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lord-explosion-baku · 3 years

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Trident Tale

Merman!Shinsou x reader, Kirishima x Reader

Warnings: adult themes (Minors DNI)

A/N: read the prologue on AO3

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3

(Original image by @maewoahoah)

Synopsis: Moving to an island where everyone is big on the surf scene and other oceanic happenings might not have been the brightest idea for someone so afraid of anything that has to do with water, but you make do by spending your days looking after the Bed & Breakfast, trying not to burn the house down when you fry a few eggs, and obsessively scrolling through Eijirou Kirishima’s social media page. He’ll never notice you, and you think you’re fine with that, until a mysterious force washes into Ms. Shuzenji’s pool after a particularly nasty storm.

Hitoshi Shinsou is a pain in the ass from the get-go, but you put up with him, fins and all, when he promises he can help unite you with your soulmate. The catch? The fish is hellbent on taking back what was stolen from him, and he won’t lift a gracious finger until he gets what he came for.

You’re helpless to lend him a hand, so long as you stay dry. Unless, of course, he has other plans.

You know how the saying goes: you rub his fins, he’ll rub yours.

Storms have never really been your cup of tea. Though you keep yourself locked inside a good percent of the time, there’s nothing quite as suffocating as the compress of clouds overhead. It’s not like you always have to see them to be uncomfortable, but you definitely feel them pressing down, closing in, and caging you, even when you’ve got yourself tucked under a blanket on Ms. Shuzenji’s couch.

It’s been a little over a year since you first moved to the island. All you needed was a new beginning, and you got that, but you got that, and the tropical weather that you’re still getting used to. It’s currently typhoon season, and holy seaweed-on-your-doorstep, is it storming.

There’s little you can do to distract yourself while staying and working at Shuzenji’s bed and breakfast. There are currently no guests, aside from you, so all the rooms are made, and the old lady is on another one of her long vacations, so you’re basically being paid to lounge. You’re grateful for that, at least. But the only thing that’s keeping you physically separated from the terrifying weather is a thick glass pane that water sloshes on every time a wave laps over the backyard walls.

The things that separate you mentally are the old-timey recordings of Shuzenji singing alongside an ensemble cast, and the little device in your hand. If you didn’t have your boss’s haunting melodies echoing throughout the house, and some big, beefy, tatted eye-candy to gawk at during the storm, you’d surely go insane.

Eijirou Kirishima, one of the island’s best surfers, is out on his board, live-streaming his current fight against the waves. His whoops and hollers can be heard over the crashing tides, getting even you excited for what’s about to come. That’s the thing about Kirishima; he’s wild, you’re not, and it’s hot as hell. Oftentimes, you catch yourself daydreaming about joining him out in the surf—he guides you through the waves, maybe yoou impress him a bit with your sudden affinity for wave-riding, and the two of you wash up on shore where you’ll both share your first kiss. It would be feasible if you could swim. It would be feasible if you bothered to learn how to swim, but for now, you’re content with your imagination. At least he can make you hate the terrible weather a little less.

The conspiratorial smirk he shows the camera is borderline swoon-worthy when the swell begins to pull him further out. It’s impossible not to bite your lip every time you catch a glimpse of his arms forcing themselves through the sea. He makes this look easy—like the storm is child’s play, and as the winds blow Shuzenji’s trash bin into the sliding glass door, you welcome the delicious distraction.

As Kirishima stands up on his signature trident board and rides one of the biggest waves he’s seen all day, you’re once again struck with how much of a coward you are. He can fight the elements, while you can hardly bring yourself the courage to talk to him. Mind you, he’s constantly surrounded by a close group of friends—a close group of friends you find intimidating—and when he’s not with them, he’s out in the water. Where there’s water involved, you’re spoken for. Unless, of course, you’d like for the first time you guys actually speak, to be when he’s giving you CPR.

Not the most ideal “meet cute”, but if it works, it works.

A loud crash snaps you out of your admittedly salty daydream. Mango, Shuzenji’s orange tabby, yowls at the blanket of water cascading down the windows, and your stomach sinks. There’s only so many minutes you can pretend that the storm Kirishima is facing isn’t the one that’s destroying Shuzenji’s yard.

With a sigh, you roll off the velvet couch, and grimace when crumbs that were nesting in your shirt fall to the carpet: a mess to clean up later. Without any guests to mind, you don’t have to worry too much over keeping the place spick-and-span, so long as things are nice and tighty by the time the old lady gets back, which will be awhile.

You have an easy enough job—at least, when there aren’t bunches of thick seaweeds crashing over the yard’s wall, flooding the pool.

“Shit.”

Water sprays in every direction. The already trash-infested pool overflows as more kelp rolls in with the maniacal waves, and angry, white foam bangs on the back door. It's a disaster outside, and you’re not sure what to do about it.

Fingers wrapped around the back door handle, you struggle to think of a way to prevent a bigger mess, but even if you could manage to clean anything, nothing is stopping the tempest from wreaking anymore havoc. Best case scenario, you stop a plastic soda-chain from washing out to see and becoming a deadly necklace for an unlucky seagull. Worst case scenario, you slip, crack your head open on the pavement, and drown before you can ever utter the words “mahalo” to Kirishima.

Needless to say, you’ll take your life over a gull’s any day.

Another sigh.

A greater wave collides against the wall, bringing more of the Great Unknown into the pool. This is going to be a fun job to clean. Good thing you’ve got Shuzenji’s service boy, Denki Kaminari, on speed dial. You think if you sound particularly distressed in the morning, he’ll show up to help you out with just about anything in the matter of minutes. God bless desperate fuckboys.

So, for now, you cuddle back up on the couch, watch Kirishima shake saltwater out of his thick, red hair, and pretend that his storm is not the same thing as your storm.

It’s early morning when you finally rise out of bed. You hadn’t gotten a whole lot of rest—something to do with the wailing winds shaking your bedroom window nonstop, but after you finally drifted into dreams about snakes and dragons, you woke to clear skies, and light seagull calls.

From the second story, you can see early birds have already gotten the jump on cleaning up the beach. The sun is shining, the ocean blue and vast. The only trace there was ever a storm is already being taken care of. There are lifeguards riding around on ATVs and younger civilians with trash bags and grapplers picking up seaweed and absconded debris. The respect everyone has for the island is something to be admired, and you half-consider going out there yourself, after you’ve dealt with your yard, which is sure to be a wreck.

There’s no interest in picking out a cute outfit for the morning you’re going to have, even if Denki might see you, so you throw on a already-worn-this-week crop top, some pink shirts, and you’re good to go.

The first thing you do after Mango’s fed is check your socials. Kirishima posted a picture of his breakfast: a hefty plate with three eggs, sausage links, bacon, cut avocado, and what seems to be low-carb toast. The post reads, gotta eat ur gainz 2 gain ur gainz, and it’s so ridiculous that you’re infatuated with this reckless himbo. You wonder if you’d ever be able to hold an intellectual conversation with him, if you could ever manage to speak to him in the first place, but conversation wouldn’t matter if his mouth was between your thighs.

Following his example, you crack two eggs over a frying pan, sigh at the mostly empty fridge, then agonize over the state of Shuzenji’s yard. It’s worse than you thought it’d be. The pool is a sickly green color, and from where you’re standing inside, its murky depths seem to be almost opaque from the seaweed and garbage stewing together. Kelp litters the beige pavement, and there’s trash hiding in the shrubs. There’s a chocolate donut floaty bobbing around in there, too, and Shuzenji doesn’t own any floaties.

What a drag.

Before you get too far in your head about everything you’ll need to do to clean up, you quickly dial Denki’s number. He picks up after a ring and a half.

“I know what you’re about to ask,” says the boy on the line, and from his cocky tone, you can assume it’s not going to be about the cleanup. “I am absolutely free tonight. If you wanted to grab drinks at the Salty Barrel, maybe go on a romantic rendezvous out on the beach, watch the sunset on or in a couple blankets, I wouldn’t complain.”

“I’m not calling to ask you on a date, Kaminari,” you say as you step outside. The pavement is cold underneath your bare feet, and you have to tip-toe around to be sure not to let any kelp touch your skin. Yuck.

“But you’re not, not calling about a date, either,” he counters. By the volume of his voice, you can tell that he’s in his van, talking to you over the speaker. Good. So he’s already out and about.

“I need you to tell me how to drain Shuzenji’s pool.” Call you cold, but you’re used to Denki’s flirty nature by now, and you’ve learned that the best way to deal with it, is to not acknowledge it. Of course, you can’t be too callous when it comes to him, especially when you actually need his help. You eye the dangerously complex-looking valves off to the side of the house, and grimace. “There’s too many twisty thingies! I’m not sure what to do!”

“Now, hold your horses, little lady! Don’t go twisting any thingies just yet. Draining a pool is a process.” There’s a long pause, the loud growl of an engine, then silence. He’d pulled over to talk to you. “How’s your TDL? And what kinda PVC pipes you got?”

“The huh and what?” You don’t need to pretend to be in distress—you have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Listen, don’t touch anything. You’re calling because the pool’s a mess right now, right? You don’t need to drain it; at least, not yet. I can swing by in an hour or so to clean it, but I’ve gotta make some stops first. You’re not the only single woman who wants to watch me do my thang, especially not after yesterday.”

“It’s so bad, Kaminari.” The water in the pool sloshes around, like there’s actually something in it causing the water to ungulate and burble. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Don’t worry your pretty, little head over it. You've got me, okay? It’s my job to protect and serve.”

“You’re not a cop.”

“Nope, I’m better than a cop. I’m a pool guy.”

He goes on to ask you to check out what kind of drain the pool has, if you can find the drain, then loses you when he starts talking numbers and gallons. While still on the phone, you send a few texts to Shuzenji, explaining the predicament, then Denki mentions rates. You’re getting the cutie pie discount, doubled because he counts Shuzenji as a “cutie pie” too—something you mention to her because she’ll get a kick out of it—then he drops all business to ask about food.

“I’m cooking my breakfast,” you say with a wary glance back at the house.

“But is your breakfast fries and a shake from Tiki Burger?”

You bite your lip as your stomach growls its empty sorrow. “No.”

“Would you like it to be?” His knowing grin is heard through the line.

“…I’m not gonna go out with you.”

He chuckles and you’re grateful that he can’t see your answering smile. “We’ll see how you feel after you see me work my magic. And hey, if you’d like me to wear a Speedo while I work—“

“You’ll be here in an hour?” You cut him off, because Denki in a Speedo is the last thing you need on your mind. The thought of Kirishima in a Speedo, however, gets you a little hot, which is saying a lot, since you’re a part of the Speedos and Dolphin-shorts Are Abominations To Swimwear belief system.

“Maybe sooner. I think my next client just needs me to check out their chemical levels. Inside pool and all. Everyone else knew to put a tarp out.”

The tarp you had blew away, but you don’t bother explaining that to Denki. Let him believe you’re the dim-witted “little lady” he wants you to be. If it means Shuzenji gets a discount, not that she can’t afford any bill Denki’s company throws at her, then let him believe you can’t open a pickle jar without a man’s help for all you care.

“See you then,” you say, and end the call. There will be time to work on your charm once Denki gets here. Until then, you figure you could do some investigating so you’re not completely helpless.

Leaving your phone on the pavement so you don’t accidentally drop it in the water, you make your way around the pool to where you think you remember the drain being. You can’t say you’ll know what kind of drain it is, but if you remember correctly, it’s circular, and like, kinda meshy? That description simply won’t do.

Dropping down to your knees, you peer down into the pool, squinting, as if that can help you see through all the muck. There’s definitely a lot of kelp and algae, sand drifting through the water, someone’s wayward brazier, and oh. A school of fish—little babies circling about. It’s wild, but you suppose it could be possible if all the chlorine washed out and there was enough salt water to sustain marine life.

The fish move together, bopping into each other, mouths gaping open to eat whatever they find in their temporary home. You don’t know enough about marine life to know what kind of fish they are. Silvery little things. Maybe Denki has something that can help transport them from the pool to the ocean. It’s not far—Shuzenji’s house is on the beach. It would be a shame if all the little fish had to die. You don’t particularly care about touching or feeding fish, but a life is a life, and if they can be saved, you’d at least like to try.

But all your thoughts of saving fish life stop when you catch something moving in the water. It’s not the fish—they’re not that big, but it’s definitely fishlike. Fish plus. It moves like a shadow, serpentine and fluid. You catch a glimpse of scales, so it’s definitely not a dolphin—even then, it’s bigger than a dolphin, and more graceful than a shark. You begin thinking of leviathan, and other mythical creatures, as ridiculous as that is, when you see a long flowing fluke.

Okay. This thing is not just big. It’s gargantuan, and to see this much of the creature without seeing its head makes your skin crawl. You imagine falling in and being swallowed whole, suffocating in the dark, drowning in a monster’s belly.

The thought spooks you static, just in time to meet a pair of eyes in the water. This is your overactive imagination—you’re scaring yourself insane, but you don’t look away, and those eyes, almost human and curious, don’t disappear.

You’ve consumed enough media to know how these impossible interactions go. The creature is inquisitive, but keeps its distance. It often has to be coaxed out of hiding, and even then, the thing is skittish and untrusting. You’re certainly not one to go “pspsps, hey little guy, I’m not gonna hurt you,” but even if you were, you don’t get the chance, because this thing you’re looking at isn’t the least bit skittish, and in one second, you’re making eyes at at it, and in the next, the thing is exploding out of the water.

A large, broad chest towers over you. The thing pushes itself up with arms, human arms, but it’s anything but human. Sure, it has hair, although an odd purple color, framing its angular face and jaw, which are both human enough. Also framing its face are a pair of long, pointed fins sticking out from where human ears should be. Water dribbles down its chest, down to its navel—its navel. Your brain screams mammal, but underneath its navel are scales, rippling down to where its legs should be. Not human. Not fish.

Fish plus.

Man.

Fish plus man.

Fish-man.

Its eyes are almost the same color as its hair, only a shade lighter, and much sharper, narrowed in on you. It’s glaring. You realize this at the same time you realize that you're staring at it with your mouth agape. This would be so rude in any other setting. It’s also rude to pop out of a pool that isn’t yours without any other warning, but you’re not about to chastise the thing. You’re far too scared.

Then the thing reaches out to you, sprinkling water on your thighs and your shirt. Its hands look like a man’s hand, but its long fingers are connected by thin, indigo webbing that matches its tail. Its tail. You lose focus trying to find the word for this creature that’s barely on the tip of your tongue, when you realize the palm of its hand, its fishy, webby hand, is hovering over your cheek, the other carefully placed next to your knee to keep it upright.

You open your mouth to speak, but only a hiss comes out. The creature, wary, brings its hand back, but only slightly. Not enough to put you at ease, but enough to allow you to gain your composure, and scream.

“H-help!!!” You screech. “Help! Somebody! Help me!”

It claps its hand over your mouth, knocking you back. Water drips down on your shirt as it leans in, mouth curling up with distaste. Then, it does something impossible.

It speaks.

“So loud,” it growls in a low, masculine timbre.

It speaks, you think, it speaks and it has no manners!

You try to yell back, probably something with little thought, but you have a mouth full of fish-man hand, and the more you warble in its palm, the more apathetic it appears.

“Be quiet and still,” it commands, as if obeying it is supposed to be the most natural thing—something it expects from you. It catches you so off-guard that you actually listen, only trembling a little bit as those indigo eyes scan over your form. It’s uncomfortable having an unknown but cognizant creature observe you so closely. You shiver when its gaze roams over your belly, down your legs. You want to curl your legs up, move away, but you’re afraid if you even twitch more than it’s comfortable with, it’ll grab you and drag you into the pool. Your nightmare.

Instead, it does something slightly less worse. It moves its hand from your mouth to your cheek. The palm of its hand warms your skin in an unnatural way, like you’ve been laying in the sun for half an hour and it’s only your cheek that heats up. The creature's eyes widen as light begins to emanate, either from you, or from it, you’re not sure, but definitely from where it touches you. Tingles run from your neck down to your spine, and you wish you’d put a bra on before going outside, because this thing’s touch is making your body react in a way that it shouldn’t.

“So easy,” it purrs appraisingly, somewhat less insolent, but you’re still taken aback, ears hot with embarrassment.

Un-fucking-likely.

“Easy?!” You squawk out. “What do you mean by easy?”

It doesn’t answer you, and instead, moves its fingers from your cheek, down your jaw, to your chin. It begins leaning closer, heavy lids closing. You notice its lips for the first time: a defined line and a pretty bow. If you were in a less dire situation, you’d be able to admit that they’re very nice lips, but they’re getting closer to you, closer still, and you realize with a jolt what it’s trying to do.

Your foot meets its chest in a heartbeat.

“Nope!” You belt out, extending your leg so there’s more distance between you and the impolite beast. “Not today, fish-breath!”

Unperturbed, it lifts a lazy brow. Then, to your absolute horror, it presses both of its hands into your bare leg, and again you’re lit up, warm, and tingly, only far worse than before. Stomach tightening, you make a choked noise, trying to hold in the sigh that claws at your throat.

“Fish-breath.” It repeats your insult like it’s a balled-up piece of paper to be thrown in the trash. “I’ve been told that my aroma is quite appealing.”

“By whom? Other fish-breaths?!” You wriggle your leg out of his embrace, or whatever you could call that invasion, only to have it slip down so your foot rests in the fish-man’s hands, bright as the stars in the sky. “Eww ew! Don’t touch me! Get away!”

The creature scoffs, but let’s you go, and you both watch as the light disappears from the arch of your foot where he’d been touching. Fish-man slinks back into the murky water, hiding under a blanket of algae.

You have enough time to gather your composure, wipe the water droplets off your face, and rub your eyes. For a moment, you try to convince yourself that this has all been a sleep-deprived hallucination, but you’ve never really been one to delude yourself, unless your Kirishima fantasies were involved, and you know that you’ll have to try another tactic to accept the reality of your situation. Perhaps you can try to be civil with this creature, ask it if it’s…hurt, or if it needs a late night escort to get it back to the sea. But then, the thing resurfaces on the opposite end of the pool. It faces you, and leans back against the wall, arms spread out against the pavement, basking.

“You know,” he says, “your decorum is severely lacking. Don’t humans have classes that teach them proper etiquette—how to be more polite towards their guests and such?”

What’s lacking is your patience for marine life.

Standing up, you take in the thing, which you’re now pretty sure is in fact a man of sorts, in its entirety. His tail is long, longer than human legs, extending past the halfway mark of the pool, if your measurement counts his fluke. There’s a golden cuff on his right arm that spirals around, accentuating his large biceps. You stubbornly admit that it’s attractive—he’s attractive, at least, he would be for people who were into fish and not surfers. You brush whatever you’re feeling in the pit of your stomach off by telling yourself that you’re simply awestruck, and move on.

“Where I’m from-“ you begin, straightening your sodden crop top- “we offer our guests various beverages and snacks, depending on the time of day.”

Annoyingly, he looks interested.

“Since it’s the morning, I’d offer a guest tea, or coffee, and if I’m looking to impress, I’d maybe cook them a hot meal.”

The creature offers you a sardonic smile. “I happen to be famished.”

“However, with home-invaders, we’re more likely to pull a gun on them before heating up the earl grey.”

He loses the smile, and you’re glad that he might have an inkling of what a gun is. You’ve never owned one, and they don’t allow firearms on the island, but the threat stands. But if he was intimidated, even for a moment, he doesn’t show it anymore, and proves just that by turning his back on you, and resting his head in his arms. He has a dorsal fin with what looks to be a deep, x-shaped scar near his tailbone. You try not to wonder what that could’ve been from.

“Then how do you propose I go from a home-invader, to a house guest?” Asks the creature with little interest.

Cautiously walking around the pool with your arms crossed, you begin to list things off for the far-too-comfortable fish-man.

“You can start by telling me who you are, what you are, why you’re here, what you want, and why you think you can lay your webbed hands on me.”

“Oh, is that all?” He hums noncommittally. Content. Aggravating. “Why don’t you start then? Who are you, and why are you here?”

The back of your neck grows hot and uncomfortable. “How entitled do you have to be to—!” You start, but you’re swiftly cut off by the shrieking of the fire alarm. Smoke plumes from outside the house’s windows, and you curse under your breath before darting towards the door. You’d completely forgotten about your eggs.

In your haste to move the pan off the stove, you burn your fingers and drop the pan to the kitchen floor, two blackened egg crisps flaking off and diving in different directions. Mango yowls at the commotion and investigates one of the fallen egg crisps. Before you can tell him to buzz off, he loses interest in your mess, not bothering to give it a taste. You don’t blame him, but the eggs didn’t appear to be cat-bad. Ah, you can’t kid yourself. They are cat-bad. They’re completely inedible. Now you’re going to have to head to the market, while worrying about a man trapped in Shuzenji’s pool.

Your stomach roars at you.

After cleaning the mess as best as you could while desperately and ruefully wanting to return to your guest—no, not guest—invader, you get the alarm, half-heartedly fan the smoke out of the house, and return. Angry. This guy better start talking soon, or things are going to get ugly.

To your utter displeasure, he looks all the more amused at your newer, messier state.

“Was that supposed to be the hot meal,” he asks, cocky. “Because if so, I’ll pass.”

Instead of biting his head off like you’d like to, you present him with the still-dirty frying pan, pointing it at his head like you intend to use it.

“Start talking, fish-for-brains.”

The beast snickers, raising his hands in the air in mock-surrender. “Easy there, tiger shark. You know how to use that thing?”

You refuse to humor him. Instead, you keep your scowl tight, your arms steady. If he’s not threatened, he’ll lose interest in this game, then he’ll have to talk.

Lo and behold, you’re right. The fish-man rolls his eyes, and looks at you, again, with apathy.

“My name is Hitoshi Shinsou,” he says, lackadaisical, like he’s already bored of himself. “I’m one of Ryūjin. What humans have learned to call merpeople are actually descendants of the sea gods who lived centuries ago. I’m here, simply because the storm washed me here. What I want is to retrieve what’s mine. I thought I could lay my webbed hands on you—well-“ the corner of his mouth tilts up-“darlin’, it was because your body reacted to me.”

Mouth forming the beginning of a question that never comes, you stare in disbelief at this myth. Then the last thing he said dawns at you.

“I did not react to you!” You rebuke, steady hands now shaking.

“Oh no?” He says, but it’s not a question. It’s a challenge.

Hitoshi grabs the flat end of the frying pan and yanks it, and you, closer to him, closer to the water. You cringe and whine when a wet, webby hand closes around your wrist. Inadvertently, you drop the pan, but he pays it no mind as it sinks past his tail. Your skin begins to glow underneath his palms, and the tingles come back, shooting up your arm, causing tiny goosebumps to appear.

“Would you look at that,” Hitoshi croons, slow and almost sensuously. His indigo eyes narrow on your index finger where you’d burned yourself. To add to this nightmare, he closes his lips around it, and begins to suck. Your stomach flips, and you’re not sure if it’s because you’re disgusted, or scared, or…enjoying the feeling of his warm mouth, his tongue, touching your skin.

“Stop.” It’s a whisper. It means nothing. You think you want it to mean something, but your thoughts are buzzing into a blur. Knees growing weak, you descend, leaning closer to him, not caring about the water or the seaweed or the fish, and instead, entirely focused on his mouth. It’s glowing, his mouth. Faintly. Like a single candle lit in an otherwise empty room.

When he eases off of you, he runs his thumb over your now-healed finger, and let’s your arm fall limply at your side.

“All better,” he whispers back at you.

There are prickles all over your skin once you regain an ounce of dignity.

“What the hell was that?” You ask, breathless for no other reason than shock.

“The glowing?” He asks. “The healing?”

“Both.”

“Your reaction to me.” He’s cocky again. This is something sick. Mythical creature or not, this has got to be a game he plays, washing into people’s pools, causing problems, sucking on lonely girls’ fingers. He probably gets his kicks this way, and uses whatever other kind of magic he has to erase whoever he’s tormenting’s memories, if he doesn’t end up eating them when he’s done. Bogus.

You won’t let him get to you.

“Alright, Hitoshi Shinsou, how would you like me to get you back into the ocean? You healed my finger-“ although it’s essentially his fault you were burned to begin with, if you take into account the sequence of events-“so helping you out is the least that I can do.”

“I could use your help,” he muses lightly, turning his body back around to his chest and abdomen are turned towards the sun. You tell yourself not to stare like you know he probably wants you to. Though his eyes are closed, he peeps at you, sneaking a glance. “I don’t want to go back into the ocean, though. Not until I get what’s mine.”

With the might of a girl who just wants to go back inside and scroll through her phone, you swallow your bite, and ask, “what would that be?”

“Oh, this and that-“ he waves his hand around dismissively-“other things.”

With the might of a girl who just wants to go back inside and find another frying pan, you say, “alright, listen. Someone is on their way to the house to clean the pool. I don’t know what one of Ryūjin means, but I’m guessing people like you don’t always want to be discovered by people like us. So you either tell me what it is you need, or see how my pool guy reacts to a mermaid lounging around in my backyard! I wouldn’t put it against him to call the local news station. Get this place flooding with cameras. Does that sound like a pretty picture to you?”

Absolutely none of your threats penetrate Hitoshi’s cool nature. In fact, he laughs.

“When he gets here,” the merman drawls, knowing he’s got you hanging on every word, “invite him to swim.”

#bnha mermay #mermaid au #siren!shinsou #mermaid!hitoshi shinsou #hitoshi shinsou x reader #shinsou x reader #bnha x reader #bnha x you #bnha imagines #bnha reader insert #reader insert #trident tale

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soap-lady · 3 years

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I made this!

Ever get that bug and you have to write something so it’ll get out of your head and let you sleep? Well, that just happened to me. Thanks to @arylace for liking this.

This is a one-shot and won’t be continued.

He Can Only Blame Himself

She walked past all of her now former coworkers. Most were sad to see her go, some risked getting up from their cubicles to give her a hug and a business card of someone they thought might be hiring.

A few were glad to see her go and took a spiteful glee in her departure. Some were jealous of her talent, some were angry she wouldn’t date them and a few just took pleasure in the misery of others.

She ignored the whispers as the elevator doors closed.

*****

A tall grey-haired man turned to his long time assistant and murmured, “that must be her now. Remember to be professional yet sympathetic.”

The woman nodded once. Her hair was still long and dark but now a grey streak replaced the red that used to be there. “Naturally, sir.”

The elevator dinged and they heard heels clicking across the tile as they waited side by side for the young woman near the exit.

The young designer always dressed professionally but with her own personal flair. Today’s ensemble was a military inspired double-breasted navy blazer with a matching skirt that flares out at the knee. Her blouse and lipstick were both battle red and her indigo hair flowed around her shoulders.

Ah. She’s prepared for war. I’ll see what I can do to diffuse the situation.

The man stepped forward. “Ah, Marinette.” He gave her a rare smile and hoped it looked sympathetic. “I wish we were meeting under better circumstances. Please accept my apologies.”

He looked her over but could find no fault in her appearance. The suit was impeccably tailored and managed to look both powerful and feminine. As to be expected from the woman who’d worked for him for two years and dated his son for three.

There were no tell-tale red eyes or dark circles. She hadn’t made herself look deliberately pitiful to gain sympathy. It made him respect her even more.

“M. Agreste,” she nodded at him. She looked over at Nathalie. “Mlle. Sancoeur.” Marinette smiled at the two of them, always the polite professional. “You didn’t have to come here in person to escort me out of the building.” She pointed and the small pink and navy purse she wore. “Security has already checked my belongings and searched my desk. Just as they have done every day since I’ve worked here.”

Gabriel gave her a carefully cultivated laugh. “I’m well aware of your integrity, Marinette. It’s one of your best qualities. No, I thought...under the circumstances...you deserved a personal sendoff.” He frowned and tried to look compassionate. “Despite the way your employment...ended, I consider you one of the most talented designers I’ve ever worked with and I wish you the best in your future endeavors.”

“Mlle. Dupain-Cheng.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mlle. Dupain-Cheng, M. Agreste.” She was still smiling but it was sharp and predatory. “Since we no longer have a connection, it would be inappropriate for you to refer to me by my first name. We’re now strangers and should address each other as such.”

Marinette’s words were polite, her tone sweet, but there was something in her eyes that made Gabriel think he was negotiating with the queen of a hostile nation. “As you wish, Mlle. Dupain-Cheng.” It felt like he was giving her some sort of concession but he didn’t know why.

He cleared his throat and looked at Nathalie, who showed a great interest in looking at the reception desk in the lobby and nowhere else. He would find no support from her. He cleared his throat a second time and tried again.

“I...can only imagine how you are feeling at the moment, Mlle. Dupain-Cheng but I hope you can find it in your heart to someday forgive my son for hurting you. Please understand. Adrien is very young and young men sometimes feel the urge to sow some...wild oats. Please understand. I don’t condone his behavior but he’s still my son.”

Marinette chuckled. “Right. And he was much too young and my status much too low to even consider me your future daughter-in-law.” She gave him that same sharp smile. “I’m good enough to hire but not good enough to marry into your family.” She held up a hand to stop him from denying it. “I suppose you’d rather he marry into the Tsurugi Family and he and Kagami could have a lovely merger together.” She laughed. “Good luck with that. I don’t think Kagami would want him after Lila’s had him.”

Gabriel frowned because she wasn’t wrong. “Mlle. Tsurugi and my son have been fond of each other before and could be again.” He tried to make a joke. “It could be just as romantic as it would be financially optimal.”

She grinned at him. “And in the meantime, I lose my relationship and my job in the same week.”

“I doubt you’d want to continue on at Gabriel after...recent events. M. Agreste has prepared a very generous severance package, Mlle. Dupain-Cheng,” Nathalie held out a thumb drive but Marinette didn’t take it. Unfazed, Nathalie continued. “Naturally we’ll require you to sign an NDA, much like the one you signed upon being hired at Gabriel.”

“NDA?” Marinette laid her index finger on her chin and pretended to think. “I don’t recall signing any NDA when you hired me. In fact, I distinctly remember M. Agreste telling me I didn’t have to sign silly things like contracts or NDAs because I was ‘practically family.’ ” Her smile grew as she saw the dismay spread over Nathalie and Gabriel’s faces. She giggled and it almost sounded sincere.

“Relax,” she reassured them. “I won’t talk about you or your son to the press. Nor will I take a job with any of your direct competitors for six months.” She looked at Gabriel. “You have my word, since my integrity is one of my best qualities. You said so yourself.” She chuckled. “After six months...I make no promises.”

Her smile faded and she looked almost grim. “I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into with Lila Rossi. You thought she was demanding as a model but that will be nothing compared to the nightmare she’ll be as the official girlfriend to Adrien Agreste. She won’t be content to stay in the background except for the occasional public appearance or High Society ball. She has to be the center of attention all the time or she’ll throw a tantrum in front of as many paparazzi as possible.” The grin returned when Gabriel looked mildly horrified.

“If I were you, I’d limit any spending she did to prepaid cards. The better to keep her from draining your bank accounts,” she advised. “Also, I’d see about putting Adrien on Dimethandrolone undecanoate as soon as possible.” She smirked up at Gabriel. “I wouldn’t put it past her to ‘accidentally’ forget her birth control and get pregnant. Also, you’d do well to investigate any pregnancy claims she makes. Also, demand a DNA test.” She shrugged. “Consider it free advice. For old times’ sake.”

She was about to leave when who should walk in but the second least person she ever wanted to see.

“Marinette,” Lila feigned surprise, “I’m surprised you’re still here.”

“But I’m not surprised you came by,” Marinette replied before Nathalie or Gabriel could stop her. “I imagine you expected me to be thrown out of the building.”

Lila dropped the false sympathy. “Well, I just hope you can still afford that cute little apartment without a job or Adrien’s help.”

“Mlle. Rossi…” Gabriel tried to interrupt.

“Adrien never helped me to begin with because I don’t treat him like a meal ticket,” Marinette countered. “And I get a discount because my apartment’s haunted.”

Lila scoffed. “Really, you must be a child to believe in ghosts at your age.”

Marinette just smirked. “My building’s security cameras caught you screaming as my ghost roomie chased you and Adrien out.” She shrugged. “I don't think Gigi likes gold digging home wreckers.”

Lila lurched forward to attack Marinette but she just moved aside and the model ran into a potted plant and rolled onto the floor. Gabriel and Nathalie clinched their jaws to keep from laughing. Marinette had no such restraint.

“Lila…” she said as Lila finally pulled herself together and off the floor. “You were the other woman.”

Lila was confused. “Yes.”

“And now you’re not.” Lila wondered why her former classmate was stating the obvious. Marinette’s predatory smile returned. “He’s free to look around.” She spun on her heel and glided out the door.

“Arrivederci.”

***** Gabriel might have required all of its employees to sign NDAs at hiring but the same could not be said of delivery people. In less than twenty minutes Marinette’s firing, her breakup with Adrien and Gabriel’s insincere apology, along with Lila tripping and her “other woman” status had gone viral.

*****

Felix was bored. He had no further meetings, his mother was off with some old university friends and his “friend with benefits” was out of town. With nothing else better to do, he looked up news articles on his phone.

“Hey, Paris!”

Two attractive women filled the screen. One had long blonde hair and carried a parasol. The other had dark hair and eyes and smiled shyly at the camera.

“Breaking news!” the blonde announced. “Famous model Adrien Agreste has broken off his three-year relationship with up and coming fashion designer Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Adrienette fans are devastated their ship has sunk.”

“It gets worse, Aurore,” the dark hair woman continued. “An eyewitness has caught footage confirming the cause of the breakup was an affair with none other than Gabriel model Lila Rossi.”

Felix’s eyebrows rose as he heard his cousin’s name. He also remembered meeting both women. Marinette was beautiful, easily thwarted any attempt to prank her and most importantly, was one hell of a designer. She had drawn what she called a “doodle” for a dress on a cloth napkin for his mother once. His mom had taken said doodle to a dressmaker and wore the gown to the Cannes Film Festival. The press had raved about and wondered who the mysterious designer, “MDC” was.

Rossi, on the other hand, was mildly pretty to anyone with low standards, tacky and demanding. He almost pitied his cousin for being such an idiot. The Rossi woman would drain his bank account, make his life hell, and expect to be waited on hand and foot. It should be fun to watch from a safe distance.

The show continued. “What you are about to see is actual cell phone footage taken at the scene.”

Felix watched as Marinette dealt with his uncle, noted the lack of an NDA, had to endure Lila and then left the building like a queen, despite no longer having a job or a boyfriend.

The dark haired woman made a sad face at the screen. “We’re hoping viewers respect what Mlle. Dupain-Cheng is going through and give her some privacy at this time.”

“We love you, Mari!” the blonde added. “We’re rooting for you and know you’ll be a huge success at your next job.”

That gave Felix an idea. He decided to text his mother.

Mom, I’ve finally found her.

He saw an ellipsis and then…

Who, the love of your life?

He snorted and typed back.

No, a worthy successor to Mrs. Jennings. The perfect new costume designer we’ve been looking for her.

Anyone I know?

He grinned to himself.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Remember her? Very talented. Anyway that git Adrien dumped her for a tacky bint, Uncle fired her and I think we should snap her up before anyone else can.

There was only ellipsis for nearly a minute before his mother texted back.

We should go and talk to her in person tonight. We’ll pick up some flowers and takeaway on the drive over.

*****

Once home and alone except for her ghost roommate, Marinette allowed her posture to slump as she took off her heels and left them near the door. She left her phone in Airplane mode to charge, not wanting to hear from anyone today, not even her parents. It was her right to mourn her job and relationship in peace.

She desperately hoped Gabriel wouldn’t blacklist her from the industry. If he did, she could always work for Jagged as his personal designer; he’d offered as far back as lycee to take her on tour and make her famous. Maybe some side commissions for Clara as well. Both had paid her enough over the years that she not only went to ESMOD but had a substantial nest egg for emergencies. Well, today counted as an emergency. She hoped it would last long enough for her to find a job without asking her parents for help or moving home.

Her relationship with Adrien had been so wonderful. They had been friends all throughout school and even though he’d dated Kagami and she dated Luka they’d still been friends. It wasn’t until the last year of university that Adrien had finally noticed how attractive his “very good friend” was and decided to ask her out.

After graduation she’d fielded several lucrative offers but Gabriel pay scale was very generous and as the father of her boyfriend, had the inside track. There were family dinners here and there and a gala where she’d been presented as “Gabriel’s protege”. She’d been incredibly touched and in love and painfully naive.

After six months at Gabriel her employer had been increasingly demanding and her workload doubled. Adrien’s support had been unwavering and he routinely snuck to whisk her away for a rooftop picnic, had pastries sent over, or sent her texts full of emojis and cat memes.

Then four months ago he became a bit distant, less romantic, troubled. He wouldn’t tell her what was bothering him and she eventually gave up asking. She did her best to make their scant alone time enjoyable for the both of them but then two months ago Gabriel had insisted on making her the lead for the new summer line and suddenly she was working fourteen hour days and functioning on sugar and coffee. Adrien had continued to be understanding and supportive, even having energy drinks and food orders delivered to her office. Now she knew she should have asked why.

If he had come to her and told her he wanted to break things off because he’d found someone else, she would have let him go. It would have hurt, but not as much as what he’d actually done to her.

Adrien knew she hated Lila. Hell, he couldn’t stand her while they were all in school together. Lila had tried to convince Kagami he was cheating on her and nearly got Marinette expelled. Not to mention all the lies she tried to tell about Jagged and Clara, lies easily disproved by a Google search and a FaceTime with Jagged and Clara. She never understood why Gabriel hired her but assumed it was either blackmail or she was spying on Adrien for her boss.

Marinette wondered whose idea it was to come to her apartment. She was guessing it was Lila’s, even though Adrien was the one with the key.

It was late when she came home from another grueling day at Gabriel and she was surprised to find a lamp in the living room had been turned on. Had she left in on? She couldn’t remember

Then she heard the sounds of kissing and giggling coming from the couch and saw them. Lila had her shirt open while Adrien sucked on her neck. His hands strayed under Lila’s skirt and that’s when Marinette saw red.

Her heart shattered and her mind enraged but she found herself feeling strangely calm. She shut her door as quietly as she could. Then she went into her bedroom, found a box she’d forgotten to throw out, and began gathering anything Adrien had left behind.

Once she’d found everything she went back to the living room and soundlessly smacked Adrien in the head with the box.

He yelped and accidentally bit Lila. She screeched and the two of them looked up into the eerily calm face of Marinette.

Lila stared in shock before becoming smug. “Come back in half an hour, okay? We should be done by then. Hope your sheets are clean.”

“Get out,” Marinette didn’t even look at her.

Adrien, to his credit, didn’t try to deny or protest. Instead he just looked sad and contrite. “Marinette,” he began, “I’m so sorry. I never meant for this to happen, I swear.”

“Get. Out.” she repeated.

He nodded once and pulled Lila to her feet and dragged her towards the door.

Lila protested. “I don’t know why you’re listening to her, Adrien. You dumped her. You should be kicking her out of here.” She looked around, satisfied, like a cat that had just eaten someone’s pet hamster. “This is way too nice a place for the likes of her. I’m going to like it here.”

Marinette looked at Adrien. “Get your little cagna out of here before I have you both arrested.” She sneered at him. “I doubt your father would like to see your face in the tabloids.”

He gulped and pulled Lila harder, knowing Marinette rarely bluffed. “This is her place, Lila,” he told her, “not mine.”

“So? Don’t you pay for it? That means you have just as much right to be here as Marinette,” Lila taunted with a smirk.

She’d heard enough. “Gigi, they’re all yours!”

Adrien’s eyes widened. He’d...met Gigi, or Genevieve Dupres once and once was enough. She had been a singer who was a contemporary of Josephine Baker. Until Gigi’s lover had cheated on her in her own bed. Gigi had snatched the woman bald then kicked her lover in the groin and thrown them out of her apartment nearly naked. She’d later died that same night of alcohol poisoning.

Marinette told him she’d gotten her apartment cheap because very few people wanted to room with a ghost. She insisted Gigi was very nice as long as people were nice to her. She joked that Adrien should never cheat on her or she’d sic Gigi on him. Adrien had laughed.

He wasn’t laughing now as invisible nails raked across his back and he desperately tried to get the door open with numb fingers. Lila screeched as her hair was pulled and something bashed her and Adrien’s heads together.

Finally Adrien got the door open and the two ran screaming out into the hall. She’d probably hear from her neighbors tomorrow and decided to just tell them an abbreviated version of the truth. Then she and the women would share stories and the men would offer to beat Adrien until he lost consciousness.

In the meantime she cried, wiped down the couch, ate ice cream and fell asleep as ghostly fingers braided her hair while a soft voice sang her a lullaby. She would change the locks in the morning.

*****

Marinette must have fallen asleep because the next thing she remembered it was nearly dark. Someone was knocking on the door and a vaguely familiar female voice called out. “Marinette? Are you up for company, sweetheart?”

She got up and stumbled to the door. Looking through the peephole she saw Amelie Graham de Vanily and her son, Felix. They were on a short list of the last people she’d ever expect to knock on her door.

“It depends,” she called back, “are you here to make fun of me or plead on Adrien’s behalf?”

“Hell no!” It was Felix who replied. “He’s an idiot and so is my uncle. We brought takeaway.”

Marinette hesitated. “What kind?”

“Chicken tikka masala with naan bread.”

She undid the latch and opened the door. “Come in.”

*****

“And that’s our proposal!” Amelie finished. She looked at Marinette, her eyes shining in the hope that the designer would be persuaded to work for her. “What do you think, dear?”

Marinette chewed thoughtfully on the last of naan bread. She kept her eyes firmly on Amelie and tried to only look at Felix from the corner of her eye.

He noticed and sighed. “You know...I offered to wait in the hall while you talked so you didn’t have to look at me.”

She winced as she involuntarily looked him full in the face. “I know, and I appreciate it, but I couldn't let you do that. You can’t help who you look like.”

She took the last bite of naan bread and swallowed. “But you bring up a good point. How the hell am I supposed to work for Graham Films when I’d have to look at you all the time?” She gave him a half-hearted shrug. “It would make my workday awkward.”

He held up his hands. “You’d rarely, if ever, see me. You’d work in the Costume Department. I work in the financial and planning part of the business. They’re not even in the same building. The only way we’d see each other is planning meetings and company events.”

She raised a brow. “Can I get that in writing?”

He gave her a small nod. “If you insist.”

Amelie looked from the young woman to her son and sighed inwardly. They would make such beautiful children. She hoped her nephew hadn’t soured Marinette on love completely. Especially with someone of the Graham de Vanily bloodline.

“Well, darling, if you don’t mind my getting back to the business at hand.” Amelie looked at Marinette and Felix to make sure she had their attention. Satisfied she continued. “Forgive us for coming over so soon after...you know...but I’ve wanted to hire you for some time, Marinette. Ever since you designed that dress for me.” Amelie gave her a fond smile.

Marinette blinked. “I gave you a doodle on a napkin.”

The blonde grinned. “A doodle I had framed and everyone at Cannes complimented me on. Now, dear,” Amelie leaned forward. “Ordinarily I’d give you time to recover but I’m on a bit of a time crunch.” She looked a little embarrassed. “You see, we’re supposed to start filming this science fiction film in six months or so but our costume designer had to go on maternity leave. Post-menopausal pregnancy, can you imagine? Anyway, we’re in a bit of a bind. Mrs. Jenning’s staff is at the top of their craft in sewing, tailoring, pattern-making and the like but they’re...not as creative as Mrs. Jennings,” Amalie frowned. “And some of the concept art calls for haute couture, with a twist.”

Marinette was interested despite herself. “What kind of twist?”

Amelie’s eyes lit up as she realized she had the young woman’s attention. “I’m so glad you asked!” She dug under the takeout boxes and pulled out a portfolio. I brought some of the art with me just in case.”

Amelie held it out to her and Marinette opened it, scanning the pages. “This! This is…”

The blonde grinned. “I thought this would catch your attention.”

Felix covered his mouth to hide his smile. You couldn’t catch Marinette Dupain-Cheng with honey, but you sure could with curiosity. Or, perhaps a challenge was what she preferred. She was fascinating to watch.

Marinette all but glowed, excitement making her eyes sparkle. “I love this! The planet has only a fraction of Earth’s gravity and the humanoid population can fly! Hmm...that would be a unique challenge. The material should be light but tight to the body so it doesn’t hamper flight.

“Oh, look at this!” Amelie exclaimed as she turned a page. She pointed to an image. “According to the story, the citizens of this planet honor different types of birds as the spirits of their ancestors. Over time this has given birth to different clans. One resembles an eagle, another a robin and that looks like a hummingbird…”

“Yes, the costumes should mimic the bird clans!” Marinette shot out of her seat and grabbed a nearby sketchbook. She had them all over the apartment. Ad-her ex had teased her about it but now she was glad she did.

She found a pencil and began to sketch, her hand almost blurring with her furious energy as she drew. “So eagle, robin...maybe a peacock clan and a rooster clan. Oh! The males of the species would naturally be more colorful. And the tribes could almost be like a hierarchy. Eagles usually go into the military. Hummingbirds handle communication, et cetera.”

After thirty minutes of frantic drawing Marinette held up her creation. “It’s a little crude,” she warned them, “but what do you think? Be honest.” Despite her words she braced herself for rejection. Amelie gently took the drawing from her hand. “ Honestly? I love it!” She tilted it at various angles to get a better look. “Yes, it needs a bit of polish, but the potential is amazing. I love that the cape spreads out like wings and his face shield looks like a beak.” She smiled beatifically at Marinette. “You’re hired! If you want. Don’t feel pressured but I’d love to start you on Monday and you can name any salary you like.”

Marinette glanced at Felix, who was carefully looking at his mother and no one else. “Okay, but I want a contract and I want to go over it with a lawyer.”

“Deal!” Amelie shook her hand and stood up, pulling Marinette to her feet. She hugged the younger woman and kissed her on both cheeks. “Welcome to Graham Films, darling. We’re lucky to have you.”

Felix was happy for his mother. She’d fretted over “replacing” Mrs. Jennings and having someone so obviously talented nearly fall right into their laps was remarkable. That that person was his stupid cousin’s understandably angry ex-girlfriend was the crown jewel.

*****

“Hey, Paris! We’re back again!”

“Recent update to that Adrienette breakup story we brought you last week. Guess what? Marinette Dupain-Cheng is moving on, or at least moving up. She’s been hired as a costume designer at none other than Graham Films, run by the twin sister of Gabriel Agreste’’s late wife, Amelie Graham de Vanily.”

“That’s right, Mireille. We have news from a reliable source that the head of their Costume Department is on maternity leave and were lucky enough to stumble across Marinette in need of a job.”

“How lucky can you get, Aurore?”

“In the case of Graham Films, pretty lucky. As for Mlle. Dupain-Cheng, how will she handle working for someone who’s a dead ringer for her ex-boyfriend?”

“Let’s hope he treats her better than his cousin did.”

“Yes, let’s. Now, back to Alain for the weather…”

*****

If the news of Adrien’s breakup with Marinette was explosive, the news that she was now working at Graham Films was nearly nuclear. Even though Marinette had kept her word and refrained from mentioning either Agreste in the press, public opinion was not so circumspect.

Most people, even some longtime “Adrien stans” sided with Marinette as the injured party. Commenters on the original video accused Lila of being a homewrecking gold digger and started a petition for her to be fired from Gabriel or they would boycott the company. Adrien was painted as a philanderer who used his position as the heir apparent to the Agreste name to get his ex unfairly fired.

Only the hardcore fans stuck with Adrien, vowing to stay loyal and even buy more Gabriel products to counter the boycott. The controversy, while good for business in small ways, was a public relations disaster.

Gabriel stock had dropped and Tomoe and Kagami Tsurugi had demanded an explanation for both Adrien and Gabriel Agreste’s actions. Neither woman seemed inclined to believe either man was blameless.

The Bourgeois Family were very vocal in their support for the Agrestes and denounced Marinette as being a social climber with a scant amount of talent. Chloe even suggested Adrien should sue for emotional damages.

Dupain-Cheng had several celebrity supporters, including Jagged Stone, Clara Nightingale, and every single member of the popular group, Kitty Section. The lead singer, Rose Lavillant, went to school with everyone involved and claimed “Marinette was a kind person, an everyday superhero” and denounced Chloe as a childhood bully. She expressed some disillusionment towards Adrien and Lila but hoped everyone could move on and be friends again someday.

Despite Nathalie’s excellent damage control the company was taking a solid hit and the PR Department could do little to stop all the negative press.

Gabriel tried reaching out to Marinette via his assistant, asking her to make a statement on Agreste's behalf and claim the split was amicable and the video was doctored. Marinette, or rather her lawyer, countered with a reminder about how she agreed not to talk about either Agreste to the press and that meant both positively and negatively for six months. Gabriel threatened to have the designer blacklisted and was told that Mlle. Dupain-Cheng could sue for wrongful termination and the company didn’t need any more public attention at the moment.

Stymied after he failed to bully his way out of a situation of his (and his son’s) making, he glared at Adrien. “Fix this,” he growled.

The young man looked up from his phone. His father had told him it was in the best interest of the company if he and Lila put their relationship on the back burner until the furor died down. Lila wasn’t taking the separation well and texted him every fifteen minutes to tell him how much she loved and missed him. He texted her back the same message.

“How?” he asked his father. “Marinette won’t talk to me. She’s blocked me on social media, changed her number, and refuses to let me in. Most of our old friends won’t even talk to me. Her parents have even banned me from entering the bakery.”

Gabriel sighed. His son was very smart...on paper. When it came to real life he floundered. It saddened him his only son had inherited neither his creativity nor his ruthlessness. “Get creative.” He thought for a moment and gave his son a thin, cold smile. “She’s working for Graham Films, isn’t she? Call Felix. He’s always been fond of you. Perhaps he can be convinced that Mlle. Dupain-Cheng isn’t a good fit for Graham Films.”

Adrien frowned. His gut churned with guilt at the way his relationship ended with Marinette. He should have been honest with her and ended their relationship months ago. His father wouldn’t let him because he wanted Marinette to focus on the new clothing line. He never should have brought Lila over to Marinette’s apartment but he’d been so sure she’d be working late.

He tried to tell himself it wasn’t entirely his fault. Marinette had been working longer and longer hours and well...Lila had been there. She had been a sympathetic listener as he’d talked about how he was afraid Marinette didn’t care about him any more and was slowly turning into a workaholic like his father.

Lila had told him he was a good boyfriend for caring about his girlfriend’s well-being so much. It wasn’t his fault Marinette had chosen her career over love and maybe in a few years she’d settle down and could be the woman he’d fallen in love with again. Then again, maybe it was too late and Adrien needed someone who could put him first.

Adrien remembered what a liar the other model had been in school. Marinette swore she was also manipulative and petty but she was there and his girlfriend wasn’t. So, he’d allowed himself to be emotionally seduced, even if he refused to sleep with Lila until he’d had a chance to tell Marinette it was over.

He looked at his father, who was expecting an answer. He surrendered and said, “Yes, Father.”

***** Felix answered on the second ring. At first he thought it would be funny to make his cousin call several times before answering but he wanted to find out what the little idiot wanted, tell him no, and go about his day.

“Adrien.”

“Hey, Felix! Good to talk to you. I know it’s been awhile and I thought it might be nice to call and catch up. Maybe we could have lunch later in the week-” Felix cut him off. “While I appreciate the tact and diplomacy I’d much rather you get to the point. You’re calling about Mlle. Dupain-Cheng, aren’t you?”

He was very careful to only refer to the company’s new designer by her last name, both in public and in private. It wouldn’t do for anyone to speculate about the nature of their relationship, false though it may be. The young woman had a lot to do and didn’t need any distractions or grief from his cousin.

Adrien sighed, knowing when to quit. “Yes.”

Felix’s tone became a little colder. “What about her?”

His cousin hesitated, as he always did when he had to say or do something he considered distasteful. “I think you should convince Aunt Amelie to fire her.”

Felix opened his mouth to tell the prat off but Adrien spoke again before he could. “Look, I know you guys only hired her to get back at me and my dad. I’m sure that’s the reason she took the job, but I’m asking you both not to get involved. This is a matter between her, me, and my father. Please, do this for me.”

He frowned then remembered Adrien couldn’t see it. “You think we only hired her to piss you off.”

“Yes.”

“It couldn’t be because she’s insanely talented, needed a job right away, and we were lucky to get her before one of the big fashion houses knew she was available.”

“Well...not exactly, but”

“Adrien,” Felix sighed. “I say this with all the love and affection I have for you. If you think we’d fire someone as creative and talented as Marinette Dupain-Cheng, you’re an idiot.”

“Wait, what?”

Felix grinned. “We’re not firing her. Only a blind fool would let someone with that much talent just walk away. I mean, your father did but I think he’s just too arrogant to realize what he had in an employee like her.”

“But-”

“She isn’t violating her verbal agreement with your father. Graham Films isn’t a fashion house and she’ll be designing costumes.”

Felix smirked. “Why would we let her go? That woman can do something for me no woman I've met can.”

“Felix!”

"Idiot. She's an amazing designer. She's already designed half the costumes we need for our next feature. Mom's nearly ready to adopt her.”

Felix laughed and leaned back in his chair, glad to have the upper hand in this conversation. "You never should have dated someone who worked for the company. And if you did, you shouldn't have cheated on her. She's an amazing asset."

Adrien sighed into the phone. "I can't help how I feel."

Felix shifted in his chair and fought the urge to gag. The naive boy his cousin had always been was alive and well, framing his unfaithful behavior as romantic. Disgusting. "Having a designer like Marinette on the payroll is more important than your feelings or libido, or whatever you call it."

He didn’t care about emotions; Adrien’s or Marinette’s but he couldn’t stand sloppy business decisions. "So, you shouldn't have cheated on her, even if you fell in love."

Adrien was being made fun of and he knew it. “You’ve never been in love. You wouldn’t understand what I’m going through. What it was like to choose between them…”

Felix rolled his eyes at Adrien’s melodrama. " Nor do I care. I mean cousin, I don't understand how someone of your....sensibilities had lost their sense of taste. I know for certain that this isn't from your mother's side of the family. Yet you are now stuck with the day old fast food version of a floozy. We pride ourselves on quality and integrity and appreciate it. However, for all intents and purposes Mlle. Dupain-Cheng is ours now. And for your own sake I'm politely telling you to back off. I don't share and believe me, you are the last person on my list of people to side with."

Adrien was silent for nearly a minute. “So...are you going to try to convince her you’re in love with her?”

He laughed again. Ugh, save him from sentimental relations. "When have I ever fallen in love? Why should I even pretend? I'd do whatever it takes to keep her happy and productive."

Romance should never get in the way of business. His parents had been very lucky that their romantic interests coincided with their careers and talents.

He decided to needle his cousin just a little bit. "Although...if keeping her physically satisfied kept her in our employ, I'd let her use me like a sex doll."

He laughed as he heard his cousin sputter into the phone, no doubt spouting some self-righteous nonsense about integrity in the workplace or something. Felix cut him off mid-rant.

"Gotta go. I can't waste my time talking to someone who prefers the village bicycle to a Duchess. Besides, I'm escorting her and Mom to a movie premiere."

“Felix…”

“Ta!” he hit the “End” button and laughed himself nearly breathless for three minutes. It had always been so easy to get under Adrien’s skin.

*****

Marinette fidgeted with the hem of her gown. “Are you sure I should be here?”

“Yes.”

She tried to keep her hands off her hair. “But...it’s so soon after the breakup.”

“So?”

She smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle. “The press will eat me alive.”

“No, darling, they won’t,” Amelie soothed. “Most of the press and public opinion is with you. We’ll answer any question you don’t feel comfortable with for you. All you have to do is smile, pose and say those magic words…’no comment’. “

Felix nodded. “Mom speaks from decades of experience. She was a child actress before she became a producer.”

“The paparazzi don’t pull their punches, sweetheart. Even with children.” Amelie fought the urge to tuck an errant strand of hair back into Marinette’s Dutch braid updo. “Just stay close to us. We’ll protect you.”

The young woman’s smile was tiny but sincere. “Thank you so much, Amelie.”

“Besides, we’re here,” Felix pointed out as the limo pulled to a stop. “Too late to back out now!” He waited for the attendant to open the door for them. He looked at Marinette and made his voice as gentle and sincere as he was able to. “Remember to smile, don’t look directly at the flash and nothing your detractors say matters. You’re dressed as elegantly as a Duchess.” He gave her a saucy wink. “Be a Duchess.”

*****

The cameras flashed as they emerged. Felix held out an arm to each woman and escorted them towards the cinema. His grey evening suit was expertly tailored and flattering but faded into the background compared to the gowns Marinette had designed.

Amelie wore her hair side-parted; her usual braid traded in for a ponytail curled into ringlets. Her Grecian inspired lilac dress had an asymmetrical one shoulder drape and nude back. The chiffon billowed out around her as she walked and made her look like a Goddess.

If Amelie were a Goddess, Marinette was a Duchess in her Regency-inspired pink dress with an Empire neckline and flowers embroidered around the neckline, sleeves, waist and scattered across the skirt. She looked incredibly elegant and polished and only those who knew her well could tell she was nervous.

Everyone oohed and aahed over their outfits and they had to be careful not to look into all the flashbulbs. They strolled onto the red carpet looking proud and powerful. They smiled, posed dutifully for the cameras and waved to the crowd.

Aurore met them near the entrance to the theatre, looking like a 1920s starlet in her gold beaded flapper gown. She greeted them warmly. “Good evening! You all look amazing. Felix, you’re twice as handsome! Amelie, I wish I had the height to pull that look off. Marinette, pink is clearly your signature color.” She smiled and asked, “can I assume you’re all wearing clothes designed by Marinette?”

“Yes, indeed.” Felix answered and waved his hand over his mother and his designer. “You’re looking at the first in what we hope is a long line of Mlle. Dupain-Cheng’s designs. True, we hired her as a costume designer but I’m sure she’d be equally at home designing haute couture in her spare time.”

Marinette surprised them all by laughing. “Ah, yes. My copious spare time.”

Amelie laughed along with her. “We’re all so pleased Marinette has joined our little family at Graham Films.” If Aurore noticed the slight emphasis on the word “family”, she didn’t comment. “She’s barely been working with us for two weeks and we’re already amazed at not only how well she’s adapted but her creativity.” Amelie smiled for the camera. “I can confidently say some of her designs for our latest project are among the best I’ve ever seen. I’d wear any one of them myself.”

“High praise from your new boss,” Aurore laughed. She focused on Marinette. “So...how is working as a costume designer for Graham Films different from working as a designer for Gabriel?”

Marinette knew this question was coming and had rehearsed with Amelie until her reply sounded natural. “High fashion is very fast-paced because the tastes of the public change so frequently. Costume design has a slower pace but an equal emphasis on quality and aesthetics. But there is one very important similarity between the two.”

Aurore glanced at Felix and tried not to be too obvious about it. There had been a lot of speculation online and around Paris about whether or not Marinette would address the similarities between her new boss and her ex-boyfriend. “And...that is?”

“Nothing happens without coffee,” Marinette quipped.

Everyone laughed. Aurore listened as her producer fed her a question through her ear piece. “But...I need to get real for a second,” Aurore tried to be as respectful as possible. “All of Paris, perhaps even all of France, wants to know, if you have anything to say to Adrien Agreste right now.”

Marinette’s smile froze but she managed to answer. “Then I have to apologize to you and all of France. I gave my word that I would not say anything publicly about either Adrien or his father, Gabriel.” She looked at the camera and her eyes hardened. “I always keep my word.”

“I didn’t,” Felix leaned into the microphone. “My uncle should be ashamed for turning a blind eye to my cousin’s infidelities and firing Mlle. Dupain-Cheng. Plus, I’ve met the trollop Adrien’s dating and any time she can get me alone she hits on me.” He also addressed the camera. “Just thought I’d warn you, cuz.”

Aurore listened to her ear piece, nodded, and held out her microphone to Amelie. "If he's watching, what would you say to your nephew?"

Amelie’s smile faded completely and she looked solemn. She gave the camera lens her full attention. “There is only one thing I can think to say and it is something he deserves to hear.” Her lips thinned as she frowned, letting the full extent of her anger show on her face. "I'm very disappointed in you, young man."

Aurore looked like she wanted to say more but her time with the trio was over. “Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me tonight.”

They nodded at her and Marinette waved as they swept past the reporter and into the theatre.

#marinette deserves better #aged up #no kwami #adrien salt #lila salt #gabriel salt #amelie graham de vanily #felix graham de vanily #marinette living her best life

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mermaidsirennikita · 2 years

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I can’t believe Kate and Anthony have one (1) sex scene (non-penetrative)…And a post coital scene. They only kiss a handful of times too apparently. Less sex with each new season is expected, but this is wild and honestly bewildering.

Sex is Bridgerton’s whole identity. Besides the aesthetic, how is it now any different from Sanditon? Or literally any other period drama.

Something definitely went down imo. I feel like I’m a bit we’ll see an expose from the Hollywood reporter or something saying there was more sex in earlier scripts or even scenes that were shot but cut.

I mean, look. Maybe I'll love what they get (I probably WILL love what they get) but I'll always be like "there could've been more". I'm just not the type of person to be satisfied with sex being toned down THAT much when it was as graphic as it was in s1.

Agree, agree, agree about sex being a part of the show's identity, whether they like it or not. It's just like everything else if it's not Rated R Austen--except, wait, here is a sprinkling of bad racial politics.

I don't see a world in which a show as successful as this one changes course as sharply as it has unless there were issues behind the scenes. I think it was a combo of several or all of the possibilities below:

A) COVID-19. Unlikely, imo, because 365 DNI's sequel is making it work and I know those fuckers aren't cutting sex. Worst case scenario, it takes longer to shoot but you get the product you want. You stick a Q-tip up JB's nose every time he and Simone swap spit and you're fine. (I know this is downplaying COVID protocols, but I seriously don't think this is a legit reason.)

B) Them preparing for a world when, gasp, a legit fat woman is onscreen and supposed to get naked. I do think this is a factor, because as someone who shops in the plus size department I truly never thought they'd show Nicola in the way they showed Phoebe. Hate it. Gross. But I think it's a component, if not a definitive one. If they do bump her story up to s3, you've got confirmation as far as I'm concerned.

C) CVD v. Shonda: The Cleaving. I've already said that I think a fuckton of shit went down between them. I don't think he's a great writer by any means (can't write race for shit) but little rumors and birdies make me think that Shonda wrested control of s2 from him at one point or another, and I do believe she has very different sensibilities from him.

D) Simone Ashley is a dark skinned woman of color. White women (a huge audience for this show that often get catered to in romance movies and TV) cannot project into her the way we can with Phoebe--in theory, that is. So it's less of a priority to have a dark skinned woman of color to get the fantasy than it is for a white woman to get the fantasy. Or even like, the vague sexualization that Siena got in season 1. I would love to say that I don't think this was a factor, but I think it's impossible to ignore when Kate is truly the first woman of color getting legit sex scenes on this show, and they're so dialed down compared to white women.

E) A discomfort with the romance genre. Everyone is uncomfortable with this genre. Nobody knows how to adapt it. They act like it's reinventing the wheel. See: The Hating Game adaptation, which also had shockingly tame sex scenes (which were also lame because the actors lacked chemistry, so hopefully JB and Simone cover that, but whatever). Less romance equals more ensemble equals less time for fucking across the hills.

Like, again, I am waiting to see that whole season. I highly doubt I'll care for the subplots lol, because I never have. I'm sure I'll be cringing about everything to do with the India stuff. I imagine whatever Marina is there for will make me wanna lose my shit. I think I'll enjoy the chemistry and scenes between JB and Simone. But I would've enjoyed them a lot more if they included more sex (even just kissing), OR if the show had never been that outright sexual in the first place. Them's the breaks.

#bridgerton

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fangirleaconmigo · 3 years

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Hi! If your prompts are still open, would you consider perhaps Jaskel with them being soulmates? Hope you have a good day!

Hello dear! Once again, after saying I would answer these with 500-1000 words, I've written a full story arc of about 7500 words. Typical!

I started with this: In the books, Jaskier is extremely famous. What would the repercussions of fame be in a 'first words of your soulmate written on your arm' AU? How would people manipulate or weaponize it to get a piece of you?

What would it mean for a witcher, when so many 'first words' said to you are invectives?

And how would Jaskier and Eskel, with existences that seem at complete odds, navigate the cruelties of such a world, and fall in love?

Content Warnings: Brief references to past manipulative or coerced sex. Brief references of past self harm (to get rid of a soulmate mark). But it is a fully happy ending with loads of comfort.

It's Hard to be the Bard it's also hard to be the witcher, but that doesn't rhyme

As a rule, Eskel liked to keep things simple. Philosophy was for mages, who had nothing to do but plot and scheme. Ruminating never once helped a witcher.

However, there were occasional moments when he let himself drop down into his thoughts, despite his propensity for reigning in that sort of thing. And Eskel was right in the thick of one such moment.

He was in a Verden tavern, watching a man with a lute.

The man sang as he stepped playfully around the tables, soaking up the enthusiastic attention. He didn’t avoid the intense gaze of the crowd. He looked each of his admirers directly in the eyes. He drank it in like a desert flower soaked up the only rain of the season.

The man with the lute was handsome. Charming. He had a spare but lilting voice. Townspeople crowded in, hanging on his every note. Men sighed. Women cried.

But Eskel wasn’t thinking admiring thoughts. He was bewildered. Slightly perturbed. What did it feel like to be this man? To not pull away from such intense, focused attention? What was it like to have people habitually look at you with admiration instead of fear? To be the recipient of fevered lust instead of disgust?

Eskel couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He wondered if two people with such diametrically opposed experiences of living in the world could even be thought of as belonging to the same species.

But the longer Eskel looked, the more interesting the man became. It was like moving closer to a painting and picking out the red and white strokes that combined to make the pink. The singer had a fair youthful face that contrasted with his filthy mouth. He wore the most elegant ensemble Eskel had ever seen in an ordinary tavern, but his doublet lay open rakishly and an obscene thatch of chest hair peeked out.

On closer inspection, he was gorgeous.

Then suddenly, the man was looking him in the eye. He locked into Eskel’s gaze before the witcher could avert his eyes. Eskel froze, fingers hovering over the handle of his mug. He waited for the man to look away to more pleasing vistas. But instead, this confounding man broke easily into a wide, wild grin. Even the warbling lusty note he held couldn’t dim its shine.

Eskel smiled back, with no thought to what his own face looked like.

And then the man with the lute winked at him.

That small gesture sent a thrill of excitement up Eskel’s spine. But that was only the beginning. The spirit and the spark Eskel now saw in the man’s eyes grabbed him by the heart and screamed “Pay attention. This is important.” It was a chain reaction, like one of Lambert’s experiments. It ignited a buzz, which transformed into a lightness of being.

It was infatuation.

Eskel hadn’t felt that in ages. Maybe not since he was a youngling. He couldn’t help it. He chuckled.

Well look at that, you’re still alive, old man. He murmured to himself.

He knew that the wink was the totality of the connection he would have with this man. So he tucked it away in some recess that he could visit later. He would think of it again when he was alone and the world was quiet. No one could judge him for it, because no one would know.

A voice cleared.

The alderman had arrived. This was the part Eskel had been dreading.

“Eskel.” He said Eskel’s name the way one would point out a rotten fleck of cheese. Eskel had made an effort to bathe after his messy hunt and before meeting this man. He had used a fragrant soap and scrubbed until his skin was pink. He had flattened and spit down his hair until it gleamed. He had shaved around his scars so that he didn’t have scattered sparse hair on his cheeks.

He knew it wouldn’t matter. And it didn’t. But he had tried.

“Carlen,” he answered evenly. He kept his voice low, as was his habit. He had been told it sounded like barking dogs.

The alderman didn’t deign to sit. He stood beside the table and dropped a bag of coins. Even looking at it, Eskel knew it wasn’t enough. He picked up the bag and Carlen cocked an eyebrow.

“You don't trust me, witcher?”

He said it like it was absurd. Topsy turvy. Backwards.

“Just business,” said Eskel. He dumped the coins and looked up at Carlen. “This is half of what we agreed to.”

“I gave the rest to the other witcher,” Carlen insisted.

“Lambert took half. I get half.”

“He took more.”

No he fucking didn’t. Eskel knew Lambert would never short him. Carlen was a lying piece of shit.

Eskel hadn’t even responded when Carlen spoke again. “Don’t get upset!” he said theatrically, looking around at the tavern. Eskel instinctively surveyed the place too. The singer had finished his set and was putting away his lute. He was crouched on the ground. A ribbon tied his trousers together at the back. Even in his irritated state, Eskel noted the ridiculous, adorable bow.

“We all know how witchers get,” Carlen said to the tavern, which was now silent other than clinking of glasses. “We wouldn't want any trouble.”

Eskel knew what this was. It was a threat. Carlen was gambling that he could turn the crowd against him if he pressed. Eskel turned back to Carlen, calculating his risk. Calculating how much money he absolutely needed...how much was non negotiable to let him survive to the next job.

Eskel opened his mouth but then startled because suddenly, the singer was right next to him, a vision in teal. How had he moved that quickly? He positioned himself right between Carlen and Eskel. He took up space like a man who had never had to shrink to be found palatable. He placed his hands on his hips like he was a man who belonged anywhere he chose to be. He tipped his head back to look down his nose at the alderman.

“Carlen,” he said imperiously. “Surely you aren’t trying to cheat the man.”

Carlen shrunk backwards. “Oh well hello, Viscount Julian.”

Viscount. What was a viscount doing performing in a tavern? Eskel figured this Viscount Julian should be in court somewhere or enjoying his land. Of course the tavern was packed with an adoring crowd. Maybe he just liked the attention.

“Don’t hello Viscount Julian me,” he sniffed in Carlen’s direction. “Pay the man what you’ve promised him. Do you want witchers to deny us their services? Are you prepared to do battle with a beastie? Well I can’t imagine that,” he cackled mockingly. “You’d piss yourself the minute you were in any real danger.”

Carlen’s eyes hardened, but he was clearly outranked. “No, no, of course no. A mere misunderstanding.”

“I would hope so,” snorted Julian. He picked at his doublet, straightening the buttons, as though Carlen was beneath his notice.

Usually an outsized air of entitlement like that grated on Eskel’s nerves. But it wasn’t so bad when it was deployed in his defense. Most people assumed he didn’t need defending. And he didn’t need it, strictly speaking. But secretly, he liked it.

Julian looked at Carlen again but gestured at Eskel. “After all, how often do we get such brave, handsome men in this godforsaken town? Valiant men who have quite literally slayed monsters, like heroes of old. And that smell of--” Julian sniffed the air, “orange blossoms.”

Eskel’s heart sank as soon as he heard the word handsome, and it kept plummeting like a stone at the words ‘valiant’ and ‘hero’. This was all bullshit. Another performance. He knew he wasn’t handsome. He knew that for a fact. And no one thought that witchers were valiant. Useful maybe. But this was all way too over the top to be true.

Viscount Julian was mocking him.

Wasn’t he?

There had been times when women in taverns would dare each other to go talk to the monstrous man in the corner, as a test of courage. They thought Eskel couldn’t hear them chatter to each other before sending one over to say hello. It always made him feel sour inside. Humiliated.

This had to be the same.

Eskel clenched his fists, bunching up the knees of his trousers. His heart rebelled. This man had smiled at him so brightly. It had felt real. It had felt so real.

There was only one way to find out whether Viscount Julian was mocking him. He had to ask.

“Did Lambert put you up to this?” asked Eskel.

Lambert had been in here collecting his pay on the contract just before Eskel. He might still be around. Eskel leaned back to sweep his eyes around the tavern. He searched for Lambert’s smirking face. He didn’t find it.

He looked back at Julian, and was startled to see a stark transformation. Julian’s face had fallen. It had gone completely slack. It had just been full of verve and charm for Eskel, and righteous disdain for Carlen. Now he looked hurt, and stunned, as though Eskel had just slapped him flat across the face. Carlen didn’t notice, he was busy pulling out more coins.

Eskel panicked and ran through what he had just said. In retrospect it didn't make sense, of course. Lambert wouldn't have put Julian up to this. If Lambert had wanted Carlen put in his place he would have done it himself. And he wouldn’t have gotten anyone to mock Eskel’s looks. Lambert was an asshole but he wasn’t cruel. There was a difference.

But in the moment, Eskel had just instinctively grasped for someone to blame for a trick on him, and had come up with Lambert out of rote habit. And now Julian was standing before him, his eyes hardened into little blue points of wounded betrayal.

And Eskel had no idea why.

“Here you go, sir witcher,” smiled Carlen falsely. Eskel looked back at the alderman to gather his coins. The man dropped a second bag into his hands and turned on his heel. The doors of the tavern clattered in his wake. Eskel turned back to Julian, but he was gone.

He was up front again. A smile was back on his face, but it was brittle. It was nothing like before. The barkeep cupped his hands around his mouth and exhorted the crowd to “give a hand to Jaskier!”

Jaskier. Must be a stage name.

The crowd went absolutely wild. Eskel picked out squeals and shrieks from people who Jaskier honored with a wink. But it looked forced. Eskel felt slightly ill. He felt responsible for this reversal of moods. He shifted in his chair and drummed his fingers on the surface.

Eskel didn’t know why he cared so much, why his mind churned and guilt settled on him like a shroud. Geralt and Lambert always told him that he cared too much what other people thought of him. He knew they would advise him to leave the tavern. He had his money. And he hadn’t said anything rude or disrespectful. He had nothing to apologize for.

And yet.

Eskel hadn’t been offered a friendly expression all spring. Then, when he was greeted with a joyous open smile, Eskel had chased it away. Worse yet, he didn’t even know how he had done it. It irked him. He wasn’t going to be able to leave here until he found out. He lifted a finger to call over the server. His appetite had mostly withered, but he needed a reason to be at the table for the rest of the evening. The server ignored him. After a long wait, the proprietor himself came out to serve him. The server must have refused to help him. It was fine.

Eskel ordered his supper, then sat there as dusk settled outside. He nursed his pint. He clanged a spoon around in his soup. And he trained his witcher hearing on Jaskier, who sat with his back to him across the tavern at the bar.

Over the next hour, people approached Jaskier in an unrelenting stream. Apparently, he was a singer of some renown. Some people asked him for a song. Others wanted good wishes for their families. Some told him their personal problems in lurid detail. Some grabbed him and kissed his cheek. Others propositioned him in such obscene terms that Eskel’s ears turned pink. He wasn’t shy about sex, but he was uncomfortable with aggressive, public propositions.

Jaskier responded to them all in a practiced, cheerful tone. He laughed and squirmed subtly away from caresses. He smiled into cheek kisses. But Eskel could tell that by comparison to his earlier vivacity, this was pure performance. His mood was sour, but he was hiding it remarkably well. And he was throwing back pint after pint, growing intoxicated.

A protective instinct bloomed in Eskel, but he resisted it. Jaskier clearly liked fame, he must know how to handle it even when drunk.

Eskel watched carefully as the next man approached Jaskier. He had a doublet and trousers on that were similar to the outfit Jaskier wore. He smiled lasciviously. Then he said something quietly in Jaskier’s ear that made Eskel’s hair stand on end.

“Did Lambert put you up to this?”

Jaskier exploded. He slammed his stein down on the bar. “Put me up to what?? Who would put me up to sitting on my ass drinking ale? It doesn’t even make sense! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

The tavern fell silent and tense.

Jaskier hopped down from the stool and almost stumbled forward onto his face. An empathy response made Eskel jerk forward but he stopped himself. He was too far away, even if Jaskier wanted his help. The man who had spoken tried to steady him but Jaskier yanked his arm away. He grabbed his lute and pulled it over his shoulder. Then he rushed towards the exit. As Jaskier passed Eskel on the way to the door, he kept his eyes trained forward, steadfastly avoiding looking at him.

Jaskier burst out the door and into the night. Several people jumped from their seats and followed him, whispering frantically to one other.

Eskel desperately wanted to know why that man had said what he said. He almost moved to go ask. But then he nervously glanced at the door. Those overbearing people were stalking Jaskier in his vulnerable drunken state. Alright, Eskel was stalking him too. But he was keeping a respectful distance.

Eskel pushed to his feet. He dropped a sufficient amount of coin onto the table and followed the trickle of people outside. Verden was no backwater, so the streets were wide and lined with shops all closed up for the night. The mercantile district was built close to the banks of the Yaruga so the air smelled of wet earth, fish, and tar.

He spotted Jaskier headed north in the direction of the docks. It was a bad idea. Generally, when one was drunk, one should avoid large bodies of water.

Eskel walked down the cobblestone street, keeping to the shadows. It was quieter outside and his ear rang slightly, adjusting from the loud noise of the tavern.

Two young men who had been tailing Jaskier, reached him and touched his shoulder to get his attention. Eskel was close enough that he could see Jaskier turn around. The streetlamp shone warm gold on one side of Jaskier’s face and the moon lit him soft and gray on the other. His lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. His eyes were watery and his mouth was set in a grim line.

Eskel’s pulse quickened when he heard one of the men lean in and ask, “Did Lambert put you up to this?”

Jaskier flipped them off and took off further down the street.

The men gave up their mission, and turned back, only for Eskel to emerge from the shadows, glowering down at them. One of the men shrieked like a frightened child.

“Why did you say that to him?” gritted out Eskel.

The two men skittered backwards, eyes wide, stammering apologies. “I’m not the only one who’s tried it,” said one man, his round face pinched in fear.

“It can’t hurt to try,” said the other, holding tight to his hat as they scattered away.

What in the fuck did that mean? There were three more people behind Eskel who had come out of the tavern to follow Jaskier. He whirled around, stepped towards them, and growled. They all yelped and retreated.

Eskel surveyed the empty street in satisfaction. Then he hurried to recapture Jaskier. He calculated how close he needed to be to pull Jaskier out of the water if he pitched off the side of the pier.

But thankfully, Jaskier found a seat on a wide, squat, wooden beam safely away from the edge of the pier. He lowered himself carefully and raised his face to inhale the soft breeze cooling his face. The lapping of water and the chirp of crickets soon swallowed every other noise.

Eskel drew closer, debating what to do. Then he came to a decision. He approached and knelt beside Jaskier.

“Hello,” said Eskel gently.

Jaskier turned slowly to look at him. His bleary eyes focused, lit up briefly, then extinguished.

“Fuck off.”

There was no fire behind it. He sounded drained. He didn’t slur, but his words were fuzzy. Slippery. He looked back at the water and inhaled, as though he meant to block Eskel out of his mind.

“My name is Eskel.”

Jaskier rubbed his face then dropped his hands heavily back in his lap. “Th-blazes do you want, Eskel?” His face looked drawn, all efforts at jolliness had vanished. Eskel wanted to touch him to comfort him, but he knew it wouldn't be welcome.

“Why are people saying that to you? About Lambert?” he asked.

Jaskier chuckled bitterly. “You tell me. You said it too.” He stood up and walked to the edge of the pier. Eskel almost stood up, in order to be at the ready if Jaskier fell. But then he heard the telltale sound of him pissing in the water.

Jaskier returned to his seat on the beam and settled in, looking out over the water once again.

“Yes, but I know why I said it,” insisted Eskel, picking the conversation up where he left off. “I have a brother named Lambert. He likes to play tricks sometimes. What I want to know is, why did the others say it?”

Jaskier picked up a bottle sitting on the docks between his feet. Eskel hadn’t noticed it there before. Jaskier pulled out the cork and took a sip. Then he lowered it and licked his lips. “I don’t believe you.”

“Well, it's true.”

Jaskier’s shoulders shook. He was giggling. But it wasn’t a nice giggle. It was bitter. “I really thought you were different. For just a moment.”

Eskel had thought the same about Jaskier. It had felt awful when that belief turned to ash, when he thought Jaskier was mocking him. He replied softly, “you don’t even know me.”

It was quiet now. The sounds that were left of the town were far away. There was only the ripples of water and the rustle of reeds. Each time they spoke, their voices broke the silence like a pebble in still water. It made their conversation feel intimate. Eskel supposed that should have been weird. They didn't know each other, and Jaskier didn’t trust him. But oddly, that was exactly how it felt. Intimate.

Jaskier shrugged. Eskel thought that meant “fine, don’t believe me,” and that the line of inquiry was dead. He opened his mouth to try a different tack.

But Jaskier cut in. “It was your smile,” he said. The words sounded like truth dragged up from the depths of his soul. “It was...utterly sincere.” Jaskier paused and pondered, his lips frozen mid utterance. Eskel waited until he continued. “I could feel it. I was drawn to it. And when Carlen came in, I saw you were a witcher.” He lifted the palms of his hands and shrugged. “So you were also brave, and a man who didn’t deal in bullshit. I admired you straight away.”

Eskel flushed. He had a hard time with compliments. But this was even worse, because Jaskier was using the past tense. These nice words were things Jaskier used to think of him.

Jaskier fiddled with the cork he had pulled from the bottle. “And when Carlen tried to cheat you, you were humble. Quiet. Like you didn’t want to be too big or too much. The fucker instantly took advantage of that. And it did silence you.”

Eskel couldn’t protest, because it was true.

“I relate to that,” said Jaskier. “Being afraid of being too much. Perhaps for different reasons. But I do. It was a small thing. But I connected with you.”

He threw the cork out into the water with a flick of his wrist. It made a soft plunk when it hit the surface, and it bobbed downstream. Jaskier took another sip and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Plus, you’re handsome. It made me stupid.”

He really did think Eskel was handsome, after all.

The wooden beams were digging bruises into Eskel’s knees, so he sat back and crossed his legs. Jaskier glanced at him, watching him getting comfortable. He raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t ask him to leave.

“Why did the others repeat my words?” He had to persist until he got an answer.

Jasker snorted. “It’s a trick.” He held out his arm in the moonlight and shoved up his sleeve. Up his forearm ran the neat line of his soulmate words in stark black against his pale skin.

It sounded absurd, but Eskel often forgot about the existence of soulmate words. He had gotten so practiced at blocking them out...pretending that they didn’t exist.

Lots of people didn’t put stock in them anyway. Believing in soulmate words was a leap of faith, like spending all season tilling new ground, or trying for a child. You hoped for the best. But sometimes the winter was harsh. Or the baby had a head too large for birth. Or you had terrible soulmate words. Words that were common. Words that were cruel. Or worst of all, words that were both common and cruel.

It was a mess, bordering on a clusterfuck. But now, looking at Jaskier’s forearm, Eskel was flooded with emotions so potent he had to concentrate on pulling in breath to slow his pulse. On Jaskier’s forearm sat the following words:

Did Lambert put you up to this.

Eskel’s heart pounded. His hand came up to his own arm, covered by his sleeve. He was almost a hundred years old. He hadn’t thought of his own soulmate words in decades. He had practically forgotten they existed. But now he made the connection.

His spirit eased. A fear he had been guarding and allowing to fester ever since he was twenty one, began to slip away.

Jaskier pulled his sleeve back down. “See, you seem genuinely surprised.” He shook his head slowly, eyes hollow. “And something inside me still fights to believe you.”

The light went on and Eskel understood. He hadn’t been overheard. Jaskier’s fans had already known the words on his forearm. The man in the bar, the people chasing Jaskier in the street, they had all been trying to trick Jaskier into believing they were his soulmate. Eskel had trundled right into an existing situation like a bull in a china shop.

“So, your fans have seen your words, I take it.”

“Fine,” said Jaskier. “If you want to play this, I’ll play it.”

He turned around and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. The full force of his expressive doe eyes looked straight into Eskel. Fuck. He was even more beautiful under the stars. Eskel wanted to touch him. He didn’t.

“Tell me,” said Eskel.

“I have never been in a hurry to find my soulmate,” began Jaskier. He had the air of man who was going to tell a story with a beginning, middle and end. Eskel settled in. He was curious. Jaskier’s life sat in the starkest contrast to his own. He wanted to know what it was like, living under such different conditions.

“I wanted to fuck my way across the continent,” Jaskier continued, though he spoke softly now. “I wanted to enjoy every flavor of person. Life is short. And I do love the attention. But--” he raised a finger and tilted his head, “I am still a hopeless romantic. And people have found a way to---” his breathing stuttered, “--use it against me.” The last few words were so quiet, even sitting this close to him Eskel might not have heard were he not a witcher.

At some point this had shifted from shoving his story defiantly at Eskel, to telling it sincerely.

“How?” asked Eskel.

Jaskier lowered his eyes, seeming to build courage. It plucked at Eskel’s heartstrings. “Well, first it was my lyrics. You know how your words don’t come in until you’re twenty one? I was famous by eighteen. So I was out in the world, meeting new people every day, I had no idea what my words would be. So it was easy for them to write my lyrics on their arms. Ink them. Paint them.”

“Your lyrics? Of the songs you sing?”

“Yes,” Jaskier rubbed his forearm absently. “When I walk into a tavern or entertainment hall and begin a song, technically, those are the first words I say to the entire room of people. And there’s no instructional pamphlet. No rule book. Does singing count? It doesn’t. But I didn’t know.”

“So they would ink your lyrics on and claim they were you soulmates because you said those words to them.”

“Yes. And since I didn’t have words of my own yet, I had no way of knowing if it was true.”

“I see,” said Eskel.

“Do you?” Jaskier’s voice turned metallic, rage simmering below. The rage wasn’t for Eskel. It was directed at some memory. “Because the first time a man claimed to be my soulmate, I believed him. He had my lyrics on his arm. He said that I had locked eyes with him across the room when I’d sung them. I was young. Stupid.”

“Trusting.”

“Seeing my lyrics, words I had composed from my heart, on his arm, moved me. I thought it so romantic,” he said, in a tone mocking his past self. “It wasn’t until we were somewhere private, I was divested of my clothes, and I’d--submitted to him that my fingers slid down the sweat on his arms and the words smeared.”

The full reality of what that moment must have been like, dawned on Eskel. “What a piece of shit.”

“The soulmarks were fake.” His voice grew thick with the threat of tears. His vulnerability was almost painful to look at. But Eskel wouldn’t turn away if he didn’t. “The man had lied. Tricked me. I felt like an imbecile. Like an idiot. I may be a slut, but I still like to make my own decisions about who I have sex with, and under honest circumstances.”

Eskel ached in sympathy. He didn’t want to ask how far the tryst had gone before Jaskier knew he’d been lied to. He didn’t want to ask how he’d responded, whether he pretended he hadn’t seen and finished? Or whether he had pulled away and fled.

“Am I boring you yet?” asked Jaskier.

“No.”

Jaskier slid his hands through his fringe and tucked it behind his ear. “I thought I had learned my lesson. So when my words were ready to appear, just before my birthday, I had my mother sew loops onto my sleeves to hide my soulmate words. I didn’t want anyone to learn them and try again to take advantage of me. But one day, the string caught and rode up. Someone saw my words, and I didn’t realize it.”

“Fuck,” whispered Eskel.

“They had my lyrics. I had their words. I thought...I thought I’d found the one again. I fell right into bed with another liar. Another trick.” Jaskier’s throat closed and he fell silent.

“I’m sorry,” said Eskel. “I’m a witcher. People reject us. Hate us. But to have people use your body, to take a piece of it whether you want to give it or not...I don’t know what’s worse.”

“It’s not all bad,” said Jaskier, forcing some levity into his voice. “Most of the time I love fame. Wouldn’t choose anything else. But no rose is without its thorns.”

“I suppose so,” said Eskel. “But you don’t deserve that. No one does.”

“I was stupid.”

“You were brave.”

Jaskier looked doubtful.

“It’s brave to hope in the face of cruelty,” said Eskel. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Jaskier fiddled with his fingers. “Some of my fans are lovely, though. The first man who lied to me? He boasted all over town that he had taken me. That he had tricked me into fucking him. It didn’t go as well as he hoped. Not everyone admired him for it. In fact, a gaggle of adolescent girls, they call themselves Jaskier’s Angels,” a smile curled on his lips, the first real one to occupy his face since Eskel had spoken his soulmate words, “cornered him in an alley and thrashed him with sticks until he cried.

Eskel chuckled. Jaskier joined in. Soon they were both giggling. It wasn’t funny. But they laughed anyway. And it helped. Jaskier sat up and grabbed the bottle again. He chugged it this time.

“I have learned, Eskel,” he said loudly with sharp corners in his voice, as though telling not only Eskel, but the Yaruga itself, “That a pedestal is not love.”

Chug.

“It is just something to fall off of.”

Chug.

“I have learned, Eskel, that someone can be on you, and in you, all without ever fucking seeing you at all.”

Chug.

“I have learned, Eskel, that someone can have your name endlessly on their lips and never care to know who you really are.”

Chug.

Then he swept the bottle to the side in a grand gesture, looking at Eskel, increasingly unsteady. Then he sat in silence, again looking at the water, as the alcohol hit his system.

Eskel swallowed hard. The loneliness that dripped from Jaskier was so thick it felt corporeal. He knew exactly how that felt. He ached to do something, anything to assuage even a bit of it. To reassure him.

He settled for reassuring Jaskier about him. “If you want to check on my story,” he said, “you can ask Carlen. He paid my brother Lambert for the job and made a receipt in the town ledger. I’m a lot of things. But I don’t force people or lie to them for sex. I would never--”

He knew it sounded false. He stopped, letting the words trickle away. Jaskier didn’t respond. They sat in silence as Jaskier downed the rest of the bottle. Eskel watched his throat bob, and vowed to stay and make sure Jaskier got back somewhere safe.

“Where do you live?” he asked. Jaskier didn’t answer. He finished the bottle. Then he turned to face Eskel once again. He hadn't heard his question.

“S-sorry,” he croaked. “I s’pose I'm having....a bit of a night.”

And then he leaned over and vomited into the Yaruga.

Shortly thereafter, he laid down on the slats of the pier for a nice nap.

Eskel carried a snoring Jaskier back to the tavern, bridal style. His sweaty body curled against Eskel’s chest, tranquil and without defense. His fingers pinched periodically at the fabric of Eskel’s shirt. The lute dangled over his shoulder, gently thumping against him as he walked. The proprietor showed them to a modest room upstairs. Eskel settled Jaskier down on the cozy bed with a creak. He took off his shoes and stockings for him, but left the rest. Then he pulled the quilt over him and tucked it against his sides.

He was careful not to touch Jaskier unnecessarily, but he watched him sleep for a few moments. It was good to see him like that. Peaceful. Chest rising and falling.

He found a chair and pulled it out into the hall, closing the door softly behind him.

And he took up watch.

----

The next morning, by the time Jaskier stumbled downstairs to try to pay for his room, Eskel was already gone, heading north on his horse Scorpion. Pines towered above him and the wind was at his back.

He had slipped away as soon as he’d heard Jaskier groan himself awake. He didn’t know how much Jaskier would remember of the previous night. But he would always remember it. He would remember sitting on a creaking dock, listening to Jaskier entrust him with his story. It had been so different from his own, yet he had recognized himself in it. He knew what it was like not to be able to trust. He knew what it was like for people to see you as an object, not a person.

He had wanted to stay longer, maybe for breakfast. But if Eskel had stayed he would have been weak. He would have been selfish. He took a less traveled, dirt road out of town. Not that he thought in a million years that Jaskier would try to follow him. But he took precautions as a rule.

Still, he couldn’t help that his heart leapt to his throat in joy when about five miles out, he heard hooves pounding up the road behind him and Jaskier’s voice shouting his name. “Eskel! Eskel please! I’m still dehydrated. Don’t make me chase you anymore! Have mercy! Stop in the name of Viscount Julian!”

Eskel pulled Scorpion to a stop and turned around, a laugh burbling from his throat. Jaskier looked absolutely ridiculous and splotchy. He was disheveled. But the bright light was back in his eyes. He was smiling from ear to ear.

“I caught you!” He chortled when he was close enough for their horses to eye each other warily.

“Jaskier, what are you doing here? You look...”

“Like shit?” asked Jaskier, panting and running his hands through his hair. In the morning light, the firmness of his muscles, the broadness of his shoulders, were more apparent. Eskel’s body warmed, and he reminded himself that he couldn’t have this man. He shouldn’t.

“Let’s get down so we don’t have to yell at each other,” Jaskier suggested.

The both slid from their saddles and stood in front of one another. Eskel had no idea where this was going, but the full body relief he felt to be standing close to Jaskier again took him by surprise. “I was going to say, you look better. You look happier,” he said.

“Yes,” conceded Jaskier, shading his eyes from the sun. “Last night was rough. But sometimes you need to cleanse your demons with whinging and whiskey.”

Eskel chuckled. “I get that. Have done it more than once.”

Jaskier smiled and it was the first time Eskel had seen him look...shy. If you’d asked him when he’d first laid eyes on Jaskier whether the man was even capable of looking shy he would have said no.

Be strong, you ridiculous witcher, Eskel thought to himself.

“I also benefited greatly from a patient ear,” Jaskier continued. “I benefited from the kindness of a man who carried me back to a room, then apparently sat outside my door all night and chased away several fans who wanted to wake me.”

Eskel’s had frightened a few people away. It had felt sort of good, actually.

“And you paid for my room out of your hard earned coin.”

Eskel felt awkward being at the receiving end of all this gratitude. He liked it, but it made his insides squirm. So he changed the subject. “Did you go by Carlen’s house?”

“I did. On my way here. I hope you don’t take it as an insult.”

“I’m grateful you did. I don’t want any doubt left between us.”

Jaskier stepped closer, and Eskel’s heart thumped in his chest. He could usually hear the other person’s heart and gauge it, but Jaskier was still out of breath from the ride, so his heart was already thudding. But his intentions were clear when he reached out and took Eskel’s hand.

Eskel let him. He revelled in the curl of Jaskier’s fingers around his own. His eyes even fluttered closed momentarily when Jaskeir squeezed him. He wanted this touch. He wanted more.

“Eskel, I think you are the best man I’ve ever met.”

There was no way Eskel could process that fully. He squeezed Jaskier’s hand. “I’m sorry I upset you.”

“You couldn’t have known,” replied Jaskier. “You innocently stumbled into my mess.”

Their clasped hands swung between them. Scorpion whinnied. Jaskier’s horse moseyed to the edge of the trail and sniffed around.

“What does your arm say, Eskel?” challenged Jaskier.

Eskel’s smile melted into concern. “Jaskier,” he pleaded. “You don't want to know. I’m not right for you. My life is hard and cold. I move from place to place, and sometimes I don’t even know when the next coin will come.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of what is right for me?” Jaskier asked. His voice was gentle but there was the slightest edge.

Eskel thought about Diedre, and how he had tried to protect her from herself by keeping her out of his life, and how disastrous the consequences had been. He realized that this was similar. The thought that he was repeating a mistake distressed him greatly. Perhaps he needed to stop protecting people and start trusting them. Perhaps he needed to have a little faith.

Eskel looked above Jaskier’s shoulder, towards the horizon. He slowly pulled up his sleeve, turning his arm so that Jaskier could see his soulmark words.

Jaskier’s lips moved as he read them.

Fuck off.

They were the first words that Jaskier had properly said to him. Jaskier ran his finger over the bumps of scar tissue surrounding them. “What happened?” He looked into Eskel’s eyes with naked concern.

Eskel didn’t like talking about it, but Jaskier had shared his story. It was Eskel’s turn.

“People tell witchers to fuck off pretty regularly. And it would be weird to offer yourself up as a soulmate when they do.”

“Oh,” said Jaskier. His shoulders slumped, looking distressed at the thought. "You deserve so much better than that, dear man."

This kindness caused Eskel to pry his heart open just a little bit more.

“Every day I am outside of Kaer Morhen, I have to prove that I’m a person, and not a monster. Trying to destroy the marks was my way of rebelling against a destiny that wanted me to hate myself. Against accepting a soul mate who I would have to convince not to hate me.”

Jaskier’s face pinched in sympathetic pain. He pulled Eskel’s forearm closer and pressed a kiss to the ridge of the burn scars running along the words. Eskel melted.

“I stopped when I got these,” he pointed to the scars on his face. “After that, I didn’t have the stomach for more scars. So I just tried to forget.”

Jaskier chewed his lip. His hand was warm and comforting in Eskel’s palm. “You know that’s not the reason I told you to fuck off,” he said. “It had nothing to do with you being a witcher.”

“I know,” said Eskel. “You thought I was trying to take advantage of you, like the others.”

“You have my deepest apologies, darling Eskel,” said Jaskier.

“You didn’t know. You stumbled innocently into my mess.” He repeated the same sentiment that Jaskier had offered him. “This might be weird, but I was relieved when you said my soulmark words. I had always assumed it would be the words of someone disgusted by me. Someone I would have to convince that I am a person. But it wasn't that after all. You and I, we just...had a bit of a misunderstanding.”

Jaskier reached for Eskel’s other hand. “Can we begin again? Shall I beg? I’m willing to beg.”

They stood clasping hands as though they were about to dance in the middle of the dusty trail. When Eskel didn’t answer him, he pressed again.

“I always pictured myself being dashing and romantic,” Jaskier said plaintively, “if I ever met my soulmate. I’m a poet, for fuck’s sake. I can do better than fuck off. If you give me a chance, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll write you a hundred poems.”

Eskel released Jaskier’s hands and took a step backwards, giving him an out if he wanted it.

“Jaskier, this life is bloody and dangerous. The life span is short. The food on the road is shit. The monsters are absolute cunts.”

Jaskier closed the distance between them, grasping his hands again. Butterflies fluttered through Eskel’s stomach.

“I’m hardier than I may seem,” he insisted. “And I happen to be looking for a change of scenery.”

“What about your music?” asked Eskel.

“Adventures and brave deeds make the best ballads.”

Eskel chuckled. “You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?”

“Yes. I hope you aren’t used to winning arguments.” Jaskier grinned mischievously, and it was obscenely endearing. There was so much more to this man than first met the eye.

Yes, he had been imperious and entitled. But he had weaponized it to defend Eskel. And Jaskier’s breakdown by the docks had shown how trusting he still was, under it all. It was resilience. It was courage. It was hope. Eskel remembered hope.

“There are no beautiful boys and girls here,” he said.

“I am looking at the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen."

Eskel blushed and smothered a smile. But he wouldn’t be dissuaded yet. He had to be sure that Jaskier knew what this would mean. “But every night you play, you get your choice of the partner. You can have anyone. You can taste any flavor.”

“But I am ready for something more. Something better. Someone better.”

“And you think that’s me?”

“I want to find out,” said Jaskier. “Please, Eskel. Grant me the chance to find out.”

The sincerity of his pleading gave Eskel the courage to drop the last of his defenses. He allowed hope to rush in like the tide. He pulled Jaskier against him and cupped his face in his hands.

And he kissed him.

Jaskier whimpered in delight and melted against him, fingers sliding up to rest against his neck. It was a kiss of promise. It was the beginning of a journey.

Eskel drank in his eager lips and the press of his warm, enthusiastic body. Then he pulled back to look at Jaskier closely, a smile tugging at his lips once more.

“Very well, Viscount Julian,” he said with a teasing flourish. “Would you like to crawl around in the brush with me and be menaced by a bloodthirsty bruxa? Because that is what comes next.”

“I would,” said Jaskier. “I do”

“Don’t you want to go back to get your things?”

“I’ll buy more. I’m not letting you out of my sight again.”

Pieces of Eskel mended at that. He wrapped his arms around Jaskier and held him for several long moments, feeling their hearts beating against one another. Jaskier rested his head on his shoulder with a sigh, and ran his fingers up and down Eskel’s back.

Then they mounted their horses and rode off together, towards the first adventure of many.

#the witcher #jaskier #eskel #jaskel #jaskier x eskel #the witcher fic #soulmate au

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duskholland · 4 years

Text

The Fame Game (Prologue) | Tom Holland

Summary ↠ There’s just something about Tom Holland that makes your blood boil. He walks around like he owns the world, always with an unhelpful quip or irritating smirk on hand. You can’t stand him, and your feud has burned hard and bright for three years. Everything changes following an explosive evening at the Oscars, when a questionable encounter with the paparazzi lands you in some hot water with PR... fake dating au; enemies to lovers; actor!y/n.

Word count ↠ 4.6k

Warnings ↠ Alcohol, paparazzi, swearing, discussions of misogyny and the corruption of fame, Tom and Y/N are both very petty, dramatic assholes.

A/N ↠ Ahhh it’s here! I was really shocked by how many people responded to the announcement post for the series -- I hope so much that this doesn’t disappoint anyone lol. This series is my baby, and I’m very excited to share it with you all. Before we dive into the fake dating, we must first explore a very critical evening for Tom and Y/N... hahahah. This was a lot of fun to write. Please let me know if you’ve got any thoughts! :D

(Tom’s in the FFH premiere outfit because I’m still in love with that fit, and the jury’s out for whether or not the actual Tom needs glasses to see; this version of him just uses them as a fashion statement lmao)

((The biggest thank you ever to V, mischiefandi, for being this series’ no.1 supporter and proofing this -- love you mate))

Series masterpost

ZERO: The Oscars (Y)

The atmosphere at Vanity Fair’s Oscars after-party is electric.

The soft boom of the latest pop tunes seeps into the air, mixing with the warm lights and the sounds of clinking champagne flutes. The room holds Hollywood’s best, and it seems no matter which direction you tilt your head, your eyes find themselves settling over a familiar face. You’re walking amongst legends tonight, and as you throw back your third glass of champagne of the evening, you let a small smile unfurl across your lips.

It isn’t your first time attending the Oscars, but it is the first time you haven’t felt utterly out of your depth surrounded by people of this calibre. When you’d first started in the acting industry, you’d found it incredibly unsettling to enter a room full of Oscar-winners. Even now you remember how your hands had felt slick with sweat as you’d nervously been introduced to Meryl Streep and Viola Davis, and how you’d felt imposter syndrome on a scale you’d never imagined possible. Time and experience have brought you many things, but most importantly, they have gifted you confidence. You’re 24 now, and the string of achievements and nominations tied to your belt is so impressive that they deem you no longer an outsider at the Oscars; instead, it’s as if you’ve been accepted into the fold.

But for all the enjoyment of the lavish after-party, you can’t stop your mood from plummeting. It’s all fun and games until your eyes sweep the room and settle on a smirking figure standing in the corner:

Tom Holland.

Just the sight of him makes your nostrils flare.

You think it must be true what they say: once you start to dislike someone, it’s as if every single thing they do irritates you. This is how you feel with Tom. Even the smallest, most insignificant details about him somehow manage to annoy you. You cannot stand the smell of his hair gel, and you detest the way he stubbornly refuses to mend his phone screen. Your teeth grit together every time you see that smug smirking grin hanging from his lips, and you get worked up by the way he always seems to swagger around as if he owns the room. The grievances fall into several categories: his aesthetic choices, his generally smug demeanour, and his irritating personality, and it all fosters your deep, unyielding disapproval of the man.

Tom infuriates you beyond belief - beyond words. And he’s standing across the room right now, staring at you over the rim of his wine glass with a teasing smirk hanging from his stupid lips.

You try to ignore him at first. You lick your lips and return your attention to a conversation with some of your co-stars. You know better than to try and approach anyone else tonight. Your reputation, as your PR team likes to put it, is ‘fragile’ at the moment. A string of uncomplimentary ex-lovers and a few disgruntled directors have shattered your pristine public image, making you regarded as both a rising talent and loose cannon by the media. There’s been a common trend recently of news outlets dragging your name through the mud, and the desperate words of PR as they’d begged you not to cause a scene tonight drift through your mind as you contemplate wandering over to Tom.

You know it isn’t in your best interests to engage with the man - no matter the occasion, your conversations always end explosively - but Tom is just standing there, staring at you persistently, and you just can’t help it.

Your tongue flicks out across your lower lip as you feel his hot gaze trailing around your made-up cheek. His eyes are intense - holding power over you, to the point where you have you excuse yourself from your conversation. An exasperated sigh slips past your lips as you turn around, preparing yourself for your encounter. Your stare finds him, and it follows Tom as he strides across the party towards you, one hand hanging easily from his trouser pocket as the other clasps an intricately engraved wine glass.

The frown on your lips deepens the nearer Tom gets, and as more details of his figure draw into focus. He’s got his chestnut waves slicked back tonight, with a few stray strands hanging out across his forehead. It makes him look dishevelled, but in a devilishly handsome sort of way - which makes sense, given you’re reasonably sure he must have some kind of relationship with Lucifer himself. Stretched across the wide expanse of his shoulders is a deep burgundy suit, and it cages him in tightly, leaving little to the imagination. Your lips curl into a poisonous grimace as your eyes finally fall on the glasses perched on his nose; you’re sure Tom doesn’t even need glasses, and it riles you up to see him parading the frames as a fashion statement.

But perhaps the thing about his ensemble that annoys you the most is the fact that you can’t look away. No matter how hard you beg yourself, you can’t drag your gaze away from Tom’s swagger, or the tight hold he has on the stem of the glass, or the way his eyes dance with a dark, mischievous glint as he falls to a stop in front of you. Tom is many things to you, but it’s undeniable that you find him attractive, and that fact often keeps you seething well into the early hours of the morning.

“Y/N,” Tom greets, his voice dripping charm. “Lovely to see you again.” His thin pink lips twist up into a smirk, and you find yourself clenching your fingers into fists around the tender stem of your champagne flute.

“Tom.” You step forwards, and your lips catch at his cheek as you press a firm, unwavering greeting to his face. You feel his warm hand slip from his pocket, and it grazes across your hip as Tom holds you closer. “You look to be enjoying yourself.”

When you pull back, you linger near him, allowing Tom to return the gesture by pressing his hot mouth to your cheek. He smells of rich, overpowering cologne, and you scrunch your nose up as his lips burn against your skin.

“It’s quite the party tonight,” he returns, stepping back. Tom’s beady little brown eyes run across your figure, taking in the long designer gown and the decadent sparkly necklace hanging from your neck. He graces you with an approving nod. “Are you having a nice time?”

“I was.” You pause to take a long sip of champagne, finding comfort in the way the bubbles pop against your tongue. You hope the alcohol will help to take the edge off the way your heart has started to pound against your ribs. “It’s a shame you had to come over here and ruin my mood.”

“Couldn’t help but notice you were staring at me, love,” he says, “Thought maybe you had something you’d like to say to me.”

You feel a hot spike of irritation as his lips curve effortlessly around the word love. Tom has always been a fan of pet names. The ease in which they roll from his tongue in that smooth, accented voice never fails to charm the room, and though you like to think you’re immune to his allure, you can feel the word spinning around your head like a broken record.

“Not really,” you return coolly, maintaining your composure with the poise and precision of a seasoned actress. You even manage to flash him an apologetic smile. “No big award for you tonight, though? Must be heartbreaking.”

Tom rolls his eyes. “Are you really still caught up on the BAFTA?” He asks, his voice lower and harder.

The mood between you dips, and instinctively you find yourself moving away into a quieter corner of the room. As you drift away from the hordes of celebrities guzzling champagne, it’s as if the facade between you breaks down. Your smirk becomes harder, your eyes less forgiving - and in return, Tom’s smile sours into a grimace, and he holds himself straighter. The masks you wear come off, leaving you both bare and exposed.

“No,” you respond darkly. You’re tucked away in the corner of the party, with your back almost against the wall as Tom lingers in front of you. Both of you have discarded your drinks glasses. “I couldn’t care less that you won the BAFTA, Tom. If the jury decided you were worthy, then you were worthy. I would have to be very unreasonable to disagree with the committee.”

“I don’t believe that for a second, Y/N.” Tom tilts his head to the side, flashing the tips of his shiny white teeth as his mouth loosens into a wild smile.

“Fine.” You give him an excessive sigh, and you let your eyes drift towards his mouth. “I don’t buy it, Tom.”

Tom’s suit jacket breaks out into wrinkles as he crosses his arms across his chest. “You don’t buy what?”

“This act.”

Tom almost rolls his eyes again. “And which act are you referring to, Y/N?”

“The Mr Nice Guy Act, Thomas.” The way he flexes his jaw makes you lean nearer and smirk. “Everyone here thinks you’re such a wonderful man, but I see right through it.”

It’s hard to know precisely when your feelings towards Tom became so hostile, but you like to pinpoint the night of the BAFTAs in 2017 as the day you surpassed the point of no return. You were younger then - both of you - and things quickly got out of hand. You know Tom likes to pinpoint your ‘jealousy’ following his win and your snub at the awards show as the catalyst for your tumultuous relationship, but both of you know that night was the product of several cumulative events.

Your best friend had worked with Tom’s mate Harrison, all those years ago in 2016. You knew Harrison through her, and you got on well enough with him, so when the BAFTA academy had nominated both you and Tom as contenders for Rising Star, Harrison had orchestrated an exchange of phone numbers. However, given your packed schedule and press engagements, you had failed to respond to all of Tom’s attempts to contact you.

One thing led to another. Tom assumed you were dodging his texts and started bad-mouthing you to Harrison. Word travelled to you that this guy - the competition - was throwing shade to your name, and so you might have made a few choice remarks about him on Ellen and suggested that Tobey Maguire was the best Spider-Man. Whatever. It was all so petty and childish, and it’d escalated to boiling point on the night of the BAFTAs when Tom hadn’t been able to shut up and thrust his win right into your face - quite literally. You can still remember the way he’d clutched the trophy as he’d shown it off in all its grandeur.

Ever since then, your relationship has been poisonous. A case of miscommunication and petty jealousy turned hostile, and now you’re in far too deep to even think about mending the fractured dynamic.

“I am a nice guy,” Tom tells you. His eyes skim across your face, and you don’t miss the way they drag across the curve of your lower lip.

“As if.” You ponder which anecdote you should fall back on to prove your point, and it takes a while to select one: the pool of Tom’s past mistakes and moves against you is vast and wide. “Would a nice guy conveniently forget to invite me to Harrison’s birthday party?”

Tom winces, and something almost like regret flickers out across his face before he meets your eyes and hardens up his gaze. “I’ve already told you that was a case of miscommunication,” he says slowly, patronising. “I doubt you would have enjoyed it anyway, Y/N. Wasn’t exactly your type of party.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Your hand finds your waist, gripping firmly at your flesh to stop your fingers from shaking. The way Tom looks at you so intensely makes you feel strung-out and bare, and it’s almost as if he can see straight through you.

“It was a small, intimate gathering. From what I’ve been hearing, you’re a fan of the larger, more explosive parties, aren’t you?”

You could throttle him. You could really, truly throttle him. You know with certainty that Tom’s referring to the latest smear the media had run against you, which had placed you at an illegal rave in Downtown LA and cost you a role in a film you were passionate about.

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the tabloids, Tom.”

“Maybe not.” Tom’s closer to you now. You find your back brushing up against the wall as he steps nearer yet again, his shiny leather shoes sparkling beneath the light curving out from the chandeliers. “I’d like to think I know you quite well, though, Y/N. We have known each other for several years.”

“I’d use the word ‘known’ very loosely if I were you. I think it’s more like, ‘been plagued by’, but you do you, Tom.”

He laughs, and this time the noise is lighter. You feel a little woozy from the champagne - or maybe it’s his cologne - and you let your hand wander up to rest on the top of Tom’s suit. You drag your fingers across the smooth material, marvelling at how soft the designer garb is to touch.

“Do you like my suit?” Tom asks, his voice lower than before. There’s a strange charge to the air between you, and you find yourself nodding.

“I disagree with the glasses, but your suit is decent. I have to admit that this colour looks flattering on you.” The bold burgundy tones bring out the warmth in his eyes, even if the stupid thin frames of his glasses obscure them. You watch as his pupils widen and feel the warmth of Tom’s breath as he inches in closer.

“Thanks,” he says. Tom’s hand winds around your waist. “Your dress is very nice.”

You swallow, your throat suddenly feeling dry. You briefly wish that you had another glass of champagne to keep you occupied because you find your other hand joining the first and finding purchase on Tom’s shoulder. He’s very close to you, and there’s nowhere left to move because you’d backed up against the wall. Fleetingly you wonder what it must look like, to be hidden away at the back of the party and caged in like this, but you decide that the flurry of heated emotions passing through his eyes and the way his thumb pads over your waist is worth it.

Neither of you says a word, but you watch through wide eyes as Tom’s gaze flickers out across your lower lip. He inches in closer, almost painfully slowly, his demeanour radiating a shaky confidence as he tilts the angle of his head. You watch the hard lines of his mouth dissolve, and his smirk melts away into something like a smile as his eyes flutter shut. Now Tom is very close - so, so close - and the gap between your mouths narrows by the second.

He’s going to kiss you. You know he’s going to kiss you. Why is he going to kiss you? Why are you going to let him kiss you-

“Y/N! Hey, congrats on the film. I saw it last week with my wife, and she loved it-”

Tom springs back. You gasp a short breath of air as your eyes widen, and the film of scattered emotions that had temporarily disarmed you shatters. Tom’s cheeks are bright red, and he doesn’t seem to know where to look or what to do as he jams his hands into his trouser pockets and stares at the floor.

“-Oh, sorry, was I interrupting something?”

Your throat tickles as you shake your head, looking up to see Mark Ruffalo standing there, his expression relaxed but growing in confusion as he drinks in the awkward tension rippling between you and Tom.

“No,” you say immediately, a bite to your voice. You refuse to look at Tom. “You weren’t interrupting anything.”

Mark releases a breath of relief and launches back into his speech, complimenting you profusely on your performance. You become distracted as you listen to him, but not enough to forget about the way Tom had leaned closer and brushed his thumb across your side almost gently. After a few moments of conversation, you can’t stop yourself from glancing over towards Tom, only to notice that he’s slunk away elsewhere. His absence makes your heart twist.

Another hour slips away, and you find yourself returning to the Moët for release. You can feel your composure gliding away from you with each fateful sip. Tom seems to have vanished, and you find yourself questioning if he’s so embarrassed by your moment in the corner that he had to leave. You wonder if that would be better than him staying.

But eventually, your eyes seek him out, as they always seem to do. And you catch him chatting with a woman, his arm around her shoulders and his lips brushed against her ear. Tom seems to feel your gaze on him, and his deep brown eyes meet with yours. He raises his eyebrows and whispers something into the woman’s ear that makes her laugh, and it sends something whipping down your spine.

It isn’t just jealousy - it goes deeper than that. It’s the realisation that you could never get away with this behaviour. You know that if the roles were reversed and it was you who had been seen getting close to two men in one night, you would be assigned a whole host of derogatory names. The double standards that exist in this artificial world of cameras and headlines make you feel sick to your stomach. You are not jealous of the woman beneath Tom’s arm, though you will admit it makes you feel uneasy - it’s the hypocrisy of it all that makes you seethe.

“Excuse me,” you mutter to no one in particular. Tom’s eyes slip away from yours as you put down your empty glass and turn, heading in the direction of an exit. You wander the vast, glittering ballroom for a few moments before spying a door embedded in the back wall that leads out into a dark alleyway.

When you step out onto the street, the cold February air seems to bring your tipsiness to the forefront of your mind. You giggle softly to yourself and wrap your arms around your chest, your fingers rubbing rapid fiery circles across your exposed flesh as you try to drum up a heat.

You lean back against the wall and stare up at the vacant sky. LA is too polluted to see the stars, but you like to imagine they’re staring down back at you. In the distance, you can hear the sounds of laughter coming out from the hall, and out at the end of the alley you can see the street, cloaked in dark paparazzi vans and dim amber street-lamps, but tucked away up here alone, you feel at peace.

“Cinderella runs away from the ball, yet again.”

You scowl. Your eyes move away from the dark blanket of clouds to see Tom. He’s ditched the glasses, but you can see the legs sticking out from the pocket sewn to the top of his suit.

“Joined by her ugly pumpkin.” You screw up your nose at your own words, cursing your fizzled mind for messing up the tale. “That’s not right, is it?”

Tom approaches you, his cheeks full of a rosy tipsiness. “Dunno,” he murmurs. “Think I like it better than being called your ugly sister, though.”

“Ew.”

You share a loud, unruly laugh with Tom, your voices mixing almost melodically. When you sigh, you lean further against the wall.

“I hate it in there,” you find yourself admitting. “So many people were talking about me behind my back. It’s like they think I can’t tell that they’ve just been discussing me when I walk over and the conversation falls silent.” You slot your fingers together and play around with your thumbs. “Everything is so fake. It’s like a game to them.”

A cool breeze floats down the alley, and you find yourself shivering.

“It is a game,” Tom says slowly, all whilst slipping off his suit jacket. He holds it out to you, raising an eyebrow when you shake your head. “It’s cold, Y/N. I know you’re stubborn, but neither of us wants you to freeze out here.”

The mood between you feels tender, and you let yourself accept his warm jacket. You throw it across your shoulders and feel the warm embrace of his suit, and the husky traces of cologne nestled to the fabric, but Tom’s looking at you with an intense gaze, and the sight of his golden browns draws you back to the scenes from inside the party.

“Saw you chatting with a woman inside,” you say, words a little sharper. “Trying to see how many times you have to try it on before someone bites?”

Tom flinches. The air fills with the sound of him clicking his tongue as he rubs his hands together. “You are so fucking petty, Y/N.”

You raise an eyebrow, responding to his clipped voice with surprise. “Hit a nerve, have I?”

He groans softly. “Sorry,” he mutters, “I shouldn’t swear at you. You just get under my bloody skin.”

You shrug. “You’ve said worse.”

“So have you.”

“Only because you deserve it.”

Tom’s bearing in on you again, but this time you feel more at ease. The scent of his cologne mixes with the sweet champagne that lays fresh across your palette, and it makes you feel delirious. You can’t stop yourself from reaching up and draping your hands across his shoulders, bringing him nearer.

“You drive me crazy,” Tom admits. His voice is husky, his eyes dark and intense. In the slight breeze, strands of his hair waft across his forehead.

“I can’t stand you,” you return. Your heart beats wildly in your chest as his hands dig into your waist. The rough render on the building behind you digs into your back as you loop your arms around Tom’s neck and bring him in closer.

“Neither can I, darling.”

It’s like magnetism - some sort of invisible force pulling you in before you can even fathom it. One moment you’re staring at Tom, scepticism in your eyes and anxiety thick in your chest, the next he’s surged forwards and captured your lips in a messy, sensational kiss. You gasp into his mouth, and your fingers tighten against the short hair at the nape of his neck as you kiss him back harshly. Your noses bump and your teeth collide as Tom grabs at your sides with fervour, and having him clutching at you is so hot that it takes your breath away. The kiss is messy and hurried, and it seems to melt down all the built-up tension and frustration you’ve been nurturing for years. It makes your head hurt, and all you can focus on is how crazy it is that you are kissing Tom Holland - and, horrifyingly, how much you don’t seem to hate it.

It comes crashing down when there’s a round of flashes, and you hear the telltale sound of paparazzi photographs.

“Shit!” You push Tom away from you immediately, your breath hitching as your head snaps down to the end of the alley. Unbeknownst to either of you, you’ve been spotted by the men with those large, invasive lenses. The flashes continue, and you turn away, your actions almost in slow motion as you feel a wave of nausea travel across your chest.

“Y/N!”

“Tom, Tom!”

“Are you dating?”

“Having a bit of fun tonight, Y/N?”

A chorus of cataclysmic yells come racing down the alley and the howls of the paparazzi mix with the loud sound of camera shutters.

“Fuck.” Tom grabs your arm, and he pulls you away from them, bringing you both back into the party. There’s a tightness in your chest as you gasp for breath, walking in dizzying strides as you card your fingers through your hair anxiously.

“No, no, no,” you mutter to yourself. You can hear the calls of the paparazzi ringing in your ears, and you dig your fingers into your temples for relief as you snap your head to glare at Tom. “Why did you just kiss me? What’s wrong with you?”

Tom looks pale, and his eyes are round with shock, but he still manages to stare at you incredulously. “You kissed me too?”

You bury your head in your hands. “This is it - this is the last straw. They’re going to have a field day with this.” You peek out at Tom through gaps in your fingers, laughing humourlessly. Your chest burns as you take in his disarmed expression and his deep chocolate eyes. “This is the end.”

“It… It was just one kiss.”

You shake your head furiously. “They’ll run with it. They’ll make a spectacle of us.” Your nails dig into the soft palms of your hands. “You are such an asshole.”

Tom’s mouth, a little red and puffy, twists into something of a snarl. “You kissed me! Why is this my fault?”

“It’s always your fault.” You pause and shake your head. You can’t help but fall back on the naive thought that this truly is all Tom’s fault. You’d been fine before him. You’d been looking into the starless sky. You’d been at peace. He’d just had to waltz on out and trick you into his lips. “Well, I hope you enjoy the end of your career.”

He raises a thin eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”

“You’ve been associated with me, which is the equivalent of getting a big black line scored right across your name.” You reach up and jerk his jacket from your shoulders, and roughly shove it back into Tom’s hands.

“I think you’re overreacting.”

“Really?” Your gaze hardens. “This is all just a game, Tom, don’t you see? We don’t get to decide who stays on top.” You laugh humourlessly, your tongue tasting sourly of champagne. “We have fucked up.”

Tom sets his jaw. One by one, he stuffs his arms through his suit jacket and tugs it back around his body, sinking into it forcibly. He pulls his glasses from the pocket and places them back on the bridge of his nose, balancing them crookedly.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” Tom remarks, his voice cold and sharp. You briefly wonder if he understands the magnitude of the situation, and as he sweeps away without so much as a kiss on the cheek goodbye, you realise he probably does.

Without yet wholly understanding it, one drunken kiss has sealed your fate. As you stand there, twiddling with your thumbs in the back corner of the Vanity Fair party, your mind races. You know with absolute certainty that things will never be the same again, but not even your wildest dreams could compare to what is about to come.

buckle up bc I’m about to take us on a ride and a half. may as well have ended this with an ellipsis lmao.

↠ next part

any thoughts?! I am actually dying to know what you’re thinking lmao!! my askbox is open :D

taglist can be found in the series masterpost, which is the pinned post at the top of my blog

masterlist linked in my description

#tom holland #Tom Holland x reader #Tom Holland x y/n #Tom Holland imagine #Tom Holland series #Tom Holland fic #tfg #y/n #y/n use #self insert #self-insert #my writing

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daydreamed-snippets · 3 years

Note

hello! i absolutely adored your addition to gingerly’s prompt ask :) i was wondering if you could continue it, and no worries if you can’t! thanks <3

I realize the more I write this the longer it’s getting. I probably have imagined six parts or more???? I have other WIPs that need attention, but I am so, so, so, so thankful that you like the first part of my prompt response to @gingerly-writing I’m going to post this and then part 3 hopefully tomorrow 👀 👀 👀 👀Maybe??? then take a small break to post some other stuff. Lol this is a continuation I didn’t really plan for, but am definitely excited about!!

@chibicelloking @lolafaiy

Part One Here

A dull thrum of voices stirred sidekick out of surly drowsiness. The articulation of words was muddied, coming across as garble before snapping into clarity the more they roused. There was “monitor vitals”, “recommended range”, “even by a fraction” that registered in the back of their mind. Teammates must be running some tests again.

But they couldn’t move. Not a muscle. They weren’t paralyzed, they were just restrained. Which was odd because that wasn’t—

They felt the string back around their neck again. That feeling of dread rustled, usually abating when they returned to headquarters and the familiarity of their bunk. Memories came no longer concealed by lethargy. Of the teammates being pinned down by supervillain. Of their oh-so-brave self-sacrifice. Of teammates using The Machine to pry open a portal. Of sidekick losing consciousness in supervillain’s arms.

Sidekick held their breath, letting out a quiet moan. It didn’t work, did it? Teammates didn’t make it to that sewer way after supervillain choked them into unconsciousness. And if they did, they were unable to save sidekick. They were captured.

So what now?

Policy would have them stay mute. To be uncooperative. To trumpet bravado and bare their teeth.

Policy would have their self-sacrifice complete its course to martyrdom.

Feeling their sinew stretch to uncomfortable lengths, the sidekick’s mind fortified itself, resolved to do their due diligence. They could die for the cause. They were trained to do so. Engrained by doctrine, encouraged parables of valor, and promises of glory. They weren’t a hero, yes, but they’d surely get a hero’s burial. A hero’s honor, and admittance to the halls of the nobly fallen. After all, it was promised to those slain for the cause.

Noting how their wrists were held high above their head and were bound together, sidekick tensed their muscles against the wire to test how well it held their arms, chest, hips, and legs still. They were hanging in midair, everything was drawn taut, everything perfectly balanced so that the threads bowed them back like a rag doll on display; fraying and terribly exposed.

At least it didn’t cut their skin this time.

The easy solution: they could mount a daring escape by making a portal around themselves. No on second thought due to calculation risks, they could make approximately 47 mini portals, severing the strings. Then once they got a better gauge of the room, they could make one large enough for them to drop through. They doubted they would be able to go far, maybe outside this room after they opened their eyes and calculated the circumference of it. Their weakness lies in the fact that not knowing where they were meant they were limited in where they could go. Power hinging on all of the maps in their head. If they could just see it on the map then they could calculate the needed trajectory and portal to it.

But they had neither the time nor the luxury for that now.

Taking all 47 at a time, sidekick opened dime-size portals an inch above where the wires met their skin. Calculations playing in the background of their psyche. They had to be precise—they must have caution or risk searing flesh from bone. Wire fractured and cracked in midair, and sidekick dropped a small length, feet hitting the floor, knees buckling.

They barely had a second to get up.

A shrill alarm, jarring, and ear-splitting sounded.

Fire followed, blazing across their skin, only somehow from the inside radiating out, originating from their neck, and spiraling down. They writhed under the voltaic ministrations, convulsing until it ceased, finally falling limp.

Someone came to stand before them, and sidekick considered the familiar boots warily before flicking their gaze up, proximity kick-starting their heartbeat. And it ran wild. Supervillain settled before them, appearing polished, normal costume hidden under a button-up shirt loosely tucked into a pair of trousers. A light pea coat pulled the ensemble together. Their expression, however, looked like they were ready to pounce, eyes veiled behind a tight expression.

“Perfect. You’re awake.”

Should sidekick go for bravado, or would a more fearful submissive approach best serve them, now that their escape attempt has failed? Unsure, sidekick opted for a mix of both, figuring, at any rate, the body count associated with supervillain alone would suggest that they tread carefully. “Wh-what did you do to me? My teammates—”

“Your teammates don’t know where you are, and it’s going to stay that way for a while." They crouched agilely, a panther before a frightened yearling, tucking a finger under their chin to hold their complete attention. "I would advise against doing anything that would jeopardize your standing with me, puppy. Like trying to use your power to escape. I am not what one would call longsuffering. I may have shown you a smidgen of my mercy but don’t expect it to be par for the course." Supervillain motioned to the room with a nod. "If you’re wondering where you are, may I present to you my humble garrison. This is the medical wing, with medic and assistant behind me. We’ve removed the association’s tracking device, and replaced it with something far more fetching.”

Trailing a thumb down their neck, supervillain fiddled with the band around their throat, a neatly fitted collar. How did sidekick not notice that? It felt not much different from supervillain’s wires—something foreign and constricting. Ears burning, their face paled, sweat lining their brow. If this could get worse or more humiliating, they weren’t sure how.

Threading a finger through the ring, supervillain wrenched sidekick off the ground, onto their hands and knees like a true dog.

A strangled mewl tore from the sidekick’s throat.

“You do get the gist of this, don’t you, darling? You’re a clever one. Make a portal without my direct order, and this device will give you an electric shock that will render you immobile at best, unconscious at worst.” Their shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “And it hurts like hell, or so I’m told so that should be incentive enough.”

Oh no.

This was worse.

So much worse than anything sidekick had endured at the Hero’s Association. Ignoring their basic human needs, ok. They can handle that. Belittling them, playing passive-aggressive games? Cool, cool, cool, cool. The occasional punishment? Everyone endures the intermittent blow or two. Suck it up, sidekick. But humiliation like this? They wanted to crawl under a rock and never be seen again.

“Y-you,” they stammered, dread churning, turning into something they hadn’t felt in a while. Rage. “You, you, you jerk!”

“You jerk?” supervillain echoed a deep chuckle. “Dear lord, you know you should be thanking me, my very young and inventive labradoodle. One, for not taking your life as I had wanted. Two, for not ringing out your delicate neck despite that little stunt just now. And, three for rescuing you from such neglectful owners—”

“I will never thank you for that!”

Silence filled the room, allowing the mechanical hum of lab equipment to permeate. Medic and assistant tossed glances at each other over supervillain's shoulder, as a shadow passed over supervillain’s face. That thumb returned to sidekick’s lips, the latter’s breath catching at their misstep. “You said they.”

“W-what?”

“When you spoke about your teammates, and how they’ve been fighting me all of these years. You said they. Not we’ve been fighting, but they. You haven’t used a single possessive pronoun when speaking about the six of you—or anyone in the association for that matter.”

No. No, sidekick didn’t mean it like that. They belonged. They were a team. They are a team.

“You keep them separate from yourself,” the supervillain continued, stoking their cheek absently. “Whether consciously or unconsciously, you do. From the short time I discovered that it was a person and not a machine behind the Hero’s Association’s success, I’ve learned this: your ideals are of self-immolation. You offer yourself up as a lamb for your teammate’s success; for the association’s success. You foolishly stare down your enemy in hopes for what? Recognition? Adoration? That’s clearly not working, is it? I simply called you a dazzling diamond in the ruff, and you flushed like someone newly in love.” That tone was back. A wanton timbre for power, and sidekick face colored on command. They brought their hand up to hide it. “Your actions are like a puppy: young and misguided. Training will fix it.”

Throwing them a salacious grin, supervillain called another thread to their hand and knotted it around sidekick's collar ring. Easing off of their haunches, they stood, the wire going slack. “I will delve into these mysteries soon enough. Just as you will come to discover, in due time, that you are much better off with me than against me.”

Sidekick blood boiled, finally at the tipping point.

They saw red.

Supervillain thought they knew them? Thought that they were such an open book? Palms fisting, sidekick wanted very much to strike out at the supervillain. To wipe that knowing looking off their face. A feat, they realized, that could accomplish with words. And something this time with more punch than ‘jerk’. Screaming, they let out an uncharacteristic string of curses; ones they’d heard in passing, ones that had even been directed at them. Being a human gateway didn’t afford them many friends their own age or otherwise, and the other heroes were quick to ruffle their hair, and blame them for mishaps than befriend them.

Supervillain didn’t move. Even to tighten the leash.

But medic spoke out.

“Eh, yo, villy, your puppy be barking at you. Want me to shut them up?” Their crisp white coat stood in neat contract to their rich skin; voice speaking of hardship and closely won battles. Finger hovering over their datapad.

“Give it a minute,” supervillain said, as sidekick let out one last cry, fists hitting the cold tile, utterly spent. They bent over, muscles quivering in release. “See, it wasn’t necessary, medic. This particular breed responds to a more patient touch.”

“All that patient touch and you gon’ be wondering why you got missing fingers. Look, I don’t know about pets, but, this seems real sus.”

“Good thing you’re not in charge of them.”

“I guess, tho, I just be saying,” they let out a sigh, shaking their head, returning their attention to a beeping screen. “You know how much I love them pathetic animals.” Medic shot a look at sidekick, as their eyes bounced between the two, mouthing I don’t, and slid their thumb across their neck when supervillain wasn’t looking.

Sidekick almost whimpered.

Supervillain flexed their hands, fingers gracefully dancing as wires loosened from the ceiling, fell in a heap on the ground then receded altogether, sheltering in the supervillain’s pea coat. Only the one wire connected to their collar remained visible, wrapping itself around the supervillain’s wrist that. Like a bracelet, they tucked it away in their sleeve, then opted to move rather than command sidekick to heel.

Lurching forward, sidekick had no choice but to follow.

#others prompts #continuation #sidekick #supervillain #part 3 soon

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maxwell-grant · 3 years

Note

Do you have a favorite visual design 9f the Spider? I know it's not his normal look, but I am very partial to his Eclipse mini look, makes him more distinct.

To the surprise of absolutely no one I'm gonna have to say it's the way Dan Schkade draws him, which is basically the way he was said to look like in the stories proper, but with a few twists that I'm VERY fond of and personally cannot imagine the character without at this point, mainly the claws and that sick, shredded cape. The shredded cape in particular I think is just an absolutely incredible idea on all fronts: It's cool as hell, it makes an even better and more distinctive silhouette, it goes along really well with the rest of his ensemble, it's completely different than how most other pulp heroes or even superheroes wear their capes and it works wonders for the character, in particular what sets the character apart.

It's a design feature that conveys that this is a very active and brutal character that doesn't care how he looks, or a mastermind purposefully twisting himself into something awful and distorted, or a man who's been so twisted by the depths of brutality and horror he's been subjected to (and subjected others to) that now, that which in other characters serves as a mark of heroism and dignity or a security blanket or a magician's tool, now either hangs on limply off this wretched beast with no majesty left, only the violence it's been subjected to , or serves to further dehumanize him by storming around him in an action shots and obscuring his human form.

It tethers The Spider to his main influence while also providing a very, very stark contrast that shows just how he's different: The Shadow glides around the night unseen in a billowing Dracula cloak, The Spider barrels through the dark in a cape Mr Hyde would be proud to wear. And I'm also very fond of those great yellow monster eyes Dan gave The Spider in this illustration. I still think these are some of the few Spider illustrations outside of Truman's comic that truly covey what the character is like gross and intense and aggressively pulpy. It’s perfect.

But that being said, the Eclipse mini design comes very cleanly after it, I like it a lot. I do think Truman had the right idea in actively trying to distance The Spider from The Shadow and play up how the character's traits are reflected in his design. The main things that knock it down a little for me are, I think the cloak kinda takes away from how wild the fright wig is supposed to look and the contrast it's meant to provide, and I'm not super into how the color scheme meshes together as a whole. It's a "90s superhero fashion disaster", and I don't actually have much against those (I mean, I do like Jared Stevens quite a bit), if anything I guess I don't think Truman's design is disastrously gothic enough for a 90s reimagining of The Spider's design (and perhaps that's a mercy).

But there's a lot about this one that works, which is why I rank it higher than just about all the others. I love the cloak, I love the mask, I obviously love the shark teeth and I think they work well as a replacement for the fangs (wouldn't mind seeing the two combined), I think the idea of him ditching the suit for a uniform decked with kneepads and grenades and so, is a decision I would definitely like less on other characters, but it completely fits The Spider and his "war on crime", and people use that euphemism a lot to describe fictional vigilantes to the point it's lost a lot of meaning, but for The Spider it actually does matter a lot given how much the idea of him and his associates throwing their lives for "the cause" comes up in the stories.

My favorite thing about it would be Truman's decision to play up The Spider's swordsmanship, and in particular The Spider with a sword goes a lot better with this design than it would be for something closer to the character's original look. In terms of menace, Schkade's design conveys the idea of a man painfully transforming into a beast of nightmare possessed by carnivorous cunning and rabid lunacy in equal measure, the Grand Guignol funhouse mirror of pulp heroes. Truman's design looks like a Grim Reaper Samurai trying to fight a war alone, gearing up to tear crowds of people single-handed, which is just as fitting.

Among these would also be Stuart Hopen's take on The Spider. The hat’s a little too orderly and the hair is too short for my liking, and I do miss the cape, but otherwise this is a fairly stellar take on The Spider’s pulp design with a changed outfit and a delightfully wretched face. The crooked grin in particular works as a much more disturbing alternative to the vampire fangs or the shark teeth. Compared to the other two, as well as all the other Spider designs out there, this one is by far the creepiest. In a way, this feels like it’s approaching the fear Wentworth expressed in the third story, which was when the character really started taking shape: “when I get behind that mask and go out with a gun in my pocket, I feel that no such person as Richard Wentworth ever lived”. This is the end result of that.

This is not a character torn between the hero he wishes to be and the monster he’s forced to become, this is not a man reconfiguring himself into an avenging fanatic, this is a creature that has gleefully abandoned whatever soul it used to have. There’s no divide, or even much turmoil here. This is not a character who’s gonna show up the covers of pulp magazines, this is a thing you find lurking on internet creepypastas and digitally-altered images of abandoned parks.

I guess if I had to describe the menace each conveys, I’d put it like this: Schkade’s Spider looks like he’s barely a second away from either falling apart in pieces (possibly literally) or sprinting on all fours, jumping across rooftops, intent on biting off the neck of the first animal, or crook, that can't run away from him fast enough. Truman’s Spider looks like he ramsacked his closet to get away with shooting, decapitating and/or exploding bad guys, possibly not even in that order. Hopen’s Spider looks like anger and joy mutated into the same thing in his mind long ago, and although he's conversational allright, he kind of wants to lick the marrow off your bones if you let him off your sight for a second.

I think all of these work very well for getting across a general idea of what The Spider should look like or convey.

Seeing as I can’t draw yet, I’m still eagerly awaiting the day someone gives me an equally horrifying and gruesome depiction of Nita van Sloan as The Spider though. Because as far as I can find, while she donned the Spider’s garb to kill and fight, I don’t recall if she ever went the extra mile and took on the fright wig and fangs and all that as The Spider or in her Black Widow persona, and certainly none of the illustrations at that time would have made her that gruesome. Which is frankly all the more reason to come up with ideas as to what what Nita might look like, in her own take on The Spider’s brand of horror, had she worn the costume and embraced that persona more often. In the rush of necessity, she embraced it and discarded it quickly, as it was just a costume.

But then again, before the fangs and wig and hunchback came in, before the disorders, before ever-amounting stress and chaos and brutality, before there was that moment in Judgment of the Damned he underwent a physical contortion into what used to be achieved via make-up, it used to be just a costume for Richard too.

#replies tag #pulp heroes #the spider #richard wentworth #nita van sloan #pulp fiction #dan schkade #tim truman #stuart hopen

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starvels · 3 years

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what are your favourite MCU and 616 stevetony moments? <3

<3 hi bee. this is a cute ask ty ! here are some!

MCU

in avengers 2012 when they work together post the scepter messing with them! i know its corny but 'it seems to run on some form of electricity' is so fucking funny to me, no joke. imagine u wake up from a 70 yr nap, everyone u know is dead or dying and someone's like take a look at this HIGHLY EVOLVED PIECE OF TECH and tell me what's going on. steve should have cussed a lot and that's my only critique of that. i love that tony doesn't rib him for it. just says 'you're not wrong' GOOD! as should.

any moment in the latter half of avengers 2012 tbh, but esp that one shot of steve's glove on tony's arc reactor i BURN for it ty

that moment (in one of those movies i haven't watched sorry i gave up after avengers) when tony is like you said we would lose together, WELL we did that and you weren't there and then dramatically faints and steve's like, but i slow ran to you, i broke everything between us and then gave u a flip-phone and the narrative finally takes tony's side abt how shitty it was lol

616

'you gave me a home.' canonical found family! damn!

too many quiet, little moments at 890 fifth to name. them searching each other out, them in meetings, them having rooftop or library talks, them learning each other and sharing intimacies. avengers v1, tales of suspense, etc

when steve is delighted and very easily okay with tony stark being iron man after all of tony's worrying abt not being enough as himself. also, tony's ID is revealed in a RED THONG lmfao. truly the bisexual disaster we all deserve

good morning, beloved <3

steve knowing all of tony's passcodes time and time again, being the only one with the lock and key to tony's existence.

confessions/civil war: casualties of war. i know i said u gave me a home already BUT the entirety of them. they're just gold. they're so good. they're so fucking sad. i weep so well

red zone cpr tony sacrificing himself for steve and then steve crawling through glass to pick up tony's prone body!! fuck me up! alright alright!!!!!

avengers ensemble moments where the entire emotional weight is hinged on steve and tony having a couple's spat and everyone around them talks about their love and calls them mom and dad lmfao

the illuminaughty meeting where steve says to tony 'be nicer, we've talked about this' sends something MIGHTY through my domestic, lovers-knowing-each-other bones. that's just...i want them to talk about themselves w each other

the bagel scene talking abt reforming the avengers and every other scene where they Know each other v casually and Believe in each other.

when they kill each other in infinity. the whole of infinity is wild garbage and as emo as the s/t focus there makes me, i think the coin of one was life and one was death is not accurate if you're only applying one or the other to each of them. i was talking w @oluka the other day about this but tony is the death->life cycle and steve is the life->death cycle. BUT ANYWAYS i'm mad emotional about the fact that when the entire multiverse was ending ALL S/T COULD THINK ABOUT WAS EACH OTHER. the fuck, bruh!! they chose to die in the streets fighting each other bc they mean more to each other than the multiverse ending. i cannot make this up.

anyways i need to STOP adding bullets at this point i'm just naming every moment skjndkbnkdjnb anyways those are some!!! lmfao!

i'll reblog some of these panels from cap-im for you later, too hehee

#stevetony #mcu #616 #character talk

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brian-in-finance · 2 years

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‘Belfast’ Star Caitriona Balfe Is Enjoying the Film’s ‘Wild Ride’ Through Awards Season

Making Kenneth Branagh's film was like being "released into this world of Ken's imagination," the actress said. For the fun to keep going is an added delight.

The plaudits for “Belfast” seem to be endless. They started in September at the Toronto film festival, where Kenneth Branagh’s coming-of-age-movie set in 1969 won the People’s Choice Award. And they’ve kept pouring in ever since, in the form of nominations from dozens of prominent critics groups and guilds. Earlier this month, SAG nominated the “Belfast” cast for best ensemble — in addition to singling out Caitriona Balfe for her impassioned turn as Ma, a no-nonsense mother of two boys caught in the crossfire of sectarian violence in Northern Ireland.

The sustained recognition Balfe has been enjoying has provided an unexpected second act to her “Belfast” experience (all while upping the Oscar buzz). “It’s been such a wild ride,” the actress told TheWrap. “When we started this journey a year ago, we were shooting during the pandemic. We never really knew what was going to become of this film. I think we were just all so focused on the fact we got to be working — and we got to be working on such an amazing project. That was the beauty of it at the time. The fact that it’s just kept going and is having all of these amazing accolades, it just feels really great.”

As Ma, Balfe struggles to hold together her tight-knit family while the Troubles engulf their once peaceful Belfast neighborhood. She cares for her young cinephile son Buddy (Jude Hill) and his older brother Will (Lewis McAskie), often with help from her delightful in-laws (Ciarán Hinds as Pop and Judi Dench as Granny) while her husband (Jamie Dornan) travels to England for work. The film is based on Branagh’s own early life in Northern Ireland, before he and his family moved to England when he was 9 to escape the brewing war. And this, of course, presented Balfe and her fellow actors with a significant responsibility.

“It’s kind of a crazy thing to be asked to play a version of a director’s mother or father, but the beauty of it was that from day one, Ken put this trust in us and made us all feel like he wanted us to bring as much of ourselves to it and meet what he had already put on the page,” she said. “It took all the pressure off and it allowed us to kind of be free because I think the most important thing a director can give you is their trust, and give you confidence that you’re doing the right thing. And that you’re the right person for the role.”

Though Balfe has seen her fair share of action and battle scenes throughout six seasons of Starz’s “Outlander,” the riot scenes in “Belfast,” where Protestant vigilantes storm Buddy’s block, were her favorite to film. Molotov cocktails are hurled, bullets are fired, barricades are breached — while innocent bystanders like Ma and her family run for cover. “I mean, the whole thing felt like some sort of magical little excursion we got to take. We’d been locked down for five months and then we were released into this world of Ken’s imagination,” she said. “But the riot days — it’s the energy. When you get a big group of people together like that and see how excited little Jude was by everything that was going on. He was just absolutely buzzing on those days. There was an energy around the set constantly, but on days like that it was really special.”

Shooting during the pandemic immediately created a sense of camaraderie among Balfe and her co-stars, despite strict COVID-19 safety restrictions. (Or, in Dench’s opinion, because of those restrictions: “Perhaps it was the rigor of that that brought us together very much as a family very quickly,” she recently told TheWrap.) “It’s funny,” Balfe said. “Jamie and I have spoken about this so many times. When we were filming, we never had really cast dinners or anything like that, which you would normally have. But because of that, we all had to make a special effort to get to know each other and we became pretty close while we were filming.”

Now, of course, with omicron raging and threatening to turn yet another awards season into a string of virtual events, Balfe hasn’t had as much contact with her “Belfast” family as she’d like. “We’ve only really managed in this whole kind of crazy press tour that we’ve been doing to have dinner once,” she said. “And we all were like, ‘When we get to L.A., we’re going to have a day where we all get to hang out and just relax.’ And sadly, that feels like it’s not really going to happen. But this is a tough time for people and the fact that we have a film that we get to promote that we feel so strongly about, that’s still a very special moment.”

https://www.thewrap.com/caitriona-balfe-belfast-interview-wild-ride/

Remember… (on filming the riot scenes) you get a big group of people together like that and see how excited little Jude was by everything that was going on. He was just absolutely buzzing on those days. — Caitríona Balfe

#Tait rhymes with hat #Good times #BelfastMovie #The Wrap #27 January 2022 #Belfast #Worldwide 2022 #Twitter

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faded-florals · 4 years

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omg can you PLEASE explain the nuance of Hadley's portrayal because I want to hear someone go off (also id just like to hear some thoughts bc im low-key on team "he's mean")

I’ve written a number of posts about Hadley’s Raoul, and my assertions there still stand. I’ll summarize them here and link to those posts for your reading pleasure. (or not, I don’t know how much you care for Raoul or Hadley, or if you’re open to changing your opinion on him!)

Hadley’s Acting in POTO 25: When I wrote this post I had some idea that Hadley really was an outlier when it came to the cast of the 25th anniversary performance, but recently (like in the past week) we learned more about just how wild of a ride it was for him. Hadley was playing Javert in the West End I believe about 8x a week at the time, and while he was busy with that he had to learn his part for this special performance. They had 2 weeks for rehearsals in a venue not made for theater, they never teched the 2nd act, and Hadley had no previous experience in the show compared to the rest of the ensemble, who had all pretty much played one of the leads in POTO at one point or another. My guess is that the recording of the show from the DVD (streamed on Youtube) was from the 1st or 2nd night of the total 3 performances he ever did of Phantom.

All of that being said, I think my point from my post resonates even more: despite everything, Hadley doesn’t get lost in the show. I imagine for a weaker actor all the stress would have made for a lackluster performance, but even when Hadley was struggling to remember his lines, he delivered, and to great effect. (you can listen to Hadley talk more about his time in POTO here, from April 2020)

More about Hadley Raoul; of COURSE he’s upset!: A lot of the arguments I hear against Hadley’s Raoul boil down to “he’s mean!”. Raoul’s emotions are often quickly categorized off as mean and aggressive, and Hadley plays a very emotional Raoul. His Why Have You Brought Me Here and Notes II are the best examples of this. His feelings are all over his face and in every movement he makes, which are a lot.

I’ve seen a lot of Raouls who are better accepted in the Phandom who just stand around and look sweet, but are honestly so boring. Hadley’s Raoul is raw and we see every little change in expression because of the format of the show, being a professional recording for home audiences, which only amplifies them.

My main take away from this post is: Raoul is rightfully upset, and Hadley plays those emotions very well.

Some thoughts on Leroux Raoul: Why does Raoul act the way he does? I talk here a little about Raoul’s background, which depending on how much weight you give to the book on determining musical Raoul’s character, may or may not be helpful. “….being a fresh faced, volatile 21 year old caught in a dramatic reunion with a long lost lover and a subsequent fight for her attention and safety is a recipe for angst. Pepper in his privileged position, which makes him just a bit out of touch with how to be respectful to the plights of others, and he really has no chance to be the heroic, grounded, romantic lead whose shoes he is desperate to fill.”

Again, Raoul’s in a tough spot. He should be emotional. I think a lot of POTO viewers are quick to extend sympathy towards the Phantom, but somehow manage to gloss over Raoul’s struggle and growth. In my opinion, Raoul’s character was in great hands with Hadley as his portrayer. He’s a talented actor with a lot of depth of performance, and I think he really understood just who Raoul was and how to play him.

I hope my explanations here were at least somewhat helpful to you. If anything, at least maybe you understand a little better why I love Raoul and Hadley’s performance in POTO 25! ❤️

#Phantom Of The Opera #Poto #Raoul De Chagny #Hadley Fraser #Phantom Of The Opera 25th #ask fadedflorals #oh boy here I go ranting about HadleyRaoul again!

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chatonyant · 4 years

Text

Some hella messy doodles for the shippuden designs! Excuse the every changing details because I am never truly happy with final designs dear lord-

I’ve got design notes! Long wall of words belooowww

Starting with Naruto once again!

his clothes are based off of several unfinished ideas I had of Uzushio and how their proficiency with seals would allow them to be more flamboyant or lighter in their gear. The magic of storage and protective seals!

there are seals embroidered into the inner lining and occasionally the exterior, acting as both armor and pack. Uzushio always seemed like a rather bright place, connected to the sea, so I made the robes generally blue themed but also darker as they are still shinobi in the end and bright colors are harder to hide.

I added a hood because Naruto just,,,, he has modern streetwear vibes. He’d love hoodies

The whole Uzushio inspired ensemble is cause I was thinking that in this au he finds the opportunity to find and visit the island itself. Probably during the time skip, considering it’s hard to really place the discovery of a long lost village within the six-month period between graduation and the chunnin exams

At first I wanted to give him like a mesh crop top to show his seal but then it kinda didn’t have that traditional vibe that I wanted, so I added the kimono top and a red obi with symbols that kinda symbolize the seal (because Naruto connects with Kurama much earlier in this AU)

The headband was honestly ridiculously tricky to place because i was trying to draw this longer hair without making it poof weirdly at the top. Plus I wanted to keep the headband where it was cause,,, cause i was thinking when he goes into tailed beast mode the ribbons flare up to look like Kurama’s ears :”DDD peek design amiright-

his hair. is longer. because i love long hair Naruto to bits and it makes him look like his parents ;;; both of them

the gloves. I have no excuse. They just Look Cool

Sakura:

I gave her an undercut

she deserves it

I didn’t mention this in the other redesign post but she has dimples (though i’m really bad at drawing them

that one scene where she tied up her hair in the Kazekage Rescue Arc was so fucking beautiful I couldn’t resist throwing it in here lmaoooo

i can’t draw it right but imagine the ponytail kinda flowering out like a sakura blossom

I took a lot of different things I liked about the older!Sakura designs and smooshed them in one with my own twist

like sleeveless qipao

Belt from pre-timeskip period stays, except now with an extra medical supply bag

longer pants cause they look nice

Sasuke:

honestly I like his normal shippuden design a lot so i kept most of it

I added a cape though, cause he does travel around a bit

and as i was drawing him the collar reverted to a similar shape to his kid clothes

fun fact

the reason that his outfit remains largely the same is because

Sasuke does leave

the action itself doesn’t change, but the circumstances and the ensuing effects do. quite a bit, actually.

and no it does not take the entirety of shippuden to get him back

because he is not a revenge obsessed angry kid here

the biggest reason for all this change is cause I want to change Orochimaru cause i wanna make him live purely because I love mitsuki so fucking much

also i gave him a little half ponytail cause i wanted to give him longer hair but then realized that idk how to draw that and make it look good sO new style boyos

Kakashi? what are you doing here?:

I wanted to change up Kakashi’s look as well because it’s actually really fun to design these outfits no matter difficult it may be bUT it was difficult because I just... can’t see him without a vest.

Not that i can’t see him without wearing a vest, because i have and it’s good and I like it, but i can’t see him going into battle or on missions without one.

I’ve got this headcannon that the vest is lowkey like a security blanket and it’s this grounding weight whenever he’s in this adrenaline filled situation where he may suffer many varieties of consequences if he’s not careful. It has his tools and it’s his armor. Replacing it with a robe feels like robbing him of something he’s always had and is always used to

he keeps a vest

i modified it a bit to make it more right hand sided (i may headcannon Kakashi to be ambidextrous but there’s no denying he uses his right hand more) and the collar to be a bit thinner

Kakashi is like, made for biker fashion. like leather or denim jackets on motorbikes. So I gave him a haori that emulates that look

Naruto came back, saw that Kakashi didn’t change at ALL and took it as a personal offense and dragged him around to get new threads because “Kakashi-sensei, we all upgraded our closet, you should too!”

kind of a sad headcannon that Kakashi didn’t quite let himself enjoy things that wouldn’t benefit him as a ninja and therefore just stuck to his normal outfit of ninja clothes and jonin vest. Icha Icha was the one exception and he picked it up because he had no idea what to do once he was out of ANBU (i would like to back this hc up by pointing to Boruto where Kakashi no longer really holds himself to this rigid ideal of a ninja and lets loose and has fun with Gai and Mirai)

ANYWAYS

he actually likes the stuff Naruto finds for him, though he has no idea where the boy is actually finding all this shit

some misc info about the outfits:

Naruto began learning sealing after the Wave Arc, and he took to it like a fish to water. (i have uzushio spirit hc that I will tell at a later time)

a rare nugget of information he found about uzushio seals was that they were often stitched into the clothing itself

so Naruto went wild with this

he learned sealing while practicing normal embroidery on the side and as he went on his 2-3 year trip with Jiraiya he learned more and just got better and better

He added the seal to his own haori himself and actually made one for Kakashi too. Kakashi just didn’t see him whip the gift haori from one of the stitched sealing scrolls

embroidering takes a really long time and matching it with sealing? oof, hard work. So he actually only got two done and is in process of Sakura’s next. Now that he’s back in the village, he can talk to her about certain things she would want/need considering Naruto isn’t sure what a medic-nin requires.

he made additional gifts for everyone in team seven (even sasuke, even if he doesn’t know what will happen) and hopefully as time passes little trinkets will start to appear

i just really like the idea of naruto being a really craftsy person. He just keeps making small trinkets except these trinkets have sEALING POWER cause he’s very chaotic with his experiments like that

#naruto #naruto shippuden #uzumaki naruto #haruno sakura #uchiha sasuke #hatake kakashi #team 7 #naruto fanart #au #nart au #alp art #doodles #was trying to figure out in what order i should post my thoughts but bOY i have no idea how #so ill just post as ideas come #hopefully that doesnt get too confusing #JESUS THIS WAS ONE OF MY FIRST DRAFTS AND I STILL HAVENT POSTED IT OOPS

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twopoppies · 3 years

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Oh this is interesting “I don’t know. I can understand (or at least guess at) why he chose each role” i would love to hear your thoughts :)

Oh, I don’t think it’ll be all that interesting. 😅 I just think he went for the role in Dunkirk because it was an amazing director and an ensemble cast where he could blend in a bit. It gave him a chance to see how a film was done, but not have to carry the whole thing himself. Plus, he went for the character who had an edge and wasn’t “the hero” which was maybe a little unexpected.

With DWD, I think the idea of playing a sociopathic asshole would be very appealing as it’s very far away from who he is irl (although some people here would disagree 🙄). He’s still not the lead, but he definitely gets to stretch as an actor. Plus, getting to work with Florence was probably appealing, since they’re friends. He might have also liked Olivia’s previous film and thought she’d do a good job with this one (many of us were excited at first).

And MP I’ve talked a lot about how he was probably very drawn to the story being told, as i would imagine he can relate to it on many levels. I think there was likely some appeal in the director/producer both being queer as well (in that he’d likely feel they would tell the story with care).

That’s all I was thinking. Nothing wild.

#actor Harry #Dunkirk #don’t worry darling #my policeman

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gorochanfanclub · 3 years

Text

Change of Plans

Majima x Original Female Character

Summary: Alternate Goromi origin story. Majima is trying to train his assistant to be a hostess for his latest Kiryu scheme, but gets more than what he bargained for...

Contains: Goromi, sexually suggestive content, a couple curse words, a very jealous Majima

A/N: Haven’t posted anything here in a hot minute but had this idea and wanted to share. Only reason I didn’t make this an x reader is because the way I wanted it to end, it wouldn’t have worked :/ The only really defining traits of the woman in the story are that she’s a very tall American, has big b00bie, and her name is Hiromi. Also... please don’t take this too seriously >.< it was just something silly I thought of lol. This isn’t usually the type of style I like to write in, but I thought it might be fun to make something not so serious or heavy for a change! I hope you all do enjoy it!!

Running her hands down her body, Hiromi looks at herself in the mirror, turning slowly to view herself from every angle possible. The pink leather shines and gleams in the dim light of the dressing room, flashes of snakeskin detail sparkling in the mirror. She barely felt her ass held into the garment, the highest parts of her thighs getting a cool breeze from the fishnet stockings on them. Her broad shoulders poked out the top, her breasts pushed nearly to her chin.

The entire ensemble was loud, definitely something she couldn’t possibly imagine herself wearing usually. However, she hadn’t been the one to pick out this outfit in the first place, her boss did. Majima, in another one of his crazy antics, had dragged her to a cabaret club of all places, thrown the clothes in her arms, and shoved her into the back room, demanding she change instantly.

Groaning, Hiromi wonders if Majima really intended for her to leave the room dressed like this. It showed so much skin. She barely remembers the last time she was out in public showing this much skin, even swimming, Hiromi always opted for more conservative attire.

A loud knock at the door draws her from her thoughts, her employer’s voice shouting yet muffled by the wooden slab. “Hey, Hiromi-chan,” he barks, “Ya been in there for a while now. How long does it take for you to put a dress on?”

Looking back at herself in the mirror she grimaces. “Majima-san?” she calls over her shoulder, “Do you really want me to wear this?” She pauses, “What is this even for?”

Even through the door, she can hear her boss groan. “I don’t pay ya to ask questions, Hiromi-chan.”

“I know you don’t, sir,” she snaps back, “You pay me to drive you around. Not wear…” her eyes find her reflection once more, “less than modest clothing.”

The doorknob starts to giggle at her remark. “I’m sure ya look great,” Majima mutters, saying something under his breath afterwards Hiromi can’t quite hear. “I’m comin’ in, ya decent?”

Nodding with a hum, Hiromi watches the door fly open, her boss standing in the doorway, the cabaret club’s owner hot on his heels. Eyeing her up and down, Majima soaks her up. A wicked grin plasters itself on his face. “Hot damn, girly!” he exclaims, “Ya look great! The boys are gonna eat you up.”

Blinking rapidly, Hiromi stares at him with eyes like saucers. “‘Eat me up?’” she repeats, “Don’t you think this is…” she can’t finish, only looking at the vast amount of skin showing from under her clothes.

Majima tilts his head, “It’s what? Don’t like what I picked ya?”

Hiromi shakes her head rapidly, “Uh, no it’s fine, it’s just a little… revealing… is all.”

Making his way across the room, Majima claps a gloved hand on his assistant’s shoulder. “Of course it is!” he shouts, his booming voice echoing in the room, “When yer in this line of work, ya gotta show off the goods.” With a flirtatious wink that makes Hiromi’s cheeks feel on fire, he adds, “And trust me, girly... you got ‘em.”

Majima then steps back, looking her up and down once more before stopping at her breasts. The dress was barely holding them in and it made Majima chuckle, “Not to mention, I think Kiryu’s got a thing for big knockers like yers.”

“What?” Hiromi snaps, “This is a Kiryu thing? You’re dragging me into this now?”

The one eyed man only shrugs, “Yeah, why wouldn’t I? Yer on my payroll and I gotta use the tools I got on hand. Right now sweetheart, that’s you.”

Slumping her shoulders, Hiromi knows it was best to simply accept her fate and take her orders. There was no arguing with Majima once his heart was set on something. The man was not only stubborn, he was determined. Sighing, she asks, “Alright, what would like me to do, sir?”

Cackling maniacally, Majima claps, rubbing his leather gloves together in anticipation. “That’s more like it!” he shouts with glee.

He then steps to Hiromi’s side, wrapping an arm around her bare shoulders, leading her past the club owner and out into the main section of the club. “Now,” he explains, “here’s the plan; yer gonna use,” he gestures to her body, making a particularly large gesture to her chest, “all this, to lure Kiryu-chan in, right?”

Hiromi nods in acknowledgement as he continues, “Get him all buttered up ‘n’ shit. Then…” he snaps loudly in front of Hiromi’s face, making her jerk backwards for a second, “I’ll swoop in for the kill- start disrespectin’ ya and all. Kiryu’s a real gentleman, there’s no way he’ll pass up the chance to fight fer a girl’s honor.” He ogles her breasts once more, “‘Specially one as busty as you.”

The woman stutters nervously and incoherently before clearing her throat, “Do you really think I’ll be able to win him over, Majima-san?” Looking down, she rubs the back of her neck, “Kiryu seems to be a rather tough nut to crack. I’m not sure if I’m cut out for this.”

Walking them to a table in the back Majima chuckles once more. “I know yer, not,” he states blankly, much to his assistant’s surprise. “That’s why I’m gonna train ya…”

Before she can protest, Hiromi feels herself being shoved onto the plush velvet sofa behind her. With a huff, she flops down, looking up through her hair to see Majima situating himself next to her.

Sitting up and brushing her hair out of her face, Hiromi meekly asks, “Wh-what kind of training do I need, sir?” Looking down, she notices how far up her risque dress has ridden up. With a faint blush dusting her cheeks, she tugs it as close to her knees as possible, the action completely foiled by the lack of fabric the dress had.

Leaning back, Majima makes himself comfortable. Crossing one of his leather clad legs over his knee, he sighs, “Gotta make sure you can handle Kiryu-chan.” Noticing the look of absolute fear on her face, he grins, waving a hand in dismissal, “Just relax, girly girl, we’re just gonna do some talkin’.”

Majima reaches inside the inner breast pocket of his jacket, pulling out his packet of cigarettes and nonchalantly lighting one. As he inhales, a nostalgic smile works its way across his lips, tugging gently at the corners, “Y’know, I used to do this fer a living. Kinda miss it too…”

He turns slowly to the woman on the seat next to him, “So yer in good hands, Hiromi-chan, nothin’ to worry yer pretty little head about.”

She nods, taking his words in. Hiromi takes the chance to admire Majima as he prepares for his training session with her. The way the smoke floated around his head, it made him look like an angel, resting above the clouds, looking down on the world that belonged only to him.

Majima could feel her eyes on him, watching him intently. Suddenly he felt nervous about being here with her, especially with the way he had dressed her, she was practically naked. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all…

“Nuff about that, tho,” he beams, snapping himself from his dull stupor, pulling Hiromi from hers as well. “Let’s get down to it,” he sighs, raising a inquisitive eyebrow, “Ya ever done anythin’ like this before?”

Touching a finger to her cheek, Hiromi tilts her head in thought. Majima smirked, finding the action somewhat cute. “Well…” she starts, “I’m not quite sure how ‘this’ all works but… I used to flirt a lot with men at the bars back in my clubbing days,” she turns to her boss with an expectant look, “Does that count, Majima-san?”

Nodding, he smiles brightly, “That’s exactly the way you gotta act. Talk ‘em up, get ‘em to buy you more drinks,” he points a finger at her, “and usually I wouldn’t say this but since these’re special circumstances… there’s no such thing as ‘too handsy.’ Kiryu-chan’s been in prison fer ten long years, I imagine a perv like him would go wild havin’ a nice little thing like you pawing all over him.”

Hiromi grins, nodding as she takes in her instructions. She hums, “I think I’m beginning to understand what I need to do.”

Majima leans back, fluffing up his jacket then smoothing it down as he situates again, “Alright then, we’re just gonna pretend that I’m Kiryu-chan and yer gonna do yer best to win me over.”

The woman nods shortly leaning back herself. In an instant, she crosses her long legs at the knees, the heel of her left foot tapping the glass table in front of them with a heavy thud.

The action shocked Majima. His eye looks down to the pink stiletto next to his own thigh, the toes so dangerously close to grazing his leg. Trailing his gaze up her toned legs, he notices the fishnets end right at the thickest part of her rather voluptuous thighs, the elastic squeezing them ever so slightly.

Following her body further, Majima trains his eye on the way the dress hugged her body in all the right places. From the way it strained against her hips, bunched slightly at her waist, then nearly ripped at her chest, he realized maybe he went a little too far with the outfit.

Finally, his gaze meets her face. A blush threatens to creep onto his cheeks with the way she is looking at him. It was almost like she had flipped a switch inside her. The usual stoic and no nonsense Hiromi he relied on during a day to day basis was gone. In her place was a tigress, dark eyes staring him down like a wounded prey, ready to be devoured.

Majima swallows, trying his best to keep his composure. He grins again, hiding his discomfort, “Hello there, my name is Kiryu Kazuma, what’s you’re name?” he asks, doing his best impression of the deep voiced Kiryu.

The woman tilts her head with a wicked grin, “Hiromi. It means ‘generous beauty.’”

And what a beauty she is, Majima thinks to himself before tilting his own head in confusion, “‘Hiromi?’ That’s a Japanese name, ma’am. Don’t you think you’re a little tall for a Japanese lady?”

Majima feels something grace his leg and he looks down to see one of Hiromi’s pink shoes rubbing itself gently up and down his thigh. She chuckles, “Astute observation Kiryu-san. In fact, I’m from America. Have you ever been?”

Shaking his head, Majima shrugs, “Can’t say I have, Hiromi-chan. In fact, I’ve never left Japan.”

Suddenly, the soft sensation of a foot rubbing his thigh is lost. Majima nearly lets out a displeased groan, choking it back at the last second. When he looks up to meet her face again, he is greeted with her leaning forward, her left hand supporting her and her right resting on the sofa in the spot her foot had previously been.

“You should make a point to go sometime, Kiryu-san,” Hiromi mutters, her voice barely above a sultry whisper. Her hand begins to trace up Majima’s leg, palming his thigh gently, “I’m sure you’d get lots of young American ladies on your arm, what with you being so big and handsome.”

This time, Majima isn’t able to hold back the blush on his cheeks. Here he was, sitting in a cabaret club with his long legged, scantily clad, foreign, assistant, and she’s fondling him like they’re lovers. It didn’t help that she was so close he could smell the mint of her gum from earlier still on her breath.

“Maybe I’d rather stay right here,” Majima counters, “Why go to America when I have a gorgeous American girlie on my arm right now?”

With a laugh, Hiromi’s fingers dig into the muscle on Majima’s thigh. With them so close to his manhood, Majima couldn’t help himself from jumping in shock. She really took his instruction to heart when he told her to get handsy. Swallowing, Majima wasn’t sure how much longer he could take this.

“You flatter me too much,” Hiromi laughs. Batting her eyelashes she smiles that predatory smile once more, “But… I can’t think of any other place in this world I’d rather be, either.”

Flattening her palm once more, she trails her touch up Majima’s leg, onto his toned stomach, feeling every contour of his chiseled torso. Taking her other hand, she hooks a finger underneath Majima’s chin, forcing him to look at her, also bringing him a bit closer.

“I’ve got everything I could possibly want right in front of me…” she whispers. Instinctively, Majima grabs her hip, desperately needing someplace to put his hands. This earns a light chuckle from Hiromi, “Touching already, are we? At least buy me a drink first.”

Looming over her shoulder, he waves to the club owner to bring something around. Turning his attention back to the woman in his arms, he nearly stutters, “So, Hiromi-chan, ya got any special guys in yer life? Can’t imagine a sexy little broad like you going to bed alone.”

The hungry gleam in his eye starts to grow, almost matching her own hungry gaze. She smiles, grazing her fingertips across Majima’s collarbone, “There might be one, and if he plays his cards right tonight…” The grip on his jaw tightens as she pulls his ear to her lips, “I might just go home with him.”

With fake shock, Majima opens his mouth wide, “That so? Well I hope I do, then. Wouldn’t want to pass up the opportunity to wake up next to ya.” His grip on her hip strengthens, his gloved fingers squeaking against the leather of her dress.

Continuing her motions on his chest, trailing over the edges of his tattoos, Hiromi asks coyly, “Do you have any ‘special’ women waiting for you at home, sir?”

Majima only chuckles, “Now, if I did, would I really be at a place like this, lettin’ you fawn all over me?” She only shrugs, “You might, I couldn’t possibly know.”

Shaking his head, Majima smirks, “Nah, I only got one lady in my life, and that’s you, darlin’.”

Hiromi chuckles, pulling away from Majima once more. The loss of her hands on his skin leaves him feeling lonely and cold. However, suddenly, he finds Hiromi spreading her legs, arcing one over Majima’s hips to straddle him.

Hovering her bum just above him, she grabs his shoulders, one of her knuckles outlining his jaw. She mumbles against his cheek, her breath causing the hairs on the back of his neck to raise, “Then I think we should enjoy our evening together, Kiryu-san.”

Kiryu-san.

Up until she said that, Majima had completely forgotten he was supposed to be training her for a night with Kiryu. Suddenly, the idea of having to watch her touch Kiryu and whisper into his ear the way she was doing to Majima right now seemed extremely unappealing.

Something inside him boiled at the thought of that. He wasn’t sure what it was but with the way her lips were grazing his jaw and the way her weight was pressing upon him, he wasn’t sure he could stomach watching her do all the same things to another man… a man that wasn’t him.

Leaning back, he meets her eyes, still dark, still hungry. Majima’s good eye darts to her lips, plump and covered in a hideous, gaudy pink shade that didn’t suit her at all. He was half tempted right then and there to kiss it all off, just to return her to her natural glory.

Still playing the game Majima had abandoned a long time ago, she smiles, “What do you say, Kiryu-san? Can’t we have some fun?”

Hearing her say his name again was just enough to pull Majima from his daze. Tapping her hip, that he previously had been gripping for dear life, he mutters to her, “Alright, get up, this isn’t gonna work.”

Hiromi instantly stops her motions, furrowing her brow at her boss, “Wait- what?”

Majima, with a bit of difficulty, and reluctance, pushes his assistant off him, sending her stumbling onto the velvet where she previously sat. “I said this ain’t gonna work, girly.” Standing up he glances over her body once more, taking in all the curves, “Kiryu ain’t gonna fall for all that. The guy may be a pervert but he ain’t stupid.”

Sitting up as fast as she can Hiromi shakes her head, “What do you mean? Was I doing something wrong? Maybe I could try again. Was it too much?” she sputters, desperate to please her boss.

Was it too much? Majima scoffs internally. She nearly was grinding against him and she had the audacity to ask if it was too much. Fact of the matter was, she was way too good at this, Kiryu wouldn’t have stood a chance. Five more minutes and Majima himself would have lost control.

Waving his hand to quell her blabbing, Majima shakes his head, still trying to pull himself back to reality. “Nah, it’s useless. We’ll have to think of something else. Yer just not cut out fer this, dollface,” he lies.

Hanging her head in defeat she sighs, “I’m sorry, Majima-san, I really was trying.”

Sighing himself, Majima feels a pang of guilt, “Don’t worry about it.” His eye falls to the hem of her dress that had ridden up a little too high. Finding it hard to breathe looking at her, he turns away, “Why don’t ya go get changed? That old thing is ugly as fuck anyway.”

Hiromi nods, standing up and smoothing her dress down, “Yes, sir,” she states. Before she turns to leave, she looks down at herself one more time. She chuckles once then glances to Majima, “It’s a shame no one will get to see it, though… In fact, it might actually look pretty good on you, Majima-san.”

At that comment, a lightbulb shines in Majima’s head. He darts his attention back to his assistant, eyeing the pink leather dress. “Say that again, Hiromi-chan,” he commands.

Her smile falls, face contorting in confusion again. She slowly repeats herself, “‘It might actually look pretty good on you?’”

Of course, Majima thought. If Hiromi couldn’t get Kiryu to fight him, Majima could. What in this world would piss Kiryu off more than embarrassing him in front of an entire cabaret club by having drinks with a yakuza in drag? And if that didn’t work, Majima knew he could think of something on the fly.

“Hiromi-chan,” Majima starts, “Yer a genius, I could kiss you right now.”

Her eyes go wide as her face goes dark with a blush, “You could... kiss me?”

Realizing what he just said, Majima nervously rubs the back of his neck, “Jeez, it’s just a figure of speech. I just mean... oh nevermind... come here a sec. I wanna see somethin’.”

Doing as she’s told, Hiromi walks up to her boss meekly. Majima moves to stand beside her, comparing his height and build to hers. Seeing how similar they were, he asks, “Say, Hiromi-chan, looks like we’re about the same size.”

She only nervously nods, “Why, yes, sir. I’m a rather large woman and, with no offense to you, you’re a rather slim man. It isn’t too far fetched to think we’d be a similar size.”

Grabbing her shoulders, Majima shoves her towards the back of the club, to the dressing room. “Great, now go take that thing off… and hand it to me when yer done.”

“Hand it to… you?”

***

After a long hour of doing his hair and makeup, Majima came out of the dressing room looking like a new man or in this case… woman.

While he may not have had the assets to fill the garment out, Hiromi couldn’t deny that it indeed fit him like a glove. Not to mention, the pink faux snakeskin looked so much better on him.

Arms crossed as she watches him prance around, fully drowning himself in his new character, Hiromi shakes her head in disbelief, “I had no idea this is what you had in mind as a backup plan but… color me impressed, sir. This might just be your greatest scheme yet.”

With a feminine chuckle Majima flutters his eyelashes, “Why, thank you Hiromi-chan.” Stopping for a moment, he looks into the mirror, a scowl on his face, “Just need a name to match this pretty face.”

Perking back up, he whips around, “I got one. Goromi.” Gesturing between them, he nods, “It’s my name and your name put together. What could be more perfect?”

Hiromi nods, chuckling, “Very clever, sir.” Turning her wrist over, she checks her watch, “Majima-san, it’s getting late, should I phone Kiryu-san and have him swing by?”

A manic grin spreads across Majima’s lips, the anticipation of violence making him giddy. “Do it. I think it’s time for Goromi to make her debut…”

#majima goro x reader #goro majima x reader #goromi #majima goro x ofc #goro majima x ofc #hope you all enjoy :)

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texanredrose · 3 years

Note

Hmm...how about Lexical Access 👀

Yang doing some impromptu roleplay. Winter's not complaining. No naughty details; just the flirty set-up.

Stepping into the house, Winter closed the door behind her and quickly walked down the hallway, preparing to raise her voice to call out for her girlfriend when a noise caught her attention. The door to the guest bedroom opened rather suddenly but she had no time to turn around before her nerves were settled.

“It’s just me, Snowdrift,” Yang said, her voice light and happy. “But keep your eyes forward! I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” The corners of her lips lifted into a smile. “What sort of surprise?”

“The kind that won’t be as fun if you spoil it!” Her girlfriend’s cheery laugh piqued her curiosity even further. “Now, are you ready for your surprise?”

“Of course,” she said, fighting the impulse to turn around.

“Great! Follow my instructions exactly. Sound easy?”

“Hmmm, deceptively so.”

“Good! Then we’re off to a great start. Now, let’s get to the fun stuff. Head to the bedroom.” With a chuckle, Winter decided to put aside her own intentions for the moment and follow her girlfriend’s directions, going to the bedroom and only slightly intrigued by the sound of the other woman following. Yang followed at a distance, her stride seeming more careful than usual as they entered the bedroom. “Now, go sit on the bed for me, will ya?”

“Should I close my eyes?” She took a few steps forward, not wanting to turn around before finding out if her curiosity could be satisfied.

“Nah, keep ‘em open.”

Taking that as the green light, Winter prepared to sit down on the bed while tossing a look back at Yang.

That was a mistake- and the best sort.

Her legs turned to jelly as her knees buckled, her attempt to sit turned into a graceless slump as her rump hit the floor, her jaw falling open as shock suffused her being.

There, standing in the entrance to the bedroom, was her girlfriend- and that wasn’t the surprising part. Her outfit, on the other hand, definitely had Winter’s full attention. White heels at least three inches high made her calves look absolutely stunning, a light blue pencil skirt clung to her hips and just barely reached past her midthigh, a white button up shirt with long sleeves that positively clung to defined biceps and her bosom, and while the entire ensemble did do a few things for Winter’s libido, the black, horn rimmed glasses that sat on the bridge of her nose and messy blonde bun probably did a lot more.

“Miss Schnee, I don’t believe you understood the directions,” Yang said, producing a twelve inch ruler from somewhere and lightly grasping it in her hands. “Shall I repeat them?”

Her mouth worked but no sound left. Her girlfriend dressed up on occasion, of course, whenever they wanted to go out somewhere nice, but this wasn’t ‘nice’ clothing. The shirt a size too small, the skirt a few inches too short for Yang’s comfort, and she rarely went with heels more than two inches high- this outfit wasn’t for going out, it was to drive Winter wild.

And it worked.

“Miss Schnee.” The second time the words were said, they came in a sharp tone- one she honestly couldn’t remember ever hearing before. “Take. Your. Seat.”

It definitely had an effect. Throwing her arms behind her, Winter pulled herself onto the bed without tearing her gaze away. In the back of her mind, she felt immensely grateful she’d had the foresight to keep her eyes trained on her girlfriend’s form as she walked closer. Rippling muscle under fabric coupled with the sharp look in lilac eyes had effectively short circuited her brain and Winter couldn’t do anything more than maintain eye contact.

“Now, Miss Schnee, I realize you’ve spent most of today in classes of a... different subject matter and you’re likely very tired.” Her lips pulled up in a sharp smile. “But I’m afraid your education must continue. So, why don’t you lay back and relax. I think we both know that comfort is important for exams.”

“E-exams?” Now somewhat more in control of her senses, she slowly walked herself back along the bed until she was laying down. She shuffled accordingly, following the unspoken directions until she found herself in the center of the queen sized, laying in it properly with her head on the pillows. Her girlfriend stood at the foot of it, that ruler tapping lightly at the palm of one hand.

“Yes, Miss Schnee; it’s been brought to my attention that you’re lacking in a few... core areas of the curriculum.” Lilac eyes darted down, and maybe it was just her imagination that they centered on the crotch of Winter’s pantsuit or maybe not given the wordplay, before capturing her gaze once more. “But we’ll do a review first, to ensure you’ve retained the information.”

By some miracle, the power of speech returned to her, and she somehow managed to word her response in a suitable manner. “May I ask what... subject matter I’ll be tested on, Miss Xiao Long?”

That sharp smile grew a little wider. “Why, yes, as a matter of fact. You’ll be tested today on the different muscle groups in the body.” A knee slid onto the bed and Yang chuckled, a low sound that promised so very much without saying a word. “Anatomy happens to be my favorite subject.”

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thebestworstidea · 3 years

Text

Every One is Special

Dukeceit week #1 “Anniversary”

Mainly I used this as an excuse to dress them up.

Cannon-adjacent verse, implied sexual activity, ensemble cast

pairing- Janus/Remus,

----

It was easy to dismiss Remus as wild, uncontrollable and unpredictable. But once you got to know him, you could predict him, to a certain degree. And he was honest. At times dreadfully, horribly honest, and it almost always brought a smile to Janus’s face. While Janus tended to rein in the worst of his actions, Remus was always glad to see the other Side. They suited each other, and didn’t dance around it like some more thematically colored Sides. Remus loved parties, celebrations and other excuses to make noise, which had never endeared him to Virgil.

He kept track of far more ‘anniversaries’ between himself and Janus than Janus thought was practical.

When they became a couple. First kiss. First heavy makeout. First night together. First date. First sex acts. First ‘all the way’. First fight-as-a-couple. First time he’d managed to make food Janus was willing to eat. A whole slew of first times trying various kinks, which were traditionally celebrated by the kinks. (the ones that didn’t work out were allowed to be forgotten) First time one of them used a safeword. Really, any kind of event that stuck in his fascinating, festering pit of a mind.

Janus never lacked for chocolates or flowers or other small trinkets- frankly, he suspected Remus of making some of them up as an excuse to treat him to something. Sometimes it wasn’t something solid- his obsession with how muscles worked led to a superior set of massage skills. And if Remus chose to do that naked and oiled up himself, well… the view was good.

Tonight, however, was a very socially acceptable anniversary of when they had officially gotten together and started ‘dating’. Dating was a bizarre social concept but it was a label for the change in relationship, and they’d agreed on the term. Janus thought ‘fuckbuddy’ lacked nuance, and Remus wanted some word for it. Janus liked words as much as he did so they’d compromised on ‘dating’

Janus was absolutely sure that Remus had something planned- for one thing, Remus had told him so, then disappeared directly after breakfast, presumably to make preparations for it.

After a calm, leisurely morning, Janus made his own preparations. He stretched, moisturized and hydrated. He went to the trouble of separately acquiring lingerie from the Figment Suburb, and amused himself by turning into Patton on the way in and out so no one would see him do it. They could of course summon clothes, and Janus fancied himself quite good at it, but for some reason clothing made by other Sides or created in the Figment Suburb were more substantial and often had details they might have missed in just summoning things directly onto their bodies. Janus suspected the Imagination probably had a similar mechanic, given the trophies Remus would sometimes bring him, and Roman’s constant prattle about having a personal tailor there.

So the snug, silken and snake-skin printed garments were ‘purchased’ and put on separately. Janus didn’t need to lie to himself to say his ass looked fabulous.

Despite his personal inclination, he didn’t take an extra shower. Clean clothes would be enough, and Remus liked the way he smelled. Which was probably true, if odd, because if Janus worked up a sweat, which he preferred not to, he tended to smell more like a herpetarium than anything else. An acquired taste he supposed, and he definitely meant taste.

Standing in front of his mirror, Janus examined himself, trying various looks- the classic, of course, the more formal courtroom look- the suit with the cape pinned over it, which he kind of liked. He undid the tie, and a button, trying to decide between enticing and being a present himself.

A side effect of dating half of creativity is that it was very hard to get him a really good present. Remus treasured everything Janus did give him, even if he didn’t use them- the several different kinds of pajamas for instance, before he’d given up. Remus didn’t seem upset by it, accepting words and touch instead.

Janus decided on ditching the jacket, leaving him in a fitted black vest with gold buttons and a brilliant yellow dress shirt. Discarding the tie as well, he opened the collar a bit more, and rolled the sleeves to his elbows, displaying more scales than he normally did. Janus smiled at himself in the mirror, satisfied that he’d put together a look that would drive the Duke to distraction through whatever it was he had planned, which sounded like more of an activity than a simple dinner.

He was dressed just in time, as a knock came on his door. Settling his hat into place, Janus opened the door.

“Good evening Remus I-” he stopped as he took in how Remus was dressed.

Remus was unusually neatly attired in a velvet tuxedo jacket, vest and shirt, with a slightly blowsy bright green bow tie. There were silver threads in the ruffles of the shirt. The lapels were sparkly, but it was well tailored. He had paired it with a voluminous chiffon and tulle skirt with slightly uneven layers in black and brilliant green, also sprinkled with sparkles. His steel tipped boots were polished enough that if his skirt hadn’t been so big, Janus was sure he’d be able to see what, if any undergarments he’d chosen to wear. A silver octopus climbed over one ear, dangling a small ship from one tentacle, and a golden serpent curled around the other, the emerald in it’s eyes winking as it appeared to whisper in his ear. In addition to his normal makeup he sported fierce eyeliner and matte black lipstick.

“Well.” Janus blinked in surprise. “I’m under-dressed.”

“And not under-dressed enough in other ways.” Remus wiggled his eyebrows. “But that’s for later.”

“Oh ssstop.” Janus said, tone indicating that Remus needn’t follow the instruction, taking off his hat and holding it over Remus’s face for a moment. When he pulled it back and settled it back into place, his outer clothes had morphed.

Taking a cue from Remus’ clothing, he called up a formal coat whose sleeves cut away to form a silk-lined cap, cut tunic length across his thighs. His shirt was shimmery translucent gold chiffon, with a careful slip of wrist between the shirt cuff and the edge of his gloves. Both the coat and well fitted pants were satin. The boots he was wearing now gave him a slight boost of height, letting him look down at him slightly- just enough that Remus had to tip his chin to look him in the eye. He indulged in subtle Egyptian inspired eyeliner and a bit of shimmering gold eyeshadow that matched the shirt.

“Oooh.” Remus warbled, picking up Janus’s hand and turning it over so he could press a kiss to the bare skin there. The lipstick didn’t smudge or transfer, and part of Janus’s brain tipped to wondering how much it could take. “Now that’s a pretty snake.” Remus traced his hand under his lover’s chin. He had somehow achieved a manicure that managed to look sharp even with coffin tips, ombre from black to brilliant green like a strange french tip. The first two fingers of his nondominant hand were a bit longer, and had decals or jewelry on them. Remus always liked a bit of glitz, enjoying the way it contrasted with his trash-rat persona, but he was really pushing the boat out and setting it on fire tonight.

“You’re looking quite together.” Janus commented, giving Remus another long lingering look that went up and down his body. “It’s a magnificent look.”

Remus bounced happily on his toes, and let go of Janus’s hand so he could take a step back and twirl, letting the layers of filmy material of his skirt, and the tails of his jacket flare out. Janus gave a little clap of approval. Remus gave another little bounce of joy, then produced a strange fleshy bulb, and held it out in his palm. Cautiously Janus leaned in, and the bulb squirmed open like something growing on timelapse, spreading out to reveal what looked like a brilliantly yellow dahlia, set off by the slightly squirming fleshy vines that had hid it.

“I got you a boot-in-rear.”

“Boutonniere.” Janus corrected, amused. He let Remus fasten it to his lapel, and the vines stopped writhing quite so much.

Remus grabbed his hand again.

“Come on!” he cried, and pulled Janus forward, so fast he barely had time to shut his door behind himself. It wouldn’t do for anyone else to go snooping.

Remus cheerfully had them running down a hallway, which turned from the suburban home the Mindscape mimicked to a grand if someone disreputable manor house. Candles flickered dramatically in their wake, and in the distance, Janus heard the hiss of rain, and below that, the roar of the ocean. Remus had clearly put a great deal into the window dressing. Finally they came to the stop by a set of ornate doors. Dropping his hand for the moment, Remus smoothed his mustache and fluffed his tie. Then he dropped an impeccable bow- made slightly ridiculous by his rustling skirt- and tucked Janus’s arm through his. The doors opened of their own accord, bright golden light pouring out into the dim hallway.

Inside there was a banquet hall with a large clear dance floor set up in the u of tables. Savory and sweet scents tickled Janus’s nose so much he had to part his lips, letting the air flow over his tongue to pick out individual ones. It certainly seemed that Remus had gone all out. As they stepped out onto the landing of a sweeping staircase, the music stopped, and everyone turned to see them. It was a crowd, but they were all dressed well, even the monsters from Thomas’s nightmares that affected him so much they were burned into his subconscious. Shadowy echoes of friends and traits, roles that stuck with him. What really made his eyebrows go up was the sight of the other Sides. For a moment he thought they might be the figments that echoed them; but no, the Teacher, the Prince and the Dad were there in the ensemble, and Anxiety and Sleep were tucked into the furthest corner from the crowd.

Roman gestured grandly at them.

“To the couple of the evening, everyone;” And there was a cheer- of sorts.

“Remus what the fuck.” Janus muttered quietly, his face stuck in a smile, and his free hand came to rest on Remus’s, digging his claws in even through the gloves.

“We’re going to party like the world is ending!” he responded brightly. “Because as long as you’re with me, every year, I don’t care if it does. Happy Anniversary, J.D. Stay with me.”

Janus’s heart did a little flip, and a half formed plan shot forward ahead of time. An extra hand emerged from the cape, and twisted at the wrist, revealing a small box.

“Remus.” Janus said softly, as they were toasted by the crowd. Remus was being handed champagne flutes- one with a strawberry in it, the other with an eyeball- but focused on Janus as his name was said. Janus’s love of theatre shone through as he dropped to a knee, and presented it. “I absolutely will, if you’ll stay with me.”

“Holy shit!” Remus dropped the glasses and they shattered on the floor. “You mean-”

Janus flipped the box open.

It had been on his mind; but really they were not much more than advanced figments with jobs. They thought like people, they thought they were people, but in the end, what right or reason did they have to get married? The answer was simple. Because it’s what he wanted. And Janus loved going after what made him happy. He’d built up the ring carefully, making it strong and beautiful, sinuous bodies making the band up, woven gold and silver together, and a carved emerald, with a snake and an octopus wrestling.

“Too much?” Janus asked. Remus flung himself at him and they collapsed into a pile of limbs and chiffon gauze.

“When have I ever thought something was too much?” Remus demanded, and kissed him far too passionately for a public place. When they came up for air, Remus admired his new ring and laughed.

“You would, you fucking shill!” yelled Virgil from the crowd and Janus started laughing as well, pulling his fiance back into his arms, heedless of the fact they were rolling on the floor at the head of a staircase.

This was a good anniversary. One that he’d certainly always remember.

#willow is writing #dukeceit #dukeceit week

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