#laurent is a weasel (or something weasel-like)

[th3basementdweller]

I turned the gang into small animals

[promethea-silk]

Equal as Parasites

A fire blazed comfortably within the large fireplace of the expansive sitting room of the Gray estate, the need for its warmth ever present due to Ishgard’s rather eternal state of winter. The sounds of the popping wood and crackling flames was muted, however, by the tones of macabre and melancholy as eerie notes rang through the otherwise quiet manor. Long delicate fingers graced over the keys, ushering the sound to life despite the particular morbid demeanor to the tune. Cordelia was nestled on the edge of a velvet cushioned bench, her posture immaculate as she played the grand piano. The depth of the blackened wood made the instrument seem daunting, like it might spring from its inanimate state and scare those who might stare for too long. 

She had taken to playing following the gathering at the Cress estate, it was something she tended to do when her thoughts swirled. Cordelia had known that Damien was setting his sights on weaseling into the Cress family somehow, of course via the older sister. But it had not quite occurred to her until tonight that Valeria had once been previously betrothed which brought her thoughts back to one Ricard Blythe. The details of the arrangement she was not privy to, nor were the details of why it had been called off, which caused her curiosity to pique even higher especially now that her brother-in-law seemed to be inserting himself where Ricard once had been. It had been a time since Lady Gray had wrapped up her original business with him and she initially had opted to keep her distance, at least for a time. 

The Gray estate remained quiet in Cordelia’s absence. It allowed Damien a chance to scour the halls of his childhood without much of a care and away from the prying eyes of his sister-in-law and her lackeys. While Damien still found himself without a prized object that had once belonged to Ambrose, he still made an attempt to locate the object. Cordelia’s business outside of the estate proved to make that investigation only slightly easier. After an unsuccessful attempt, Damien had recalled himself to his quarters as a means of distraction. He was set to leave to check in on the status of his chocobos and their training in some days time, but he’d remain within the walls for now. 

“Lady Gray has returned,” the familiar voice of Laurent spoke as the door closed behind the blonde haired man. Damien had eyed him for a lingering moment as he slid off of the bench along the window. 

“I suppose it's best we go and attempt to pry?” Damien asked with a hint of amusement in his tone as he made his way out of his quarters. The thick leather boots he wore stopped right below his knee and his attire was typical for what Damien normally wore. A sense of dress that only showed his family’s aptitude in textiles. His trousers were well made and tailored to his fit frame, the dark purple vest featured a brocade pattern set in silver and his shirt was white and made of the finest quality. Though the sleeves were rolled and the collar has several buttons undone. 

He would stop by the drink trolley as he heard the sound of the keys to pour himself a drink of red wine as he carried on towards the piano. “A lovely sound coming from such a wretched creature,” he spoke to alert her of his presence as he sipped from the wine. 

She was hardly surprised at his arrival, though boorish as he may have been. It was only a matter of time before he would grace her with his droning presence. “Oh, Damien, you wound me so.” Cordelia quipped in return, hands continuing their dance over the ivory keys despite her words speaking over the sound. Not even her attention was pulled from her task before her, gray eyes content on her watching as she brought music to life. “Was there something you required?"

At her recognition of him, he approached further inside of the room. The glass was brought to his lips as he allowed himself another savor of the wine. “Required? Oh no,” he’d reply in a bit of mock surprise. How could he possibly need anything from the more than generous Lady Gray. His feet would stop next to the piano and he’d set the glass down atop it as he watched her fingers sweep along the keys for a moment. “I was made aware that you had a little conversation with Lady Cress,” Damien began with furrowed brows. “Perhaps the gossip is getting to your head a little too much, Lady Gray.” 

Still, her attention held true to the piano as he spoke, giving no inclination that she planned to raise that steel gaze toward him. “Gossip? I do not recall partaking in any gossip, Damien, it would seem your insecurities are getting to your head a little too much, hm?” With this, Cordelia offered the briefest of glances up at him, perhaps flashing the shadow of a smirk over her darkened lips. 

A frustrated sigh seemed to leave his lips as he finished off the remainder of the wine from the glass and set the empty one down atop the piano that she had sat at. “It seems your memory is going then, dear Cordelia.” He chided as his eyes rolled ever so slightly. His arms folded over his broad chest casually as the fabric of his shirt tightened around his muscular arms. “Valeria Cress has made me aware that she’s forbidden from seeing me due to the information you provided her sister.” He was much more forward now. There was no intricate hiding of his tone. “So,” he began as his arms unfolded and he moved to lean atop the piano and bring himself closer to her. “I wonder what web you’re weaving now, Lady Gray.”

Finally the music came to a stop, bringing back the ever present eerie silence to the halls around them yet again until she spoke in response. “The information and discussion had with Lady Cress was based on truths, hardly gossip.” She adjusted on the bench, tilting her head upward to address him. “Careful not to show your delicate ego too much.” With the quip, her hands reached for the lid of the piano to cover the keys before gently scooting the bench back to allow for room so that she might stand. “When the brief idea of you spending time with Valeria arose at dinner, I said the decision would go through me in its finality, and I meant it.” 

He had taken a step back when she had scooted back on the bench and stood up from her place at the piano. His back straightened and his shoulders squared as his eyes bore down at her. Their height difference was noticeable, as was the case when it came to most people with Damien. He was tall with a fit frame and the well tailored clothing only made him look taller. “Careful Lady Gray,” he quipped as he took a step closer to her to close the distance and craned his neck ever so slightly. “There seems to be a trend of the heads of House Gray meeting untimely deaths as of late. We would all be devastated to see you become part of the trend.” 

A playful and coy smile then graced her lips as she met him with a step closer of her own, reaching a hand up to cup his cheek. “It is so nice that you’re finally accepting me in my rightful position. High time has come for you to move on from this.” She cooed, softly patting his cheek before continuing. “For let us be honest with ourselves, the power and wealth wasn’t the only thing you envied of your brother.” 

Her lips pressed together as her tongue flicked over them quickly. “I trust you will continue to stay in line and not cause issues with the Court. I am ensuring work that Ambrose could not and won’t have you soiling that.” 

There was a momentary pause of his movements when he felt the feeling of her fingertips along his cheek. The air within the estate remained rather cool unless you were quite near a fireplace given that the building was largely composed of stone. His jaw clenched and his mead colored eyes remained fixated on her as his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I’ve not accepted anything,” he gritted through clenched teeth. Her follow up comment had caused him to scoff in amusement as he shook his head in a swift movement to pull his face away from her. “The only thing you offered my brother was the warmth between your legs and the youth of your features. Your one job was to bring another Gray into this world and you have failed at that; just as you fail at running his endeavors.” 

A simple tch echoed in the large room as Cordelia scoffed with a grin. “Please, Damien, you know well enough that the lack of a young Gray was not on my shoulders. The amount of women outside and inside these walls your brother laid with and not a single one fostered a child? Mm, let us hope this infliction did not spread to you as well.” She began to turn from him to take her leave all the while continuing to spew her well aimed poison. “You do not have a leg to stand on with that accusation as you know very well the Gray business is flourishing and is continuing to do so beyond what dear old brother could manage.”

There was something infuriating about her. There always had been. He was unsure why Ambrose had decided or agreed to marry her. She was cunning and manipulative and so was Ambrose but it appeared that Cordelia had just edged him out in the end. While he wouldn’t outright accuse Cordelia of foul play to her face, he knew that this wasn’t some innocent instance where she had no involvement at all. “Flourishing, right…” He’d drone off with a roll of his eyes. “You forsake my father’s legacy and business partners by engaging in shady practices enforced by that Ala-Mhigan brute you’ve got roaming the halls.” 

She paused in her retreat, a quiet moment passing before a dark chuckle escaped her that sounded a lot deeper due to the halls around them. “Do you have a sudden concern with morality, Damien?” The inquiry came as she spun around to address him with a stern tone, leveling her gaze on him despite the height difference. “The ledgers speak for themselves and as they continue to grow, as will the success of the Gray name. I’M doing that. Not Ambrose, not Virgil Gray, ME. You can whine and groan all you want about me and what transpired with your brother, but you will not deny my success and you will fall in line because despite your incessant complaints I am the head of your household, Lord Gray.”

Their back and forth was normally limited to she and Ambrose. While Damien loved Ambrose, he knew that there were qualities within him that others disliked and that were 

not in any way favorable. He’d allow Cordelia and others to lodge complaints against Ambrose and his character but a line was crossed when she mentioned his father. Virgil was kind and hardworking. He was an all around good father that cared legitimately about his children and his businesses and wanted his family to succeed and Damien wasn’t about to allow Cordelia to speak of him. In a swift moment, Damien had reached out to grab the collar of her dress to forcefully slam her into the wall of the estate. “You, Cordelia of Nothing, do not get to speak on my father as if you are anything but a speck of dust in his shadow.” 

Her body stiffened as she braced for the force of slamming to the wall, her hand instinctively shot up to take hold of his wrist. While her strength didn’t entirely match his, she held her own well enough. “Remove your hand from me, Damien, before I see that it is removed from you.” Cordelia felt little fear for most in life and her brother in law was hardly an excuse to that. Then again, even if she was fearful even the slightest, not a soul would be able to tell. “I believe it is you that is of nothing. Little land, a title merely in name alone. You should be thankful of the work I am doing for your family name.” 

Her request of him removing his hand had gone ignored. He was not keen to remove it and certainly was not going to do something that she asked purely because she asked alone. No, his grip only tightened as he twisted the fabric of her shirt and his knuckles turned white from the pressure. “Remove my hand?” He asked in a tone of slight amusement. “Are you threatening me now, Cordelia? Let’s not tread in waters that may be too deep.” His tone had deepened as his gaze narrowed. No one aside from Laurant and Alain had known of Damien’s descent with the voidsent and they didn’t even comprehend the powers that he had obtained and was now capable of. “I’ll be thankful for you when you’re dead.” 

Cordelia narrowed her eyes at him, a twitch of a smirk on her lips. “Who’s threatening who now, Damien?” With her one hand remaining on his wrist, the other swiftly reached up to pluck the one of the large hair pins from her twisted updo which allowed for her raven locks to fall slightly. She brought the pin just before his eye, gripping it tightly with the point directed at his pupil. “Do not make me ask again. Walk away.”

He was unsurprised to find out that Cordelia had some sort of weapon on her, even one disguised as a hairpin. His head canted to the side slightly to bring the tip away from his pupil to rest along the flesh of his cheek just below the corner of his eye. He’d lean in slightly, the tip of the pin pricking his flesh to draw blood. The grip on her shirt had relaxed only so that he could reposition his fingers around her neck. His grip tightened and the muscles in his arm had flexed underneath the tailored shirt. If he had wanted to, he could’ve easily lifted her off of the stone floor to bring her eye level. “You tempt things you do not understand, Cordelia,” he spoke, his tone dropping slightly as his gaze narrowed. 

She tensed now at the feeling of his hand around her throat, the slowly deprived airway causing her to begin to lose her balance the longer his grip remained. Still, she showed no signs of fear, her pride took over way too much for such things. With a raspy voice, she offered one last warning, though gave no opportunity for him to remove his handle on her. Pulling the pin from his face, she swiftly jabbed it toward his arm to aim at his wrist with a forceful thrust. “I said…let me go!” 

There was no doubt that she meant what she said. He knew Cordelia to be someone of her word and they were both bordering on a dangerous game. Though he did not entirely expect her to drive the hairpin deeply into his wrist. The sudden movement had caused Damien to hiss in pain as he drew his injured hand back away from her throat. The other hand had swung back to deliver a backhanded smack of full force along the side of Cordelia’s face. “You bitch,” he spat through gritted teeth as his hand recoiled after the smack to grab the thicker end of the hairpin and slowly pull it from his flesh. 

Initially she was pleased with the damage she had caused though when his hand swung and made contact with her cheek, an audible and innate gasp escaped her. Her face turned from him with the force and she kept her gaze off to the side as fingers softly grazed the tender skin that now nearly glowed red. Cordelia was able to show restraint in most things and instances, surprisingly the same restraint was shown here despite the heavy rise and fall of her chest. Finally looking back to him, the hand that held to her face now shot toward him, a finger pointing directly to his chest. “I warned you, Damien. Stand down, learn your place, the same place you have been put by your own family. I’m done here.” With that, she turned and attempted to push past him to take her leave. 

When the entirety of the pin had been removed from his wrist, he had dropped it to the floor as he tore part of his sleeve from his shirt away so that he could wrap it tightly around his wrist. “You act so pompous,” he retorted as his hand tightly gripped his wrist as it bled through the white fabric. “You’d be nothing without Ambrose. Without the Gray’s and here you are acting as if you created it yourself.” When she attempted to stomp past him, Damien had used his larger body to block her path as his shoulders hunched slightly to bring his features closer to hers. “I will get so much satisfaction in feeding you to the voidsent.” 

Cordelia stopped in her tracks, obviously her smaller form being caught against him. “Send your shadows, Damien, I do not fear the darkness. Now, move.” At this point, her eyes were locked onto his with a deep fire.

There was a glare shot down at her as she responded. While he knew that Cordelia had possessed a certain darkness of her own, he also knew what his was capable of and she had clearly put a target on her back. He’d hum in frustration for a moment before he stepped to the side to allow her to pass so that he could tend to his wound.

As she pushed passed him again, she paused only for a brief moment to glance over her shoulder. "Touch me again and I will kill you where you stand."

[ Collab with : @damien-gray-ffxiv]

@sanguinecourt-ffxiv

[dalmascan-requiem]

Dalmascan Requiem Moments: Carnations

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Sometimes, the best memories consist of the little things. And also swindling a merchant.

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Read on AO3 or keep reading after the jump

content warnings: none

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It's not the most obvious thing, but both of the boys wear a carnation earring, and it's something they both treasure very deeply. I had to sit down and just write how they got them really quick :)

Also, it makes for a nice story for Valentine's Day! Not that it happened during the FFXIV equivalent, but it's a sweet, romantic fic.

(I have a fic for Valentione's from last year!)

"You! Ma'am, yes, you! Over here!"

Gale chuckles inwardly as he turns towards the merchant. While Viera weren't the most uncommon sight in Dalmasca, many had trouble telling male from female--a fact he's used many times to his advantage--though he hadn't planned on doing so today. I wasn't going to buy anything… but maybe I can weasel a deal out of this man. He seems less than observant.

The merchant's eyes light up when Gale gives him an amused, inquisitive glance. "Ah yes! Come over, please!" The Hyur waves him over, and practically tugs Gale into the stall when he gets within arms' reach. "You, young miss, seem the type that would appreciate some lovely flowers."

"You've guessed correctly, sir." Gale quickly scans over the man's flowers. Quite a selection, I suppose. "But we are in the middle of a desert. How did you stop them from withering?"

"A very good question, miss." The merchant's smile falters slightly. Does no one ever ask him that? It would seem an obvious question to me. Or is he that poor a liar? "These blooms have traveled with me all across the Far East, and never once did a single petal shrivel up! With proper care, you can even grow them in the desert. I'm sure of it."

Gale looks over the flowers once again, before clicking his tongue. "No, I don't think I believe you, sir." Before the merchant objects, he picks up a bright bloom and lightly touches its leaves. "These flowers are already becoming sunburnt, it shows on the leaves. They're by no means a flower you can grow under the intense desert sun."

He then picks up a rose. "You can't fool anyone that these roses are different because they're from the Far East, if even that is true. They're cold--too cold, clearly preserved with a bit of ice magic. But when thawed, the blooms will quickly die, even faster than it would had you never done so in the first place."

"And these," Gale gestures at a large swath of flowers. "These… well, they're carnations."

Carnations, hm? Gale taps his chin in thought while the merchant tries to string together a rebuttal. It's been ages since I've last seen these. Reyna would love them…

The merchant finally finds his voice, though he still stumbles over his words. "N…Now see here, young miss--"

Gale raises his hand to cut him off. "It's sir, sir, nor am I young." He turns towards the merchant, a mischievous smirk on his face. "You'll need to be a better liar if you ever want to be a successful merchant." The Viera shakes his head as the other's face turns red. "But you have something I want. So let's make a deal, shall we?"

~

Laurent rubs his neck as he gets ready to enter the apartment. Did Gemna really need to reorganize everything today? I'm so sore…

The Viera quietly opens the door--you could never know who may be on the other side--and relaxes when nothing seemed out of the ordinary. "I'm home."

"Reyna!" He hears Gale's voice from another room, and the light-haired Viera quickly comes out to greet him with a wide smile on his face. "You're here! Come along, I have something to show you."

Before Laurent could say anything, Gale grabs his hand and gently pulls him toward the bedroom. What has him so excited? Eir's so cute when he gets like this…

Laurent lets out an amused chuckle and lets the other Viera lead him to the bedroom. "What's this about, Eir? It was a long day at the bar, I'm pretty tired--"

"Shush, just come here." Gale gives Laurent's hand another light tug as they get to the bedroom door.

"Oh, Eir, this is…"

The moment he steps into the bedroom, Laurent notices the flowers decorating every corner of the room. It was a veritable rainbow of carnations, carefully placed as to fill the room with color, but not overwhelm.

"All of these carnations! And in so many colors, too…" Laurent reaches out to gently touch one of the flower's petals, and he can't help but to smile. "They're real! We live in the middle of a desert, how did you even manage this?"

Gale chuckles and squeezes the other Viera's hand slightly. "I happened upon a mechant selling flowers, and by some stroke of luck they weren't damaged or sickly. So, I made a deal with him."

That sounds ominous. "…What sort of deal, Eir?"

"Nothing special. Just taught him how to ply his wares better." Gale steps in front of Laurent, and wraps his arms around his waist. "But that doesn't matter. I'd do anything just to see your smile."

Laurent feels his ears heat up and glances away from Gale, and the light-haired Viera chuckles. "You're too adorable, Reyna. I take it you like them?"

"I do, Eir… thank you. They're beautiful."

Gale offers a soft smile before leaning in for a kiss. "I'm glad… Oh! I almost forgot." The viera suddenly takes a step back and grabs a small box from the nightstand.

"The carnations won't last forever, but I do have something that will." He opens the box to show Laurent two small carnation earrings. "One for you and one for me." Gale lifts the white earring out of the box and holds it up to Laurent's ear. "I think the white one would look best on you."

Laurent nods and takes the earring, carefully putting it in. "I think I agree."

Gale looks back at him while putting the black carnation in his ear. "You haven't even looked at it in a mirror yet, my love…"

"I trust your judgement." Laurent pulls Gale into a hug. "Thank you, Eir."

"Oh, I-I…" Gale stumbles over his words for a moment while in the embrace, but after a moment wraps his arms around Laurent. "Of course, my love."

The two lean in for long, tender kiss, and when Laurent pulls back, there is the smallest hint of a smirk on his face. "Now Eir, what did you really pay for all this?"

"Oh please, my love. The merchant was gullible and a terrible liar--all I had to do was hint at knowing people that wouldn't take kindly to such tricks."

"Eir… you don't know anyone like that."

"He didn't need to know that. Now let's enjoy his goodwill some more, shall we? I can't believe he had blue blooms…"

[not-a-coral-snake]

I’ve been thinking about how it’s not really Laurent who’s responsible for portraying Auguste as a golden hero who could do no wrong. It’s actually mostly the regent, and the rest of the Veretian court following his example. It’s also Damen through his power as narrator.

Damen is the first character to describe Auguste. He introduces him as a noble warrior of indomitable spirit, a beacon of strength in the chaos of Marlas. An honorable man. A worthy foe. Even six years later, the impact he had on Damen is clear, and it’s also clear Damen respected him enormously.

Then throughout book 1, the regent and the court constantly hold up Auguste as a foil to Laurent’s shortcomings. Auguste was willing to serve his country as a soldier while Laurent is a coward who weasels out of border duty. Auguste was a true leader while Laurent just seduces and manipulates people. Auguste had honor, Laurent has none. This even goes on for more day-to-day events: the regent makes a point of reminding everyone that Auguste was actually good at hunting while Laurent has won only by killing a horse, and a random groom echoes his sentiments, telling Damen that Auguste tamed horses while Laurent kills them.

By the end of book 1, it was so well established that the world thought Auguste was the perfect warrior, perfect prince, perfect man, that I suspected that there would be a plot twist in book 2 that he was secretly evil or something. But at this point, Laurent has only mentioned Auguste indirectly, to say that he hasn’t believed in Akielon honor since Damianos killed his brother.

For all that Paschal says Laurent had hero-worshipped Auguste, we get a more human, less hero-worshippy picture of Auguste from Laurent than we do from any other character. Most of the time, when Laurent mentions Auguste, it’s to tell anecdotes of things Auguste said to Laurent or did with him--ordinary stories that suggest nothing more than that Auguste was a good brother. Laurent tells Damen that Auguste had no gift for practicing or recognizing deception, which in modern terms seems like a polite way of saying Auguste was a bit naive, and in Veretian terms might straight up mean Auguste was bad at politics. And he tells him Auguste preferred women, also not a trait valued in Veretian men.

This is significant, because it makes it far more striking when Laurent does make sweeping statements about Auguste’s greatness. It’s not that Laurent in general has an Auguste-shaped blind spot in his ability to judge character--instead, he’s talking about Auguste like that for a situation-specific reason. 

The two times I can think of when Laurent sounds more like he’s talking about Auguste as a hero rather than Auguste as a regular person are in his sword fight with Damen in Kings Rising, when he nonsensically insists Auguste would have beat Damen in a duel; and in Prince’s Gambit, when he calls Auguste the best man he ever knew. 

Laurent calls his brother the best man he ever knew and tells Damen he reminds him of him, and the fact that he always speaks of Auguste in down-to-earth terms makes the compliment more personal, more meaningful. There are similarities between Damen and Auguste readily apparent to anyone who knew the two men only slightly, or only by reputation. Both are great warriors, both are natural leaders, both are brave and loyal to their countries. But Laurent isn’t just saying Damen is like Auguste, the best man he ever knew, because Damen is a brave and honorable warrior. That’s not how Laurent talks about Auguste. No, Auguste is the best man Laurent ever knew because of who he was with his family, with the people he cared about, and Damen reminds him of that Auguste as well.

In terms of the sword fight, I think it makes the scene all the more heartbreaking. Throughout the trilogy, we hear again and again how good a fighter Auguste was. Laurent does this too, but not nearly to the same level. Laurent says he was not a fighter, like Auguste was, but it’s more a contrast of his and Auguste’s motivation to train than it is commentary on Auguste’s skill. Jord tells Damen you only need to be half as good as Auguste to be ten times as good as anyone else. In contrast, when Laurent explains he knew he would have to be very good to beat Damen, he doesn’t just say ‘because Damianos beat my brother,’ as Jord might have. He says it’s because Damianos was known to be the best fighter in Akielos and beat a large number of the best Veretian fighters.

From anyone else, Laurent’s insistence that Auguste was better, good enough to beat Damen might sound like disbelief that anyone could beat Auguste because Auguste was so impossibly talented. From Laurent, who doesn’t belabor his brother’s skill, it sounds like simple refusal Damen could beat Auguste because that would mean Auguste would die, and there’s a part of him that still can’t accept the world would let that happen.

[the-darklings]

╱ together.

pairing: jean & v, implied other v ships

verse: coa, alt post-ch19 timeline

word count: 4.8k

prompt: “We’ll lose.” - “Then we’ll do that together, too.”

notes: so this is a speculative piece looking at how jean might have fit into coa verse & how him and clara v could have fit together. dedicated to that one anon who asked more of them, thank you very much for making my day! 🌿 ✨

“Well, well. Out here all by yourself and in the dark?” a smooth, accented voice calls out and your shoulders jolt, stiff with disuse, your head tipping towards the approaching figure of a man. “Have you been doing much brooding, chérie?”

Jean’s tall, graceful frame casts a shadow across the decking of the penthouse terrace as he saunters closer and you bite back a grin. With the cover of darkness as his partner, he’s a panther, a predator, out for a casual hunt in the shadows. Tonight, his prey is you. But he knows better than that. You both do.

The Frenchman halts beside you and takes a seat on your right without waiting for an invitation. This time a roll of your eyes follows his innate show of arrogance but you don’t impede him. Allow him space next to you which is a privilege very few have ever been granted.

It’s dark up here. Quiet. You didn’t bother with any lights aside from the automatic pool ones. Wind whistles gently across the tranquil surface, causing a ripple to shift across the previously calm body of water. Faintly—from the direction Jean had just come from—you can still hear the rest of your family inside the apartment.

The final touches are being added and prep is being made. Tomorrow…

Tomorrow will either spell the beginning of your victory or utter defeat. One of these scenarios ends with all of you dead, if not worse.

“And here you are bothering me in my final moments of peace,” you note dully.

The man beside you stretches his legs out, inclining back in the comfortable outdoors chair leisurely. Plush and Italian made—as if Santino would ever clad his home in anything that wasn’t authentic or expensive. A taste for finer things in life is something Jean and Santino share in common. Though you’ve long since learned that Jean’s appetite comes from a different place; a place you could always relate to, much to the Italian’s chagrin.

Wind plays with your loose hair—a rare occasion when it’s not pulled out of reach—and it leaves you breathing calmly, counting the thuds of your own heart. It’s not frantic this time though. You savour every beat of your heart now. Relish the moments you still have. However few of those there are still left.

Jean shifts beside you, pulling something out of his pocket and you glance at him briefly. The dark grey of his expensive wool jumper almost makes him blend in with the night, but the icy blue of his eyes stands out with the pool lights reflecting in them. If anything, it makes his attention feel even more intent. Honed.

“Can’t a man enjoy a smoke anymore?” he wonders innocently, a touch of sarcasm clear, and places an unlit cigarette between his lips, lighting it with expert ease a moment later.

He takes a long drag before pulling it away from his mouth and you watch his profile as he exhales slowly, savouring the moment, his head tilting towards the vast sky above you.

Using his momentary distraction, you reach forward, pinching the cigarette between your fingers and placing it between your lips instead. Jean doesn’t offer much resistance. As usual, he only looks mildly amused by your antics, a brief smirk appearing before it’s gone.

“Still greedy.”

Your lips twitch at that, too. “Some things don’t change.”

You inhale deeply, feeling the burning heat of the smoke at the back of your throat before passing the cigarette back to him. The smoke slips like dreamy wisps from between your parted lips and you look towards the open sky as well. Jean’s stare stays on your mouth. You know because you can always feel him. His attention is like silk caressing your skin, kissing little patches of skin, stealing them for himself.

You’re hardly the only greedy one here. He, too, exists in absolutes. More so than he would care to admit at least.

The blinding lights of New York City—even this late—almost drown out the stars but you can still see them. As cold and as distant as the man beside you. You want to ask him why he’s out here in the first place. Why would he bother? He may dress it up as wanting to smoke but everything Jean does is far too deliberate and calculated for this to be a mere coincidence.

Nor does the man beside you believe in such things. Master of his own fate—he always has been.

Jean places the cigarette back between his lips and turns to grab something from beside his chair. You hadn’t even noticed he was carrying something. Are you slipping this much already? Your instincts and body deteriorating even quicker than you calculated?

“May I interest you in a drink?” he offers, his words almost a soft murmur around his cigarette, and raises a bottle of wine and two glasses in the air.

You don't bother hiding your chuckle. “Trying to get me drunk on the eve of the battle?’

He, in turn, doesn’t bother denying it. He only bestows you with a knowing twitch of his mouth—all half-secrets and implications; dark and arcane as him, but doesn’t confirm nor deny your words no matter how long you wait.

“Maybe your hangover will be so terrible tomorrow you will abandon your suicidal plan, vipère.”

It’s a mild statement; a test of waters more so than anything, but you know Jean doesn’t speak mindlessly often. If ever. He chooses his words as carefully as he does everything else in his life. He’s methodical; oftentimes ruthlessly so.

You watch curiously as he places one glass next to your feet and one beside his own, opening the bottle with practised, near beguiling ease. He pours half a glass each, a cigarette bit between his teeth now, and you see how he inhales the smoke, still tasting tobacco on your own tongue. Red wine and cigarettes are two flavours you associate with him. With his mouth. The growl of his voice in your ear, the roll of your name on his destructive tongue.

A smudge of dark orange light illuminates his angular, handsome features and dark stubble and you can’t quite help your next words.

“You’re here.”

You hadn’t expected him to linger. His job was done. Yet here he is.

A small sound rumbles from the back of his throat. “I’m here because you asked me to be here,” he reminds you, and you can hear the displeasure—the downright callous edge to his amiable words—when he removes the cigarette from between his lips. Smoke slips from between them as he speaks, his eyes finding yours in the darkness. “Consider yourself very lucky that I owe you, V. After this, however, I’m not sure I’m ever going to bother you with business again. I’m not sure why you bothered inviting me here in the first place.”

Yes. His debt.

He’s tried to weasel out of it for years. Everything from trying to get you into trouble, outright attempting to get rid of you, to downplaying the sheer magnitude of it. He’s never succeeded, however, and has grown fond of comparing you to a viper with seven lives.

A life debt is a life debt though.

“Maybe it’s because I don’t think you’re half as bad as you make yourself out to be.”

Even if others have outright disagreed with your opinion of the man.

Jean snorts under his breath, a cool smile splitting his face, sharper than one of your blades. Shaking his head, he lifts the glass in the air, offering it to you. You take it after a pause, watching him do the same with his glass. “You’re right,” he hums in agreement, and takes a sip of his wine; a slow one because he never rushes these things, and you know it. The cigarette returns to his mouth a moment later and he turns to glance at you again. “I’m much worse.”

“You’re also smart,” you note without missing a beat and take a mouthful, too. It’s red and fruity, and the sweetness of it coats your tongue pleasantly. Though usually you aren't too fond of wine this sweet, Jean has developed a habit of finding things you love. However accidentally. Or perhaps he knows you better than you do. He no doubt believes so. It’s become another game for him over the years. One of his favourite games to play between you on the rare occasion you would run into each other. “And know that if you betray me and my family, death will be the least of your worries.”

You don't bother mincing your words or implying things. Not this time. Not when it comes to this.

If he betrays you, he will die choking on his blood regardless of your past association or lingering fondness for him. You will rip him to shreds with your bare hands if he ever so much as attempts it.

Bringing him in on this has been the biggest risk you ever took. Everyone opposed you. Even John. Winston had been the only one who—no matter how reluctantly—eventually agreed that Jean Laurent could end up becoming a unique and unexpected advantage.

You proved your own suspicion correct. Combining Jean’s web of information with Step’s hacking skills has been as good as striking a goldmine. It’s been invaluable in gathering intel on all the members of the High Table and their weaknesses.

A vicious, clever spider sitting in the middle of his silky web of information, and you have taken advantage of every single thread in it.

You’ve been watching his every move since he joined your side like a hawk. You don't trust him—can’t trust him. You would be a fool to do so, and even though he has stuck by his word so far, you still feel like the moment you glance away from him will be the moment he sells you out.

One leak, one sly suggestion—that’s all it would take for everything you’ve been working towards to fall apart. Everything would be lost, and it would be your fault.

All because you placed some semblance of trust in the last man on earth deserving of it.

“My, my, I do love it when you talk dirty to me, vipère,” he murmurs lightly, his voice unconcerned but the shift in his eyes informs you how your words have been noted. He knows better than to dismiss you.

Jean raises the glass back to his mouth, a smouldering cigarette sitting snugly between his index and middle fingers, and you watch how the wind ruffles his black hair.

This time smoke rolls from his nose. He gazes at the New York skyline silently, pensively. Maybe he did mean his earlier words after all. Maybe he simply joined you because he, too, wants a moment to himself.

Cold nips at your fingertips—you’re not quite sure how long you’ve been sitting out here by yourself—and perhaps that’s the reason why you break the silence between you first.

“You came because I asked,” you begin carefully, still peering at him while he looks out towards the world. Forever looking ahead. You always loved that about him. Jean doesn’t like looking back, only ahead. Often you wished you could shake your past as easily as he seemingly can shake his. How many times has he told you the same? “But you chose to stay. Why?”

His expression remains impassive, not outwardly reacting to your words, and you begin to doubt he will ever offer you a response before he finally speaks up.

“It will never work,” he states frankly. “This plan of yours. It cannot be done. We’ll lose.”

Of course this is what this is about. He’s always been out for himself. The fact that he thinks your plan will fail should not surprise you. He told you as much the moment you finished telling him about it. He point-blank called you an idiot for ever thinking you could take on the High Table and win.

You are many things, V, but foolish is not one of them.

You had hoped these weeks spent planning and working together would have changed his mind. Shown to him that this isn’t a simple pipe dream. That you have the raw skill and the will to follow through with this coup.

You wanted Jean to believe in this goal—this dream—too.

He is, of course, not wrong.

The longer you planned, the more of this plan came together, the easier it became to see what he’d been saying from the start.

You are not only likely to lose, you are near guaranteed to do so.

Unless…

Unless you gamble away everything. Whatever little there is still left of you. The clock is already ticking. It has been for two months now. Every minute of every day the end is nearing. The least you can do…

The least you can do is make it count.

“Then we’ll do that together, too,” you say softly.

And it won’t be such a terrible way to go, you think, keeping them safe.

Jean finally drags his eyes your way. The bitterness creasing his expression cuts deeper than you ever could have expected it to. It’s rare for him to show this much.

“Do not tell me you are this naive, chérie,” he says coldly, his expression emptying of emotions swiftly. He seems to have caught himself in the uncharacteristic slip, exhaling a low, “But it seems like this night is full of disappointments,” he adds quietly with a forced exhale, his eyebrows curving downwards.

Neither of you speaks for a while after that.

You cradle the wine glass between your partially numb fingers, occasionally lifting it to your mouth.

Maybe you should get drunk. Do something reckless. The call of the void has been screaming at you as of late. Seductive whisper after seductive whisper how you could and should do anything you want. With whoever you want.

L'appel du vide, vipère, Jean used to exhale hotly against your ear, it is why you and I are the same. Your days are numbered unless some miracle happens and you find an antidote anyway.

But feeling hopeful after failing for two months straight is not something you can muster up tonight.

You realise, then, that this may very well be the last opportunity to get some answers from the man beside you. Get some rectification on your odd bond over the years. Not your first attempt but what will certainly be your last.

“Do you think…”

You’re suddenly unsure where to even begin. How does one untangle years of tiptoeing around different labels? Enemies that are not quite enemies. Lovers that are not quite lovers. Friends when it suits them, then the cycle repeats, and it’s like they’re back at square one all over again. Constant push and pull.

You’ve never been sure where you stand with Jean. Two years ago everything between you changed but unlike with others, he’s always been every blurred line in your life. An almost-maybe.

“I try to,” comes his dry response from beside you.

You roll your eyes, bobbing your leg up and down as another gust of wind sweeps across the silent terrace.

Jean has finished his cigarette, his shrewd stare now focused on you, expectant.

Go on, then, say it, his unfaltering stare seems to goad.

You’re not nervous. You have nothing left to fear, not anymore. But all the same…

You’re tired of constantly being hurt by someone. Your question opens the door for exactly that.

“Do you think we ever could have worked out?”

Had life gone just a little different. Had you met when you were both less guarded and twisted up inside. You, at least, have managed to find people willing to stand in your corner and fight your fight.

He’s all alone.

And maybe he prefers it that way—he has certainly always been adamant that he does—but you’ve never believed it. Not fully, at least.

A house full of people he could string along and play with, yet the liesmith seeks refuge out here in the dark. With you.

A thoughtful hum, then, “Don’t let your gaggle of boyfriends hear you asking me that.”

You almost splutter.

Your head snaps in his direction, your eyes narrowing, “I don’t have a gaggle of…fuck you,” you spit when you spot his smug expression and a raised brow.

“You have,” he purrs, his accented words a caress of his hot mouth across your fluttering pulse. “Many, many, filthy times, amante. Or am I so easy to forget?”

“You know, for how often you go on about Santino stroking his ego,” you remark dryly, giving him a pointed stare. “You sure do it often yourself.”

Jean clicks his tongue, leaning back in his seat, more irked by the change in the topic than he lets on. You’ve learned to read him as well. To a degree, at least.

“Am I supposed to be impressed by D’Antonio’s drooling?” he scoffs, words bland but tone sharp. “It’s frankly embarrassing. Either he’s atrocious at seducing you and you’re entertaining him out of pity, or he doesn’t understand you at all.”

His words dig into your heart but you don’t let him see it. Quirking an amused brow, you instead stare at him. “At this point, I honestly can’t tell if you hate him because you’re French and he’s Italian or because you don’t like him as a person.”

Jean grins this time; a dark, cruel thing. “Ah, chérie, hatred is too strong of an emotion to waste on someone I don’t care about,” he rebukes smoothly, standing to his feet. He glances in your direction, adding a deliberate, “But D’Antonio hates me because I won the one thing he always wanted but could never have.”

You.

Even if it weren’t for the deliberate, hot dig of Jean’s stare focusing on your face, you know as much already.

Blue depths drag over your still shape, lingering on your neck and lips, and you wonder if he’s thinking back on all the wicked things he’s done with them. Every moan and bruise, every hot drive into your body and mould of your naked skin together. He’s been an escape from everything. A bit of fun, a release, a shadow smearing in and out of your life for years.

Now though, you can’t help but wonder. Can’t help but consider why it’s always been so easy with him when it hasn’t been with others. Why every pursuit of happiness in the past has ended in misery and pain. With Jean, you always got exactly what you signed up for.

Mindblowing sex, thrill, challenge, and an escape without any attachments. No promises of a glowing future or expectations for you. He never made you live under the expectation of you being anything other than yourself. Messy and cracked around the edges but still you.

Jean has never cared for a normal life or demanded it of you, never wanted you to become an apprentice or Lady of anything.

You’ve always been enough to him just as you are, you realise with a dizzying rush. And his awful, seductive, traitorous self has always been enough for you as well. He’s never tried to change you or himself to appease you.

Not hearing a response, Jean offers you another striking grin you know has seduced endless numbers to his bed and turns to go.

“Wait!” you call out, jumping to your feet. Your joints protest, groaning and cracking, and stumble a step after him. He’s paused in his tracks, turning back towards you. “You never answered my question. If you think we could have worked out.”

You stand together, breathing, and he gazes at you for a long, charged minute. It’s nigh impossible to tell what’s going on behind his effortless mask of ease and composure. Always in control of himself and his emotions.

You’re about to ask him again but he closes the distance between you in two steps, grabbing you by the neck and yanking you to him. His mouth is hot and consuming as you remember it. His tongue drags over the roof of your mouth, seeking out every edge, every crevice, claiming it entirely. Claiming you. Despite him standing almost a head taller, you snake your hand around his neck, savouring his hiss of breath at the feeling of your cold fingers on his heated neck. Broad shoulders block the wind, block the rest of the world, and you sigh into him. He still tastes of smoky tobacco and sweet wine. A dizzying mix that stirs your body, warming your blood. Your nails drag up his neck and into the strong strands of his midnight hair, scratching all the while. You feel his hold on the back of your neck tighten in response.

The battle between you two never ceases and you can feel him grinning against your mouth, as if he, too, is having the same epiphany.

“Don’t die,” he exhales hotly against your parted lips when you separate with a gasp, still holding you to him, every hard edge of his body cutting into you. “Maybe then we can find out.”

Don’t die.

You almost burst into tears.

I’m dying right now, you want to confess to him. Would he stay if he knew as much? Would he stay until your heart halted inside your chest and you became forever still? Would he be kind if you asked him to be? Just this once?

He’s unaware of your internal struggle, dragging his thumb over the line of your jaw. Lips parted, and eyes hooded—you’ve seen this side of him many times. The sensuous lover with his sultry eyes more sapphire than blue now that he’s gazing down at you. How many times has he stared at you exactly like this? Caught dragging his tongue over every crevice of your body, his favourite being the dip between your thighs and your neck.

Jean nudges backwards, and you read his question there, his body asking what his tongue won’t.

If you’re joining him in bed. If tonight you’re his. Another stolen instance between you.

“I can’t,” you say quietly. He doesn’t appear surprised or angry by your refusal, his hands slipping from your body with a nod. But you don’t let him retreat, grasping his forearm, feeling the coil of muscle where you’re holding onto him. “Wait.”

Reaching into your back pocket, you pull out a familiar, heavy object. Gold gleams in the low light and you turn the circular disk, warmed by your body.

Jean stiffens at the sight of it. You both know what it is.

Opening the Marker with a too quiet click, you release your hold on him, staring at the print of his blood smeared inside.

He helped you only because the High Table would have hunted him if he hadn’t obeyed his Marker, you remind yourself. You silence the voice inside your head that reminds you he could have sold the information to them for immunity if he so wished.

Exhaling, you press your thumb against the tiny needlepoint, not reacting to the bite of pain. Blood wells against your skin and you stare at it for a moment.

You’re not sure if Jean is still breathing but you feel the intensity of his stare searing into your body.

Breathing deeply, you press your thumb harshly against the cool metal. Another second later you pull back, staring at your dual blood prints on the metal plate. Your insides quiver at the sight of it.

This is the way it’s always been between you. Shadows and blood, secrets and hunger.

Sometimes…

Sometimes in between those moments, you could almost pretend he loved you.

“We both know you were going to leave anyway,” you begin tightly, closing the Marker with a grim smile, holding it out to him. “This was just another shitty goodbye. Never thought you’d manage to top Venice. Or Berlin for that matter. But now you’re free. I no longer want you here, so don’t be here tomorrow. Save yourself while you still can.”

He doesn’t deny your words. He at least respects you enough to not dismiss you like he would others. Let them tangle themselves in a web of speculations and doubts. Jean enjoys few things more than people choking on their own words. A rope of their own fashioning is poetic justice, he used to tell you.

He reaches for the Marker, the one damn thing that’s always tied you together, and takes it. A stab pierces your heart to see it in his grasp. Now there’s nothing between you. You don’t doubt his earlier words. It’s unlikely he will want to associate with you in the future after this.

Doesn’t matter now though. You’re likely to be dead by tomorrow, or another few weeks if you’re lucky.

If.

“You knew.”

Your smile is grim. “Of course. I know you better than you think.”

He won’t risk himself for a plan doomed to fail.

You drop your hand but he grabs it before it can fall back to your side. This time his kiss is different. Hungrier, simmering with some desperation you’ve only caught glimpses of a few times in the past. A silent war in him you’ve never been able to decipher. Jean cups one of your cheeks, leaning over your at an angle that’s unlikely to be comfortable with your height difference but you savour it all the same. His heat. His presence. The burn of his stubble scratching against your skin. More, more, more. You want every last bit of him.

You’ve never noticed how safe a man this dangerous makes you feel. After Tokyo, Chicago, after the desert, after everything you’ve been through, you never thought you’d ever feel like this again.

Alive.

For being no better than glaciers, cold and merciless, nothing burns better than him.

His nose nudges against your cheek—it’s too big, you put that nose any closer to me and you might take an eye out—his arm, an iron band around your waist. Jean is never shy about his touches, he knows exactly how every inch of you trembles and shudders. He’s spent endless hours familiarising himself with every inch of you after all. You hate how you feel a silent goodbye in every second of your body curled against his now.

“Come with me,” he says, and it borders on a snarl, a demand. “Arrêter… this stupidity now and come with me. My web goes far and wide. I could hide you.”

“And go where?” you wonder softly, leaning into his touch, his thumb stroking your cheek despite the chipped bite of his native tongue. You’re desperate for another few seconds with him.

You never thought you would miss him this much, that you would ache so much at the mere thought of never seeing him again.

“Anywhere, vipère,” he drawls, tugging you closer as if he’s a hair away from throwing you over his shoulder and disappearing into the unknown. For a single second, you want him to. “The world is ours. A beach. You and me, and a whole lot of naked skin,” he continues with a seductive grin you feel against your face.

Seduction—his preferred weapon of choice. You wonder if you’re imagining the harder bite of his voice and meaner grip of his hands, as if he needs to convince you to abandon everything and disappear.

Your closed eyes flutter open, meeting his earnest stare. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him more earnest in all the years you’ve known him.

“I want to,” you tell him, leaning closer to kiss him once, softly. His muscles tighten and you half expect him to flinch away from it because it’s not lust you’re kissing him with, and he knows this. He’s too good not to recognise it. Leaning back, your breaths still mingle, and you inhale his cologne, “But I’m done running, Jean. One way or another. This ends. Now go. I don’t need you anymore.”

He pulls back, his smile cool, caustic. “You’re still a terrible liar, amante.”

The golden Marker disappears inside his pocket. Out of sight.

“I do believe there’s more left for me to teach,” he drawls deliberately, his smile smoothing into something more enticing, crooked as it is sly. “I’ll be seeing you, V.”

There’s no question there. You don’t have the heart to inform him you’re unlikely to ever see each other again.

When no one can locate Jean in his room or reach him over the phone the next morning, you simply tell others to stop looking and focus.

It’s better this way anyway.

At least this way one of you gets to live.

[mistabullets]

Did someone say Great Pretender? 👀 How about headcanons for Makoto and Lauren (separately) who needs to pretend to be in a relationship with S/O for a scam. Fake relationships turned into something more. Nsfw or sfw - your choice.

NOTE: uhhh it’s fairly suggestive but cw dubcon (if you squint), mentions of cuck for lulz, not sfw ish

Makoto Edamura

> The thought of pretending to be your boyfriend has him unnerved and flustered at first. While his acting has improved immensely since his first heist, the thought of being intimate just to fool some corrupt CEO has his head swimming. Especially since you, his partner for this particular swindle, just happens to be one of the most attractive people he ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on!

> You can’t help but tease the poor lad, reassuring him that all has to do is follow the script and act natural. The two of you would be presenting yourself in public so it’s not like the two of you would have to do anything further than hand holding and the caressing each other. However, the two of you do practice - you want to appear as a couple who love each other for ages when you’re out for dinner with the CEO and their spouse. So you and Makoto go on “pretend dates”. You coach him to hold initimate eye contact, put him to the test by randomly reaching out for his hands, and see how well he reacts when you go to wipe lingering crumbs near his lips.

> And it seems like these pretend dates pay off well, considering the CEO, their spouse, and everyone else always compliment what a good couple you are. Even Edamame has a few tricks up his sleeves and has seem the mastered the craft of faking relationships with you. He’s even been bold enough to kiss some cream off near your lips (and you gave a playful slap to ass for revenge). Even Laurent and Cynthia point out the two of you have gotten close since! However, Makoto brushes it off, commenting about how he is after all, Japan’s greatest con artist.

> Laurent chuckles and winks, “sureeee Edamame~”

> However, this all comes to a head when the CEO discreetly sends out an invitation... to a swing party.

> While Edamura is adamant about not attending, you force him to consider this - an opportunity to seduce the CEO and gain their trust and secrets. They had made suggestive comments and gave you rather unwanted attention and compliments. It’s a gamble that you’re willing to bet on, despite Makoto’s protest about the risk of putting yourself in danger. After a few days of going back and forth, he ultimately surrenders - while personally, he won’t be participating, he does want to keep an eye on you at all times. And perhaps that can be arrange - after all this swing party might be kink friendly, no?

> The night of the party, you and Makoto dress in your finest clothing. However, your attire leaves little room for the imagination, wanting to impress the CEO. Edamura grabbed a drink to ease his nerves - he followed you and the CEO eagerly led you to a more private area (“don’t mind him, he’s really into this sort stuff, you know?”). The Japanese man watched the way their hands went to linger on your hips, pulling you down on the velvet settee. He observed how your hands fidgeted nervously and how your tongue flicked nervously as you reached for the CEO’s crotch, eyes filled with uncertainty.

> There was a tug on his heart - his fist was painfully clenched at the edge of his seat and his pants felt uncomfortably tight. But not from the scene unfolding before him but rather wondering what it would be like to be under your touch, feeling the softness of your lips, the callouses of your hand against his warm skin, and to explore each other—shit, was he actually jealous? Did Makoto have feelings for you? And he was so willing to let this dirtbag have the pleasure of feeling you—

> Instinctually, he leapt out of his seat, grabbing you before you had the chance to unzip the CEO’s pants and dragging you to a private bedroom. Makoto ignored your angry and confused questioning and the nasally laughter of the CEO (“a cuck that’s easily jealous huh”). When he swung the door open and slammed it closed, he silenced your protest with a hasty and needy kiss. You were stunned, let out a muffled noise of surprise as your brain processed what the hell was going on...

> However, rather than fight back and yell about how Edamame just blew the chances of finding out the corrupt CEO’s weakness, you melted into the kiss, allowing him to push you towards the bed. “Geez, if you had just told me sooner, you dumbass.”

Laurent Thierry

> Upon hearing the heist layout, you’re eyeing Laurent with disbelief. You... and him...?

> Of course, you’re going to bombard him with questions! Why couldn’t it be Abbie or Cynthia? Certainly those two would have made better candidates at pretending to be a prestigious married couple with Laurent than you ever could. Hell, even Edmame would probably be better suited for this! However, the Frenchman tells you to fret not - Abbie and Cynthia are busy with other roles. Plus, Laurent wants you to see this as expanding your horizon. You can’t just go about swindles and only play the side characters. This will be a good heist to show your potential lies in greater things, he says.

> “Besides, I will be your husband so I’ll make sure to take good care of you, mon cheri~” he teases, reaching for your hand to kiss, much to your embarrassment. You sigh, reminding yourself this only a mission and both of you have the same goal in mind; eyes on the prize. Besides, it’s not you don’t think you necessarily can’t handle this, it’s more the fact you find yourself attractive to Laurent. Often times, you replay all those teasing moments, the not-so-subtle flirting, and the times he’s nonchalantly kissed your cheeks and hands. However, you don’t want to mingle your love affair with business. Despite his flirtaous nature, the logical part of your brains reminds you that he’s always like this with everyone. He’s nothing more than a business partner.

> Your interactions with the politician your group has targeted seems to be fairing well. Laurent naturally leads the conversation, helping you two weasel into the the politician’s grace and being introduced to their entourage of close associates. However, you’re always being surprised by some of his bold actions. His bigger hand deliberately placed on your thigh during dinners and being placed on the small of your back while guiding you through the elaborate hallways of a palace. He’s even taken the whole charade far by whispering honey-laced words in your ears - to further fool them or to tease you? You honestly can’t tell anymore!

> Eventually, the two of you are invited to a ballroom dance of sort, where allegedly, the politician is suppose to be meeting their backers. Certainly, you can’t miss out on this opportunity - offer to better ratings, make them desperate, gain more money.

> It proves to be successful but you still gotta linger about in the ballroom while Laurent works out the finer details. You try to best to evade conversation, anxiously waiting for your partner’s return until a certain persistent individual attempts to occupy your time. While you attempt to brush them off as curious and lonely individual, they keep asking more and more questions about your fabricated persona that you simply did not have the answers for. You try to stray further and further away from this creep, telling them you have other business to attend to...

> But they’re catching onto your little plot and observing you from afar; it’s a game of predator and prey. Eventually you leave the ballroom entirely but this person is still pursuing you! Eventually you’re pushed into a corner and forced to further entertain this person, who’s inching further and further into your personal space. You want to run, to tell them to fuck off but you’re not quite sure what this person is capable of. They begin to question who you really are, never quite seeing you before. You gulp, your flight response telling you to run and you do. But then run into someone else—

> You go to apologize, only to realize it’s Laurent! Oh thank heavens! But you can hear that nuisance’s loud footsteps approaching and he’s yelling your name. The Frenchman easily finds a solution to your little predicament, quick to pick up on whatever is going on. With ease, he pushes you against the wall and making sure to hide your smaller figure. Before you can question what exactly he is doing, he shuts you up with a fervent kiss... with tongue! His leg press in between yours, hands roaming your sides. Acting promptly, you loosen up and return his advances.

> Even after you hear the footsteps scurry pass, you don’t want to bring yourself to stop this. It’s Laurent who has to disengage and you’re readying yourself for a barrage of playful jabs only to see the man equally flustered but beaming, a smirk dancing on the edge of his lips. “Beautifully done, mon cheri... may I suggest we celebrate our swindle somewhere perhaps more privately?” He presses his knee against your heat and you let out an embarrassing moan. You glimpse up, skepticism in your eyes but his blue orbs soften. For once, Laurent is serious.

> And you can’t help but eagerly nod.

[bittysvalentines]

the other kind of upper crust

From: @whoacanada To: @ackermom

Summary: When the Zimmermann family throws a surprise engagement party, Eric finds himself overwhelmed by the guest list and thoroughly out of his depth. Jack takes the time to remind him he's right where he deserves to be.

Tags: Zimbits, Future Fic, light angst Happy Valentine's Day, ackermom! This is a concept I've been playing around with forever and I hope you love it because you might be seeing more of the party at a later date ;)

Not twenty four hours ago, Eric had been lounging in front of a fire in the den of the Zimmermann family lodge, getting drunk on Perrier-Jouët and watching the snow fall as he cuddled with his newly minted fiancé. 

Now, Eric is navigating the same, now crowded room to snag a glass of champagne from one waiter and some kind of crab cake from another as he slowly realizes the annual Zimmermann Boxing Day celebration has become an impromptu engagement party.

“So you’re the little spitfire that dragged Jackie out of his shell? Congratulations!”

For the nine-billionth time this evening, Eric does not know who he’s speaking to and has to formally introduce himself.

“So it would seem! Eric Bittle, and you are?”

“Mark.” The man takes his hand, gives it a hard shake, and Eric is at a loss because he’s been given no last name. Again. Jesus. “You have a few? Tell me about Samwell, Bobby’s been talking that school up and down forever, you must have been a hell of a Captain to get those boys to a championship, especially without Jack, how the hell haven’t you been scouted?”

Southern hospitality will always reign supreme in Eric’s life, but he finds it difficult not to be overly candid as he’s already answered the same line of questioning with at least six retired pros. 

“If I had to guess, it’d be the whole gay thing,” Eric taps his glass against Mark’s and winks, earning a boisterous laugh that seems to summon Eric’s soon-to-be father-in-law. Bob comes into view wearing a surprisingly elegant blue velvet suit jacket and a pair of light-up reindeer antlers that nearly take a tumble when he grabs Mark round the middle and gives him a good shake.

"This where you've been keeping Eric? Let the boy mingle, you old goat, it’s his party!”  

“Which was news to me,” Eric laughs, hoping the stress he hears in his tone is only in his head. Regardless, Eric takes the opening and slips away, past another throng of well wishers, an actress he’s definitely seen on Netflix, and someone he really hopes isn’t Celiné Dion. He’d been expecting hockey legends — of which, yes, there are many — but the ratio of rich and famous is far more skewed than he’d been expecting if the pile of gifts near the bar is anything to go by.  

Eric downs his champagne and slips out onto the patio to catch his breath, refusing to think about the optics of abandoning his own soiréee as he drops onto a bench overlooking the wooded backside of the property. 

Eric can see the moon through the clouds and the snow flurries, watches the light distort through the vapor of his breath.  He should probably go back inside and mingle, he’s starting to lose feeling in his fingers, but for the first time all evening, he’s enjoying himself. Someone opens the door behind him, spilling music and merriment out onto the porch and reminding Eric he really should go back in and enjoy his own party.

“There you are. What, you hiding?”

“Yes, I am.” Eric brushes some snow off the bench and waits for Jack to settles in, immediately leaning into the space Jack makes when he rests his arm over Eric's shoulders. Jack offers his mug, curls of steam warming Eric’s face as he takes a sip, detecting more than just spices and apple. “Did you spike this?" 

"There might be some Crown in there. You feeling any better?"

"I'm in a tuxedo, surrounded by our loved ones and their famous friends, and your parents just gave me this," Eric shoots his cuff to reveal the gleaming silver watch. "I’m bona fide, Sugar. Top shelf, grade-A Zimmermann approved.”

Jack whistles, taking Eric's wrist gently to inspect it closer, brushing a thumb along the bezel, angling the face so the small silver moon beneath the hands catches the light. It’s a beautiful piece, the nicest thing Eric’s ever owned, and what can only be the start of a lifetime of extravagant gifts from his wealthy in-laws.

“Papa had a whole speech planned. I told him you needed a break. Also didn’t want his proposal to be nicer than mine. You feel how heavy that is?”

Eric bounces his wrist as Jack watches, a smile quirking at the corner of his lips.

“It’s steel.” 

“It’s not steel.”

Oh, and isn't that just a lovely thought; receiving a gift that triples Eric's net worth in front of a sea of his betters on a night that’s already a panic-inducing celebration of Eric’s ability to weasel into the upper crust.

"Your mom filled me in on the championship tradition.” Eric rubs a hand over his chest, trying to ease the twinge of discomfort. "On the one hand, flattered, on the other, horribly embarrassed I'm not keeping myself together near as well as I’d hoped.”

“While it’s a relief not to be the one melting down in public, the good news is that people think you’re overwhelmed with joy.” Jack’s tone is just shy of apologetic. “Which is also what I was hoping, given the alternative is you’re freaking out because my parents went all out on an engagement party.”

“You told me this was a Christmas party,” Eric presses his face to Jack's chest, wishing he could drag himself out of his own head long enough to enjoy what has otherwise been a red letter evening. 

“Boxing Day.” Jack corrects softly. “And it was supposed to be an intimate, pleasant surprise. Imagine my surprise at how badly we stressed you out. What is going on? You're usually so good with social stuff, and you’ve been looking forward to the non-engagement version of tonight for weeks.”

“Just unearthing some self-worth issues, you know how it is; get confronted with the realities of marrying into your famous boyfriend’s wealthy family and start to question your place in the world.” 

“Is this about the watch. We can pretend it’s not platinum.”

Eric tries to play off the concern, but he's gotten something across, as Jack's hand comes to rest on the back of Eric's neck, fingers gently massaging muscles he hadn't realized were tense. He wants to cry. He just might. 

"Lucky for you avoidance is where I shine," Jack gives Eric's knee a little shake, dropping his fingers a touch to tickle the underside of his leg. “What do you say we get some of this negative energy out. Go hide in the rink out back.“

“Still amazes me you have a rink here.”

“What, that doesn’t strike you as being on brand?”

Eric twists away to only give Jack more access to his ticklish spots. Jack is chanting 'skate, skate, skate' under his breath with an earnestness that forces a smile to Eric's lips. 

"How is the solution to everything skating? Oh, my Lord, fine. Fine! Maybe it won't hurt to get a lap in."

Jack stands, stretching his arms high in celebration, making his suit jacket look two sizes too small before dropping them down again around Eric and hugging him tightly. "Lapin," Jack consoles, taking care to pepper kisses along Eric's hairline without mussing his coif. “I’ll get you something warm. You head to the shed. We'll call it checking practice."

"They'll think you're talking about sex,” Eric chides at Jack’s retreating back.

"Good thing we’re engaged, then, eh?"

Eric brushes the snowflakes from his slacks and follows the lighted path, staying on the shoveled walk but still managing to get snow in his dress shoes; knocking his foot against the mat, he notices a small plaque on the door, engraved 'Jack Laurent's Glacière - Est. 2009'. Eric scratches away a bit of frost to reveal 'Sin-Bin’ scrawled below the epitaph in Jack's familiar handwriting.

"Oh, hell's bells.” Eric breathes, putting together why the Zimmermanns would have gone to so much trouble to build a rink behind their winter home in 2009. As Eric gets the door open, he realizes it isn’t a ramshackle covered backyard pond, the ‘shed’ is a fully built private rink with boards, glass, and even a zamboni in the back corner. 

And Eric’s insecurity is back in force. 

He’s examining the ‘snack bar’, consisting of a small popcorn maker, a mini fridge, and a microwave, when Jack returns with a thermos shoved under one arm, two pairs of skates draped over his shoulder, one hockey, one figure — two of Eric’s many gifts from the Zimmerparents over the last few days.

“Hey. Feel like explaining why your vacation home has a nicer rink in it than the one I grew up training in?” Eric gestures around the rink at large wooden beams, the boards, the glass ceiling, a sanctuary built just for Jack. “Seeing as your name is on it.”

“Ha, well you get cool presents when you almost die and your parents think you’re suicidal.” Jack looks up and around, like he might find something new to inspect. “Was nice to get out of the city after rehab. I think we spent like eight months up here?”

Eric’s known Jack long enough now to recognize when he’s covering up his own pain, and this is not that. He’s genuinely joking.

“I’m really glad you didn’t die,” Eric offers, unsure of what else to say.

“Hey, no way, me too.” Jack smiles. “We have so much in common, maybe we should get married or something.”

Beside the door rests a rack of hockey sticks and shelf holding at least six pairs of skates in various states of disrepair. Jack brushes his fingers over a particularly ratty set of Bauer Supremes with ‘JZ’ in faded sharpie on the heel, nods, and grabs the pair.

“There’s no way those will still fit you,” Eric chides, lifting his own skates, the hockey set, from Jack’s shoulder to start loosening the laces. “But I really want to see you try.”

“Oh, they’ll fit. I was here before you got up this morning. I put new blades on every year and I’ll wear these until they fall apart.”

There’s a pleasant silence as they both sit to gear up, a far cry from the revelry a few short meters away. 

“I’m terrified you’re going to wake up one day and realize you’ve made a mistake choosing me,” Eric relents, keeping pace. “What do I bring to the table? I can cook, sure, but I have a worthless degree, I���m unemployed, one day I’ll probably look like my father —”

"We aren't our hobbies, Bits." Jack pulls a hard stop to kick up some ice shavings before doubling back and doing the same on the opposite side of the rink, scarring the ice. "Or our jobs. You aren't your culinary skills, and I'm not defined by hockey. We're just guys who love each other, who are going to get married, and despite current concerns, are very excited about the prospect. Also, not to make it weird, your father isn’t a hideous guy. I’ve met your family, you’ve got good genes.”

“Well, your dad is hot, too, I guess,” Eric sighs, spinning in a lazy circle.

“Thank you, I’ll pass that along he’ll be thrilled you think so.”

Jack pulls to a stop, his black slacks covered in bits of ice, suit jacket abandoned, showing off the white dress shirt straining around his midseason bulk; a pair of black suspenders working overtime to keep his ass looking as spectacular as Eric has ever seen it. 

"Bitty. Bits. Eric." Jack tugs off his gloves so he can take Eric's hands into his own. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Fuck, I loved you so much it circled around to hate and then back to love again."

"It's weird you'd mention that, like, right now," Eric's unable to keep himself from interrupting, and Jack's cheeks go pink from something other than cold. “While I'm already at critical emotional overload.”

“I love you. My parents love you. My parents’ friends love you. My teammates love you. You are very, very lovable.”

“Jack, I’m really not.” Eric’s voice wavers, but not because he’s lying. “And one day you’re going to figure it out and leave me.”

"Listen to me, Bits. I don’t know what you need to hear to make this okay, but there is no end date on us. No shoe to drop, no morning where we wake up and think about what could have been. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You can be scared," Jack circles around Eric, reaching for his hand. "Just, please, don't be scared of me.” 

Eric finds himself squished against Jack’s chest, inhaling his partner’s familiar sweaty musk and the remnants of a cologne he probably borrowed from Bob. He wants this so badly, and he wants it forever.

“I can be a little scared, though?” Eric asks. “Just a tiny bit. For perspective.”

“Of course. Fuck, I’m a lot scared right now.” 

“I love you, Jack.” Eric whispers, hiding his face. “I do. I’m sorry.”

“But, I don’t have any problem being scared of the future, as long as we’re freaked out together. Let’s be scared of real things. Like climate change. Baking using salt instead of sugar. Bears. The list goes on.”

“Keep talking about scary things,” Eric slides back, tugging Jack with him as he slips into an easy rhythm around the rink. “Keep talking. Make me feel better.”

Jack’s smile is broad and goofy, not his polished media smirk, the one he saves just for Eric. On the list of romantic gestures in their relationship, this one doesn’t rank very high at all, but it might be the most appreciated. 

“I can do that, bud. As long as you need.” 

[caravanslost]

for that trope thing... would you consider Damen/Laurent, 7 & 56?

Damen/Laurent Florist AU, Awful First Meeting:

Setting

Laurent is a florist and your boy takes it seriously. He spent five years as an apprentice with Paschal, who I’ve decided is a florist in this universe as well, and he’s finally saved up enough to start his own business with Paschal’s blessing. 

Laurent’s shop is so hipster that walking inside is like stepping into a Pinterest board. I’m talking parquet floors, distressed wood shelving, bench spaces constructed over stacks of crates, drop lamps hanging from the ceiling, Florence & The Machine always on the radio. 

Every inch of this space has been intentionally cultivated by Laurent to create an integrated experience. He’s very proud of it. 

His shop is in a hipster district too. I like to think that there’s a craft beer brewery down the road, and that they’re so taken with Laurent the Florist that they concoct a special flowery brew with Elderflower and Hibiscus, and name it after him

As an aside, Laurent travels to work on a vintage bike with a basket. He parks it outside the shop, leaning it against the wall because #aesthetics.

It is not a huge shop. It’s a humble little place, long and narrow. There’s not much space anywhere but Laurent makes very effective use of it.

Scene

One display is entirely occupied by ceramics and glassware. We’re talking terrariums, bubble vases, ceramic jugs - every kind of vessel you can imagine in which Laurent can work his magic. 

One fine morning, the tranquility of Hipster Street is disrupted by the ROAR of a motorcycle. It’s loud enough that everyone seems to hear it from streets away, but it comes closer and closer until Laurent realizes with distaste that it’s stopped and parked right outside his shop. He crinkles his nose.

Through the window, he sees a hulking figure disembark - face concealed by a heavy black helmet, frame concealed under a heavy black jacket. 

In a slow-motion sequence, soundtracked by Katy Perry’s “Teenage Dream”, Damen takes off the helmet and shakes out his curls before running a hand through his hair. 

Laurent sees the whole slow-motion sequence; temporarily forgets his distaste; and finds himself thinking, Oh no, he’s hot. And tall. And hot.

Damen walks into the shop and, god, he almost completely takes up the doorway. When he walks in, the bell above the door rings. He looks up towards the till, and notices Laurent, and gives him the kind of smile that  - just for a moment - makes Laurent consider giving up everything and leaving with him on the back of his motorbike.

Laurent only gives a cool nod in return to acknowledge him, He doesn’t smile back because then, this stranger is going to know immediately that Laurent is wondering whether those dark curls feel as soft as they look.

Damen takes one step into the long, narrow shop, and then another, and then a few more. He pauses by the display with the ceramics and glassware.

Something on the other side of the store catches his eye. He turns —-

—- and his oversized elbow knocks into the glassware and ceramics display —-

—- and every single item in that display tumbles off —-

—- and falls to the ground —-

—- and shatters with spectacular fury.

Neither of them moves. 

Damen is horrified. 

Laurent could kill. He is ready to rip this man’s motorcycle in two with his bare hands and throw both pieces at him.  

Neither of them says anything.

Laurent orders Damen to get out. Damen refuses. Laurent repeats the request in a voice so low and so deadly that the or else can remain unspoken. 

But Damen won’t leave. He says that he won’t leave until he’s helped Laurent clean up, and until Laurent has calculated the exact cost of the damage so that Damen can pay him the cost immediately.

Which doesn’t absolve him in Laurent’s eyes, because the store floor is a wreck and it’ll take days before replacements come in, but Laurent might let him live. Maybe.

Laurent makes Damen close the door and turn the “Closed” sign, and walks over with two dustpans. They both hunch down and begin sweeping the (many, many) shards into the rubbish bin in silence.

Laurent’s still angry, but this stranger smells really good?? And it’s distracting??

At some point, Laurent’s hand accidentally sweeps across broken glass and it cuts his skin.

There is a lot of blood. Laurent doesn’t do too well with blood. Damen immediately picks up on that fact, weasels from him the location of the first aid kit (under the till counter), and takes him to it.

A Very Soft Sequence follows, where Damen cleans and bandages Laurent’s wound with tender hands that caress a little more than they ought to. Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud” soundtracks the scene.

There’s a point where Damen is focused so intently on the task that he doesn’t notice Laurent looking up silently at him, cautiously wondrous.

Laurent thinks, Oh no, he’s hot AND gentle.

When Damen’s done, he absently swipes a thumb across Laurent’s palm, realizes what he’s done, and looks down, embarrassed —

— except he’s still holding onto Laurent’s hand.

Everyone blushes. 

[This was fun. Feel free to send me more.]

[lexvide]

Full Backstory.

Warning: Contains mentions of parent death, sibling death, child neglect, murder, abuse, torture and mental health stigma. While the following story is not overtly dark throughout, the above subject matters are strong underlying themes. You have been warned.

Growing up.

Valere was born in Calais on February 22nd, 1752. He was born to a Catholic family and was christened Valere Étienne Pierre Lavigne. 

He was born to Etianne Céline Claire Forté, the daughter of an upstanding middle-class family from the French commune of Villefort, and Claude Pierre Lavigne, a born and bread Parisian who had recently relocated to Calais. 

Etianne and Claude married for mutual benefit and stability. However, it wasn’t until after their marriage that Etianne would discover Claude’s deception, by which he grossly exaggerated his wealth. While he had once come from a wealthy family, he had recently been estranged and cut off and acquired sizeable debts. This resulted in Etianne and her family having to be the soul financial supporters of the marriage.

During their marriage, Claude used their allowance to open an export branch of Calais lace. He christened his company Lavigne Lace and at first, things seemed to be going well. 

However, it didn’t take long for customers and competitors alike to become wary of Claude. Lavigne Lace was quick to garner a reputation for shady production and shoddy quality, along with rumours of overcharging and client’s money mysteriously disappearing.

Claude obsessed over Lavigne Lace, seeing it as get-rich-quick scheme and a way to spite his estranged family.

Meanwhile, Claude and Etianne’s children were born. Laurent came first in 1740, followed by Valere six years later and finally, Céline three years after that. Sadly, Valere’s time as a middle child was cut tragically short after his little sister, Céline, died of childbed fever, leaving behind just him and his older brother.

Claude disliked children in general. His motivation for having them in the first place was financial as he was in need of an heir to inherit his precious business.

As such, Valere was much closer with his mother during the first years of his life. She was a gentle woman who did anything she could to protect her two boys against Claude’s temper, which worsened once the children came along.

When Valere was six years old, Claude had taken Laurent out of town to coach him on business matters, as he so often did. During this time, Etianne contracted a severe case of cholera. With Claude being too stingy to pay for domestic help, the young Valere was left alone with her. 

He tried his best to nurse her but ultimately didn’t know what to do. All he knew was that drinking water was important when treating fever, unaware that the water had caused the problem in the first place. 

Etianne was dead within hours.

This left Laurent and Valere alone with Claude, who took care of the matter swiftly. The Coroner confirmed the cause of death and she was buried within days. They never spoke of the incident again.

In the years following, Laurent, who had dreams of becoming a painter, was stuck as the unwillingly heir to Lavigne Lace. As the first born, he was the more favoured of the two while Valere was more or less considered ‘the spare part’.

While endless pressure was forcefully placed on Laurent, Valere was neglected entirely. Laurent grew to deeply resent his father’s business and would practice his artwork in secret. Meanwhile, Valere, who was academically inclined, grew equally resentful as he watched his brother seemingly squander opportunities that he could only dream of.

While he had no more interest in his father’s shady business than Laurent did, he did feel that he was much more equipped to make use of the expensive education Laurent was receiving. While Laurent disliked what was being forced on him, Valere became increasingly embittered from envy of it.

Laurent did what he could to protect his little brother in the absence of their mother, with Valere often being used as a household lackey and an outlet for Claude’s temper. However, despite Laurent’s best efforts, Valere’s hurt and jealously caused by their father’s treatment of them eventually drove a wedge between the two brothers.

During all this, while Valere and Laurent were growing up, Claude was imprisoned multiple times for crimes such as debt, fraud and embezzlement, during which time the task of bailing him out would fall to his two sons.

While Laurent was content to leave him locked up, Valere was usually the one who would through on this task. Not because he particularly wanted him out anymore than his brother did but more because he saw these incidents as an opportunity. They were the only chances he ever got to flex his smarts a little, as well as learn and apply a wealth of new skills.

Pulling strings through the use of his father’s pre-established business connections, Valere found ways in which to acquire large sums of money in short amounts of time. During this time, he learned the ins and outs of basic business and accounting skills. Also not wanting to make their family situation any worse, he supplemented these skills by reading up on the law so as to complete these tasks in as legally sound a manner as possible.

By the time he was eighteen years old, Valere was able to manipulate the system with such dexterity that it would doubtless provoke envy from even the most upstanding of lawyers.

Shortly after Valere’s nineteenth birthday, however, Claude Lavigne got himself into a situation that neither of his sons could weasel him out of. He was charged with mass embezzlement, robbery at knifepoint and the subsequent murder of two of his victims, both of whom he owed money.

His trial was held the very next week, in which he was convicted of all charges and sent to the scaffold shortly after.

To this day, neither of his sons know whether or not the conviction was truly correct.  

Freedom.

Following their father’s death, both sons left Calais. Valere took what savings he had and left for Paris more or less immediately, while Laurent stayed behind for a short while so as to formally shut down Lavigne Lace for good, before also leaving Calais to go travelling.

With all that had happened, upholding justice and fairness had become something incredibly close to Valere’s heart. He burned to acquire the wealth and success his father dreamed of for himself. However, as someone who had grown to detest unfairness, he wanted to attain success the opposite way in which father had attempted to do so. Valere vowed to himself that he would live fairly and justly and be much better off as a result. 

Eager to pursue this legacy, Valere decided that law was his calling and removed all obvious connections between him and his scandalised father, so as not to face any prejudice upon entering the profession - the last thing he needed was any more obstacles. And so, just before leaving for Paris, he legally removed Lavigne from his name and replaced it with Forté, his mother’s maiden name and the name of a just and respectable family. That and truth be told, he just liked that name a great deal better. For many reasons. 

For the time in their lives, both sons were free...

Rise.

Upon his arrival in Paris, Valere found employment with a Parisian law firm as a clerk and courtroom scribe. Placing all his passion and fervour into his new employment, he climbed the ladder rapidly and within two years, he had gained official advisor status.  

Despite achieving this huge career leap at such an uncommonly young age, Valere wasn’t even close to being satisfied. He continued to work relentlessly and slowly but surely, his name became more and more known within the industry. He gained a regular clientele who became increasingly widespread and upstanding the more Valere’s reputation grew. At last, Valere was seeing the fruits of his labour, earning good money, a good name and finally, a training contract from his law firm with which to become a fully licensed solicitor.

As he became more and more known throughout France, news of the audacious newcomer eventually reached Versailles. Intrigued, King Louis requested to meet him, an opportunity that Valere grasped with both hands.

During his visit, Valere turned up the charm, his time spent around the bourgeois in recent years having taught him a great deal in terms of courtly etiquette. 

Several members of the aristocracy took an immediate liking to him, which in turn gained him an entirely new clientele. Now with a name not just throughout France but within the Royal Court, Valere eventually gained the ultimate prized client; the King himself.

As a result of his association with the Royal family, Valere’s fame and reputation doubled, as did his fortune. Within five years of leaving home, he had acquired wealth and success beyond his father’s wildest dreams and had done so via just causes.

As time passed, Valere continued to work hard and gain favour within the Royal Family. 

For his services, the King awarded Valere the title of Valere de Villefort, after the place from which Valere had claimed to have come from, alongside the rest of the Forté family. This was a lie put in place as a further precaution against his unfavourable past, now fearing association with the Lavigne family more than ever.

Shortly after this triumph, the King, now considering Valere a valued member of his court, announced that he was to be matched with Lady Charlotte Howard, the daughter of an English aristocratic family. 

This marriage had been arranged as a minor political statement; a way of trying to improve Anglo-French relations by show of a union. 

Valere was full of reservation upon hearing this news. This was partly a result of fear due to his latent homosexuality (of which he was vaguely aware but had always tried to put out of mind). Nevertheless, he agreed to match anyway, thinking it the best thing to do given the circumstances.

Despite the marriage having been decided for them, Valere and Charlotte took full advantage of the courting period. Over time they found they complimented one another well and very much enjoyed each other’s company. The two of them grew close and each came to love the other a great deal. Although neither party ever conveyed just how terrified they were of the wedding night, each for a very similar reason.

Alongside this, it is arranged that Valere would be royally knighted and acquire the official aristocratic title of Chevalier de Villefort, as well as being offered the job of the King’s right-hand advisor once his solicitors license was finalised.

At this point, it seemed that life for Valere was a bed of roses.

Fall.

During his time at court, Valere crosses paths with a professional rival by the name Gustave Beaumont. While rivalry isn commonplace within the competitive worlds of both law and court life, Beaumont stands out. 

There was something about him that made Valere uncomfortable and he had been aware since their first meeting that Beaumont had he taken a disliking to him. However, Valere decided to pay him no mind. He stayed out of his way as much as he could and was civil when their meeting was unavoidable.

Beaumont was nearly two decades older than Valere and had been working to secure the position of right-hand advisor to the King. Having been in the business far longer than Valere, he viewed him as little more than a young upstart and was not in the least bit concerned of ever being overtaken by him. 

One can only imagine the shock he felt when he one day woke to discover that Valere had done exactly that; livid would have been a gross understatement.

Unable to accept the loss, Beaumont deliberated for weeks on what to do. He did what he could to try and sway the King’s opinion and overturn the decision but ultimately failed. Exhausted of options, he eventually settled upon the most simple yet most risky solution for dealing with Valere; he would simply have to get rid of him. 

To do this, he would have to change tactics. Rather than trying to convince the King of his own merit, Beaumont would have to instead convince him of Valere’s faults.

Through both bribery and exploitation of professional jealousy among some of his other piers, Beaumont gathered together a small group of allies who set about the task of researching Valere’s history, trying to dig up any dirt they could to help bring about his fall from favour. 

This being one of the oldest tricks in the book, they didn’t hold out much hope; this was merely a place to start. 

As such, they were left very pleasantly surprised when they discovered a dubious connection between Valere and a painter named Laurent Lavigne. A little more digging and Valere was quickly connected to a shady export company named Lavigne Lace.

From here, Valere de Villefort’s upstanding persona crumbled piece by piece. With one connection leading to another, Beaumont gathered himself of goldmine scandals and unfavourable incidents, many of which would malleable to his will. After all, the very best lies always contain little fragments of truth...

Blissfully unaware of Beaumont’s proceedings, Valere was summoned to court a few months later. He was lead into a room attended by the King, the royal family and piers of the realm, in the middle of which he was ordered to kneel. Confused, Valere obeyed.

It was here that Beaumont presented his case. He began by exposing the various scandals of Valere’s biological family, from the mass embezzlements to the eventual murder trial. Using little nuggets of innocent truth, he was able strongly fabricate Valere’s involvement with his father’s criminal activities and the methods with which he acquired the money frequently used to bail him from the debtors prison.

From here, Beaumont painted a grim picture of Valere as a pathological liar, who was masterfully deceptive and doubtlessly malevolent in his intentions.

This alone was a huge blow to Valere’s reputation and yet Beaumont still wasn’t done. Having spent the last months weaving together a complex but convincing narrative via grossly twisted evidence, he was able to convincingly accuse Villefort of murdering his mother when he was a child. 

In doing this, Beaumont had finally hit the King’s weak spots. A paranoid, melancholic and somewhat naive individual, a case such as this was exactly the thing needed to finally sway the King’s mind. 

Sure enough, sucked in by Beaumont’s unbridled charisma, the King became convinced of his arguments and was heartbroken by the supposed betrayal. 

Furious, he refused Valere a fair trial and convicted him on the spot. 

Usually, a case such as this would result in one being sent to the scaffold. However, due to the worst of the proposed crimes having supposedly occurred during Valere’s childhood, paired with the Royal family’s sentimentality towards him, the King thought twice before sending Valere to his death.

Despite feeling fury and heartbreak towards the young man, he was unable to accept that someone he had trusted so entirely could possibly have been an inherently evil individual; the one thing at which Beaumont had failed to convince him.

He proposed that the crimes committed were “not a result of evil nature but rather of being under the influence of evil; a possible demon of the mind that may well be expunged with proper treatment”. 

Valere was exempt from the death penalty and instead sentenced to being involuntarily committed to the ‘House Of The Insane’, the period of which was indefinite. 

And so, having only recently acquired his much sort after solicitor’s qualification and with less than a fortnight before his wedding was due to take place, Valere carted away to the so-called ‘hospital’, where he was locked up, abused and tortured alongside hundreds of other unfortunate patients who were deemed ‘unsound of mind’.

Wishing simply to move on and not dwell any further on the matter, the King decided against making any public announcements regarding Valere’s situation. 

This worked to Beaumont’s advantage. He had his allies spread the gossip that Valere had been charged with matricide and, while trying to resist arrest, had fallen into the Seine and drowned.

Despite Valere not receiving the death penalty as Beaumont had hoped, he was nevertheless confident that his false death in the public eye would be more than enough to keep anyone from looking any further into the matter.

Valere de Villefort was dead and that was that. Nothing more to say.

The Coroner Calls.

Eleven months after Valere’s detainment, Versailles received a letter from Calais.

Beaumont, now having taken the place of the King’s official right-hand advisor, was the first to read the correspondence. And its contents shook him to the core. 

The letter was from a Coroner named Jaques Monet, the very same Coroner who had examined the body of Etianne Céline Claire Forté Lavigne. 

Having heard the rumours behind Valere’s death, Monet had written in to reconfirmed that cholera had been the direct cause of Etianne Lavigne’s death, owed to an undetected sewage spill and subsequent build-up within the water system. 

In his explanation, Monet placed strong emphasis on the fact that Madame Lavigne had not been the only one in the area to have either died or become severely ill as a result. With everything backed by records, Monet stated at the end of his letter that he would willingly testify the information if necessary and as such, it was strongly advisable that the late Monsieur Forté be granted a full, posthumous pardon.

Made both terrified and furious by Monet’s letter, Beaumont announced that he would travel to Calais immediately and track down the Coroner, so as to ‘deal with him swiftly and appropriately’. Meanwhile, Beaumont ordered one of his old co-conspirators, Blaise Dupont, to the hospital in order to ‘take care of Forté in the very same fashion’.

Equally frantic from fear of his own involvement in the lie being exposed, Dupont agreed and left immediately for the hospital, only to be ruefully informed upon arrival that the staff had lost the patient in question.

Assuming this meant Valere had succumbed to the brutal ‘treatments’ to which patients of these facilities were frequently subjected, Dupont left the hospital in a state of relief, glad that they now had once less thing to deal with.

Terrified of the repercussions, the hospital staff allowed this to play out, deciding not to clarify precisely what they meant by their use of the word ‘lost’...

To be continued...

Upcoming Verses: 

In between.

Resurgence.

Vive la Révolution~!

[katiebruce]

year of the wildflower

I can’t believe it’s fucking February and I have yet to sit down and reflect on the end of yet another year. 2018.

Two Thousand and Eighteen.

What a glorious, glorious year you were for me. (It was the ten-year anniversary of 2008 after all, so I probably should have seen that one coming. Hindsight is a fickle beast I’ve yet to learn to tame.)

I started the year off with a lot of newness—preparing to move out of my apartment of seven years, for example.

Though I knew it was time for a new beginning, the months leading up to this move were hard for me. I felt like I was separating myself from some former version of myself; a hermit crab shedding her proverbial shell.

The moment we found Hoegarden, however, I knew it was the right choice.

Only four blocks up the street (a six-minute walk; I timed it) from my old place, it felt like the comfort of home laced with the thrill of a new start.

And so, I packed.

I purged.

And the week before I moved, I flew to India. (I am nothing if not wildly ridiculous at a seemingly predictable rate: life change? Leave the fucking country!)

I have been talking about going to India obsessively since the eleventh grade (I had learned about Holi and became obsessed with Eastern culture quickly after.)

Though I paraded around with arrogance, I was quite intimidated to plan this trip. It was something I don’t think I realized was happening until we had landed, disembarked, and had been rushed into the chaotic Delhi streets at midnight before it really hit me—that I was here, and I couldn’t be afraid.

So, I wasn’t.

I had only one bad experience that night, and I handled it—I learned to say no. As an American, millennial, feminist, I thought this was something I was already good at.

Turns out, I was not.

But I got better. And by the end of my trip, I felt so completely safe, so enamored by the sights, the smells (rich dirt moist with the smell of sweat, the sultry scent of saffron, sweetened candy from the streets…curry!) that I was sad my time was over so soon.

This trip prepared me for Morocco—the adult I had to be, the sticky situations I had to diffuse, middle eastern culture. I wandered those golden, enchanted markets thirsty for authenticity, and I always seemed to find it, for better or for worse.

There was lots of yelling. Lots of jetlag. And lots of running for flights.

But between these two trips, these two monumental events in my life, I walked away and felt growth. I felt proud of where I’d gone and what I’d seen. And that, though I was accompanied by friends (and oh, the friends we made!) I had accomplished this feat mostly alone, planning and ultimately orchestrating both trips by my lonesome, endlessly researching cultural customs, Indian cuisines and transport, Ramadan rules (because we were in Morocco during the holiday) and I had fucking succeeded.

I flew again to London (London, London, London, alwaysLondon) and Scotland and finished up my year by going to Australia.

Five continents in one year.

I spent an entire day running around Jaipur, my phone almost being stolen by a monkey, and I tried to get an Uber in a place where elephants are considered vehicles and you can order a tuk-tuk via the app.

I bathed, fed, and walked a rescued elephant—Chin Chin—and felt her two-ton belly swollen with babies (twins!) as she made me laugh by playing with my hair and squirting water on my head when I wasn’t playing with her.

I was welcomed into the home of strangers and fed a home cooked meal; the best I had in all of India.

I made friends with the soda-shop boys near our palace of an Airbnb and left them with all of my change upon leaving the country. (This would leave me completely screwed at the airport where the vendors did not accept credit cards, but alas—who am I if not starving and stressed about non-reving out of another country?)

I woke up at four in the morning and rode all the way to Agra to bask in the wonderful Taj Mahal. I dipped my toes in it’s gorgeous lakes and dreamt of a love so big someone would construct a monument to celebrate it someday that would put this silly marble slab of stone to shame.

I returned to Spain and wandered the streets of Barcelona and Madrid like a pro; how quickly three years had passed, how recently it seemed upon returning.

We flew down to Morocco and booked a famous riad with a driver and were escorted through the airport like queens (gluttons, really.) We wandered the many rooms of our new home excitedly, pretending to be princesses and bursting into wine-induced fits of laughter when the first Ramadan calls came over the loudspeaker and bellowing down into our open-aired fortress.

We wandered the gardens of Yves Saint Laurent and I impressed Lauren and Beebs with my correct pronunciation of the designer’s name (thanks, Cardi.)

We took a horse drawn carriage through Marrakech and were swindled by henna artists in the streets (it was still worth it.)

We boarded a ten-passenger caravan and took a trek that took us through the northern African mountains, the many small villages and ruins, learned about the art of rug making and sipped on delicious mint tea.

And then I was proposed to. His name was Watik. Once again, I said no. Albeit a more forceful one.

We drove directly into a sand storm and learned how to adorn our heads with a “passport to the desert” to protect us from the harsh conditions.

And then we rode camels through the fucking Sahara Desert.

We camped in giant rooms and dined under the stars (the most delicious of the tangines we had, though it’s honestly hard to pick) and listened to our guides play African drums under the moonlight.

And then we went adventuring into the night.

I remember climbing to the top of a dune, digging my toes deeper into the sand and being amazed at how bright the moonlight shone over the dessert sands.

(We watched the sunrise in the morning, and I was equally in awe of nature’s subtle beauty.)

We wandered the ancient city of Fes with our newly married friends and took in the smells of sweet mint leaf and the curing of animal hyde in the tanneries.

I took a few weeks off traveling and fucking prepared for what would be my mother’s first trip abroad: The UK.

I got to see the excitement fill her eyes upon seeing the London skyline, see some adolescent excitement light up in her upon taking her to her first protest (baby Trump riot—yes, it was as amazing as it looked on television) and watched her fall in love with old, ancient English streets, the ones I’ve loved for so many years, watch her accept my longing, my desire to make this my home, as she fell completely head over heels in love with it, too.

I drank violet gin and watched bagpipers play in the street and climbed to the highest part of Edinburgh just so I could turn around and look down at it in awe.

I watched Paul Simon say farewell, with another 500,000 fans in the royal gardens and wept with emotion when he opened his set with “America.”

I came back and saw Paramore with my strawberry, I saw St. Vincent in all her glory, Twin Peaks and First Aid Kit and even flew to Denver to see Ryan Adams play Red Rocks.

I stressed, a lot.

And yet somehow always made it through.

I celebrated my Dad’s sixtieth birthday and got to finally show him around Chicago, my home, and watch as he pieced together a new aspect of me he never seemed to understand before.

I flew to Denver to meet up with my best friend for a road trip to Salt Lake to see Panic. We cuddled and laughed and jammed and danced under the stars in beautiful Big Sky.

And then there was Australia. Rainy, jungle-esque Australia.

Noodle night in the muddy park and Aussie pizza (twice, because it really was that spectacular.)

Twin Peaks at an abandoned skate-house and teenagers blacking out around us.

Ferry rides hopped up on Nyquil. Books read in cafes.

Beautiful, beautiful Melbourne.

Lauren laughing at me because of fear of all the various vicious birds we encountered. My allergies through the roof, throat closing in the royal gardens.

Not one single fucking kangaroo.

There was San Francisco and fleet week and the Mystic Valley Band at a winery in Sonoma. (The most beautiful sunset I’d ever seen—and that wine!)

I left the country so many times this year with no more than pennies to my name, no place to stay when I landed, nothing but an inspiration and the courage to make myself show up for a flight.

I took myself to the Opera and felt bougie for sipping on black coffee the entire time and sitting alone.

I relaxed.

I found myself hiding away in my new home, no school to attend (because again, I fucking GRADUATED COLLEGE) and no trips to take and I felt… peace.

An old friend came to town and I met up with him for drinks and now Taylor is my boyfriend.

Me; a boyfriend.

Me; in love.

I held his hand at Chriskindel market and consoled him after an eventful first Thanksgiving together. I rubbed my hands through his luscious hair and kissed his forehead where the small patch of gray grows in with the eager fervor of old age. (My old man.)

I let him love me, all of me, and sat back in amazement as I lowered my walls, my protection, and let this one man weasel his way through the booby traps I had planted long before.

(He detonated them all.)

I watched, silently—though often times conflicted—as the light in his eyes grew familiar, listened as his sweet, humble snoring cooed me to sleep.

I fell in love.

And through all of the fantastic adventures 2018 took me, through every corner of the world, I did not know that what I had been looking for all along was him. My love, my prince, my sweet, sincere, annoying, handsome, smart, idiot, adorable boyfriend Taylor.

And now I feel so whole.

2018 was a big year for me—in every way imaginable. I even started grad school (I’m a masochist, I must be). But it was the last year I would be in my twenties.

In February, I turned twenty-nine and began preparing myself for the start of a new decade. I felt unaccomplished and somehow proud of what I’d done—scared yet eager to grow older.

Weeks before my birthday, I marched proudly with thousands of others through the streets of my home, my city, protesting our asshat of a president and the suppression of women’s rights. I remember walking through the streets, sign in hand, feeling like a fully actualized version of myself; I was finally the person I had always wanted to be.

It just took me longer than I had expected to get there.

My twenties were a tumultuous time (something eerily familiar about the terrible two’s, no?)

Where I lost myself and tried on new versions of myself for extended periods of time.

I dropped out of college and worked three jobs.

I moved cross-country with my best friend to live in a big city like I had always wanted to.

I became a flight attendant.

I went back to college and graduated. Then I got into fucking grad school.

I fell in love with four boys: the first, my first. The truest, the purest; a complete and total heartbreak. The second, from afar—that spark, that magnetism—now a friend engaged himself, and I couldn’t be happier for him and his wife-to-be. The third, my German—a wrong fit I tried so desperately to squish into all of my open, healing wounds. And the fourth, my love—my Taylor. My partner.

I slept with some awful people (two; M & T).

And kissed plenty more.

I lost friends I thought I’d never lose and met friends I thought I’d never have.

I discovered what it is to be broke.

Brutally, honestly, broke.

And yet I traveled.

I visited fifteen countries in those ten years and did it all on my own terms. I saw Stonehenge, the Sahara, the Taj Ma-Fucking-Hal, went to Oktoberfest, played Sega in Japan and even saw Alex Turner a whopping four times in one decade. (What a facetious little man.)

I cried in bathroom stalls and did coke in bathroom stalls and danced so much I felt invincible and once upon a time even owned the streets of Ybor.

I did acid on tinder dates and even dated a girl, my only girl, my Kelli.

I watched as my sister got engaged and our little family grew by one.

I lost my Cody, my baby, and felt his spirit in a haunted hotel in South Dakota (hi, baby.)

I wandered many foreign streets and stumbled my way through foreign languages and ordered foreign food I couldn’t pronounce the name of and didn’t like the taste of.

I went to so many concerts I’ll probably be deaf, and probably soon.

I was so surrounded by love and so alone at times I silently cried myself to sleep in a new city.

I cut off my hair, got six tattoos and went to so many different music festivals.

I was wild; I was timid. I was fierce; I was afraid. I was whole; I felt alone.

(Walt Whitman isn’t the only one who can contain multitudes.)

[redsvsblus-blog]

Spook

Name: Eugene Laurent [if this is his real name]

Sex: Male

Birth:  2/14/XXXX

Age: 34

Nationality/Ethnic: French/Romanian 

Eyes: Golden Brown

Hair:  Strawberry Blonde, slicked back and lightly waved

Skin: Fair

Height: 5ft 11in

Scarring/Marks: Thick burns on both palms, on both bottoms of his feet, a large area on the soft spot of their belly and right shoulder blade. Small [barely visible] cuts on forearms. Large obvious ones are on left side on the lips and four deep lacerations along his ribs. Tattoo of a black snake wrapped around a bleeding blue skull is located on right bicep. 

Sexuality: Likes the charms of women and enjoys the physique of men 

Class: RED Spy 

Map: [nothing is set in stone]

Loadout:

Weapons

Primary: Disguise Kit  

Secondary: Ambassador

Melee: Black Rose

Dead Ringer

Sapper

Cosmetic [as reference]

After Dark [after hours obviously] 

On Call: 5 years

Precious Trinkets: A black, sleek six shooter pistol from a dear friend.

Personality: Eugene is actually not the typical asshole, if not more of a sass. The man is rather friendly after he gets to know someone after a while and likes to strike up a conversation if the other party is willing for it. Even to go as far as to prod if something is up with a teammate if it won't warrant a  yelling match. The flip side, he can be rather- hostile. While their cheeriness could be deemed as a facade to an outsider or someone new. The Spy can be rather brutal in their tactics or be doned “unprofessional” depending on how those view their stalking. Like he would care either way, there are limits. Though this side could mostly be seen towards BLUs.

History: Being a spy, Eugene does not have much of an available background to be shown for all due to his class.  Although in his past life story he does tell is before coming to RED, the man used to be an information broker for the Italian mafia and other underground chains. Sometimes ordering a few stolen kidneys to rare animal species under bosses demands. It was not a fabulous job no doubt but he got quite a few thrills out of it and paid well before it got too dangerous to stick around. Upon coming to work for the industry after being personally approached, the young man was rather chipper and liked to pester his team on off hours in good ol fun. It took him a while to be able to get comfortable to act upon his role, to actually put himself into possible harm willingly and get his hands dirty. Though after a certain incident. he had gotten trapped inside of the enemy base for a full week on his first month on the job. The Spy man sort of had a mutated personality change after managing to weasel his way back to the outside. Eugene never likes to talk about it so it is best not to try and not ask much. The last guy who gave him flack for ”being a shitty spy” over the incident, was sent to respawn from a knife to the eye socket. 

Headcanons: [tags added later]