do you still want me?”

You nodded frantically, “Yes, yes- yes, please.”

Jean grinned at your response, finally bringing his hips to yours. It was a moment you had waited for for much longer than you thought. This moment was in the distance for two whole years, and now it was finally here. You had wanted this for so long, to the point where you’d take anything Jean would give you - such as a drunken peck and a date with nearly every man on campus.

Next Chapter

[ddarker-dreams]

first kisses / scarlet ribbons.

[Scarlet Ribbons description]

> Concept; Situations from the different “universe” possibilities in Scarlet Ribbons, where SR Reader ends up with a respective partner. All world building/Pre-VA events are identical in each universe, until they split off into romantic pursuits Post-VA.

>Bruno Bucciarati;

It’s been a strange vacation. You’d like to think that you’re patient, but this is testing the limits of what you can handle. To think that Bruno finds this an enjoyable hobby is difficult to understand. 

"I don’t think I can do this, Bruno...” 

Your hands are shaky around the fishing rod’s handle, making the task at hand all the more difficult. He places his hand atop yours in hopes of reassuring you. The sight before you is stunning, clear ocean water as far as the eye can see, accompanied by a breeze that tickles your face. It smells of saltwater and Bruno’s musky cologne. He’s envelopes you from behind, whispering words of encouragement, warm breath fanning against your earlobe.

“You’re doing just fine,” he hums, clearly amused with your predicament. You pout, uncaring that he can’t see, thinking of how to best get revenge on your Capo later. When he mentioned a getaway weekend to the beach, this wasn’t what you were expecting. “You’ve made it through situations more strenuous than this one, cara. Steady yourself.” 

You grumble out a low string of words. He’s impossible to stay upset with. Time passes by, no fish biting the bait in the water. Finally, you feel the unmistakable tug, adrenaline pumping through your veins. Summoning all your strength, you hoist the fishing rod over your shoulder. Your catch hangs from the hook, a sign of victory, and a reward for your patience. 

Pivoting on your heel, you beam up at Bruno who returns your enthusiasm. “I did it, I did it!” 

“What did I tell you?” He chuckles as you celebrate, jumping up and down on the pier. Everything hits at once. The thought of how his father would’ve loved you as much as he does, how the sunset complements your glowing complexion, of how long he’s wanted to be intimate with you like this. Softening his gaze, his hands cup either side of your face. Anything up until this moment is forgotten, Bruno looking deep into your eyes. 

He closes the distance, head tilting to the side. He tastes of finely aged wine, kissing you with every ounce of emotion that’s been repressed for so long. You return the sentiments with equal fervor, the two of you breathing in sync as your lips mesh together. It’s you who pulls back first, lips tingling from the sensation of Bruno’s passion. He has successfully taken your breath away, a factor he’ll undoubtedly tease you about later. Not that you can be upset with him. If there’s anything Bruno is good at, it’s winning you over. 

He chuckles as you rush to catch your breath, fixing a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

>Giorno Giovanna;

Hand in hand, you stroll down the streets of Naples by your lover’s side. It’s been an evening long in the making. Giorno is busy as he is diligent, another reason you’re grateful that he had a lull in his schedule to spend the day with you. Your day has overwhelmed your heart with joy since its conception, the two of you partaking in a variety of activities. All of which pales in comparison to spending time with the one you love. Quality time with Giorno is meant to be treasured, and you intend on doing just that. 

He comes to a sudden pause, earning your attention. You follow his example, standing in place until he explains what he’s up to. The night sky hangs overhead, not a single cloud in sight. Moonlight shines against his face, eyebrows furrowing and full lips parting. Giorno takes the time to prepare his words, hoping to still his rapidly beating heart. You blink, recognizing his thoughtful countenance, wondering what he intends to do next.

He takes a deep breath. “[First]... I wanted to thank you. For lending me your strength.” 

The statement feels out of the blue, sincerity interlaced with every word. You tilt your head. Where is this heading? Giorno wills himself to continue, momentarily distracted by your cute expression. With the hand that holds yours, he brings it to his lips, placing a chaste kiss against it. Warmth floods your face at the intimate gesture. It’s hard not to recall how you did the same thing to him long ago, when Giorno first took his role as Don of Passione. For someone this important to be doing that for you, it’s dizzying. 

Giorno looks up at your flustered self through thick eyelashes, drinking in the sight. 

“Y-you don’t need to thank me for anything.” You stutter out, feeling vulnerable under his gaze. If anything, you’re immensely grateful to him, for giving you the possibility at a different life. Had it not been for Giorno, crippling debt would still have a stronghold on your life. He shakes his head in disagreement. 

“I don’t get to express my gratitude for you often,” he releases your hand, going to cup your face. The pad of his thumb rubs circles lovingly into your cheeks. “So please let me do so now.” 

His words are so quiet, meant only for you to hear. You know how vulnerable he’s allowing himself to be with you. Love swells in your heart, and you meet him halfway to reciprocate the kiss he initiates. Your eyes flutter shut, arms wrapping around his neck; and his hands settle on your waist. There’s so much work to be done to secure the future he wants. A future with you in it. But for now, his mind thinks of none of the sort, too taken with your existence to entertain the thought of anything else.

>Guido Mista;

“You should feel all better now, right?”

Number Five’s sniffles settle down when you pull back, face morphing into a teary eye smile. This has become a tradition of sorts. When the other Pistols take to bullying Number Five, you make sure to pepper him in tiny smooches. Finally content after receiving his share of affection, Number Five returns to his spot of sitting on your shoulder. You’re about to return to looking at your phone when you hear someone clearing their throat.

Mista is stealing glances, his hat having been removed at your behest. Loose, brown curls frame his face, which has an uncharacteristic frown on it. “So, [First]...”

“So, Mista?” You repeat back to him, raising an eyebrow. His arm is behind you on the couch, fingers curling up and warm eyes avoiding yours. His sudden shift in mood strikes you as odd. Mista is the confident, boisterous type. Fluctuating from winking at you, to sharing god awful pickup lines from his favorite movies, and even trying to hit on you in your native tongue. So this apprehension is jarring.

He lets out a laugh, a nervous tick you’ve picked up on. “I was just thinking, babe. About how we haven’t... well, y’know...”

Mista is talking with his hands, trying to communicate what’s on his mind. You have a slight idea at what he’s hinting at. Instead of playing along with him, you decide to tease him as revenge for all the times he’s embarrassed you.

“That we haven’t slept together yet? Is that it? Hm, it’s pretty bold of you to try and come out and try to say that...”

You can’t hold back your grin at how his eyes widen, tan face accented with a bright blush. He’s sputtering out words in a last ditch attempt to salvage his tattered pride. When he sees you breaking out into laughter, and realizes you’re just messing with him, he fully intends to return the favor. Your wrists are grabbed ahold of, Mista pushing you down against the couch. Even as he hovers above you with what’s supposed to be a threatening look, your laughter only grows louder.

What should he do with you...? There’s always the option of tickling you until you’re begging for forgiveness. Or, he could just get what he originally wanted, by making your first kiss his. Opting on the latter, he brings his face down to meet yours. The kiss is everyone you wanted. A bit sloppy, his teeth tugging on your bottom lip, and chest heaving with excitement. Wrapping your arms around his neck, he lets out a noise of surprise when you draw him in closer.

>Narancia Ghirgha;

“So, what does this lyric mean?”

This has become a familiar game between you and Narancia. He tends to enjoy English music more than anything else, and jumps at the opportunity to listen to it with you. Today, you’re sitting shoulder to shoulder on your bed, sharing headphones. It’s a hot day out, your fan trying its best to stave off the summer heat. It’s always the little moments like this with Narancia that you treasure the most.

He waited until the song was finished to pose his question. You place a finger to your cheek, attempting to translate the notable lyrics in your mind before you explain them. You’re surprised that he’s expressing an interest in this particular song — Nights in White Satin — since it isn’t his normal taste. You were hoping to expose him to some other genres. The lyrics of the chorus are the simplest to bring over into Italian, so you start off with that.

His face goes red as a cherry as you repeat “I love you”, for every time the chorus would. Narancia stares at you, jaw agape, and it takes a moment for you to realize why he’s acting this way. Despite your close relationship, and evident feelings, neither of you have spoken those intimate words to one another before now. Feeling suddenly self conscious, you go to reaffirm that you were just translating the lyrics as he asked. 

“I was just—“

“I, uh, I l-love you too, [First]!” He exclaims at a loud volume, interrupting you.

You stare at him. He stares at you. Ah. It looks like you weren’t fast enough to explain the situation. You’re uncertain of who is most embarrassed at this rate. Neither of you speak a word, Narancia experiencing this situation through an entirely different viewpoint. Well, it’s not like you’d be lying if you had said those words with different intent. Still, such a heartfelt confession should be saved for a more fitting environment. Not when you’re wearing booty shorts and a tank top, fighting off sweat from Naple’s oppressive summer.

Narancia seems to be processing things on his own, shuffling to move even closer to you. He’s thinking that, after such a confession, now is the best time to make a move. His face is in front of yours before you know it, a shaky hand being pressed against the side of your face. He squeezes his eyes shut, puckering his lips, and leans in for the kiss. You’re in disbelief over how all of this is going down. It’ll be a story for the ages, you think.

Reaffirming his actions, you return his kiss with a smile, fighting off a laugh. Narancia’s body stiffens when your lips make contact, uncertain if he should hold back or go all in like he desperately wants to. The anxiety swelling up inside him wins out in the end. He pulls back, chest heaving, even though the kiss was very brief. He decides that you taste good, sweet as your personality. 

“Nara, amore mio,” you smile, giggles sneaking past your lips. “Those were just the lyrics to the song. So I’ll say it for real this time. I love you.”

He was... so enamored by you saying it the first time, but now everything makes sense. It hits him like a ton of bricks. Narancia wants nothing more than to sink into the earth, but settles for shoving his face into your pillow and screaming. This has got to be the most humiliating moment of his life. You find it endearing, reassuring him that this is a fitting first kiss from him.

That doesn’t make him feel better.

>Pannacotta Fugo;

“So, to repeat my previous point, you will need to find the value of x by using this process...”

Fugo, blessed be his soul, has appointed himself as your math tutor. While you’re immensely grateful for his efforts, it’s currently one in the morning. You’re fighting the urge to doze off, his velvety voice not making it any easier on you. The topic at hand has long since been forgotten, you think it may have had something to do with algebra. You watch him through lidded eyes, adoration bubbling up from within. He looks so serious, it’s precious. Every time he goes into a new explanation, you can tell that this is a subject he loves to talk about. You could listen to him speak for hours. Though it’d be preferable if it weren’t about math...

“[First]. You’re not listening, are you?” He inquires with a frustrated sigh, poking your cheek. At the interruption of your daydreaming, you lift your head up, straightening your posture. In a meager attempt to prove you were paying attention, you say the first thing that comes to mind.

“W-what was that? Sorry, I didn’t catch the last part, something about capybaras right...” 

Fugo squints at you, lips pursing. He takes in a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm. You’re lucky that he loves you. Anyone else would’ve had a fork or some other sharp object shoved into them by now. He fights off any bitter feelings, looking down and catching the time. The excitement of teaching you got the better of him, he didn’t even realize that it had gotten this late, no wonder you’re falling asleep.

He closes your college textbook, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s enough for tonight. You need to get to bed. Now.” 

You mistake his concern for your well being as anger for not paying attention. Fugo always has a difficult time getting the full extent of his feelings across, and he normally doesn’t have any motivation to try. You’re a different story. A reason to better himself, so that he might feel deserving of your love. Fugo’s eyes soften at your crestfallen form, scooting his chair next to yours.

“Hey,” he speaks up in a whisper, tipping his head down to look you in the eye. “You did good today, I’m proud. We’ll continue tomorrow, but you should rest now.” 

“Mm, alright. But first, you need to do me a favor,” you respond through a tired haze. In this sleep deprived state, you’re acting on impulse, your eyes fixated on Fugo’s lips. There’s a single goal at this point. “I want... I want kisses.” 

He’s never seen you this bold before. How tired are you...? He’ll need to ask Bucciarati to reduce your hours after this. For now, he’s flooded with tingling warmth. Fugo has long awaited this day, a day where he could get his feelings for you across. A silent prayer is said that you’ll remember this in the morning. Fugo nods once, pressing a quick peck to your lips. Then to your nose, and your forehead after that. You’ve already fallen asleep, a content smile on your lips. What should he do with you?

Sighing, he picks you up, careful not to wake you. “You’re so much trouble, [First].”

And he loves you for it.

>Leone Abbacchio;

“For once, just let me show you that I’m serious!”

It hurts. The corner of your eyes are stinging, your throat raw from screaming. Abbacchio stares down at you, his own chest heaving from putting up a verbal fight. You’re insufferably persistent in seeking him out. He’ll give you one thing, when you don’t want to back down, you give it your all. Not that he understands it.

Why won’t you just leave me alone already? It’s for your own good. What you see in him is a mystery, that he isn’t willing to entertain any longer. He hurts people. He has hurt too numerous to count, and doesn’t want to add the person he loves to the ranks. Should you hate him, then so be it; maybe then it’ll be easier for him to move on. When you’re staring up at him with fire burning in your eyes, it makes it all the more difficult to hold his ground. He has to, he tells himself. 

“Enough with this already. I’m done here.” He inhales sharply, wanting nothing more than to vanish from this convicting situation. A part of him knows that it’s wishful thinking, the part that knows you. And how stubborn you can be once there’s an idea in your mind. It’s what he both dreads and adores about you.

You rush to block his path of escape, borderline stomping on the way there. He’s taken aback by how bold you’re acting — you’re so certain of yourself. This is how you’ve always been. Abbacchio can’t help but feel jealous at this self-assured nature, how you know what needs to be done. Dammit, even when he’s trying to distance himself from you, his mind drifts elsewhere...

The two of you glare at one another, both parties refusing to back down. If Abbacchio is going to cower away from you, so be it; but not before he understands how much you care. That you’ve meant every word you said. That every action, the hand of compassion you’ve extended towards him, and the relationship built off of it means something to you. You hope it means the same amount to him.

Grabbing a hold of his collar, you jerk the fabric down towards you. He’s scowling, about to ask what the fuck you’re doing, when your faces are inches apart. He needs to move away. He needs to keep you at an arms length, like it’s supposed to be. Abbacchio knows this, and yet, he remains still as a statue.

In stark contrast to your rough actions, your lips meeting his is anything but. It’s driven by months of suppression. Time is at a standstill, neither of you knowing with confidence of what to do next. He doesn’t reciprocate or push you away, too absorbed with his self deprecating thoughts to act clearly. It’s only when you pull back, eyes glassy, that he comes to his senses. 

Was your hunch wrong? Does he really not...? 

Abbacchio’s body acts on his behalf. As he now leads the kiss, it’s far rougher, conveying all that he’s afraid to say. It’s imperfect, as all things are; but the start to a brighter future. You won him over in the end, as frustrating as it may be to admit. It’s a victory that he doesn’t mind. 

>Trish Una;

“I-I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so beautiful.”

Is this what it’s like to see a goddess in the flesh? Trish stands before you, wearing a stunning outfit unlike anything you’ve ever seen; a black as night dress that hugs against her curves. She’s completely dolled up, ethereal. Wearing winged eyeliner, crimson lip stick, highlighter complementing her cheekbones and blush dusting across her face. It’s mixing in with how flustered you’re making her with that doting stare, Trish having a difficult time maintaining eye contact.

She looks down to her stilettos, the distraction offering an opportunity to think. You’re the first person to ever look at her like this. To offer your full heart and adoration, with no agendas hidden beneath the surface. No, there’s nothing but unabashed care in you directed towards her. Rivaled only by Trish’s love for you.

“D-don’t get all cheesy on me now,” she stutters out, willing herself to return your gaze. Your smile is contagious, and she finds herself returning it. You’re wearing a formal getup as well, and she admires every detail of your outfit. It was one that she picked out for you a week prior, and as predicted, it suits you perfectly. “You look... good. Amazing, I mean.” 

Trish’s heart flutters at the laugh that leaves your lips. Every movement you make has this bewitching power over her, a spell that she doesn’t mind being under. If it’s for you, that is. 

Tonight is an important one -- her first live performance in front of a crowd. You’re nothing if not proud. The two of you have come far, overcoming tribulations that most would crumble under. It feels right. Earned. After the hell you endured together, to experience a shot at something new. Your support for her is what’s made it all possible. 

It won’t be long now until she’s called on stage. If anything, she should be in the greenroom by now, checking through the final touches for the performance. Knowing that you’ll be in the crowd, listening to her song is a motivator unlike any other. For now, though, all of that has been put to the side. It feels like the perfect time. 

Heels click against the ground as she approaches, taking your hands in her own. Swinging them back and forth, she struggles to find the proper words. “Tonight... tonight was only possible because of you. I wanted to tell you that.” 

“But you--”

A manicured finger is pressed against your lips, and she shushes you. 

“Let me finish,” she smiles, content at how you nod, a blush forming on your face. “There’s one thing missing that you need to fix. Give me a kiss for good luck, or I won’t forgive you.” 

You’ve never been happier to follow an order. Her lips are soft, feather light against your own. Some of her lipstick is bound to rub off -- not that either of you care -- and she wraps her arms around your neck. Knowing Trish, she’ll be upset should you mess up her hair. You settle on wrapping your arms around her waist, bringing her in closer. The taste of her lip primer is addicting, tasting faintly of bubblegum. 

Trish doesn’t let you pull back for air, too intent on drinking you in for as long as she can. 

[mistaeq]

The Jobros: Finding out their s/o is Pregnant with Twins

TW // none

Original Request: Can you do the jojo's reaction to their s/o being pregnant with twins after a long time of trying? You can find this here.

The sweet @serenityblaze44 asked for this same prompt with the Jobros, so... here it is! <3

WORD COUNT: 2.6k

ROBERT E. O. SPEEDWAGON

As soon as you tell him, his eyes widen, like a cat who saw his favourite toy. It's almost as if he was a kid, and you were telling him that Santa was gonna bring him his favourite gift ever. No wonder, he'll be speechless for some seconds. Not only one baby, but two? This sounds all the way like a dream becoming reality. Living in the street like he did years ago, he could only dream about having a family.

You've been trying so hard to have a baby, you both felt ready, and after all the danger he went through along with Jonathan, Robert wants to settle down and have a family, finally starting something serious. But you had a lot of problems with getting pregnant, and he was losing his hope. Until you told him you were expecting a baby. And now, you were telling him they were two, two angels of his growing in your stomach. This feels crazy.

Speedwagon won't force you and won't get angry, if you don't feel like you'd like something like this, but he'd love to name one of the twins Jonathan or William if there's at least a boy and Erina if there's at least a girl. These people mattered so much in his life, and would be the happiest if he could bring these names with him forever. If you don't like the idea, he will respectfully accept it, and he's open and ready to hear your own ideas, too!

He wants everything to be completely organized, when the twins will come to the world. Every parent buys furniture and clothing for their baby, even before the birth, it's a pretty common thing. But Robert more or less behaved like Joseph buying stuff for Shizuka with Josuke's money. Speedwagon almost bought an entire baby store out of happiness and excitement. He's enthusiast and nervous. Bear with this loving gentleman.

"What do you mean I don't have to buy six cribs for the babies? What their two ones break and we need to change it?" he groans, handing you a bag, you looking at him with questioning eyes. "Nevermind... y/n, will you hold these fifty pacifiers for me while I get the twenty pairs of baby shoes out of the car?"

Speedwagon can't keep the news to himself. He'll call Erina before everyone else, and then all his friends, like immediately, to tell them the good news. He looks calm and rational, but he spent most of his life in London's street, and few years won't erase his loud and impulsive attitude. It's probably a good thing, after all. Even gentlemen can be excited. A little sudden, but hearing it makes Erina so happy, she'll be like an aunt for your kids!

He would enjoy reading books to your stomach during your pregnancy. He would have done it even if they weren't twins, but he claims that being them two, he'll need to work twice the amount he did before to teach them stories and literature. Robert is an amazing man, but still a too grown baby, he'll never stop his ideas about how to teach the children something. He just thinks about what he'd like to do or hear if he was a child.

CAESAR ANTONIO ZEPPELI

He stops practicing with his hamon for some seconds as soon as you tell him. Funny, he was so focused on his training that he swore he started hearing things. You didn't just tell him that the baby bubble growing in your stomach are in reality two baby bubbles. He... oh, forget it Caesar, you must have dreamt it. But you're right next to him, and almost immediately repeat what you just told him, making him realize what he heard is true.

It takes a while for the italian boy to realize it, but when he finally does, you can tell he's happy. Mamma mia. The adrenaline and excitemente in his body won't stop flowing, this is why, when Caesar will hug you, pick you up and jump around, hamon bubbles will still be coming out of his fingertips, and you find it the cutest thing ever. It's the physical proof of how happy you make him, there's no way to deny it. Family is all he ever wanted, over his flirting habit. You're the right one for him and he knows.

Prepare your kids and your stomach to get a whole load of opera music during your pregnancy. Caesar is a great lover of opera, and will care about his kids to be as informed on it and respectful of the genre. Either he'll put on some of it, of he'll straight up sing it for you and your future children. His singing voice isn't actually so bad, you notice, and this is how he earns the task of singing them the lullabies when they'll come to the world.

"Hey! What do you mean I get to sing them the lullabies... I'm good at opera... not baby songs..." he whines, almost sounding like a baby himself. "Fine... but at one condition. You change the diapers and I sing the lullabies. Take it or leave it."

He cares a lot about his family's traditions to go on. Being the flamboyant italian he is, Caesar prides himself on the love for his close family and relatives. He doesn't have a huge request for you, but he cares about what he's gonna ask. The father-to-be would be happy, if one of the twins is a boy, to give him Antonio as a second name. Like his own second name, and his grandpa's too. He secretly hopes the twins are a boy and a girl, he's always wanted a baby princess.

The young Zeppeli will grow twice more protective and caring of you. This translates in him not letting Joseph get closer to you than three meters away. This is how you learn to speak even louder to talk with people. Your loving boy will always be in front of you to keep you safe. You appreciate it, but sometimes he's exaggerated.

He'll probably beg you on his knees, for you to allow him to teach the children how to master the hamon technique when they'll grow up. You can't really deny it, sometimes it's useful. During your pregnancy, Caesar and his calming waves helped you coping with pregnancy pains and cramps, massaging your belly and leaving some bubbles around to soothe and distract you. Oh, your caring italian love.

NORIAKI KAKYOIN

When you told him the good news, his heart exploded with happiness and excitement. However, Noriaki is known for being a pretty calm boy, and he tried his best to keep calm after your words, too. You had to tell him to let go and don't worry about wanting to hug you, or pick you up and kiss you, or even cry, if he felt like letting it all out.

Before you even got pregnant, Kakyoin and you had been trying every single way on Earth to have a baby. Take count of your most fertile phase, buy a lot of pregnancy tests, using different positions, praying, making rituals, crying and asking Siri, in tears, why Noriaki couldn't manage to get you pregnant. Did those ways work so well that you got twice more pregnant than you expected? Nevermind, all you know is that you and your loving cherry boy are gonna have two beautiful babies.

"Listen... why do you think I can't get my baby pregnant? We've been trying every single way... do you have any advice?" as soon as Siri answered, Kakyoin's eyes widened, and raised an eyebrow. "Hey, don't give me the 'Sorry, I'm not sure what you said' treatment!"

One of his first thoughts, is that there's a small - but now it's higher because the babies are two - percentage of chances your babies might be stand users. Yes, it's not the highest percentage ever, but it's still there, and Kakyoin is pretty afraid of it. Stand users' lives are never calm and quiet, he had the occasion to prove this himself. They often go towards almost deadly experiences. He's gotta be a good dad and protect his children.

Hierophant Green is overjoyed! Noriaki and his stand worked hard, to create some decorations for the babies' room with emeralds. Green is a neutral color, since you don't know whether the twins will be boys, girls, or both. Still, you don't think colors like pink and blue are gendered, that's some stereotypical bullshit. But you had the luck of having green decorations, perfect for anyone, from Hierophant's power.

Kakyoin secretly hopes that at least one of the babies, no matter whether it's a boy or a girl, will have his hair color or hair noodle. Think about it, wouldn't it be funny, cute and incredibly special to have a small version of your husband/boyfriend walking around the house? Oh god, what if they're identical twins? Three Noriakis? Oh my.

Even if this might embarrass him a little, you'll often get to see his parents during your pregnancy. First of all, to give them the good news about the baby being in reality two babies, and second of all because mrs. Kakyoin would be on cloud nine, getting the chance to give you some parenting advice. That's also how you get to know some interesting information and curiosities about your man's childhood. The cutest things ever. But this... is another story.

NIJIMURA OKUYASU

Okuyasu.exe has stopped working. What do you mean two babies? He thought the shocking news were finished, after the pregnancy announcement. He's gonna ask you a billion times, on the verge of tears, if you're joking or messing with him, knowing how much these news matter to his heart. When he gets you're serious, Okuyasu just lets go and cries. He feels so damn happy.

He learnt to hate your period as much as you, honestly. Because everytime you got it, it meant another month in which he had failed in getting you pregnant had passed, and this made him feel useless and disappointing. You never thought anything like this about him, but making him understand this is pretty difficult, he wouldn't have forgiven himself until he succeeded. You wanted a baby and Okuyasu wanted so too, so he would have given it to you, no matter what.

"Oi... did you... you know, bleed this month already?" Okuyasu asked, with the eyes of someone who was afraid of asking. But you shook your head. "This is good, love... but let's not get our hopes up, shall we, y/n?"

He doesn't really have any special requests or ideas for your babies' names. Or better, he does have one, but will never tell you, as he thinks for sure that you'll never agree with doing it. Okuyasu would have liked the kanji "兆" ("chou": trillion) to be in at least one of your babies' names, to remember his brother. But your boy is pretty sure you'd hate it, and he'd never suggest this. You'll probably feel there's something he's not telling you and find out anyway.

Expecting two babies is tiring, and you'll need to rest a lot. Okuyasu would like to join you and hold you in your sleep, but he also wants to be awake to take care of you, get you something to eat or drink, or put in order his messy house to make it look at least decent for when the babies will come. This is why, while you take your naps, he works around the house and lets The Hand cuddle with you. It's always him, after all. He feels the way you hold his stand.

This leads to the father-to-be being often pretty tired, too. He overworks himself. At night, when he finally joins you in your bed, happens to fall asleep in a matter of seconds, wearing his ordinary clothes instead of his pajamas. You can tell he's gonna be a good dad. Some mornings during your pregnancy, if you happened to wake up before him, you'd quietly turn off his alarm clock for him to rest more.

Okuyasu's dad is on cloud nine too, as his family is going to get larger. Mansaku totally wants to take a photo with you two and his grandchildren, as soon as they'll be born. He accepted you and behaves with you the same caring way he does towards his son. He's changed in a better man, despite his appearance. But the first person Okuyasu told the good news to, was Keicho. He purposely went on his grave, because he knew his brother would have been proud.

BRUNO BUCCIARATI

You tell him the good news while he's working. Not only it'll make his day better, but it'll also hopefully get his mind off of that giant bunch of papers on his desk, for once. The capo suddenly stops, moving his gaze towards your eyes, then your stomach, then your eyes again. You'll have to repeat, or he'll be sure he's imagined what you said because of the too much time spent working. But there's no joke or dream, you're pregnant with twins.

Screw all the papers and all the work that's left. He's gonna get you in a so tight and warm embrace of his, and never let go. Libeccio's for dinner that night? Guaranteed. He's usually a calm man, but whatever is related to his family, gets celebrated. When you announced your pregnancy, you had a dinner with the whole gang at the restaurant, but this time Bruno would rather have something more personal and private with you. Make the dinner romantic.

When you were still trying to have a baby, Bucciarati was the one who managed not to lost his temper when every attempt of yours resulted in a negative pregnancy test. But when you weren't around, I won't say he cried, but was pretty close. He was afraid of not being able to give you what you wanted, and usually ranted about this with Abbacchio. Bruno wanted to be the shoulder you could cry on, and couldn't breakdown too.

You both decided to wait some time before telling the gang about the baby being in reality two babies. They were still excited for your pregnancy itself, Mista and Narancia above everyone, and giving another shocking news would have probably brought the peace to say arrivederci. They still managed to get you confess, the look in Bruno's expressive eyes was too happy not to notice.

Just like Giorno would do, Bruno wouldn't be happy if his two angels ended up being involved in Passione's business. He totally will let the gang around his babies, as he trusts them, but during your pregnancy you both decided that the one of you taking care of the babies on a certain day, wouldn't even think of getting close to Passione's headquarters with the children. And you agreed with Bucciarati, for your little ones' safety.

"You'll agree with me that our children's safety is the most important thing, tesoro mio..." Bruno murmured, caressing your cheek. "Let's not bring them close to this place ever, I beg you. I'm sure you'll understand."

He would enjoy talking and interacting with his babies by laying his head on your stomach, kissing it and listening to them moving in the last weeks of your pregnancy. Sticky Fingers is in love with you too, and Bruno won't ever lose the chance to close you in a cuddle sandwich between his body and his stand's to make you feel protected and let you know how proud of you he is. Bucciarati will be a special dad, indeed.

[upcloseandchaotic]

Girls’ Night

This idea has been bouncing in my head for a while mostly as a distraction from doing my other WIPs. It was also originally supposed to be short.... I don’t know what happened 🤷🏼‍♀️

Summary: After helping Bucky with a rough round of nightmares, you decide that you need to have a Girls’ Night with your friends.

One Shot; 2,478 words 

Disclaimer: Bucky, Natasha, and Wanda are not my characters.

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Natasha Romanova, Wanda Maximoff, Female!Reader

Relationships: Bucky x Female!Reader

In the sunlight his hair was a soft chestnut color, but now as you ran your hand through it and wrapped the silky locks between your fingers, the night seemed to darkened it to where someone could mistake it for black, almost as dark as the night sky. You hummed to yourself, imagining what his hair would look like filled with falling stars and circling planets, but then quietened down as you heard his voice start rumbling in his chest, a pained groan building in his throat.

Soon Russian words started falling sharply from his lips. His arms and legs started twitching, his brow furrowing. You quickly grabbed your phone from the side table, pressing the button to open your notes app and started writing down everything that seemed important, like names or locations. It looked as if his nightmare from a couple of hours before was coming back, but this time his dream went more in depth. You were able to pull some ideas of where this “vault” was located, names of people, random words that you think were once used to help program him. It hurt for you to watch him twisting and turning, crying out in pain, it left you feeling helpless even though you knew from experience that waking him up would just make it worse.

The longer it continued you felt a rage start simmering down in the pit of your stomach. It burned as if a coal had finally caught a flicker of a flame and grew until your hands were shaking and you were silently fighting with yourself to stay there with him and not go find the people responsible for his pain. 

Once his murmurs turned into more like whimpers and his twitching started to slow, you started whispering sweet nothings into his ear and gently combing his hair back from his sweating face. Slowly, without waking up from his dream, he started to relax back into the bed and eventually you can hear light snores signalling that he has fallen back into a dreamless sleep. Before you slide back into your spot beside him you grab your phone and send a message to Wanda and Natasha. Girls’ Night soon?

Wanda was probably still asleep, seeing as it was around five in the morning, but you weren’t surprised to see three dots flashing. Natasha seemed to have an uncanny sense of when Bucky was having nightmares and always seemed to be awake.

Yes! I’ll bring the nail polish! 💅

You smiled and sent back a gif before turning your phone off and threw it back onto the nightstand. Reaching out to Bucky, you smiled as he unconsciously moved to accommodate you; his arm wrapped around your shoulders and when you tucked yourself into his right shoulder he turned, curling up around you and throwing his metal arm around your waist. You could feel the warm huffs against the top of your head and his usual scent of spice, leather and gunmetal surrounded you. With the sound of his heartbeat in your ear and the warmth of his body seeping into you you close your eyes and drift off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

You were standing in the kitchen putting together a cheese and cracker plate when you felt two hands circling around from behind you, one warm and soft and the other cool and hard. They wandered under his shirt you were wearing and started creeping upwards slowly with gentle caresses.

Smiling softly, you put the crackers and cheese down to place your hands over his, halting his movement and . “What are you doing, Buck?”

Bucky’s chin dropped onto your shoulder and he whispered into your ear. “Do I really have to go, doll? You know I don’t care about what you all talk about. I’ll even let you and the girls paint my nails.”

You sighed and twisted around so you could stare into his aquamarine-colored eyes, which were trying to pretend to be charming but actually belied his nerves. He always required some more physical reassurance after having a bad bout of nightmares, and as much as you wanted to allow him to stay so you could comfort him you knew that this Girls’ Night was necessary and that he couldn’t be here. To ease some of his discomfort, though, you pulled him towards you and reached up to cup one cheek. He sighed and leaned into it and you watched as some of the tension in his jaw relaxed.

“Baby, I wish you could. If it was any other night it would be fine, but tonight it really has to be just us girls.” Bucky gave a dejected huff and closed his eyes, leaning a little bit more into your hand, “But I will take up your offer to paint your nails. I have a really pretty blue color that would match your eyes.”

When he opened his eyes again you could see a glint of mischievousness flash briefly and before you could blink he had a grip on your thighs and had you up in the air. You squeaked and quickly wrapped your legs around his waist. He laughed and sat you on the counter next to your half-done cheese and cracker plate. You gave him a mock glare and lightly smacked his chest.

“Don’t be like that, Doll,” Bucky crooned. He stepped forwards so that he was standing between your legs, pressed up against you. Leaning forwards, he hovered his lips so that they were a hairsbreadth apart from yours. You got a clear whiff of his favorite cologne and the mint toothpaste he used. “I was just havin’ a bit of fun. We both know how much you like it when I pick you up like the babydoll you are.”

“That’s true, but the girls are going to be here any moment and I still have a lot of stuff to finish getting ready. Also don’t you have to meet Steve and Sam in about 20 minutes anyways? You still have a 15 minute drive, Buck.”

He hummed, pulling your wrist off of his face to read the time on your watch. When he saw that he was going to run late he grumbled but backed off, allowing you to hop down from the counter but close enough that he could keep his hands on your arms in case you lost your balance.

You hurriedly finished up making the plate of appetizers while Bucky begrudgingly went and collected his wallet and keys and then you both met up at the doorway.

“Have fun with Steve and Sam, baby. Call me if you need me,” You say, leaning up to give him a chaste kiss. Before you could step back, though, he snuck a hand into your hair, keeping you close as he proceeded to deepen the kiss. After a few minutes though someone knocked loudly on the door, startling both of you into separating. When you and Bucky gathered enough braincells to answer the door, Natasha and Wanda were standing there, smirking and giggling at the dazed look on both of your faces.

“Come on, Barnes, it’s our turn with Y/N. You can have her later tonight,” Natasha joked, pushing past you and Bucky to place the wine bottles she brought with her on the living room table. Wanda snuck past too, dropping her bag onto the couch before starting to search for wine glasses in the kitchen.

Bucky chuckled, ignoring the two girls as he dropped another kiss onto your lips. “Yeah, yeah, I hear ya. Bye, babydoll, I’m countin’ down the seconds until I come back to you.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled as you heard a mixed chorus of fake gagging and awe-ing behind you. “Go on, Buck, I’ll see you later.”

“Don’t use all of the nail polish, ladies! I look forward to my manicure when I get home!” he shouted as he walked away, smiling brightly as you laughed. You stayed there, leaning against the doorway to watch him until he disappeared on the stairs.

“Hate to see him leave?” Wanda asked as you closed the door and stepped back into the apartment.

“But love to watch him go,” You sighed dreamily. Natasha groaned and threw a pillow at you, causing you and Wanda to break out into laughter.

“Okay, okay! Truce!” You cried, throwing your hands up.

“Fine,” Natasha conceded, “You live to see another day, Y/N… Now, what information did you find the other night?”

As Wanda opened the bottle of wine and set it to the side to let it breathe, you pulled up your notes and explained what Bucky had said during his latest nightmare as well as what you had been able to find from an initial search. Natasha stayed quiet during your explanation, responding with nothing but the occasional nod, and Wanda pulled her laptop out of her bag, starting it up and opening the files you all had compiled and sent them.

At the end of your report Natasha poured the wine into the glasses and took a quick sip. “This place sounds familiar to me, but I’m not 100% sure I have been there. I think maybe they used it as a threat in the Red Room? What were the names he mentioned again?”

When you repeated them, Wanda chimed in with “I think I’ve heard about that place, it’s in Siberia. Pietro and I were almost sent there a couple of times, they told us it was their top training facility.”

“Could you point it out on a map, Wanda?” You asked, quickly pulling up a map of Serbia on your phone.

“I think I could…here let me see.”

Wanda looked over the map and you bit your lip, twisting the wine glass between your fingers, anxious to see if you guys would have a break through.

“Here,” she said, pointing at a spot in the Balkan Mountains, “It’s closer to Serbia and it’s hidden deep inside one of the mountains.”

“I’ll try and see if I can pull some layout plans from the upload you did, Nat,” You said, reaching for Wanda’s laptop. As you did your deep diving into the files, Natasha and Wanda made a quick order for food from the Italian place around the corner.

Right after the food came in and Wanda had refilled all of the glasses, you gave a short cry of triumph and flipped the computer around to show them the layout of the Hydra base, as well as the information needed to get in. The three of you smirked while raising your glasses in a toast, celebrating that for once you were able to get all of the information needed..

The rest of the night was spent making a plan of attack and then double and triple-checking to make sure everything would go as planned.

You slipped into your apartment silently, placing your heels next to the door and padding softly down the hallway. The whole apartment was dark except for the lights of the busy New York street shining through the window. Using the little bit of light and muscle memory you managed to weave around the furniture, setting your jacket and purse gently on the living room table on your way to your room.

You could see Bucky, sprawled on his side of the bed, body facing the door as if he had tried staying up so he could make sure you got in all right. You sighed, letting your body sag against the door frame briefly even though you winced as your sore muscles ached, a reminder of what you had gotten up to tonight. Even though, originally, it was supposed to be just Wanda and Nat infiltrating the base, you had had to go in to hack some computers. It was just bad luck that those computers were guarded by some giant, beefed up Hydra goon who seemed to be immune to effects of a fucking taser. Needless to say, it was extra satisfying when he did eventually succumb to Natasha’s famous thigh chokehold.

Bucky was snoring lightly, but it seemed as if his sleep would be undisturbed tonight, almost as if his body sensed that one more nightmare was no more. You stepped forwards and cursed loudly as you tripped over his combat boots and went sprawling across the floor. As Bucky startled awake and flipped on the light, you sat there hissing and briefly wondered how satisfying it would be to just throw them in the trash right in the moment.

“Babydoll?” he asked, his voice rough and low as if he were still half asleep, “Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” you huffed, wincing as you climbed back up,, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep, Buck.” 

“Don’t worry about it, I was waiting on you anyways.” Bucky pushed himself up the bed and sat back to watch as you started to gather all of your supplies to get ready for bed. “How was your Girls’ Night? Did you get some free drinks tonight?”

“You know it,” you shot back, winking over your shoulder. You heard his breath hitch as you drew your dress up and off, revealing your black lace thong and push up bra. You turned around and before he could say something you know would lead to both of you not getting any sleep that night, you pointed a finger at him and said, “Not a word, buster.”

Bucky raised his hands in the air with an innocent expression on his face that was quickly overtaken by a charming smile, “I wasn’t goin’ to say nothin’, doll….but now that you mention it, that set does looks stunning on you.”

“Ah ah!,” You cried, wagging your finger once more, “It is 2 AM, James Buchanan Barnes, and we are both exhausted. We’re getting some sleep before anything else, ya hear?” Bucky laughed but agreed, sinking further into the bed the closer you got to finishing your nightly routine. By the time you were climbing into bed yourself his eyes his body had sunk into the bed and his eyes were slowly blinking. Once you were comfortably resting on your side facing him he tucked an arm across your waist and pressed his hand between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer to his body until you both were unable to figure out where one started and the other ended.

“I’m glad you had a fun night with the girls, babydoll,” Bucky whispered into your hair groggily.

“Thanks, baby,” You whispered, smiling as you heard the soft huffs of his breath above your head. You kissed the shoulder closest to you and sighed as you sank into the warmth of his body, the bed, and the knowledge that Bucky was now safe from one more nightmare.

tags: @babiiface95

Dividers by: @whimsicalrogers

[x0401x]

Jeweler Richard Fanbook Short Story #12

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Suit Story

If you went through Ginza’s Main Street from 7-chome to 1-chome, the change in the city’s atmosphere would shock you. Bulgari, Cartier, Louis Vuitton, Chanel. Felt like you could play shiritori with these high-class brand names. It was a fun neighborhood to stroll around during Christmas season, as all the stores would come up with elaborate plans for the decorative lights, but it was currently autumn. The store most closely related to me in these vicinities was the long-established stationery store where I went to buy stationery. It was, however...

“Please raise your arms a little more.”

“All right.”

“Pull your chin back a bit. Yeah, that’s great.”

“Haah. Is this really right?”

“Of course. Might be hard, but please do relax.”

For whatever reason, I was across the street from the stationery store, practically in front of it, on the second floor of a branded men’s fashion store originally from England. On the walls of this mysterious-gentleman-themed space, which housed a bar counter and even a huge aquarium, there were clusters of business suits, pants and waistcoats with basting threads attached to them in conspicuous spots.

It was a place for taking measurements for custom-made stuff.

I couldn’t get over the feeling that this was some kind of mistake. Wasn’t this the stationery store? The place where you could buy vanilla-colored envelopes for 30 yen each? Or illustrated writing paper with seasonal vibes, or pens.

“Seigi, you are too nervous.”

“Nakata-san is such an imp, but so are you.”

Leaning against the bar counter, Richard shrugged his shoulders, indicating possibility.

Today was Thursday. Having been called by Richard, who said he wanted to ask me to do some odd job, I went over to the front of Etranger, and then we came to this store in the green jaguar. Just when I thought he was gonna make me hang with him for shopping, the man on the driver seat hastily took out his phone, showing me a video letter from my dad, Nakata-san.

“Seigi, congrats on your graduation. I wanted to go suit shopping with you, but I’m in Jakarta, so I’ll be borrowing Richard-san’s assistance for that. Seems like people are getting them custom-made lately. Make sure to buy a good one. Well, see ya.”

Richard had watched over me in the passenger seat as my eyes got wet, but the tears drew back in when we stepped into the store.

While talking lightheartedly about the difference between English and Italian suits, the young clerk, who wasn’t all too apart from me in age, smoothly took my body measurements with a measuring tape and showed me countless textures.

“You can also choose the lining. What should we do about the pockets?”

When I started getting dizzy, said man, who was like a page of suits, began giving me suggestions from behind. I had nowhere to run. I was really going to have my suit made here. As I picked a charcoal-gray suit with blue lining, Richard quickly told me that tanzanite cuffs would look very nice in it. Of course, I was thinking the exact same thing.

By the moment that the Onii-san finished the measuring and disappeared into the back of the store to take notes, I heaved a deep sigh. “This kinda stuff’s been happening a lot lately. All I ever do is receive.”

When I said that, Richard laughed, giggles ringing up his throat.

Richard had two types of smiles, and whenever he raised his voice while laughing, if I refused to back down, he’d often give me a word of advice of some sort. When it was a silent smile, I’d feel like he was telling me in some way to “reflect about myself”, which would make me a bit anxious, but I liked both.

Walking up next to me as I stood in front of the mirror, Richard grinned. “It is no longer guaranteed that your body will grow out of your clothes. Isn’t it fun to sometimes purchase slightly larger clothes and try to wait for your body’s growth?”

“Feeling like this talk doesn’t have the ‘sleep well and drink milk’ kinda nuance to it.”

The reply was a smile. How strange. Richard’s face was right at my left side, but the smile in the mirror was looking directly at me. Clad in a double-button slender silhouette suit, his figure was perfect no matter from what angle I looked at it, like an extraordinarily fine jewel, so my own figure as I tensed up beside him appeared even weirder.

“Hey, Richard, I kinda have the feeling that suits are like the base metals of jewelry.”

“Are you referring to the foundation parts of rings, earrings and such?”

I nodded. The base metal was the metal part that formed the foundation for attaching gemstones to jewelry. In stores, people would often memorize the materials and call them by their names, such as gold base metal or platinum base metal.

It was a part that never played the leading role in Etranger, which handled accessories with gemstones on them. But it’d be hard to wear jewelry on the body without it, and it was also a part that allowed people to express their particularities regarding the materials, durability and design. Whether they would be prominent or not depended on the basis. Erm, this was probably what a jeweler from Kyoto that I was acquainted with would say. The contrary was also possible.

“Gotta psyche myself up. If I don’t become someone that won’t lose to this suit, I’d feel bad.”

“This is my personal opinion, but there is nothing more tiring to look at than a jewelry in which the gem and base metal are at rivalry with one another. What you should emphasize is the harmony. Just because you use the finest high-grade eggs and milk as ingredients, it does not mean you will create the best pudding – is that not the same thing?”

“Ah...”

When I replied that, indeed, high-end ingredients were often strongly in demand, the beautiful man nodded with an “exactly as you say”. By the looks of it, those were the sweets that he was into lately. I hadn’t been able to take time some for it at all due to being busy, but I decided to make pudding again one of these days and offer to him. Despite having a wallet that enabled him to eat as many high-grade desserts as he wanted, Richard would always be delighted anew no matter how many of them I made, which made me believe that, as one would expect, he had a talent for pleasing people. I was grateful for his existence.

“Both suits and jewelry are goods that exist for the sake of their owners. The initiative is clear from the start. You must handling it skillful and comfortably, not fight against it. That is why it is custom-made.”

“So you’re also ‘skillfully handling’ the clothes you’re wearing right now?”

“Evidently. Enough that I do not know anymore at what point it ends and I begin.” With that said, Richard sleekly patted his suit. I wanted to try saying that too someday.

We exchanged glances not through the mirror but directly.

When the clerk Onii-san came back, the measuring recommenced. I got kind of embarrassed as he praised me, saying I was well-relaxed.

   “Seigi-kun, good work! Wow, that suit looks really great on you.”

“Thanks, Tanimoto-san. Uh, this print on your furisode, could it be—”

“I was told it’s a modern type of print, but yep, it’s kinda like...”

“It looks like a bismuth crystal!”

With a face that said, “I know, right”, a dandy crease formed under her eyes, which were just a bit more on-the-mark than usual. Her bob-cut hair was the same as always, her cream-colored hakama paired with a yellow-green and dark blue furisode, which bore a mysterious geometric pattern print. On top of being cute, it was unique. She said it was rented, but I got emotional upon finding out there was a furisode that was so much like her.

As for me, I was wearing a double-button English suit that fit my body extremely well. It was a little embarrassing, but the creatures called college boys were more or less the same kind of individuals as myself, so they weren’t too mindful of their male friends’ clothes. Only one of them, who had found employment in the apparel industry, said that “the suit Nakata’s wearing is so nice”.

It was the graduation ceremony of Kasaba University. We gathered in the excessively large auditorium for all but an instant, and once we had our diplomas in hand, it was the beginning of a rapid shooting party, where we took pictures with our preferred friends in spaces near the auditorium. Tanimoto-san came running over to the spot near the central library, where we had decided to meet up.

“Seigi-kun, really, congrats. Things might get hard from now on, but if it’s you, everything will definitely be okay.”

“Thank you. I’ll do my best. I don’t think I’m that big of a deal, though...”

“That’s not true. I know very well how awesome you are.”

I played around a little and bowed my head, also congratulating Tanimoto-san for her graduation, she laughed with a “huhuhu”, looking happy.

She had passed in teaching and she would officially be a middle school science teacher starting this April. She fulfilled the dream that she had told me about when we were in our second year of undergrad. So cool. She had laughed when I said I wanted to take her classes if it were ever possible, but now I knew her video communication address, so it might be that I could actually get to attend her lectures at least once. Even if I were no longer living in Japan.

“Tanimoto-san, the school you’re assigned to is...”

“In Okayama Prefecture. It’s famous for the Katsuta Group of vicarya fossils. Compared to you, it’s next-door.”

In a few days, my address would change from Japan to Sri Lanka. I was going to be a jeweler apprentice. I had been told that I would often have to move around in rough dress, so sure enough, I was going to dedicate myself to wearing formal stuff for the time being. It was a bit of a waste, but Nakata-san and Richard had probably given me a chance to wear this kind of thing because they knew about that.

I could hear a voice in the distance calling, “Shouko~”. It was apparently a friend of Tanimoto-san’s. She waved at them in response.

“Seigi-kun, y’know... I think I was very lucky to meet you in this university. Literally thank you. Thanks to you, university was always fun.”

“Those are all my lines. But Tanimoto-san, I only ever gave you trouble.”

“If you’re gonna say that, same goes for me. I feel like you’ve granted me many opportunities. Seriously, thank you.”

When she smiled, saying she was going to do her best, she looked really cute. Neither of us had any familiarity with Okayama, but surely, she would actively pave the way with her own strength no matter where she was. And on her days off, she would go out to the Katsuta Group to dig up fossils.

“From now on too, if there’s anything I can help you with, I want you to tell me. I’ll do anything. If you run into any weirdo, I’ll get on a plane and come give them a beating.”

“Me too; if anyone ever messes up with you, Seigi-kun, I’ll take my crack hammer and go finish them off. Look forward to it. Ah, Aki told me that a sniper rifle suits me better, apparently?”

“I-I wonder.”

After that, we talked for a while, seated on an inconspicuous bench, and when it was finally time, she told me to at least take care of my body, offering me her hand. I nodded and squeezed it back. Her hand was small but very strong.

“Take care of your body, at the very least. May the blessings of the stones fall upon you.”

“Thank you. You too.”

We bowed deeply, taking pictures with each other while we were at it, and once we were done with the commemorative photoshoot, in which the two of us kept a moderate distance from one another, we parted ways. Students here and there were hugging intensely and wailing, but neither she nor I were that type, and I didn’t think this would be farewell for a lifetime. We would definitely get to see each other from now on too.

However, this was our last time seeing each other while we were students. After the handshake, my angel waved her hand with a “see you”, even more brightly than an actual angel.

Later on, having finished looking around for the friends that I could call friends and going on a tour to tell them “thank you for everything until now”, lastly, I sent a brief text. Not to Richard. To Nakata-san and Hiromi.

“I was able to graduate from university without problems. Thank you very much, truly. I will be in your care from now on too.”

Rather than a greeting, it turned into a notice to announce my renewed determination. The stylish suit indeed gave off an extraordinary feeling of fittingness, but I couldn’t think I was fully used to it. Obviously. It finished being made just a while ago. It would start from here. If it would take on my shape the more I wore it, then I would make sure to wear it steadily to my own liking.

What mattered was the harmony, he had said.

While smoothly stroking the suit, which I still couldn’t deem as anything other than formal wear, as if I were stroking my favorite gemstone, I seared the contrast of cherry blossom petals against the blue sky into my eyes.

[hopetofantasy]

Actress Nora Dari (wtFOCK): “I hope I don't go crazy. I wouldn't be surprised if that happens”

Two years ago she was allowed to bump into Matteo Simoni in ‘Patser’, now your fifteen-year-old knows her as Yasmina from ‘wtFOCK’ and she ended up in Cannes because of the new film by Bas Devos. Where it ends for Nora Dari remains to be seen, but you don't want to get in her way. “You’ve been looking so long for a Moroccan girl who wants to act and then you get me.”

“So I always try to be a bit low key...” She hesitates. "Eumh, do you know what 'low key' means?" "How much of antique do you think I am exactly?" “Gosh. You have a flip cover for your smartphone, I saw.” “Point for Dari. But what are you trying to be a bit low key...” “Huh? Sorry, I have no idea anymore. I was completely distracted by that pigeon over there.” It’s easy to forget - especially when she starts talking in her Genk dialect about her sky-high ambitions or her tough childhood in Winterslag - that Nora Dari is barely seventeen. After all, she’s already accumulated a nice record of achievements in two years. From the Belgian-Finnish crime series ‘Bullets’ (shown on Telenet) and a leading role in ‘wtFOCK’, the online series of SBS and Telenet, to her supporting role in ‘Ghost Tropic’, the most recent full-length movie by Bas Devos, who made the selection of Quinzaine des Réalisateurs in Cannes in May. The day after our conversation at an Antwerp terrace, she  leaves for London, for a fourth and final audition for a lead role in an international film project. “It looks good, but I can't tell you anything about it yet. That’s a tough assignment for me: my whole body really wants to scream. Seriously, I'm pretty much the Moroccan Tom Holland (Spider-Man, and the spoiler king of Marvel's Cinematic Universe). But I'll remain silent!”

How does a large, international production house ends up at your door? Nora Dari: “I started knocking on their door. I'm really not going to sit around and wait for someone to discover me miraculously, so if someone gives me a tip about an interesting movie, I'll go after it myself. I always want more and everything I set my mind to, seems to be working. An international series, ‘wtFOCK’, Cannes with my first film role and now this latest project is also within reach. Can you blame me for believing? In my head, I'm already in Hollywood. First become a Shooting Star at the Berlinale.” Just in between everything? Dari: “You can dream, right? Acknowledgement is not for me - I don't even know who decide such things - but rather, it’s a means to an end. If you end up in the same list of acting prodigies (those Shooting Stars) as Marwan Kenzari, Matteo Simoni and Matthias Schoenaerts, every director knows who you are.” You can also quietly build an acting career in Belgium. Or is that really not an option? Dari: “Why should I linger on a few square meters? My world was so small in Winterslag and now that it’s gradually getting bigger, I really don't know why I should stop at Flanders. Even if ambition is a very dirty word where I come from.”

How? Dari: “Winterslag is a neighborhood where many young people are going into the wrong direction. Big dreams are taboo, apparently. I was bullied, mainly because I wanted to start something with my life. Even if I said that I would one day want to go to New York, I would be laughed at: “Just sit down, Nora! Who do you think you are?”

Keep your head down, keep your nose clean and make sure that you can start working at the age of eighteen: something like that? Dari: *nods* “Graduating and going to work at the age of eighteen seems like quite an achievement in Winterslag. If you hadn't gotten into the wrong shit by then, you would’ve done well. At my school, we had two pupils without an immigration background and otherwise exclusively Turks, Moroccans and Italians from families who were really poor. Our parents worked very hard, you spend a lot of time on the street and bad things sometimes happened. *thinks* There’s a reason why I almost exclusively watch gangstershit movies. I come from a neighborhood where a lot of gangstershit happens. I’ve seen and experienced so many bad things, but at the same time Winterslag is such a big part of who I am and I get very angry when someone else talks about it like I do now. *small laugh* 

I’ll buy a house there one day. It’s still my home, all the beautiful things and all the rotten things in one pile. To be clear: I don't want to romanticize my childhood. Winterslag is hard, but nothing to be sad about. There are so many people who have gone through the same thing. Only, it sucks to be called a whore, because you want to do something that is apparently 'not normal'.”

It dawns on me why you once said that Algerian-Canadian Zaho's song Kif'n'dir summed you up quite nicely. Especially the text 'Je fais la morte pour ne pas mourir'. Dari: “That's what I've been doing for a long time. Keeping myself deathly still and don’t stand out too much. In the long run, you also start to believe what others are telling you, that acting is not for you.”

When did you finally stopping ‘being death’? Dari: “When I was fifteen, when I heard that Adil El Arbi and Bilall Fallah were looking for extras for ‘Patser’. That didn't mean much more than just bumping into Matteo Simoni, but I was sold immediately. In between shots, I approached Adil: “Mr. El Arbi, thank you for opening my eyes. From now on, I’ll go all out for this.” *laughs* We clicked and in the meantime we’ve become friends. I hope he thinks of me when they start recording ‘Patsers’, so that I can show how much I've grown in those two years.”

Not much later, through their casting agency Hakuna, you ended up as a suicide bomber in the Finnish-Belgian Crime series ‘Bullets’. What have I missed? How did you go from a sixteen-year-old extra to such an intense role in a few months? Dari: “I think - if I may say that - they were shocked after my casting. I’ve never thrown myself into a project as hard in my life. Whining. Shouting. Tantrums. All fucking emotions, one after the other. You’ve been looking so long for a Moroccan girl who wants to act and then you get me. *laughs* I've never loved anything as much as acting, so I’m giving everything during a casting. I know that I’m not the best and still have to learn, but I suspect my energy is making up for it. That, and I consider myself a very pleasant colleague. *laughs* I greet everyone in a Genk dialect, always walk around smiling and even bring cookies.

I've always had the feeling that I have to work harder than the rest, because people expect less of me. That's what my father taught my brothers and me. At the Liège boarding school where he studied, he was the only Moroccan in Latin studies: his classmates thought he was weird, because of his origins and the other Moroccans looked at him weirdly, because he aimed higher. "Ah, Mr. pope is back there." In the end it became so unbearable that he enrolled in the TSO (technical school), which was socially accepted.”

How does a 16-year-old feel like a suicide bomber? Dari: “They gave me a background, but I added a few things myself to make it easier. And music helps me really hard too: ‘Qui suis-je’ from Scylla on repeat and then a little method acting in that character. My mother was there on set and apparently got terrified. *laughs* I asked them not to accompany me anymore. When I see them, I come back to myself, while I try very hard to forget myself in front of the camera. I need to be able to get into a role on set. Although it remains very strange to hype yourself up for hours with the mantra 'I'm dying and I'm taking all these people with me'. Fortunately, I can also easily let go. I had to, I had exams the next day. *laughs* Suicide bomber by day, studying economy by night.”

In May you hopped around on the Croisette for the world premiere of ‘Ghost Tropic’. You play the daughter of Khadija, a woman who walks home through Brussels after falling asleep on the metro. Devos makes quiet, poetic arthouse films: it’s a huge leap from teenage series and thrillers. Dari: “It was an adjustment, yes. Before I played in ‘Bullets’, I had never even seen a Flemish film. Not a single one. Or wait: one at school. What was it called? I have to give a speech soon, with its protagonist.”

‘Daens’? With Jan Decleir? Dari: “That one! Everything I had already learned about acting was from Hollywood movies. That enlarged playing style also worked in ‘Bullets’, but when I tried that in ‘Ghost Tropic’, Bas blocked it very quickly. *laughs* "The less you do the better, Nora!" I thought about it all too hard. "Nora, just go." “Yes, but Bas, who am I? What have I been through up to this point?” I have a hard time playing without a backstory in my head.”

Did you learn something from Devos? Dari: “Bas and Maaike Neuville told me in Cannes that I shouldn’t forget to live. I was only busy with what should be my next big step, but I also have to learn to enjoy. Surrendering is nothing dirty, but if I put everything aside for this job, I’ll never be able to put content in my characters. Then they’ll give me a heavy role and I’ll get stuck.”

Sensible advice. Alarm bells already went off when I read in ‘Het Belang van Limburg’ that you certainly wanted to remain celibate until you were 27 and wouldn’t continue your studies, just focussing on your career. Dari: “In the end, I’ll study cross-media management and I’ve come back to that other one as well. *laughs* What?! I’m seventeen, I change my mind completely every month. When I am 40, I don't just want to have a nice IMDb profile to look back on.”

'9000 followers? That is more people than have seen my last film', Devos thought humbly in your Instagram Stories. Dari: “I hope ‘Ghost Tropic’ gets more visitors than I have followers, but I'm not going to bitch if only fifty people come to watch the film in the end. I just like to act and have hardly seen anything from ‘Bullets’ or ‘wtFOCK’ myself. When I'm not on set, I just feel bad. As if I'm not getting the most out of my life. 

At the very least, ‘Ghost Tropic’ gave me another experience and I was able to take my father with me, when we went to the Dominican Republic. My grandfather had passed away just before the shoot and we kind of processed that together there, while we were watching the sunrise at five in the morning. A very tender moment. Very cinematic, too. *thinks* I’m a very passionate person. Everything I experience is immediately very big. It’s all hard, good or bad. So hard that I can't always process all the feelings. *dryly* I hope I don't go crazy. I really wouldn't be surprised if that happens.”

You seem to be especially prone to obsessions. Whether it’s making music, painting or acting: if you decide to do something, everything has to make way for it. Dari: “When I got a keyboard, I was immediately very invested in my music. Making beats to accompany my slam poetry, tinkering at night, searching and keeping my parents awake until they went crazy. And then I suddenly got tired of it and started painting. Swimming. Dancing. I also played soccer for a while, mainly to get my dad's attention. During the 'consultation hour' around the tajine I could never have a chat with my brothers and father, because it was only about football and anime.”

Anime? Dari: “The men in my family are all next-level anime fans. They even speak Japanese to each other. *thinks* And I also plunged into my religion for a while, in between football and slam poetry.”

How? Dari: “When the community center closed its doors around the age of 13 and I saw a whole circle of friends go away in one go, I started clinging to something else. So, faith. At that time I also wore a hijab, because I was convinced that you could only be such a good Muslim. I was really pretty strict and took everything way too literally. Today I understand that you mainly have to look for your own interpretation.”

In the meantime, the average 15-year-old is also going through a storm for the second season of wtFOCK, which can be followed daily on Instagram and wtfock.be, good for about 400,000 visitors a week and more than 8 million watched - or at least started - episodes. Significantly more than the first season, although that also had good numbers. Especially for a series that was deliberately launched in silence. “You’re already bombarded with advertising on Instagram, subtle and less subtle,” says Dari, while she tries so intensely to make eye contact with a waiter that he almost bumps into a glass door. “I don't have any big theories about the future of television, but ‘wtFOCK’ really was a relief. It’s on the internet and you mainly do what you want with it. "Ah, I don't have to look?" That unforced approach works. The worst thing that could have happened to us, was that the press started writing about it en masse: it had to remain a bit mysterious and above all belong to the young people themselves. Normally we don't give interviews either: ‘wtFOCK’ is one big bubble that you shouldn't talk too much about.”

Without any illusions about the appeal of Knack Focus to fifteen-year-olds: is this conversation a good idea? Dari: “Sounds okay to me. I’m more now than just Yasmina? And I think fifteen-year-olds do know Knack.” 

For real? Dari: “That's the book we get in History as source material in class. *laughs* I think I'll stop giving interviews again after this. A little mystery can't hurt.”

SKAM, the Norwegian series of which ‘wtFOCK’ is a remake, became a hit in its own country. That’s not always the case with foreign remakes, except for the Flemish one. It continues to gain popularity. Do you have an explanation for that? Dari: “No idea why things were less successful in other countries, but ‘wtFOCK’ is so good because it is real. We don't disguise anything, don't pour Hollywood sauce on it and talk like I talk to my friends. Apparently, a lot of teachers also follow the series to get a better understanding of their students. Smart, because we tackle all issues a teenager has in a very realistic way.”

The makers of SKAM were prepared with a tour through its country and a survey of Norwegian teenagers. Their biggest conclusion was: no generation suffers as much from performance pressure and comparison anxiety as yours. Dari: “Social media. Instagram is a very beautiful, but at the same time very scary place. A lot of girls now ask me, for example, how they can also enter this profession. But if you ask them why, it turns out that there’s no passion, they just see it as a fast road to fame. Then join ‘Temptation Island’? They see  people like Millie Bobby Brown (from Stranger Things), who is barely fifteen and has a crazy career and they let themselves be hyped about it. I should actually say 'we'. I said it already: I ​​hope I don't go crazy.” *giggles hysterically* 

About 1200 teenagers showed up for the casting of wtFOCK, but the makers did not find their Yasmina there. Dari: *nods* “In the end they also had to call Adil, who gave me the tip.”

Why do you think that is? Dari: “I get angry when someone says they want more diversity, but can't find anyone. *throws arms up dramatically* "They aren't there!" They are there. In my neighborhood alone, so much talent is packed together. You may have to do your best to find them, because if you come from a neighborhood where ambition is laughed at, you’ll not find your way to a casting. Because the TV and film world seem so closed off from the outside - and it is. I also didn't know how to do that, I was just lucky that Adil, Nora Gharib and Ikram Aoulad wanted to help me. They helped me avoid a lot of rookie mistakes. And that I won't sign myself up for Temptation Island or something tomorrow.” *laughs*

Gharib also predicted that as a Moroccan woman she would have problems with ‘Patser’. From the moment you do not portray a classic religious Muslim woman, it seems to already lead to commentary. Dari: “I've had my part too. Women who send to me that I brought shame on the entire Moroccan community, for example, because Yasmina doesn't always wear her hijab. Usually these are women who’ve seen two minutes of the series and then get angry without seeing the context. *blows* You know, I don’t care. If my parents and I are okay with it, then no one has anything to say to me. Criticism slips away from me. It really takes more than an angry DM to get me off my path, I come from Winterslag breeding.”

*** Bas Devos, director ‘Ghost Tropic’:

“I had never seen Nora at work, but her audition video immediately made me curious. At the final casting, where she had to improvise a bit, it was already clear to me after a few minutes. She did a beautiful job. Nora is not trained as an actress, but I often work with a combination of non-professional and professional actors. That really doesn't matter to me. It's all about how naturally someone relates to the camera and how relaxed you are while being filmed. Then very beautiful things can happen. And I think she also liked not having to make her character bigger in an understated film like ‘Ghost Tropic’, as that’s sometimes the case for TV. To hear that you are still playing without doing anything. 

It's cool how she dares to go for something so outspokenly at such a young age, but I did point out to her that working alone isn’t the perfect solution. She’s very fond of that international career, but it is also easy to walk into a wall there. Seventeen-year-olds have to live, right? Well, she's sensible enough, I'm not worried. She'll eventually find the right balance. At the end of the shooting period, she said she hoped we could work together again. I told her that I hope she still likes it by then. *laughs*  Who knows which films will she be in then.”

[0ghostwriter0]

Peaky Blinders Imagines

This is a bit random. This is not edited or proof read so please read and like if you want. Not tagging anyone for this as can be very sensitive.

Pairings: Thomas Shelby x Original Character (Lucille Hughes)

Warnings: Suicide but no major detail, emotions, violence, mention of affairs, swearing

The two meet for the first time when Shelbys chose to expand to south London. Lucille is the niece of Father Hughes so she’s uses to a different way to life.

Before the war, Lucille was abused by her father sexually and physically. His excuse was that he blamed his daughter for not being able to conceive another child after her birth. A fact that her mother had turned a blind eye to. During the war, Lucille was 14 when her father had left for the war and months later she would be orphaned following her fathers death in action which triggered her mother’s depression. By 1924, the 24 year old had been running the Hughes for 10 years. The Hughes were powerful business people but an even more powerful London based Gang. Much to the young Lucille’s dismay, the Hughes became notorious. Being the only person to hand during the war, it was her responsibility to control the legal and illegal business from going under. During the years of the war, Lucille face abuse and hardship from every angle. Much to her surprise, the uncle who comforted her sought out to abuse and rape her for many years before she claimed her full power in the Hughes during 1919. After which the young woman had prematurely aged in wisdom and became one of the most powerful gang leaders in London. After the Italians and Russians were run out of London by the Shelby’s, the young Hughes became a legend. The death of Father Hughes allowed Lucille to hide in the shadows and conduct her business as she saw fit. The once well known woman of society, started to decline from social events until she stop attending, the risk was too high to be left unguarded with socialites. As her power grew so did her lack of trust and rightly so.

By 1931, Lucille was reacquainted with Thomas Shelby. The two began their professional relationship but Lucille wanted an out. Thomas began to see a different side to Lucille that she tried to keep away from her work- the abused woman. Following his wife’s ultimatum, Mr Shelby kept Lizzie away from charity events in order to get closer to Lucille. But when Lizzie, got paranoid about Thomas sleeping with other women even though she said he could “sleep with another if they weren’t in their home and he hadn’t held his children’s hand the day prior”. The MP had been falling out of his marriage for years but for the sake of his children he would stay. One after noon, Lucille had received an invitation for a charity ball being held by the Shelby foundation. Such an invitation had not been received by Ms Hughes for quite sometime and with the added protection of the peaky blinders, Lucille chose to attend. The night was tedious. Lucille sipped on gin as she warmed up to the riches, even though she was also now a woman with money she felt out of place. After hours had passed, the near 31 year old started her goodbyes before meeting eye to eye with Thomas Shelby.

“I’ve heard that you’re making your great escape before the host can by such a beautiful lady a drink”

“Shouldn’t that woman be your dear wife”

“She neglected to join me tonight”

“Too bad she’s a lovely person to hold conversation”

“Not behind closed doors”

“I must be taking my leave Mr Shelby, I imagine the Monday meeting is still to go a head”

Thomas nodded and placed a kiss on the young woman’s cheek before escorting her to the door. Little to his knowledge, Lizzie had watched the encounter and after Thomas watched Lucille go, Lizzie confronted him.

“So that’s your new whore good to know she has no morals”

“What do you want Lizzie!”

“I want you to be mine, my husband not fucking whores”

“I’m not having this tonight Lizzie, there’s a room full of people waiting for me to go back out so just fucking leave it”

“So you are fucking her. Brilliant. I should have divorced you when I had the chance.”

“Divorce! You want a divorce, fine, I’ll give you one. Lizzie Stark you’re no longer my wife. You no longer have to worry about my business. Oh and that woman, the one that left, I haven’t fucked her”

In the days that followed, no one would have expected the events that unravelled.

It was the following Wednesday when Thomas Shelby proceeded to hand over the divorce papers as a man of his word. The past whore sat silently as she watched the Shelby walk away- walk out of her life. The peaky blinder was far from okay but would never let show the heartache he was suffering. His first wife died and haunts his days. His second, the woman who mothered Ruby and took care of his son, paranoid and divorced. He needed a friend, someone he could drink with and forget. Although, the only person he wanted to see was the lovely Lucille who always found a way to put him in his place.

Later that day, events occurred which no one could predict. Perhaps the only way you leave this family is through smoke clouds. It was around 11 when the Hughes meeting started.

“Now I know what you're going to all say so I'll say it for you. Why are we here? Well, it's come to my attention that over the years I've let things slip through the cracks. So if you're in this room, then you are one of the very few that hold my trust. I can count you all on two hands and I'm willing to cut off fingers. So I suggest you leave or prove that I chose correctly” she sat and waited for one of the rugged faces to stand an walk out on the Hughes for good.

“Right then, there's a file under your chairs. This information stays in the room. Any issues we sort them out now.”

They spent the next 2 hours editing and explain the lengths of the documents. It was 1:15 when Sophia, the Secretary, interrupted whilst stumbling through the door.

“Sophia, dear we're in the middle of a meeting, ” Lucille spoke softly while looking up from her hard oak desk. Although, after immediately meeting the gaze of the stumbling woman, Lucille nodded.

“There's a Lizzie to see you”

“Send her in, I'm sorry about the disruption this should only take a moment” Lucille nodded as she responded. Soon, a distraught sight of a woman entered the office.

“Mrs Selby, what-” her words caught off.

“You don't get to say that name, you whore.”

“Lizz-”

“Dont you fucking dare. He gave me these. I'm guessing your fucking doing!” Lizzie bellowed which shocked the room. Although, Lucilles attention was drawn to the divorce papers that fell on her desk.

“I knew you were fucking him behind my-”Lizzie was cut off by Lucille standing.

“Now I will stop you there, Ms Stark, I suggest you take a walk and return when you've calmed down. These papers have no reason to involve me, so please kindly leave”

“Im not leaving until you understand” as a gun was raise Lucille remained calm as she stood from her seat.

“Do you want to shoot me?” Lucille spoke softly as she gestured for the others in the room to hold their horses. Stepping around her desk, Lucille didn't hesitate to stand closer to Lizzie.

“As I see it you have two choices, stand here and shoot me or hand me the gun and go home.”

“I have no home. I've lost everything. So it's your turn.”

“You still have your daughter and your dignity so I suggest you hand me the gun or shoot me now” Lucille stepped closer.

In this moment, time started to freeze over.

From the corner of her eye, a man rose from his seat as Lizzie cocked her gun. Turning slowly, Lucille regretted taking her eye off of the distraught woman.

The next moments will haunt her for the rest of her life.

She felt the spatter before she heard the sound. One single shot. It wasn't the man she was now facing who had made that single shot. Trembling subtly, Lucille ran her fingers over the splatter of fluid that grazed her cheek. Her fears had been confirmed. Time stood still as the younger woman turned to the spot previously occupied by a broken woman. It was empty. Lucille refused to look down as the shocked faces confirmed what she needed to know.

Looking around the room, she planned the next step.

“In light of this sensitive event, I ask you all to hold your tongue on today’s events. Go home, kiss your other halves and I will converse with you when I am proficient.” she watchedas they all filtered out. Turning quickly,

“You ever try that again I will have your head. I was in control and you tried to be the alpha male. Today this is on me but next time it's on you. Now go.” she spoke harshly with a soft undertone as the burly man dropped his head and left like a stray dog.

The boss watched as the alpha male left and her heart dropped as Sophia started to head for the door.

“Sophia, dear I suggest you don't come in any further. Send for Mr Shelby, say nothing and take the rest of the week off. Inform the rest of the offices to leave for the week.” Sophia nodded and scurried away.

Fear filled her mind as she sunk on to the top of her desk before finally looking down. Lizzie Shelby had blown herself out. Yes Lucille was attracted to Thomas Shelby but knowing full well that Thomas was spoken for and a business partner of the Hughes. But now she had blood on her hands -her face- something she vowed never to do. She became everything her mother and father wanted except she wasn't a man.

[rhysismydaddy]

Unholy Matrimony Pt. 5 (Nessian)

Damnation Series

Parts 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 

____________________________________________________________

~Cassian~

A week later, I’m exceptionally proud to say I haven’t given in yet. No matter how much I want to.

Tensions the past seven days have been... high, to say the least.

Both of us are doing our absolute best to drive the other insane.

She’s doing it so I either sign the deed and give in or turn to someone else, both which would give her Sera back.

I’m doing it because if I have to suffer, she can bet her pretty ass she does, too.

Ironically, tonight’s our engagement party. A celebration of our undying love and an announcement to the world the Russians and Italians of New York should no longer hate and murder each other.  

They’re allowed to be sexually frustrated as hell, but no, they can’t kill each other.

I’m waiting for the little minx who’s spent the week making me regret ever even asking for the club, drinking bourbon so I’m too drunk to even be tempted by her--which is likely enough to kill me--when she finally deigns to grace me with her presence.

I take one look at her, starting at the high blonde ponytail that would wrap around my fist at least twice and ending at the very high, very red shoes I immediately want by my shoulders.

“Fuck.”

Obviously the reaction she was looking for, she smiles.

Her dress is a cream color thing that clings to her curves and is short enough to showcase her long legs. It’s somehow classy, while low enough to draw my eyes to her breasts as she comes down the stairs towards me.

Nesta stops right before me, close enough I smell the jasmine and vanilla of her skin, and looks at me through her lashes.

I turn my gaze to the ceiling, vowing to keep it there until I trust myself to not do something stupid like tell her she’s the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen.

“I’m so fucked,” I mutter hopelessly.

If possible, she comes closer, sliding all the interesting, female parts of her against me. “You would be if you just gave me back my shit.”

I glare down at her. “I don’t like to lose.”

“Would you really be losing?”

I keep my mouth shut, because the answer to that question is a big fat no. God, she’s good.

“Tell me again why you refuse to put us out of our misery?” I ask in return, trying to remind myself who the fuck I am.

Even though I wonder if it is our misery. I can’t read her, can’t tell if this is affecting her like it is me.

She gives me a cold look. “What do you see happening after we get married, exactly? You think you’ll work a few hours at the club I spent three years building from the ground up, come home and eat a home cooked meal, then fuck your complacent little wife however you want?”

I have no idea what to say, because when she puts it like that, I sound like the biggest douche in the world.

Nesta sees the hesitation in my eyes and rolls hers. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I allow you to disrespect me like that, stronzo.”

“I respect you,” I say immediately, meaning the words.

“Just not enough to value my career.”

“Nesta-”

“Deal with it. If you somehow keep the board from voting you out in the next two weeks and manage to not sleep with me--which is unlikely, considering the way you look at me--the club will be yours.” She takes a step back, steeling her spin. “But I will not.”

I’m conflicted as hell, torn between wondering if she’s just playing me or being sincere.

Apparently done with the verbal smackdown, Nesta spins towards the door.

Hand on the handle, she turns back around and cocks her head. And then she answers the questions I hadn’t realized I’d been too scared to ask.

“No and yes.”

My brows raise. “What?”

“No, it hasn’t all been just me trying to mess with you. Yes, I want you as much as you want me. But I respect myself too much to allow someone who blazes into my life and steals something from me without a care or even a real negotiation to have my body, too.”

She walks out the door, leaving me standing in the living room stunned.

I eventually follower her down to the garage and we leave for the party Rhys is hosting for us downtown. But even though I go through the motions once we arrive, my mind is on the woman next to me the entire night.

I hate admitting it, but she’s right.

I took something that belonged to her, didn’t even question talking to her first, then acted like she was in the wrong for doing whatever she could to get it back.

I’ve said I like how strong and independent she is, but I tried to take that independence and turn her into something else. I bulldozed my way into her life, then acted like I was the one inconvenienced by it.

And seriously, why am I even fighting for this place? Yeah, I like it and think it’s unique, but the place is above board. Which to me translates as boring.

The past two weeks, I’ve had to go to investment meetings, deal with sending out the nightly invitations for entrance, and plan events for upcoming holidays. Things I never do with my other properties.

I hate managing things--I hire people to do that kind of thing for me. But I know I can’t hire someone, because who the hell besides my fiancé would do the job right?

No one.

I realize that on the drive home, and it gets me thinking. By the time we’re inside the apartment, I’m already mentally finalizing the details.

I tell her I have to take care of something, go to my office, and close the door.

Then I pull up the marriage contract, along with the deed to Sera, and hit print.

~Nesta~

A week after our engagement party, I realized I’ve started to lose hope.

Cassian’s managed to wrangle or bribe or threaten the board into not voting him out, and the employees have stopped calling me to ask when I’m coming back. He hasn’t touched me or tried to seduce me in six days--probably a record for him--and I start to feel like I’ve lost.

My club will be his in a week, and after we’re married, only him signing the deed over will get it back. Something that will never happen, considering it’d be a serious hit to his pride to do something as weak as give me what’s rightfully mine.

My club will be his, but like I said, I won’t.

Which honestly is just as upsetting.

Even though he’s a stubborn, boneheaded stronzo with a big enough ego for us both, it’s hard for me to overlook the moments of the past three weeks that haven’t revolved around Sera.

Little moments that have made it harder for me to pull away from him.

He’s made me laugh more than anyone I’ve ever met, whether with his foul sense of humor or stories about his violent, wild childhood. He stopped leaving the toilet seat up when I pointed it out. He hasn’t said a word about me ordering take-out all the time or working in bed while he tries to sleep.

He even dealt with one of Alexei’s buyers for me when they tried to renegotiate the price originally agreed upon.

And he hasn’t really pressed the celibacy thing. Sure, he’s complained about it enough for me to want to smack him, but I don’t know any other Made Men, Russian or Italian, that would’ve respected my wish after how much I’ve teased him.

If he would just-

I cut that train of thought off and focus on the report in front of me, because at this point, it’s obvious he won’t.

I sip my wine, which is starting to grow on me, and look over shipment records from one of Alexei’s yards, flagging crates that need to be smuggled instead of brought in through the main channels. Repressing a groan at the thought, I realize I’ll have to go down one night this week and make sure they arrive without problem.

I take another long pull from my glass.

“Drinking to forget?” Cassian asks, leaning in the doorway of the bedroom and looking me over.

I shrug, not much in the mood for banter.

“I got you something.”

Sighing, I reply, “Yeah, me too. It’s on the nightstand.”

His brow furrows as he walks over and picks up the ring box, opening it to look at the titanium band inside.

Just another symbol of our lifelong, happy, sexless marriage.

He puts the ring back in the box and extends a hand. “It isn’t a ring.”

“What is it?”

“Get your ass out of bed and find out.”

I would, except I don’t want to. And I don’t really want whatever stupid, materialistic thing he’s bought me-

He closes my laptop and pulls the cover back, ducking when I swing a fist towards his head. “Violent little wolf,” he teases.

“Stop calling me that,” I demand, trying in vain to keep the blanket on me so he can’t tell I’m not wearing anything underneath the t-shirt I stole from him.

He pauses, sighs, and scoops me up, blanket and all. “I love watching you fight how much you love me calling you that.”

“I don’t have to fight anything except he overwhelming urge to smack you.”

Cassian just huffs, walking us out of the room, through the living room, and into his office. Then he puts me down, smacks my butt to get me moving, and grunts when I elbow him in the ribs.

“Maybe this will fix your bad mood,” he mutters, flipping the light switch on and bathing the office in golden light.

I take an involuntary step forward, eyebrows going high on my forehead.

I’ve only been in here once before, just long enough to notice the obnoxiously big desk and wall of windows behind it. I’d taken in the black leather couch and wing-backed chairs, determined it was a typical male office for a typical male, and vowed to work somewhere else.

But that was a while ago, and it’s obvious he’s done some home improvement.

There are decidedly now two desks in the corners near the windows, angled in to the middle of the room where two cream-colored leather chairs sit. The desks are identical, mahogany and classic without being ostentatious.

A rug covers the hardwood floors, a deep maroon color that matches small details throughout the room.

It’s beautiful.

Cassian leads me with his hands on my shoulders to one of the desks, and I let him guide me around to the chair and push me down in the soft leather.

I look up to ask him what this is about, but he jerks his chin to the desk where to two papers lie.

One is the deed to Sera.

A rush of surprise goes through me as I see he’s transferred the building back over to me, even going so far as to deem the process irreversible. It’s signed and dated a week ago, the night of our engagement party.

My eyes are shiny as I look at the other document and read through it.

“What is this?”

“A partnership, of sorts,” Cassian explains, leaning a hip on the- my desk like he did in his Capo’s office. “You’re now a partner at my businesses, and if you sign, I’ll be yours.”

My eyes find his, and I see that he’s serious but still choke out, “What?”

He smiles and shrugs, like signing over half of your life’s work is easy. “You had me pegged when you first saw me and figured out I’m a fighter. I hate everything about running a business except the in-person negotiating and knitty gritty shit. It’s boring to me, and while I can do it, I’m not nearly as good at it as you are.”

“Cassian-”

“So run them both. I’ll do the day to day shit I know you hate, and you’ll do the rest.”

I can’t hardly process what he’s saying.

“What if we disagree?” It’s a valid question, considering we’ve basically been fighting the entire time we’ve been engaged.

“We talk about it and try to figure it out. And if we can’t, the original owner has the final call and veto power in all situations.” His eyes say he knows how important it is to me as he says, “You’ll still be in control of your property, and I’ll still be in control of mine.”

I don’t know why I’m still asking questions, because it sounds great, but there’s one more thing I want to know.

“Why?”

He sighs, sitting on the desk fully and looking down at me with open, honest eyes. “Because I’m tired of doing this shit alone. I’m tired of going to work and dealing with every single thing and then coming home and having no one who understands.”

He looks out the window, shoulders tight. “I thought you’d be like my friends’ wives, which is why I was such an ass. I thought you’d be just another thing for me to take care of, and I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to realize you could be my partner, not just my wife.”

His eyes are back on mine, the heat in them making my heart pound. “I’m sorry, Nesta. I’m sorry I stole Sera in the first place, then refused to hear you out and give it back. I have a tendency to be a little stubborn.”

My lips twitch, and his eyes soften at the sight.

“But what you said about respecting yourself stuck. I don’t want you to feel like I don’t respect you, because I do. You’re smarter than me, cool when I’m rash, and have the mind for business I never have.” He smiles softly. “I know you’re just as alone as me, and just as tired of it. So say yes.”

I feel a smile on my face as I get to my feet, moving to stand between his thighs. “Are you just doing this so I’ll sleep with you?”

He sighs, dropping his head in shame to rest against my chest. “You caught me.”

My arms wrap around his shoulders, his going around my waist, and I use the opportunity to play in his hair. It’s so soft and curly, and he makes a content sound as I run my hands through it.

“Are you saying yes, little wolf?” he murmurs against my collarbone, dropping his head to rub his face across my breasts.

I roll and tug his hair to keep the randy bastard away. “Yes, pervert, I’m saying yes.”

Cassian smiles a big, goofy smile so ridiculously charming I lean in and kiss him.

His hands lock at my waist, resting on the curve of my back, and for a moment, he just lets me kiss him.

It isn’t our first kiss by any means, but it’s the first one where neither of us have ulterior motives, so I take my time.

I kiss his top lip, his bottom lip. Find I like them both equally.

My hands work across his shoulders, the thick muscles contracting under my hands, and I sigh his name.

Cassian’s hands fist in the fabric of my pajamas--which happen to still be his shirt--and draws me closer. He kisses my neck, inhaling deeply.

“You smell so fucking good,” he mutters, biting down softly and making me gasp. “It drives me crazy.”

His hands slip to the back of my thighs, then I’m on his lap, knees on the desk next to his hips. “You drive me crazy,” he clarifies.

He kisses me again, hands sliding up my thighs to my ass to grind me against him. Callouses scrape against my skin as he sweeps the shirt off and tosses it behind me.

“Shit,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to take me in.

The fact that he’s still fully dressed while I’m in nothing but my underwear makes me feel even more exposed, doing strange things to my mind. I start unbuttoning his shirt while he kisses down my chest.

He teases one with his hand while he takes the other in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the peak. I squirm, pressing my hips more fully against is, but he holds me still, kissing and teasing me until I can’t take it anymore.

“Cassian,” I murmur, tugging his hair to pull his gaze to mine. “Thank you for the desk. I love it.”

His brows furrow, and I can see him start to think about how much I’ve teased him, but before he can worry that’s what I’m doing, I whisper, “Now fuck me on it. Please.”

A muscle in his jaw flickers, and his fingers dig into the flesh of my hips.

Before I can say another word, he stands and spins us around, sliding me on the desk. He holds my thighs around his hips, and then an idea seems to dawn.

“Wait right here.”

“Seriously?” I ask, even though he’s already half-way out of the room.

“Don’t you dare fucking move!” is the shouted response.

I roll my eyes, but he’s back quickly, holding the red stilettos I wore to our engagement party. I howl with laughter, and a faint blush colors his cheeks, but he stays firm in his desire and puts them on the floor beside my feet.

Then he leans against the window and watches while I slip them on.

His golden eyes blaze as I lean back on my elbows and slowly spread my thighs, in nothing but lace panties and heels.

“I’ll buy you all the desks you want, if you sit on them like that.”

Laughter bubbles out of me, and he’s suddenly on me, leaning over me to kiss me in a frenzy.

I rip his shirt open, and he doesn’t even break the kiss as he throws it to the floor. I hear the telltale clink of a belt, and then he stands up to slide my panties down, grab my legs, and guide them up.

I feel him brush over the center of me, instinctively lifting my hips to give him a better angle.

But he doesn’t give me what I want.

Cassian just stands there, gaze gliding from the hells on his shoulders to the apex of my thighs.

“Hold that thought,” he mutters, dropping to his knees and putting his mouth on me before I can even blink.

My back leaves the desk, a gasp escaping me.

“Cassian.”

“I want you to come on my tongue, then you get to come on my cock.”

“Cassian.”

He hums, the sensation sending shivers down my spin. He kisses me like he’s doing it for him, not me, mouth on every part of me it can reach.

I can see the lines of his tattoos on his shoulders, the top of his curly hair. It’s too much to handle, so I just lay back down on the desk and throw my hands above my head to hold on to the edge of the desk.

The only time he stops is to tell me things that apparently can’t wait five minutes, but I don’t even care because every word out of that sinful mouth makes me burn hotter.

“Come for me,” he demands breathlessly a few minutes later.

“Don’t boss me around,” I groan, even as I do exactly what he wants.

He lets me ride it out, dropping kisses to my thighs and stomach and hips.

As soon as I catch my breath, he’s on his feet, putting me in the exact position I was in earlier.

And then he’s pushing inside me, and I honestly almost come again from the feel alone. “Thank God,” I groan, the past three reminding me of the misery teasing him put me through.

“Fucking hell, you’re perfect.”

Hands on my thighs, he holds me in place as he starts to move. But as he picks up speed, going harder with each thrust, his hands have to slip to my thighs to keep me still.

I say his name, sounding like I’m begging him for something, and he groans. His head’s thrown back, bare skin shining and making him look likesome sort of beautiful devil.

“Hurry up, little wolf,” he almost pleads.

The sound of that stupid fucking nickname does me in, and I come with a loud moan. I would’ve kicked him in the head if he hadn’t immediately dropped down on top of me to kiss me without abandon.

His hips still but he keeps kissing me until he has to break for air.

I’m boneless and limp beneath him, and he looks me over with male satisfaction.

Then his mouth drops open, betrayal in his eyes, and he says, “I just realized you didn’t speak even French! All these weeks of me fucking fantasizing about that... well, I guess we’ll just have to do it again.”

“Accorde moi un instant,” I pant in French, asking for a moment.

He grins down at me. “Take your time. We have a lifetime.”

My lips twitch, and I don’t stifle the urge to smile.

I’m about to say something, but then his expression turns serious. “You realize I have to fuck you on my desk now. Equality and whatnot.”

I laugh and pull his mouth to mine. “As long as you know I’m still not giving you my side of the bed.”

He tugs on my bottom lip with his teeth. “We can share.”

~

We get married seven days later, surrounded by a crowd of family, dirty politicians, thieves, drug and arms dealers, and friends.

In the past week, we’ve solidified our business model to a thing of perfection. I handle public relations, real estate and development, and negotiations for the shipping business. Cassian handles both the Bratva and Cosa Nostra soldiers in New York, training new recruits, drug distribution, and negotiations for the arms business.

Basically, I do what I’m good at, and he does what he’s good at.

I know it’s ridiculous to trust someone with half my business after only a month of knowing them, but like Cassian said, I was tired of doing this shit alone.

I’d been dreading the future, dreading taking over and doing everything myself. And now I don’t have to.

I have him to lean on, him to trust.

Looking up, I notice him watching me as we dance, not at all paying attention to the crowd. “What are you thinking about, little wolf?”

“I’m thinking how I thought of this marriage as nothing but an alliance at first. I guess it still is that, but... it’s also more.” He spins us around to the music, watching me with a knowing expression. “You’re more to me than that. And I’m... I’m happy. Working with you and the thought of our future makes me happy.”

He smiles. 

“You love me,” he states with quiet confidence. 

My heart starts pounding, because I’ve never told a living person that before. 

But it’s never been true before, and it is now, so I respond steadily, “I do.”

“I love you, too, Nesta Orlov. Have since the moment I saw you.” He sounds so relaxed about it, the words falling from his lips so easily.

“Doesn’t it scare you?” I ask, not understanding how he’s the calm one all of a sudden. 

“Anything you love something, there’s the risk you could lose it or it could hurt you.” Cassian brushes a thumb over my cheek. “But I could never be scared to love you.”

I shake my head and start to say something, but he cuts me off. 

“Every morning, when you wake up, there’s this little moment where you look around, confused. And then you look at me, and that hesitation in your eyes just... melts.” He dips me, wrapping his arms tight around me. “You look at me like you trust me, and love me, and want me.”

He presses a soft kiss to my lips. “That look is worth every risk and hardship and whatever else loving someone entails.”

I kiss him back as he brings us to standing. “Italians are such saps.”

He shows off the smile I’ve realized he only gives me, and I say the words I know he needs to hear just as badly as I did. “I love you, Cassian. You’re worth the risk, too.”

______________________________________________________

THANK U FOR READINGGG soft ending for the win

[refinedbuffoonery]

Flawless (7)

Con Artist AU. masterlist. 

Content Warning: swearing, PTSD, violence, sex

Before we get started here, you all need to know that Flawless will be going on a mini-hiatus. This chapter is the end of my original outline, and I need to spend some time planning out the next plot arc before I write the next chapter. 

(Also, shoutout to the lovely humans who translated the line in French. Y’all are the real MVPs.)

Anyway, this is it. The chapter you’ve all been waiting for. The heist. It feels so surreal to finally write it. As always, thank you for coming on this wild ride with me. ❤

*****

In the shadow of its brightly illuminated landmarks, Paris hummed to the tune of debauchery. 

Paparazzi gathered around the Louvre’s glass pyramid, waiting to capture a clear picture of a celebrity guest entering the afterparty. Riley shielded her face with her clutch as she walked in, careful to remain unidentifiable in the barrage of photos. The gold buttons on her emerald jacket-dress caught the warm light emanating from the pyramid and the bright camera flashes. She was well dressed, but not enough to stand out. Tonight, Riley needed to blend in. 

She ran a hand through her hair, making sure the loose curls covered her earpiece. For the sake of stealth, the team’s comms were skin color, but they were Nikki and Cage’s skin color, not Riley’s. 

Riley was half-tempted to throw her comms into one of the fountains out of spite. 

She was the last of the Five Eyes to arrive. They staggered their arrivals to avoid being associated with one another, as a precaution. Pulse thrumming in anticipation, Riley bounced on her toes slightly as she waited in line to check in. The Louvre security team meticulously checked each guest’s ID against the guest list; there would be no party crashers tonight. 

It had been all too easy for Riley to add the Five Eyes’ cover identities to the guest list a week ago. Now, she handed the stone-faced security guard a drivers’ license bearing her face and the name “Danika Jackson.” Returning her ID with a nod, the security guard stepped aside, allowing Riley to enter the party. 

Everyone is responsible for their own entrance and exit. That was her new rule. She got everyone’s names added to the guest list, but her assistance ended there. If someone ran into trouble, it was on them to bail themselves out. 

Riley had learned that rule from her mentor when she first dipped her toes into the world of two-faced schemes and nimble-fingered cons, but she never truly understood it—or saw the need to enforce it—until she felt the bite of handcuffs digging into her wrists. 

It was a mistake she’d never make again. 

Riley strolled through the hallway bearing massive Italian paintings, slowly making her way to the room containing the most overrated painting of all time—and the rendezvous point. 

The Mona Lisa room was empty aside from a blonde woman in a beaded, blood-red cocktail dress standing much too close to the glass-encased painting. Riley stood to the woman’s right and studied the painting as well. It was underwhelming. 

“You’d think the most beautiful woman in art would be wearing a prettier dress,” Nikki remarked.

Riley snorted, crossing her arms. “Says the woman who just bought a four-thousand-dollar cheetah print pantsuit.”

Nikki feigned offence. “You’re just jealous because you couldn’t pull it off. Anyway, quiz time. What year did da Vinci paint the Mona Lisa?” 

“1503,” Riley answered easily. “And the woman’s name is Lisa del Giocondo.” Nikki’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “What’s that look for?” 

“I didn’t think you actually listen when I talk about art.” 

Riley offered her friend a small smile. “I’m always listening to you.” The sound of heels clicking down the hall made them pause. When the coast was clear, Riley murmured, “Is everyone in position?”

“Yeah. Desi and Sam should be inside already, and Jill checked in a few guests in front of me.”

“How did that go?”

“Easy peasy.” Nikki glanced at Riley and softened her tone. “Are we sure Jill is ready for this?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we? Don’t forget, it was your idea to recruit her.”

Nikki turned back to the Mona Lisa. “You know, you really do suck at pep talks.” 

“Oh shut up.” Riley rolled her eyes. “Are you sure you want control room duty?” 

Nikki spared her a sideways glance. “I’ll do it. You did it last time.” Her second sentence hung heavy in the air, a reminder of the job gone horribly wrong. And a reminder of all the things they still hadn’t talked about. 

Riley brushed it aside. They could talk after they were each forty million dollars richer. 

Pulling a flash drive hidden inside an old lipstick tube out of her clutch, Riley instructed, “Plug this in, and it’ll do half the work for you.” 

“Thanks.” Nikki put the tube in her own purse. “See you on the other side.” 

“Don’t get caught.” 

“Don’t get caught,” Nikki parroted, and Riley strode down the hall toward the party.

She followed the pulsing music and the stream of guests to a room in the far corner of the museum, passing the employee door Nikki would sneak into along the way. Crossing the threshold, she couldn’t conceal her gasp. Riley had seen plenty of opulent rooms over the years, but the Galerie d’Apollon was something else entirely. Gold moulding framed the dozens of paintings covering the walls and the arched ceiling. Display cases containing the French Crown Jewels formed a line down the middle of the rectangular room. Despite the party’s couture dress code, the bedazzled guests looked entirely underdressed compared to the grandeur of the gallery.

She only let herself be awestruck for a few seconds before getting to work, marking the exits and security cameras. Riley didn’t like how deep the gallery was in the museum—and how far she would have to walk to make a clean escape with the jewels. 

She would be the one walking out with them. No one else. Riley had made that crystal clear during the team planning meeting a few days ago. 

Draped in black fabric, the case containing the designer jewelry sat in the middle of the gallery. A security guard stood by it, no doubt to ward off nosey guests wanting a sneak peek. 

A wave of nausea passed through her, reminding Riley that the closest thing to a substantial meal she’d eaten all day was the two pastries she ate a few hours ago. She slipped through the crowd with practiced ease, heading for the snack table. Jill was already there, gorging herself on bread and cheese. Eyes wide, the blonde froze as Riley sidled next to her, evidently thinking she was in trouble. 

But Riley simply reached for a piece of bread and asked, “Which cheese is the best?” 

Exhaling audibly, Jill pointed a manicured, light blue nail. “That one.” Riley tried it. Jill was right; it was delicious. 

“You ready, Blondie?” Riley asked, lowering her voice. “There’s no job unless you get this right.” 

Jill rolled her shoulders back, snarking, “No pressure or anything.” There was a bite to her words, one Riley noticed only came out when someone, namely her, pushed the blonde a little too far. 

“Sorry,” Riley said, and she meant it. “You can do this. Don’t second-guess yourself. Commit.” 

Jill merely nodded, swallowing another piece of cheese. 

Riley wandered off, not wanting to stay with Jill too long. With her back to a wall, she scanned the room in search of Desi and Cage. When she didn’t see them on her first sweep, Riley furrowed her brow. Where the hell were they? 

A bright laugh carried across the room—Cage. There you are, Riley thought. She spied her teammate enjoying the spotlight in the center of a group of models all cooing over Cage’s pale pink dress. It suited Cage, with its billowy sleeves and flowy skirt that hit just below her knees. Cage giggled again, putting her hand on a woman’s shoulder a little too boldly for the gesture to be casual. 

Predictably, Desi wasn’t far away, staring daggers at her shameless flirt of a girlfriend. 

Riley unmuted her comms. “Easy there, Des. It’s just an act.” 

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” she snapped. Even from a distance, Riley could see Desi’s tight grip on her champagne flute. 

Riley cooed, “So jealous.” 

The woman wrapped a proprietary arm around Cage, clearly welcome to the blonde’s advances, and Cage beamed at her. 

It was enough to push Desi over the edge. “Don’t forget whose bed you’re sleeping in tonight, Samantha,” she snarled. “And I don’t remember agreeing to share.” 

Cage excused herself from the group. “My love, did it ever occur to you that I’m making you jealous on purpose? Because we both know—”

Nikki cut her off, rescuing the team from whatever filthy thing was about to come out of Cage’s mouth. “Don’t be gross, you two.” Riley stifled a laugh. She and Nikki had been subjected to many things they didn’t want to hear over the years. This would hardly faze her now.

Focus. They needed to focus. 

Riley finally spotted the sharp-eyed assistant she noticed at the runway show. Always two steps behind the designer, the young woman obediently trailed him as he floated from group to group. The assistant finished her drink, setting it on the tray of a passing waiter, and strode toward the main hallway in this wing of the museum. 

“I think she’s going to the bathroom,” Jill said. “Do I follow her?” 

Snagging a drink of her own, Riley answered, “No. Bump into her when she comes back.” She watched Jill make her way toward the far side of the gallery, ready to intercept the assistant and steal her keys. 

Everything was going to plan. Jill just had to steal the keys, and then all they had to do was hurry up and wait for the big reveal. Eight o’clock, Riley was told upon arrival. The designer would commence his speech at eight, then reveal his masterpiece to the world. 

Riley checked her watch. Thirty more minutes. 

She knew she’d been standing in this spot for too long already, but Riley was loath to give up the relative safety of having a wall at her back. The twinge of fear she’d felt earlier at the runway show came raging to the surface, rooting her stiletto-clad feet in place. Leaving the wall meant having people in her blind spot. No one’s going to hurt me, Riley promised herself. This is a party, not a prison. 

Her legs felt like lead weights, but Riley forced herself to re-enter the crowd, one agonizing stride at a time. She made it as far as the nearest display case before she had to stop, and her eyes landed on a tiara resting in the center of the display. Countless tiny diamonds formed flowery swoops and swirls, with a handful of emeralds scattered between them, filling what would otherwise be empty spaces. In the center, the diamonds framed a large, round emerald, mimicking the shape of a flower. 

It was exactly what Riley would have stolen had the Five Eyes agreed to rob the Louvre itself, rather than this party. Maybe she’d come back for it, one day. 

Using the case as a pseudo-wall, Riley took a deep breath and re-scanned the room in search of Jill. Unsurprisingly, Jill was exactly where Riley had last seen her.

She kept an eye on the recruit, knowing Desi and Cage were doing the same. Riley was impressed; Jill had quickly figured out how to linger without being obvious she was waiting for something. Jill mindlessly pushed up her glasses—the only visible sign of her nerves—and the movement drew Riley’s attention. 

But not to Jill. 

To another blond head, far behind her. One Riley desperately hoped to never see again. 

“We have a problem,” Desi said. 

“I saw.” 

Nikki’s ex-boyfriend stalked into the gallery, a taller, older man at his heels like a shadow—the same men who chased Riley, Nikki, and Jill through the taco shop a few weeks ago. 

Fuck.

Ducking her head to avoid being spotted, Riley hissed, “Nik, get your ass to the control room and lock the door behind you. We’ve got company.” 

“Already here. Accessing system controls as we speak. Whoever designed the security system in this place should be fired, because this is ridiculously simple. I should’ve left it in French just to keep it interesting.” A pause. "Who's here? Wait. No. Let me guess. Interpol? The mob? That bitchy designer I once robbed point-blank?" 

"Your ex." 

"Oh."

"You didn't tell him about our dream job, did you?" The words came out a little too accusatory, but Riley didn't care. She needed to know. 

"No! Of course I didn't. He— Look, I don't know why he's here, and we can figure that out later. Right now, you need to keep him busy. He's smart, Riles. Maybe even smarter than you. Be careful." 

Riley scoffed. "Smarter than me? We'll see about that." 

"I'm serious, Riley." 

But Riley ignored her, instead giving instructions of her own. "Cage, you watch Jill. Des—" 

"I've got the big one." Classic Desi, never letting her finish a sentence and yet always knowing what she was going to say. The habit was obnoxious at first, but over time Riley learned to appreciate it. "See the bulge on his left side? He keeps touching it." Desi said. "He's armed." 

“He’s what?” Jill exclaimed. 

Chuckling, Desi said, “Now look at my left side. We match.” A small, terrified squeak was the only response. “Well, what did you think I meant when I told you I’m the team’s exfil specialist?” 

“Not that!” 

“And Nik’s ex?” Riley asked, redirecting the conversation. 

“Seems clean.” 

“He is,” Nikki confirmed. “Mac hates guns.” 

“You know,” Riley said, studying the larger of the two men, “The other one kind of looks like a guy who dated my mom once.” 

“Really?” Desi asked. “Think he’s the same guy?” 

Riley took a closer look. He was tall, with broad, muscled shoulders and a buzzed haircut, and considering how often he fidgeted with his tie, he didn’t get dressed up often. He smiled at a passing waitress. He had an open, friendly smile, which totally contrasted with the systematic way he scanned the room. “Nah.”

Jill squawked, “Wait! Are we really still going through with this? Didn’t it just get a whole lot harder?” 

“You say harder, I say more fun,” Cage said. “Just stick to the plan. You’ll be fine.” 

Jill, it seemed, wasn’t so easily reassured. “Am I the only one who sees this is a trap?” 

“It’s only a trap when you don’t know about it. When you do, it’s a challenge,” Riley said. 

“But what if the plan goes wrong? Then what?” 

At the same time, all four women answered, “Improvise.” 

Riley muted her comms as she approached Nikki’s ex; Jill didn’t need the added distraction. Help her, Riley pleaded with the universe. You owe me. 

Pushing her concerns about Jill to the back of her mind, Riley studied her target. There was a champagne flute in the spy’s hand, but he didn’t drink it—not even a sip—and his methodical gaze swept the room, no doubt making note of each guest and who they interacted with. 

He was cute, she had to admit. Definitely Nikki’s type. 

Purposefully not watching where she was going, Riley collided with him, narrowly avoiding sloshing his drink onto her shoes. She pretended to stumble, and his free hand caught her waist, ensuring Riley stayed upright. “Oh! I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going. Pardon me.” 

His hand left her side. Frowning, he asked, “Do I know you?” 

Don’t lie. Evade. Her former mentor taught her that. 

Riley smirked. “I bet you use that line on every beautiful woman you stumble into.” 

“Only when I’m too blown away to say something original.” He winked. 

Maybe this would be easier than Riley anticipated. “Care to wander the museum with me while you practice your next line?” 

“Normally I would, but I just got out of a relationship, and I’m not looking to start anything new.” 

So much for that plan. 

His honesty, however, was surprising. 

“Not even a little fun?” she goaded, but Nikki’s ex declined once more before excusing himself and vanishing into the crowd. 

At least Desi had better luck keeping the other spy occupied. She had him cornered, her body carefully angled to prevent him from seeing the slight bulge from the gun hidden in her dress. The plunging neckline had two purposes—easy access to the gun holstered at her side while providing a distracting view of her chest and intricate tattoos. It was just enough to snag wandering eyes and keep them focused on the front of her body, rather than the side. To the spy’s credit, his eyes remained pointedly fixed on Desi’s face. 

“Got the keys,” Jill announced. Perfect timing. 

Riley breathed a sigh of relief. “Good work, Blondie.” 

Now, all they had to do was wait.

*****

While the designer yammered some pretentious bullshit about fine jewelry as the centerpiece of fashion and art, Riley slowly pushed her way to the front of the crowd gathering for the reveal. A few feet away, Cage did the same. Across from them—closest to the still-covered jewelry display case—Desi and Jill took their places. None of them were particularly interested by the designer’s speech, but Nikki would be hanging on every word if she were here. 

The designer rambled on, explaining how particular pieces among the French Crown Jewels influenced the designs of his own work. It was awfully arrogant, Riley thought, comparing his own work to such timeless pieces. The longer he spoke, the more Riley disliked him and didn’t feel even an ounce of guilt for robbing him. 

Lingering on the edge of the crowd, Nikki’s ex and his partner seemed content to remain out of the way. For all Riley cared, they could stay there all night. 

The gallery lights flickered once. A few guests glanced up nervously, but the majority remained transfixed on the designer. 

Nikki’s voice crackled through the comms. “Everyone ready? Nod once if you are.” Riley nodded. One by one, so did everyone else. “Alrighty then. Lights out in five…”

Riley counted the number of paces between her and Cage—six. 

“Four…”

Paces from Cage to the jewelry case—eight. 

“Three…”

Paces from the case back to her original position—ten. 

Two…

Closing her eyes, Riley waited. 

“One.” 

Several women shrieked when the lights went out. 

Riley opened her eyes, and before they’d even adjusted to the dark, she strode toward Cage. Six steps. She collided with Cage, dropping her purse on the ground and taking Cage’s identical one, containing replicas of the necklace and earrings. 

Cage shouted that someone stole her purse, causing a scene. She’d chatted and flirted with enough people throughout the night for her voice to be easily recognized, and a murmur broke out among the agitated crowd, creating just enough background noise to cover the sound of Riley’s heels clicking on the floor. 

Eight steps to the back side of the jewelry display. Riley could just make out Jill and Desi unlocking the case with the assistant’s keys. She braced for an alarm to sound, but there was nothing. Atta girl, Nikki. 

Riley opened the purse. Carefully, Desi replaced the real jewels with the fakes, depositing the real ones inside Cage’s purse. 

Jill locked the case and replaced the cover, and Riley returned to her original position among the crowd. The designer and his assistant remained oblivious to what transpired behind them, even as Jill slipped the keys back into the assistant’s dress pocket.

“Lights on in three,” Nikki warned. 

Emergency lights flickered on, casting a harsh white light over the murmuring crowd. A man angrily questioned what happened, followed by a chorus of “Yeah, what he said!”s in a variety of languages. The assistant urged the crowd to remain calm, promising everything would be sorted out shortly. 

Riley looked over her shoulder, searching for Nikki’s ex. He was nowhere to be found. She narrowed her eyes, but with two hundred million dollars worth of jewelry in her hand, Riley decided she didn’t particularly care. 

The woman Cage flirted with the longest stepped forward, picking up the purse Riley had tossed near Cage’s feet. “Isn’t this your purse?” she asked Cage. 

Riley’s teammate feigned embarrassment, gracefully reclaiming the purse. “Yes, that’s it. Thank you.” 

Just as an outraged Cage exclaimed the purse was empty, Riley melted into the dispersing crowd, slowly making her way toward the museum’s exit. That was the plan. She’d leave first, and once she escaped with the jewels, everyone else would exit as well. 

Riley retraced her steps, heels clicking on the hardwood flooring of the museum’s endless long hallways. She didn’t look at any of the art as she passed, not even a single glance. Art had always been more Nikki’s thing than hers. 

Weaving her way back to the exit, Riley prayed Nikki hadn’t missed any of the cameras. She was supposed to loop them all, allowing Riley to leave the museum unseen. But with each additional camera—some obvious, some not—Riley’s anxiety rose. 

Nikki knows what she’s doing, Riley reminded herself. She won’t let anything happen to me. 

Two years ago, that reassurance would’ve been enough. 

Now, her distrusting brain shot back, Are you sure? 

Riley didn’t dignify it with a response. 

Passing the museum’s security checkpoint, Riley smiled at a bored-looking security guard. “Vous partez déjà?” he asked. 

Riley hoped the security guard asked why she was leaving so soon. She never did get around to brushing up on her French. “Oui, I have a flight to catch.” Not a lie, although the flight wouldn’t take off until early tomorrow morning. 

The crisp night breeze prickled Riley’s bare skin. She took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill her lungs. For the first time that night, Riley finally felt her body start to relax. The vast, empty plaza felt so much safer than the packed gallery. Still not safe enough to let her guard down, but safer. Riley slipped her hand into the purse, fingers closing around an earring. It was surprisingly heavy in her palm. 

Another flawless job. The Five Eyes were back in business. 

She was halfway across the plaza when Nikki started cursing, but Riley didn’t slow. Everyone is responsible for their own exit. The job was done. No turning back now. 

There was a distinct male voice in the background, but Riley couldn’t make out what he said. 

“What do you mean, ‘I had a feeling you’d be here’?” Nikki demanded. “We haven’t spoken in months, Mac, and I know you didn’t track me here on your own.” 

Her ex’s voice was nothing more than a low, indiscernible rumble. 

“What?” Nikki whispered, her voice breaking mid-word. 

As much as Riley wanted to know what he said, she kept walking. But that didn’t stop the others from hissing Nikki’s name, demanding to know what was going on. 

Nikki yelped, and then the male voice purred, loud and clear, “I know you’re listening, Riley. Why don’t we go on that little walk now?” 

With a cold laugh, Riley said, “In your fucking dreams.” How did he know her name? As far as she knew, Nikki never mentioned her. 

Still, she kept walking. Everyone is responsible for their own exit. No matter what. 

Riley muted her comms, and Nikki’s piercing shriek filled her ear. A muffled grunt followed.

Then nothing. 

Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be okay. 

“Riley, you need to come back,” Jill pleaded. “Nikki needs help.” 

She didn’t answer, clenching her jaw with the effort to keep silent. An airplane flew overhead, and Riley tracked its path across the sky. Every step brought Riley closer to her own flight home—and the freedom that entailed. Turning around now would only put that in jeopardy. 

But every step also took her away from her best friend. The woman she once believed she’d do anything for. 

Jill was overreacting, Riley reasoned. Nikki was more than capable of getting herself out of a bind. Riley lost track of the number of impossible situations she and Nikki had found themselves in over the years, and they always found a way to escape. 

“Sam is getting Jill out,” Desi said, slightly out of breath. “Riles, I don’t think I can get Nikki out on my own. Jill is right. You need to come back.” 

Riley faltered. If Desi thought there was a problem, then something must’ve gone really, really wrong. 

Maybe Jill wasn’t overreacting after all. 

“Des—” Cage started. “They opened the case.” 

“So?” 

“They know the jewels are fake. If Riley comes back, it won’t just be Nikki going to prison.” 

Prison. 

Riley didn’t think she was breathing. Heart thudding wildly, her stomach tied itself into knots, and her clothes became damp with sweat. The sense of safety she’d felt earlier was gone, and Riley fought the urge to run. Every little noise—traffic, pedestrian chatter, a siren in the distance—was coming for her, ready to drag her into some dark hole she’d never emerge from. 

Nothing was logical anymore, like the part of her brain capable of rational thought had gone to sleep. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, trying to wake up, but it was no use. 

Run, while you still have the chance, her body screamed. 

Everyone is responsible for their own exit, her brain repeated. 

She needed to turn around. Nikki couldn’t go to prison. 

Two years ago, Riley had gone to prison in Nikki’s stead. She let herself be arrested to protect her friends. Her family. 

If Nikki went to prison now, then Riley’s sacrifice would be in vain. 

But Riley’s body refused to turn around. Her worst memories from prison flashed before her eyes—ones Riley desperately wanted to forget—like a cougar crouching in the shadows, waiting for the exact moment she was at her weakest to pounce. 

She couldn’t go back there. She couldn’t go through that again. 

She wouldn’t survive it twice. 

“Riles,” Nikki pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Where are you?” 

Run, that voice in her head said. Don’t look back. 

Her steps were slower now, less sure. But Riley didn’t stop. She couldn’t. 

“I need you.” 

Save yourself, girl. 

“I’m sorry,” Riley whispered, but her comms were still muted. With a shaking hand, Riley unmuted them one last time. 

It’s better this way, the voice promised. You’ll see. 

It was all too easy to slip into the brutal, emotionless persona she’d built while in prison, the process having become instinct. It was necessary then, to keep her safe and alive. Now, it did the same, preventing Riley from making a mistake every cell in her body knew she wouldn’t come back from. 

In a cold, unflinching voice, Riley said, “Everyone is responsible for their own exit.” 

She threw her earpiece into a nearby fountain, and the click of her stilettos echoed in the night. 

~ Tag List ~ Want to be added? Send me an ask.

@macrileyedits / @hellishrose / @losingitovermacriley​ / @mylifequotesshowallofthem / @thecarrieonokay / @holbytlanna​ /

[songtoyou]

Chapter 1: The Pope, The Rabbi, and The Gypsy

Tolerate It

Paring: Modern!Tommy Shelby x Original Female Character

Story Rating: R (No minors should read this fic).

Word Count: 1,795

Warnings: Talks of sexual content.

Description: Tommy Shelby is the owner and CEO of Shelby Company Limited. Starting out as a Bookmaker, Tommy had big ideas to expand his riches. In the past ten years, the company has grown rapidly to expand its business ventures from bars to producing alcohol, manufacturing motor vehicle parts, and exporting. One of the richest men in Great Britain, Tommy Shelby, has it all. Unfortunately, the death of his wife, Grace, left the multi-millionaire mogul alone and depressed. He needed someone to fulfill his needs and deepest darkest desires.

A/N: I was very pleased with the positive reaction to the prologue of this fic. I am glad that some of you are liking it. For this chapter, we learn a little more about the OC, and how she will meet Tommy. We also learn about the owners and some of Excelsior's clientele, the secret exclusive club in downtown London. Tommy looks for a new girl now that Lizzie is gone. 

Note: Italics represent the past or past conversations.

Feedback is wonderful. It is nice knowing if people actually like this fic. I do not permit my work to be posted on any other site without my permission.

Excelsior was an exclusive invite-only club located in downtown London. Members included high profile men from actors, musicians, politicians, and business moguls. The activities that occur at Excelsior were top secret. Members and workers at the club were bound by a non-disclosure agreement to ensure nothing was made public. Excelsior was merely a very high-end gentlemen's club to the unassuming public, but underneath, it allowed members to succumb to their deepest desires.

Owned and run by "Duchess" Izabella Petrovna and her niece, "Princess" Tatiana Petrovna, the club was steeped in excess and glamour. No suspecting individual would ever think to confuse the establishment as an underground sex club. While the Duchess ran the business side of the operations, the Princess recruited the women. There was a certain criterion that the Princess enforced when it came to employing. First, the women had to be between the ages of twenty-one to thirty-five. The women underwent an extensive background check, along with a psych evaluation. Many of the employees found it hilarious that the Duchess and Princess required a psych evaluation considering that they themselves were equally eccentric…or insane, to put it mildly. Birth control was a non-negotiable requirement the women had to abide by. The women at the club had to partake in monthly STD tests to ensure they were clean and healthy. 

While the Duchess and Princess were an oddball pairing, there was no denying that they cared for their girls and valued the work they did for the members. Their business endeavor allowed the Petrovna's to continue to live in luxuries that Russia no longer was able to provide. They paid well.

It was how Rose Turner provided a decent life for herself and her son, Louis. Rose had been working at the club for six years and in that time had garnered quite the clientele. However, it would be three men who would have a tumultuous impact on Rose's life. She referred to them as the Pope, the Rabbi, and the Gypsy. 

The Pope was Luca Changretta, an Italian man from New York. Luca was a prominent businessman whose family still resided in England. While Audrey Changretta was a former school teacher, her husband Vincent, and youngest son Angel, owned restaurants and bars from Manchester to Birmingham, to London. They also dabbled in the real estate business and owned numerous high rise apartment buildings. The Changretta family was viewed as a rival to the Shelby clan. Both have tried to partner on business ventures with no deal ever emerging. The two families did not trust one another. 

With Luca stationed over in the States, he would visit his family throughout the year during holidays, for birthdays, weddings, funerals, openings of new Changretta establishments. Time home also allowed for Luca to engage in his pleasures. His visits to Excelsior were always a big deal. Everything had to be perfect, according to Izabella. Tatiana assigned Rose to Luca. 

"You are his type, no," Tatiana would say. "He likes the way you look. That innocent and doe-eyed look. Hooker with a heart of gold, they say, right."

Rose did not question Tatiana. She read through Luca's file to find out more about her new client and what he liked. The man was noticeably big into role play, especially in a religious aspect. He loved playing the part of a holy man while Rose played the Catholic school girl or nun. It was how Luca got the nickname, "The Pope." The man thankfully always managed to be a gentleman. He respected the rules of the club and never went overboard. If Rose was uncomfortable with acting out a scene, she knew it was okay to voice her worries. Luca never tried to fight her or manipulate her into partaking in a scene. He respected Rose's boundaries. She was one of his favorites at the club. 

Alfie Solomons was nicknamed "The Rabbi" and another important client at Excelsior. He had his fill of women during his time at the club. So much so that the girls would talk openly with one another about his particular habits. For instance, Alfie never partook in actual intercourse with the women. Instead, he relied on toys such as dildos or vibrators to bring pleasure to his women. He would also make sure to wear black latex gloves while touching the women. Many assumed it was to keep himself clean and pure since he participated in activities that would be deemed excruciatingly unholy. Alfie made sure that Tatiana only gave him gentile women.

"No Jewish women, love. They are holy creatures and should be remained as such, okay," Alfie demanded.

When Rose saw Alfie for the first time, she was intimidated by his big stature. However, Alfie proved to be one of Rose's favorite clients. The man knew how to pleasure a woman. He always made scenes fun and intense. Some women would even fight over who got to be with Alfie on certain nights he was at the club. They all loved him. 

As the son of a Russian Jewish woman and working-class Londoner father, Alfie worked his way up in the world. It would be the distillery business where Alfie would make his fortunes. From rum and vodka to gin, beer, and cider, Solomons & Sons was the top distillery company in the United Kingdom. It did not take long for the Shelby family came knocking on Alfie's door to partner with on business endeavors. While Alfie would continue to remain skeptical about the Shelby family, he knew the business deal with them would be too good to pass up. He loved having a go at Tommy Shelby from time-to-time to see how far he could push the Birmingham lad. 

In fact, it was Alfie who told Tommy about Excelsior. 

"You go from whore to whore with no care in the world. It is like you got a death wish. Seriously, don't you ever worry about getting the clap? I'll tell ya what…let me talk with one of my associates about inviting you to join this club I frequent. It will have everything you ever wanted and more. Trust me," Alfie shared with Tommy at one of their business meetings two years ago. 

Tommy merely scoffed as he took a drag of his cigarette. "Trust you. Not likely, Alfie. As I recall, it was because of you that the deal with the Changrettas fell apart. Something about mentioning how my brother John got into a fight with Angel Changretta over a girl they both were seeing at the time."

With a shit-eating grin, Alfie replied, "I am a beacon of truth, eh."

"More like a pain in my ass," Tommy smirked. 

As promised, Alfie talked with Tatiana about inviting Tommy to the club. She was adamant about meeting with the self-made millionaire. The Princess wanted to make sure he was suitable to partake in her establishment. If Tatiana had the ability, she would have kept Tommy all to herself if she could. 

"None of those whores deserve you, Thomas," said Tatiana as she laid in bed next to him.

"No, they deserve better. Better than me, that is for sure. But…they are all I got. So, I need your help in finding the best one for me. One that I can take out in public if need be. One who can be presentable to society at certain functions I have to attend. That way, I can keep up the appearance of a family man who still grieves the loss of his wife while trying to move on with my life."

Lizzie Stark filled that position for two years before her sudden and unexpected departure at Excelsior. Now Tatiana had to find a new girl to assign for Tommy, which was no easy task with his certain expectations. The man was rather picky, to say the least. Perusing her girls' files, she realized that there was only one who could meet the requests of Tommy Shelby.

"Rose Turner," announced Tatiana and handed Tommy her file. "She has been with us for a couple of years. She is considered top-quality—good reviews from our top clients. As you can see, she is beautiful, no. She can be elegant if need be for your functions. Adventurous…flexible, if you know what I mean. She'd be perfect for you. What do you think?"

Tommy looked over Rose's file. Her birthdate indicated she was in her early thirties and from Blackpool, a seaside resort town on England's Irish Sea coast. It was England's very own Coney Island. Ada took Karl and Charlie there for a weekend getaway not long after Grace died to cheer up her nephew.

"How many men does she see regularly?" Tommy asked.

"Rose is considered top quality. Her clientele is small. She has no more than four regulars. One does not live here full-time. He only sees her when he visits family. The others…well, they are people from your circle of business partners."

"Is that so. Who would these men be?" Tommy inquired as he continued to look through Rose's file.

"I am not at liberty to tell you such vital information…"

"Well, Tatiana, let me take a guess. Could Alfie Solomons be one of Rose's clients? How about Darby Sabini? Is he on the list? Billy Kimber before his untimely departure on this Earth?" Tommy took a drag of his cigarette and tossed Rose's file on Tatiana's desk. "Set up a meeting for me with Rose. Not here, though. Tell her to meet me at The Savoy Hotel this Saturday night. Give her this as well," Tommy handed Tatiana an envelope she assumed had cash in it. "Tell her to buy something nice for the occasion. The two of us can talk over dinner, and if all goes well, we can end the night on a good note. Just know this Princess, if all goes well, then Rose becomes mine. Her other clients can fuck off for all I care. I am not one to share what is mine."

So here Rose was, at one of London's top boutiques picking out a dress for Saturday night. Tatiana explained the possible arrangement with Mr. Shelby, and if things went well, he would be Rose's main client. Meaning he would become Rose's only client. She had reservations about it until Tatiana shared how much Mr. Shelby was willing to pay. It was more money than Rose originally would make. Tatiana shared that Mr. Shelby would provide Rose a weekly allowance on top of her services' standard fees. The deal with too good to pass up. However, Tatiana was adamant to Rose that meeting Tommy first would be wise before agreeing to any deals. 

All Rose knew was that she had a date with The Gypsy. 

[schleierkauz]

Q&A Highlights

Ok so bad news first: My questions were ignored. Cornelia did not clarify any of our death-related theories. Maybe next time.

There was A Lot of other stuff, though so... Enjoy!

- The stream starts with everyone wishing us a happy women’s day! Usually women in Erfurt (where the bookstore people are) get flowers but not today because... you know. Cornelia says America is starting to go back to normal, meanwhile Germany... :| Anyway. Don’t look over here.

- Cornelia says she probably won’t get the vaccine anytime soon because she’s just chilling on her farm anyway and people who have to be out in public/are vulnerable should get it first

- Question: When will Cornelia visit Germany again? In response to this, she gives us some exclusive news, not official yet, heard it here first: She’s gonna move to Italy! Apparently she bought an olive farm there which is cheaper, better for the environment (her current farm will be sold to some people who want to turn it into an organic farm) and obviously closer to Germany so she’ll be here more often. :)

- The 4th Reckless book will be released in English at some point this autumn

- There’s no definite release date for TCoR because she’s busy with Dragonrider but she hopes she’ll have finished writing it by the end of this year

- If she’s still alive after all that to work on Reckless 5, it’ll be the last book of the series... probably. She’s also working on a bunch of smaller projects with her artists in residence

- Question: What are Cornelia’s favorite stories by Jane Austen, the Brontë sister and Shakespeare? She’s not a huge fan of Austen or Brontë because she finds all those repressed emotions too exhausting to read about. With Shakespeare on the other hand she struggles to name a favorite because there’s so much greatness to choose from (she does name MacBeth and Romeo and Juliet though)

- The Black Prince’s legacy in the Reckless timeline may play a role in the next Reckless book or it might evolve into a whole other story. Either way, she’s thinking about it  👀

- Someone asks about Reckless characters and Cornelia says that Kami’en and the Dark Fairy felt very familiar to her from the start in that she always knew who they were as people. She’s not sure why that is. She thinks the Dark Fairy represents many aspects of womanhood, like the ancient forgotten Goddess. Same with Fox, who embodies different sides of that.

- If Cornelia had to date a man from the Mirrorworld, Kami’en would interest her

- Rainer Strecker randomly joins the chat to say hi and everyone is delighted

- Cornelia’s favorite book series is still Lord of the Rings

- Question: Why has the Black Prince never found his true love? Cornelia says she’s not sure that’s true - maybe he did found true love at some point and then lost it again? ‘...and they lived happily ever after’ isn’t a guaranteed outcome after all. Since he’s such a passionate man, she’s pretty sure he’s had at least one big lovestory at this point. She hasn’t asked him about that yet but hopes she’ll find out when she continues writing his story.

- Jumping off that question, Cornelia says she respects her characters’ privacy and lets them keep their secrets until the time comes to ask about them, just as she would with real people.

- Someone asks if Cornelia has ever written herself into a story and she says a part of her is in all her characters. Except the villains because she hates them. She feels closest to Fox because she also always wished she could shapeshift

- The bookstore lady jumps in and asks about Meggie, is she similar to how Cornelia was as a child? Cornelia says yes, especially because she also had a very close relationship with her father and they would bond over books. However, she always envisioned Meggie with dark hair and as a different kind of girl than she was. (Ok sidenote from me on that, I wonder what she means by ‘dark hair’? Because Meggie is explicitly blond, so like... dark blond? Or did we just unlock brunette Meggie in 2021? Cornelia-)

- Continuing the conversation, Cornelia says she doesn’t consider herself the creator of any of the characters in her stories, she feels like she met them and wrote about him but she would never say something like ‘I invented Dustfinger’ because that’s absurd. How would that even work. That’s disrespectful. No.

- Some characters pretty much demand to be written about and are very impatient (like Jacob), others are more shy and elusive and take effort to understand (like Will or Dustfinger)

- There probably won’t be another book like The Labyrinth of the Faun because it was created under such unbelievable circumstances. Cornelia does enjoy writing film scripts, though, like she did for the Wild Chicks recently

- Question: How does Cornelia come up with character names? She has a bunch of encyclopedias and when she knows where a story takes place she checks if there are any artists from there whose names she can steal. She always wants names to have meaning and to paint a picture of whatever character it belongs to. However, she says that sometimes the vibe of a name is a tricky thing: When she wrote The Thief Lord (which takes place in Italy), she thought ‘Mosca’ was the perfect name for a big strong boy. However when the time came to translate the story into Italian, the Italians told her that ‘Mosca’ sounds like the name of a tiny little fly. Oh well.

- Cornelia says a lot of readers have written to her about The Thief Lord because at one point Victor (the detective) calls Mosca (who is black) a “Mohrenkopf”. Context: ‘Mohrenkopf’ is a German slur towards black people and also an outdated name for this goddamn marshmallow cookie:

Fuck this cookie.

- Cornelia says yeah, Victor is being racist in that moment but that doesn’t mean that she, the author, is racist. Similarly, she used the term ‘Indians’ in Reckless and a lot of readers were upset which she did not anticipate. To her it’s a positive word since she admires ‘Indians’ so deeply and finds terms like ‘Native/Indigenous Americans’ very complicated. She wonders how much longer she’ll be allowed to say ‘Black Prince’

- She thinks it’s right to be vigilant about bigotry but simply searching for problematic words is dangerous because context matters

- Bookstore lady brings up Pippi Longstocking and how the N-word has been removed from modern copies (think Pippi’s father). She think’s it’s wrong because the original text is part of the cultural heritage and shouldn’t be hidden from children but instead explained. 

- Cornelia says that in America she sees the hurt that’s connected to that word but she doesn’t think it’s right to simply remove the slur and expect everything to be fine. After all, the text in which it was used is still the same so any harmful ideas would still be in there and that needs to be discussed. Simply whitewashing things doesn’t make them any less racist.

- Cornelia brings up a visual example: The Asterix comics. She always liked them but the fact that the only black character is drawn as a racist caricature is harmful and wrong. It’s time to listen when black people express how hurtful depictions like that can be. Many white people never noticed racism growing up because it never affected them and that’s why it’s important to learn

- The ‘from rags to riches’ American dream was usually reserved for white people and Cornelia thinks a lot of (white) people are waking up to that fact. The way black people are still being criminalized and the way prisons use inmates for cheap labor is horrible and like a modern kind of slavery

- The bookstore people try to say something but Cornelia is not done: We Europeans are not off the hook either because the sins and wounds of colonialism are still felt around the world, not to mention the way other countries are still exploited today. Our wealth rests on the shoulders of poorer nations. Many doors are opening and it’s difficult to step through but we have to do it and admit to the things we may have been blind to due to privilege.

- The three of them agree on that and go back to reading questions

- Question: What are Cornelia’s tips for young authors? She advises to never start writing a story on a computer, always get a notebook and collect ideas & pictures for your story. Don’t rush things. If you have more than one story, give each story its own book and feed whichever one is hungry. It’s important to follow the idea where it leads, if you use cliches your readers will recognize them. And then it just takes time and passion. And trust in your own unique voice. She paraphrases a quote by Robert Louis Stevenson who once said no one cares about stories or characters or whatever, people read books to see the world through the goggles the author puts on them. I’m sure he said it prettier, I’m paraphrasing the paraphrase.

- That said, Cornelia thinks authors who say things like “I’m writing to express my innermost turbulences” are kinda dumb. She thinks it’s important to write about the things that happen everywhere else and around yourself and to try to find voices for others, not just yourself. Just like how carpenters build furniture for everyone else, a writer should use words to build things for others, whether it’s a window or door or a hiding place.

- Speaking of notebooks, as most of us probably know Cornelia has a lot of those and occasionally publishes them on her website. She says she’d love to let people look through them in person, maybe at the new farm in Germany (Cornelia sure does love farms)

- Speaking of writing things on paper, all three of them stress that everyone should write more letters because one day they’ll be old letters and curious people will want to read them, just as we like to read old documents now.

- Last question: How come both the Inkworld and the Mirrorworld feature a character called Bastard? Cornelia thinks that’s a good question and she should probably think about that. (Am I stupid? Are they talking about Basta? I’m confused)

...And with that, the livestream ends. They’ll get back together to do this again two months from now, until then: I’m going tf to sleep

[akaluan]

20, 99, Ichigo/Xanxus

(20: Teacher AU, 99: Magical Accidents, Ichigo/Xanxus)

(With apologies to anyone expecting a vaguely IC Xanxus: I’ve read fic with him, but never source material, and it’s been a damn long while XD)

Ichigo’s leading his students back to their hotel when it happens.

A great orange-red blur bolts from a nearby alley, pursued by several distinctive men, all wearing identical uniforms and obviously furious; one even has wisps of bluish power trailing from his fingers, clearly intent on doing something to the creature they’re pursuing.

Ichigo doesn’t bother stepping aside. He flickers forward in a tiny burst of shunpo. Scoops up the… cat? Cat. And tucks it against his side even as he lets his reiatsu uncoil from his soul. He keeps it subtle for the moment, just a sense of pressure in the air directed at the men and shielding his students, but he’s ready to act if he needs to.

(He may be a teacher these days, but that doesn’t mean he’s lost his edge.)

(Especially against near-baseline humans.)

“Is there a problem here, gentlemen?” Ichigo asks in careful, precise Italian, even as he adjusts his grip on the cat. It’s struggling, gnawing on his wrist and ripping at his arm in an attempt to escape, but a touch of hierro means the beast’s efforts are in vain.

The men skid to a halt. Glance between him and his gaggle of students. Clearly label him not a threat even as the largest takes a menacing step towards him.

“Hand over the cat,” the man demands.

Ichigo’s students snicker and edge back a bit to give him space, elbowing one another and whispering in Japanese; the clear dismissal seems to bother the men, but Ichigo doesn’t bother to shush them.

(He… might have a reputation still.)

Ichigo hums and glances down at the cat still angrily trying to gnaw his wrist off, then back up at the men. “I don’t think it wants to go with you.”

The man grits his teeth and holds out his — scratched and bleeding — hand in demand. “Its wants are immaterial,” the man says. “Thank you for catching it, but we need to return it home.”

The cat yowls at that, all anger-fury-terror at the option, and Ichigo tucks it more carefully against his side. This close, he can feel the whisper of not-a-cat leaking from the creature; whether it’s a person trapped in a feline form somehow or someone experimenting with a skill like Yoruichi’s, they’re not quite good enough to hide their personhood from him.

All the more reason to refuse to hand the person over, honestly.

“Sorry guys, but I think we’ll have to agree to disagree about that,” Ichigo says with a shrug, and then doesn’t wait for a response. He darts forward. Trips the first bruiser and lays out the second with a sharp jab to the stomach. Ducks away from a grab by the one with blue power and elbows the man in the side of the head. Applies a careful burst of reiatsu to make sure they all stay down, and turns back to his students with the — suddenly very quiet — cat still tucked against his side.

His students clap.

“Don’t tell anyone about this and I’ll buy you all ice cream,” Ichigo bribes them without remorse. Not that he expects this little event to go entirely unreported; one of his students will talk to a friend, the friend will talk to another, and soon enough the whole story will be blown entirely out of proportion and add another tally on his record.

“Yeah!” “Alright!” “I want mango!”

Ichigo snorts and jerks his head in the direction they were headed before their interruption. “Well, come on then. Two scoops for each of you, whatever flavors you want.” The cat in his arms makes a grumpy noise, and Ichigo snorts in amusement as he strokes the cat’s head. “None for you. Ice cream isn’t good for cats, you know.”

The cat growls and tries to gnaw on his wrist again, less like it means it and more like it’s just trying to make a point.

“I’ll get you some tuna and water when we’re back in the hotel,” Ichigo promises as he hitches the feline higher and attempts to make it at least a bit comfortable. Still, he’d rather not give it a chance to escape, so he doesn’t try too hard as he starts moving down the street with his students in tow.

It’ll forgive him eventually, or maybe not.

Honestly, he doesn’t really care.

(Why can’t any of his trips ever be normal?)

(Really.)

*****

“If you alert the hotel staff and get us kicked out, I won’t call my friend who can probably get you out of that shape,” Ichigo hisses into the not-a-cat’s ears as he and his gaggle of students finally approach the hotel. And then to his students he says, “Students, remember your promise. Not a word about our newest friend to anyone here, understood?”

“Hai, Sensei!” comes the ragged chorus of voices, many muffled by ice cream or gelato.

Ichigo hums and carefully positions himself towards the center of his group, letting the bodies of his students obscure the fact that he’s carrying a cat into a hotel that probably has a ‘no pets allowed’ policy. His students are of course entirely up for this harmless bit of rule-breaking, no doubt looking forward to seeing the cat later when he’s checked it over.

(Given the not-a-cat’s rather persistent attempts at mauling his arm, he’s pretty sure he’s also going to need to rescue a perfectly average stray in order to entertain the class.)

At least Not-A-Cat seems to be cooperating. Except for continued half-hearted attempts to chew through his wrist, the little beast is entirely quiet as they pass through the lobby and proceed down the hallway to the elevators. Where they have to wait, because there are only two elevators and he has nearly twenty students — a quick head counts confirms he’s not missing anyone yet — that need to reach the fifth floor.

One eternity later — in which Not-A-Cat graduates from half-hearted chewing to a serious effort to bite through his hierro — and Ichigo has finally managed to usher all his students back to their rooms and washed his hands of active chaperoning duties for the night.

If they need him, they know where he’ll be.

He unceremoniously drops Not-A-Cat on the hotel chair and grabs a washcloth to wipe the smudges of dirt and spit from his arm. “Hope you didn’t chip a tooth on my arm,” Ichigo tells Not-A-Cat as he settles down on the bed next to the chair. “Not sure how that would transfer over to your human form when we get you out of that.”

Not-A-Cat yawns very pointedly in his direction, wide and long and obnoxious, but it’s more than enough for Ichigo to see that nothing’s wrong with Not-A-Cat’s teeth, at least.

Which is a relief, because the more chance he’s getting to look at Not-A-Cat, the more he dislikes what he’s seeing.

Not-A-Cat is hunkered into a defensive loaf, body trembling now that the danger is gone. Its red-orange fur is ratty, with odd patches of white fur scattered all over, one of the largest splashed right across its face.  It looks little better than an alley-cat, which… doesn’t bode well for the person the cat originally was.

“Got a name?” Ichigo asks as he sets the washcloth aside and eyes the room, wondering what he’s going to use for a water dish. There really aren’t that many options, but… he’ll figure something out.

Not-A-Cat very pointedly yowls at him, tail lashing and ears back, as if to say ‘I’m a cat, how do you expect me to talk?’

Ichigo huffs a laugh. “Have you even tried to talk yet?”

“Course I fuckin’ h— what the fuck?!” Not-A-Cat practically shrieks, voice softer than Yoruichi’s despite the pitch.

“There you go,” Ichigo says with a smirk, more amused than anything by the profanity after so many years of Shiro in his head. “Try to keep the chatter to a minimum around my students though, hm? They’re just regular kids.”

Not-A-Cat scowls at him, eyes narrowed and ears back, but all it does is make him look like he’s pouting. “Yeah, yeah, don’t get smug, trash. How’d you fucking know…?”

“I have a friend who can.”

“That friend get trapped in another form by a fucking Mist high on superiority?”

“No, but she has a technique that lets her turn into a cat at will,” Ichigo says as he arches an eyebrow, confused by the mention of a ‘mist high on superiority’ but content to leave it be for the moment. Now wasn’t the time to poke his nose into another society’s definition of ‘empowered human’, though given his luck…

Well. He’d deal with the fallout when it came.

If it came.

(He was getting pretty good at stopping issues before they became issues, if he did say so himself.)

“Why the fuck do you think she could help, then?”

Ichigo shrugs. “If she can’t then Hat’n’Clogs can. He’s good at unraveling mysteries.”

Not-A-Cat’s tail thumps against the chair cushion in frustration, and their voice is sullen as they say, “Fuckin’ fine. Whatever. Name’s Xanxus. If you don’t follow through on getting me out of this shape, I will find a way to fucking end you, trash.”

“Nice to meet you, Xanxus,” Ichigo says with all the weaponized pleasantness he’s learned to muster as a teacher. “I’m Ichigo Kurosaki.”

Xanxus scoffs and looks away, hunkering down further into the chair as he mutters, “Yeah whatever… didn’t you fuckin’ promise me food?”

Ichigo inclines his head and rises to his feet. “I did indeed. If you promise to stay put and not make trouble, I’ll see about getting something for you, hm?”

“Whatever, trash. Better not keep me waiting long.”

“I’ll try not to,” Ichigo says in amusement, thoroughly reminded of some of the ‘trouble’ students he’s had in the past. Whoever Xanxus is, Ichigo has no intention of letting him fall back into the hands of the people searching for him.

Even if it means calling Hat’n’Clogs up to work out a way to smuggle a feline back into Karakura.

Well, it’s not like Urahara doesn’t owe him one for the latest round of ‘fix Shinigami fuckups’.

(They’ll figure it out.)

(Just like usual.)