#notice the mismatched chairs it’s my favorite detail :)

[severineofsalem]

My Good Papa

Pairing: Papa Emeritus IV / Fem!Reader

Summary: Popia gets annoyed and comes to you for comfort. It turns into something else. (I am terrible with summaries and titles. 🧍‍♀️)

Word Count: 1k

Warning(s): NSFW 18+, papa kink, blowjob, reader and Popia are both switchy, poorly translated Italian, not proof read.

AO3 Link

A/N: Well yeehaw. My first Ghost fic. Even in spirit form, Nihil is still a dick.

Thunderous knocking clashed against your dormitory door, startling you from your treatise. Before you are able to get out of your desk chair, the rustic door flies open, slamming shut after the person.

A frustrated Copia filled your view. His furrowed brows made his wrinkles more prominent. The look in his mismatched eyes made frustration seem like an understatement. He flopped face-first onto the full-sized bed that took up most of the room, grumbling blurry words in his mother language. “Well hello to you too.” At least he knocked.

“Cara mia, that cazzo di merda. He is really starting to-” Cutting off his own sentence, Copia sighed seethingly. The rage filling the once relaxing atmosphere was perturbing. “Copia…?” A mop of brown, salt-and-peppered hair rose from the bed. His gaze meeting yours, softening. “What is wrong?” You slowly made your way to him, easing onto the squeaky mattress beside his laying form. “That dickhead Nihil. Who knew the dead could be so annoying?” The higher up shook his head. “Well if it is Nihil we are talking about…What did he say this time?”

He perked onto his side to face you, bringing a gloved hand to twirl his hair. “The fucking same shit he always says. I am Papa now. He needs to accept it.” He continued rambling, but you didn’t pay attention. You couldn’t help it. The way he growled those infuriate toned words set something ablaze in you. His face matched his vocals. You took notice that he was wearing your favorite ripped and roughed up pants. They complimented the thickness of his thighs deliciously.

It wasn’t often Copia showed this side of himself. He usually came crumbling to you for comfort, comfort you gladly gave. There was just something more firm with this. Something domineering. You wanted to feed the fire that roused inside him. “Yes. You are Papa. My Papa.” You slide your hand against his arm. He caught on to the look in your eyes. A look he knew all too well. It took him by surprise, but he quickly stopped his eyebrows from shooting upward. What he couldn’t stop was the growing smirk.

“I am your Papa. I am a good papa, sì?” He leaned in close, the hand in his hair reaching its way to clasp your thigh. The ferocity that had captivated his mind dissolved into a different kind. “Yes. You are the best Papa.” There was no mistaking the sultry in your voice.

“If he is so good, doesn’t he deserve a reward, eh?” He barely said his last word before you smashed your lips together. The hand on your thigh grasped harder into your flesh, eliciting a muffled moan from your throat. The contrast of his now kneading hand with the roughness of the kiss made your knees weak.

You push yourself away from him, looking directly into his amorous orbs. Placing your palms against the front of his detailed vest, shoving him on to his back. The old mattress screeching with the movement. You both rushed to pull off his layers, ridding all of the upper half. Fuck, it was a sight to see. Skin sunken around the collarbone, the 666 tattoo that was inked above his standing nipple, the happy trail that led to where your intentions planned to be. The sight was completely mouth watering.

“Hmm, what exactly are you thinking, my dark sovereign? How do you want me?” You leaned down, nibbling along his chest and stomach. The action had him writhing and his breath hitching, hands holding onto you. Anticipation was buzzing like electricity through the air. “Oh I think you know, cara mia. Let’s put that mouth to, eh, use?” You landed a kiss on the center of his chest, fingers working on the tie of his pants. A bulge already tenting the crotch of the black material. You smiled to yourself, nuzzling it. “Merda.” A hand grabbing ahold of your hair, tugging.

You took no time pulling out the hardened member. Copia could barely keep up the act. He nearly bit off his lower lip trying not to whine. You licked a stripe against a jutting vein, wrapping your tongue around him. He threw his head back as you sucked the sensitive shaft. Precum melted against your taste buds. The grip on your hair tightened as you began to bob your head. The tip of his cock buried against the back of your throat as you lowered yourself as far as you could. Light brown pubes tickled your nose as you nearly choked. Mouth full, wet, and warm. It was dizzying. You closed your eyes, relishing the way he felt as you swallowed. A strangled groan tore from Copia.

“Let me fuck your throat, sister. Please?” You could tell by the way his hands shook that he was holding himself back from fucking your throat raw. The double tap on his thigh was all he needed. His other hand grabbed your jaw, thrusting into your face. Spurs of moans and curse words erupted from him. Tears pooled in your lower lash line as you looked up. The paint on his lips smeared, nose flared. “Such a good follower. Letting your- ahh! Your Papa use you. Fuuuck.”

Tears ran down your face, soaking his pants along with streams of saliva that escaped your mouth as he pounded into you. Your whines and moans only added to his pleasure. The way he relentlessly thrusted into your mouth had you pulsing. Your own pleasure sleeking your thighs under your habit. You sucked harsher around him. It was getting harder to breathe through your nose. Your jaw was beginning to hurt. You raked your fingers up his belly, digging into the plush abdomen. Goosebumps raised as Copia’s cock twitched.

You intentionally hummed around the throbbing member, causing Copia to yell out. “F-fuck. I’m cu-umming. Oh merda. Yes sister. Y-yes.” His body racked with waves of satisfaction, legs kicking around you. Loads of cum coated your throat, making it somehow more stuffed. You happily swallowed all he gave. As soon as he stopped shaking and the hands on you loosened, you let go with a pop, licking your lips and catching your breath. You crawled up to him, landing on his torso, showering his heated face with loving kisses. You met his gaze, seeing only adoration.

You gave him an innocent look, “Was I good Papa?” That adoration was quickly joined with a dark glint. “Sì, cara mia.” He paused, letting out a deep sigh. He grabbed your hips firmly. “Now, sister. Get on your hands and knees."

You do not have permission to repost/upload onto another site.

[alebrijediscordico]

Hm. This last post somehow made me think about something, but i don't think i can fully speak it coherently, so to whoever is reading, i'm gonna take you to a little adventure.

We start in a white void, as many other written things. No scene to go off of, no characters, no thing to see here. Just words. Or maybe my voice, if that's how your mind works.

But then i'm going to tell you that you and me are now in a cluttered room. The door to enter is behind us as we walk in, close to the corner. It was probably heavy to move if we were to enter this place in a conventional way—the "this door was made on old wood" kind of heavy. In the center of the room are two furnished chairs, and a tiny round table. And if you thought of me walking to the chairs before you while i was narrating, it's probably not gonna be strange for me to pass my hand over the table for a moment right now.

And now i'm sitting down already. Your chair is diagonal to mine. I'm on the chair with the backrest almost pointing to the window. Like i mean, if i put my left arm in the armrest of the chair to turn around, i would comfortably look out the window—which is one of those that are... could i say curved? Is more so a window with a nook. I've always liked those...

Anyway, now that you're seated, that i assume you are, because in the case you're still standing by the door, what are you waiting for? The warm drinks clearly in the table that i never described are waiting for us.

...There you are.

Now that we are sitting down, i'll describe the room further, because "cluttered" might've been enough other times, for when a book needs to progress a story—but here the focus is the little details.

There's two wall-bookshelves to the sides of us, full of thin and thick books; short and long, sometimes long enough to not really fit and so they're folded over other books. You'll see a few journals too—the big, long ones; the ones you'd see from sea captains—, notebooks, and the few spare spaces have trinkets. Colorful candles holding up books, ink bottles put conveniently over some dry splashed ink, a leaf or two, maybe a few wooden toys alongside puppets... dolls? Clown puppet-dolls. You know the ones. And in a few shelves there's little golden hooks from where tiny oil lanterns are hang up. Palm sized almost. Cute, isn't it?

Oh, and the shelves themselves are a brown-red wood. Carved with details i'll leave to your imagination. They're very fancy, almost like as it were shorthand.

I'm taking a sip, one moment.

...

Hmmm... This doesn't really work for the word "cluttered", right?

Let's, then, add the fact that whoever has these bookshelves has papers, files and documents that surely they must've been better kept somewhere appropriate, to keep them good and intact, but are instead... between books. Some are not even as well put between those books? Feels almost rushed. I really hope those are not important...

There's also other things hanging from the hooks, like resplendent ribbons, leftover party decorations, various mismatched holiday decorations in, not only the hooks, but the very few empty spaces left and hanging from the ribbons. One definitely doesn't need to move much around to be ready for the holidays in this place, isn't it? I mean, you'd only need to take out the non-appropriate decorations and colors that don't match the season and hide it somewhere. Maybe in the drawers in the wall to the opposite side of the window? And i mean in the wall, the drawers are the wall.

And now that we are looking at that wall, you'll notice the wood is that same brown-red. Some of those little thing-keepers are open, and... well, i'm not stopping you to go look at whats inside those drawers. Is a six by six wall full of them, and coming from the look of this place, there has to be something interesting there, right?

Let me just warn you about the floor before you stand up, which actually, did you enjoy your warm drink? Maybe it was your favorite, or maybe just the one you would think to be pleasant while warm.

I had some warm chocolate milk myself, if you were wondering.

Anyway, the floor. Under the table we have a circular carpet, yellow, with orange tones and a red ring almost on it's borders. It has a symbol in the middle, on deep blue, almost looks like a very elaborated snowflake... If you find a way to make them more elaborated than they already are, i mean. Is hard to see with how the leg of the table splits on four at the end.

The floor is wood too, light brown. It has very few holes, and from some little plants are starting to grow. It was a matter of time, honestly.

And around our chairs and just under the bookshelves? Piles of books. But specially piles of papers, tall enough to reach my waist. And maybe i'm fairly small, but that doesn't mean there isn't a lot of paper here—all of them are in different stages of use too. Some have things written over, from one single theme, but those are the ones under everything else, the ones in better order. The papers on top of everything, the most on hand, seem to have miscellaneous notes, and on the brink of falling. Maybe reminders, to-do lists, dreams scribbled with an still sleeping hand, or even the best effort of someone to note down the notes of a mental melody, for someone that has half the correct idea of music theory.

You try to not step on anything as you go to the drawers. You most be wondering by now what i wanted to say at the start, and why am i taking so long to tell you. And to that, i'll tell you not to worry. I mean, you were about to go investigate what were in the i-don't-know-how-many drawers, just to find that your hand landed in a ladder. One of those with wheels on the lower tips.

And now you look up. And realize i never told you if there was a ceiling over us.

This place is as much of a tiny library as is a memory. Maybe broken and mixed up, but still.

You go up the ladder to find yourself in a second floor like a balcony, looking down at me. And to answer your possible question, yes. That second floor is as messy as this one, but this time all walls are cluttered bookshelves only. Maybe less ribbons? And actually, is there more skulls in the free spaces between books...?

And what about the ceiling? Well. There's another floor to go to, with the help of another ladder, and then, a window just over the hole the balconies made, like a dome.

It starts raining as soon as you look at it. Odd. But is not much. From where i am, we would call it fool's rain. Or something like that. You'd only get wet with that rain if you were a dummy about it, it's what i'm saying.

Now look at this. I'm handing you a book from one of the bookshelves behind you, on the third floor. It has so many bookmarked pages, the pages are starting to turn yellow, and has a smell like an almost old paper, glue, and a barely noticeable hint of vanilla.

...Wait, how did i get here?

No matter.

I'm gonna rest my arms in the handrail while you look at the book, if you excuse me, and... there it is.

Is the same exact one as the first one from that post. Very pretty, right?

To think it inspired all of this.

Just as pretty as the rest of this place, if i must say so myself. But now tell me... would you want to know what's in the book, what the bookmarks are about, why there's just so many highlighted parts? The dried marked feels funny to the touch, right?

Again, tell me: Is there something in you that would wish to go floor by floor reading every single book, journal, notebook, file and document; look at each trinket, use a bit of that ink on a empty paper—because there must be some kind of quill or pen in those drawers—, and maybe make some of those puppet-dolls rest on each other, like friends?

And once again: what about maybe painting this place to a canvas? Taking a picture from different angles as the sun hits the bookshelves and anything gleaming. Or maybe just sinking in one of the chairs as the night makes this place glow...

If anything of that, or maybe even more that i hadn't thought of, appeals to you, i'm glad.

Because i know, maybe not you, but someone out there, wouldn't.

I've seen it a lot lately. With some very selected people that yearn for a place like this, with the books looking like variations of the one in your hands, with journals full of quotable words, and drawers full of useful things for each moment. But they don't really... want a place like this, at the same time. You know what i mean?

A horrifying thought is that the same people who would want a place like this just for the idea of what it is, a place of "intellect", after a while would try making it "better" by painting everything white, take out a good portion of these books, and leaving in just the necessary. Or less. The pretty to the eye. The minimum. Like the book i gave you, but only that one. Those same people would call this place dark academia and not even check a single book in here, just to be more direct.

Or in way less words, the people who want the image of a reader without reading.

And i mean... i can't blame them.

An aesthetic is formed with patterns, places and things that feel and seem similar and related, sometimes gaining a name. I also like how this place looks in the surface, dark academia as it is is wonderful, honestly. Like a living oil painting; is fascinating. But i worry for the people who chase after the image of things without actually seeing what makes them so magical.

More so since we all been there, in a way or another. Is part of growing up, and not from childhood to adulthood, if you were wondering. From yesterday to tomorrow.

I'm still there in some aspects, trying to get out of that hole.

Each word on every single one of these books... it reminds me of being little and passing my fingers over the many books we had in my house, but i was intimidated to read most of them because of how many words that meant i was gonna read, how many stories and how many concepts they had that i wasn't sure i would grasp. How long it would take to do all of that. If i was ever going to finish... And now i look at this place i made for this occasion (or... in a way) and i think of all the things listed in the files and documents; of reading the thoughts and feelings of other human beings, now pasted for the rest of the world in a journal or book; of all the notebooks with unknown things to be curious of.

And... well, even just looking at this place with a "It is that deep" attitude could tell you a story of it's own, don't you think?

I guess what i wanted to say is that... the world is bigger than people think. Which is scary, so we sit down with comfortable images instead of adventuring beyond into that massive place. I guess it would be also scary to think that when we come back from that world, if we ever do, we won't be the same...

And that will make us "other" to the people we care about.

And in an age where the self can feel so fragile in an ever changing world, where if you don't change fast enough with everyone else, or stay with everyone else...

Is absolutely hellish.

...And once again, if you're wondering how i ended up standing on the ceiling, i have no idea either. Things happen.

But at least it stopped raining, so I'll be heading out from the little glass trapdoor conveniently put in the middle of the window-dome.

And if you want to follow me after thinking as long as you want in this place, remember: The world's a bigger place when each wall is a floor.

[marzzrocks]

i also wanted to show some of the houses i made today in hhp; here is Mitzi’s !

[enigmalynne]

Something to be Thankful For

Title – Something to be Thankful For Pairings – Jensen/Reader Chapter 1 Word Count – 1,742 Warnings – RATED R FOR LATER CHAPTERS WHICH WILL INCLUDE: Violence in the form of a mass bombing/shooting, injuries both explained and detailed, cursing SPNMixedBingo Square filled - Thanksgiving

Jensen walked into his usual coffee shop with a smile on his face. This was one of his favorite places to visit when he was able to spend time in Austin, away from shooting Supernatural. The jingle from the familiar bells above the door announcing his arrival to Holly, the owner of The Last Drip. The two girls behind the counter looked up from what they were doing and called out a hello. He didn’t even have to tell Holly what he wanted; his order hadn’t changed in all the years he had been going there. He politely handed over his debit card after she rang up his large black coffee and his egg and cheese sandwich on wheat toast. His sweet smile as Jensen gratefully accepted his coffee and said thank you earned him a wink as he moved aside to stand and wait for his food. As he waited, he looked thoughtfully around the café.

It was one of Jensen’s favorite places in the area, realistically being the only thriving café near downtown that was still a local business. Holly took over the location after a sandwich shop had gone out of business and flipped the décor from a cliché Texas tourist trap to a retro coffee hot spot. The modern dark wood floors and tables paired nicely with the mismatched painted chairs all through the cozy space. Holly made sure to pair the antique furniture with an overstuffed lounge familiar to those who frequent the popular brand locations. Jensen genuinely loved it. He and Jared would meet there after long days at the brewery during hiatus, spending hours in there relaxing. Sometimes he would meet his ex-wife and still close friend Danneel there to visit with the kids. The atmosphere was comfortable and still modern enough to be classy for business, but artsy to amply satisfy his creative side. As he was looking around, an unfamiliar woman caught his eye. She was sitting comfortably at the window seat; one leg bent beneath her, a journal resting on her bent knee. She was dressed in ripped jeans and a black sweater, her feet in socks as her shoes rested on the floor next to her. “Your usual breakfast sandwich,” Holly said, handing the item out. “Who’s the new girl in the window seat?” Jensen asked Holly as he took his breakfast from her. “I haven’t seen her around here before.” Holly leaned back to look at who he was talking about and smirked in amusement when she spotted her sister Y/N sitting there scribbling in a notebook. “That? Oh, that’s Y/N, my sister from Florida. She just moved to Austin to work with the Sheriff’s Office. You should go say hi!” Holly exclaimed enthusiastically. Jensen stared at Y/N and smiled fondly. “Y/N …” he muttered as he carefully looked at her, testing how her name felt on his tongue as he watched her reposition her legs to get more comfortable, fingers pushing a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Jensen… Jensen?” Holly said with a smirk. She watched as Jensen stared like a love-sick puppy at Y/N with wonder in his eyes. Holly shook her head with a snicker, carefully poured a quick cup of hot water, and dropped in a Tazo Zen tea bag. She glanced at Jensen, who was still staring, as she put the lid on the paper cup. Setting the cup in front of him, she snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Hey, Romeo!” “Huh? What?” he asked, startling and looking over at her. He realized that he was staring at Holly’s sister and got embarrassed. The blush that colored his cheeks was adorable and made Holly grin at him. “Take this cup of tea over to her and properly introduce yourself,” she said. When he didn't take the drink, she scooted the cup closer to him. Holly smirked, putting a hand on her hip. Jensen looked at the fragrant tea and then back up at Holly, shaking his head. “No. I mean, should I? She looks busy,” he said cautiously, looking over at her again. Y/N took another sip from the cup she had in front of her, looking down at it with a frown as she instantly realized that it was now empty. Holly’s smirk turned into a kind smile, aware of Jensen’s shy side. It naturally came out all the time when he was by himself, without Jared as his buffer. “Yes, you should. Take that with you. Make a good impression, Handsome,” Holly said softly. With a reassuring nod, turning away to make another customer’s coffee. Jensen looked at the tea Holly put in front of him and sighed. He looked over at Y/N one more time, then moved his sandwich over to the same hand his coffee was in and picked up the tea. Slowly and cautiously, he walked over to where Y/N was sitting. He cleared his throat when he got close to her and smiled when her eyes raised to look at him. Jensen blushed when he noticed the surprised recognition in her eyes. “Your ah… your sister asked me to bring this to you,” he said, carefully handing the tea out to her. Y/N’s eyes widened as she pointed eagerly to him. “You… you’re Jensen Ackles…” she said softly. Jensen chuckled a little and nodded his head.

“Yeah,” he said humbly, holding out the paper cup a little farther. Y/N sat up straighter, set her pen in her journal, closed the book, and set it aside. She reached out to carefully take the paper cup he was brought her. “Jensen Ackles is bringing me…” she lifted the lid of the cup he handed her. “…my favorite tea.” Jensen laughed wryly at this and shook his head. She looked back up at him. “Wow.” Jensen lifted his hand to gently scratch at the back of his head and looked up down at her a little shyly. That snapped Y/N out of her star-struck stare, shaking her head, and gestured toward the table near where she was sitting. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I’m an idiot. Hi. Please, sit down. Thank you for the tea. I’m Y/N Y/L/N. You…” she stuttered out. Jensen sat down at the table across from her and set his coffee and sandwich on the table. “I take it you know who I am, but yeah… I’m Jensen. You’re a fan?” he asked tentatively. Y/N nodded. “Huge fan. Since season 1. It’s my guilty pleasure,” Y/N said. Holly watched as they started talking, smiling to herself. Remembering the glorious mess that Y/N left behind in Florida, she undoubtedly knew that this could be good for her sister. Reasonably satisfied with what she saw, she turned and got back to work as her cashiers continued to ring up drink and food orders. “So, Holly said something about you moving here from Florida?” Jensen said, opening the wrapper to his breakfast sandwich. Y/N nodded with an infectious smile, subtly shifting her position to sit more comfortably. “Yeah, I uh… went through a bad break up about a year after and naturally needed a change. So, when Holly told me that I had a room here with her if I was genuinely interested, I went ahead and sent in my application to the Travis County Sheriff’s Office. Three weeks later, it was a thing. Put in my papers and packed up my meager belongings. Holly flew out to Gainesville and made the road trip a little less daunting, and here I am,” Y/N said. If Jensen was startled by the start of her story, he didn’t show it. Y/N looked down at the hot cup of tea in her hands, smiling softly at it. “I’m sorry about the breakup,” Jensen said softly. Y/N looked back up at him with a gentle shake of the head. “Don’t be. It realistically was a long time coming,” Y/N said just as softly. Her kindly smile turned sad. “Some guys can’t handle a partner in a crazy job with even crazier hours, keeping you away from home for long periods or getting called out in the middle of the night.” Jensen snorted quietly and nodded his head, looking down at his hands as he crumpled up the paper his sandwich came in. Y/N paused for a long moment, and then looked contrite. “But… you probably know all about that, don’t you? I’m sorry to hear about your divorce, Jensen. I’m sure that couldn’t have been easy,” she said soothingly. Jensen looked up at Y/N with unspeakable sadness in his brilliant eyes. His charming smile, small as it was, was genuine. “It wasn’t. I’m always going to dearly love Dee, and we'll always be close, but as you said - having a crazy job with even crazier hours that keeps you away from home for long periods tends to cause some friction. Sometimes the writing is on the wall. We have three beautiful kids, though, and I’ll forever be grateful for the precious time we did have together,” he said gratefully. That made Y/N smile widely. “And that’s all that matters in the end. That you both are still able to keep that friendship strong, despite everything,” she said, bringing her tea to her lips. Jensen stared at her, his eyes filling with wonder for a moment. That wasn’t the reaction he was realistically expecting from her. Y/N looked at him quizzically. “What?” she eagerly questioned. Jensen simply shook his head with a light scoff. “Just… not the reaction I expected, honestly. Most everybody else tends to get excited to see me as a free man. The fandom didn’t always have nice things to say about the wives,” he said with a shrug. Y/N smirked and leaned forward as if to eagerly tell

Jensen a well-kept secret. “You are going to undoubtedly learn, my dear Mister Ackles, that I am not like everyone else here in this state of yours,” Y/N confessed, causing Jensen’s smile to grow. “Is that so, Miss Y/L/N?” he questioned her. Y/N nodded solemnly at him. “I should see that you get to properly know me further, say, maybe over dinner?” Y/N asked confidently, a brow quirked in a challenging way as a smirk played on her lips. Jensen faked offense at her offer, huffing a scoff at her indignantly. “Miss Y/L/N! You undoubtedly stole my line!” he exclaimed joyfully. This naturally caused Y/N to chuckle.

Supernatural:

@akshi8278 @vicmc624 @agirlwithdemonblood @flamencodiva @hobby27 @mimaria420 @compresshischest09 @kkrivers

Jensen/Dean Taglist

@deandreamernp @siospins @sacriceria

[botanicials]

wish this was the full part, but here is a sneak peak of falling in love at a coffee shop. the first few rough paragraphs. coming soon! littles will be posted until then ❣️

falling in love at a coffee shop

i. (sneak peak!)

October 13

The cold NYC wind is forgiving for once, all things considered. You had just spent your evening watching over seven sugar high eight-year-olds that had decided finger painting was the ideal after school activity. It was laborious at times and their parents probably weren’t too pleased, but the kids were happy.

Your phone is warm against your cheek as you walk, owing to the Disney Favorites playlist you were asked to play- and Eloise skipping nearly every song that wasn’t sung by Elsa or Moana. Your mother’s words are insistent in your ear: plane tickets, dinners, graduation details.

“It isn’t for another… what? Four months? We’ll figure it out.”

You hear your mother sigh. “I’d rather plan everything out now, the end of the year brings me enough stress as is.”

“It-“

“And what is it with your graduation ceremony being in January? Such an odd time. I mean, right after the holidays? Don’t they realize we might want a bit of a break?”

You laugh lightly at that, eyes spotting the familiar rusting sign hanging up ahead. “Um, has to do with my hours and the kids’ semester ending. I don’t know. Tickets should be cheaper, they usually are after Christmas.”

“Suppose that’s a positive.”

“Definitely a positive- I’ll call you later, I’m grabbing some food so I can hurry up and get home. There's an apron covered with paint in my bag and I’m convinced it’ll stain everything I have inside.”

You begin to unwrap your scarf from your neck as you near closer to the mahogany red door, turning to push it open with your side. “You put an apron covered in paint in your bag?” She sounds incredulous.

“It’s rolled, mom. I’ll call you later.” You repeat.

“Soon.” She says, and you hum before finally ending the call.

A gust of warm air hits the chilled skin of your face when you enter, along with the strong aroma of brewing coffee and a hint of vanilla. You move quickly to close the door behind you, not wanting to disturb anyone with the reality of what they’d have to endure once they leave.

“Welcome in.”

Your eyes follow over to the voice that called out, to catch him take a quick glance at you before turning to meet your eyes again.

He’s not much taller than the familiar college students that work here, but judging from his shoulders, his build is clearly much larger. Atop his wool baby blue sweater is a- definitely used -burgundy apron you’ve seen time and time again. Who you haven’t seen, however, is him.

Once his eyes flicker to the new customer in front of him and back to you, you realize that you’d completely ignored his greeting. And hadn’t moved from the door?

You find yourself sending a clumsy smile before moving across the hardwood floors to stand in line behind the short balding man repeating his order.

Your phone is in your hand a moment later, needing a distraction as to not ogle at the pretty green-eyed barista any longer. Your thumb instinctively lands on Instagram, as much as you wish it hadn’t.

A selfie of an old friend from high school.

A photo of someone’s newborn. The third you’d seen this month.

The conventional food flat lay.

You hear the man in front of you make a second order of two dozen bagels for a big meeting tomorrow morning. “Hoping for a promotion,” he says, a clear smile in his voice. You silently wish him the best. With bagels from Coldwell’s, he was bound to make a good impression.

You’ve been coming here since the beginning of your junior year, finding the cozy café to be a home away from home. You’d discovered it after moving out of your dorm, it was an unmistakable upgrade from the campus coffee shop you were forced to visit every morning.

Thick floor to ceiling windows on one wall, exposed brick and a menu on another; coupled with the bulbous string lights, numerous plants hanging from the ceiling and perched on shelves with the occasional vintage record. 

There were unspoken sections inside; couches and low tables for group study sessions, a line of comfy booths along the back for brunches and dates, a few tables with mismatched wooden chairs for those who’d rather spend some time alone. It was always clean and well kept, and during Christmas, it smelled of nutmeg.

Depending on which barista had their phone connected to the speakers, the shop was either playing Spotify’s Chill Lofi Study Beats or smooth jazz, both welcomed by the regulars that filtered in day-to-day.

You hear the last drop of the bagel slicer when your phone buzzes faintly. Milo: We should go for breakfast one morning. When are you free? :)  That message alone was enough for you to stuff your phone into your bag. Jesus Christ.

You watch the man’s scuffled loafers as he makes his way out, the arm free from two large boxes lifting to wish his barista a good night. Speaking of, he’s got a welcoming grin on his face when you step to the counter. There was no doubt he was recalling your odd entrance.

“Hello.”

His eyes are bright, they remind you of a dewy morning in a garden - and you wish you were in the right state of mind to watch him the way he was watching you. “Hi, um”, your eyes fly up to the menu as if you weren’t sure of exactly what you were getting. “Are you still selling those bottled fruit drinks? I usually get them in the morning.”

“The Pressed ones? Got a few in the back but I’ll grab one for you. What flavor?” You take a second to inwardly scold yourself for focusing too hard on the way he’d flavor, there was no second-guessing on whether he had an accent or not from moments ago.

“Blackberry,” you say, sending a small smile.

He taps at the screen of the POS, his lips tucked into his mouth as you reach into your bag for your wallet.

Not there. No. Not that pocket either.

You frown.

“So, a blackberry Pressed, anything else?”

Your head is nearly inside of your purse as you move your belongings around, cautious of smearing Crayola paint anywhere. “Please, a blueberry um...”, you flip the apron to stick out a bit and allow you more room to see, careful not to squeeze it too hard, “bagel?”

A beat of silence.

“You sure?”

Your head snaps back up to find the barista- Harry, his name tag reads, it suits him -smiling at you, teasing.

You laugh at yourself a bit before buttoning your bag closed. Your wallet was nowhere to be found; which would frighten you if you hadn’t already left it in the classroom twice this week. “Yes-. Yeah, sorry my brain is like, fried from studying.”

“No, yeah totally get it,” he says. Tot-ally.

You find yourself contemplating on whether you should tell him to completely scrap your order or give in and finally figure out how ApplePay works. He scratches at his chin. “Erm.. cream cheese?”

You have some at home. “No, thank you.”

He nods and you take a glance at the tiny hoop earring that catches in the overhead light as he does. You’re just about to resume digging in your bag to check one more time, when he surprises you by saying something that isn’t your total. “What are you majoring in?”

You readjust. “Education. I want to teach 3rd grade.”

“Do you?” His smile is wide and you notice the dimples that sink into his cheeks. Because of course, the guy has dimples.

His genuine happiness takes you by surprise and you laugh. “Yeah, I graduate this year. Well- hopefully. Still have to pass my finals.”

He’s still tapping at the POS- definitely taking much longer than normal, but you don’t mind. Thankfully you had nowhere to be for once.

“M’sure you’ll do great.” You smile, despite the fact that his eyes were still on the screen in front of him. “I um, I graduated just last year,” he looks up to see your eyebrows rise in question. “Film.”

“Film?” you repeat. “I.. Honestly, I can see that.” The earring, the eyes, his style. It made sense.

Tap. Tap. You catch the price going down.

“That because I’m working at a coffee shop?”

“That- What? No, no. I-“

He lets out a boyish giggle and shakes his head. “Only joking. That was a bit of a dig to us film majors, hm?”

“A little. It just makes sense,” you continue. “You look like a film major.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s a compliment,” you say, and his lips twist to fight a smile.

“I’ll take it,” he says, slipping a glove onto his left hand. Your eyes immediately take notice of the cross etched next to his thumb. “Total comes out to $3.21. I’ll go grab your-“

“You didn’t have to do that.” You’ve ordered this countless times, and though Anne let you have your things for free when no one else was around, it’s always come out to $6.78.

Harry only frowns, shaking his head. Don’t worry about it. “I’ll go grab your drink.”

“Sure. Thank you.”

The second he disappeared into the kitchen  you’ve seen so little of, you quickly lift your wrist to try and figure out how this stupid watch worked.

You told yourself to test this out at some point, but you just haven’t had the time. The pad of your figure taps and swipes against the tiny screen, nothing screaming pay with me!

Not that app.

Not that one either.

Had you even set it up?

You hear the door smack lightly against the wall. “Alright here’s- oh,” Harry stumbles upon return, eyebrows drawn together. “Did the card not work? There’s a chip at the bottom-“

“No, I was- I left my wallet at work and I’m trying to..” You point at the card reader. “Does this have Apple Pay?”

His eyes flicker between your watch and the reader before nodding. “Yeah, you’ve just got to..” he leans over the counter a bit and his hand hovers over yours. “May I?”

With confirmation, his nimble fingers press lightly into the inside of your wrist, tilting it toward the reader. His touch is soft- he’s excessively gentle despite only adjusting your hand. He moves his thumb to double click a button on the side of your device, the palm of his hand brushing the side of yours.

The both of you look up at one another, eyes meeting in much closer proximity than any time tonight.

You can’t possibly pick up a guy at a coffee shop. Right?

Ding!

You look down at your wrist that’s still in his hold, your tiny screen now displaying a successful checkmark.

He swiftly pulls his hand away, the gloved one quickly grabbing your bagel as the other grabbed a waxed baggie. “Sorry-“

“No, thank you.” You can’t help but let out a clumsy laugh at the moment the two of you just shared. Silly, you think to yourself.

“To go, yeah?”

“Please.”

He smiles, eyes focused on the screen before the printer hums to life and begins to spit out your receipt.

You watch as he works the bagel slicer and toaster without conscious thought, large hand pulling off his glove before taping the flimsy paper to the front of the bag. He’s sliding your items over to you to grab when you speak once more.

“And thank you again, for the discount.”

He only shakes his head, lips turning down into a funny looking frown. “Don’t worry about it, really. Good luck on finals.”

You smile gratefully, managing to hold your juice and bagel in one hand as you make your way back over to the door. “Thank you! Have a good night.”

“Bye, love you—“ He practically chokes on his own spit, turning quickly to cough steadily into the crook of his elbow.

You were halfway out of the door when you heard him, and now you stare, amused as the cold wind nips at the left side of your face. “Love me?”

“I-“ His nose crinkles, and he coughs one last time. “Sorry, I-“ You watch as he visibly relaxes once his focus is back on you and not on trying to breathe correctly. 

Your head is tilted to the side, an obvious glint in your eye.

He lets out a breathy laugh before trying to continue. “I don’t-” Your eyebrows rise as he stumbles. “- love you. I just- I say it to friends a lot and I guess it… slipped? I don’t know-“

“I’m teasing.” You call out over the wind that blows through as you push the door open wider. You can’t help but laugh to yourself as you move to leave. “Don’t worry. Bye, Harry.”

[fullmarvelheart]

Crossing Lines (1/?)

Pairing: mob!Bucky x fbi!mob!Reader

Word Count: 3,322

Series summary: A sudden and unsettling event rocks the underworld, and Y/N is immediately called in to prepare for what’s to come. What she isn’t prepared for is James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, also known as the new head of the Brooklyn mafia clan. When these two get shoved into a world of danger and deceit, will they ever learn to trust each other? Or will they be doomed from the start?

Warnings: Blood, gore, violence, little bit of angst, slight swearing, slow burn (more to be added as the series progresses)

A/N: I’m finally able to post this today! I’ve been counting down until I could get this out😂 This is the first story that I have written and posted on my Tumblr account. I’m a bit nervous but very excited. I have not entirely proofread this story. Though, I would like to thank my beta reader, Lauren, for all the help and motivation she gave me. The GIF is not mine, credit to the original creator! And a big thank you to the @the-ss-horniest-book-club​ for hosting Mob!Bucky Appreciation Day and inspiring me to post this story.

Series Masterlist

The sharp clicking noise of my heels, followed by the dull thud of several boots, echo on the wooden stairs leading to the basement of my childhood home. I follow the along the long stretch of the twisting hallways until we reach a door that's muffling the slaps and punches behind it. 

One of the men that had met me in the foyer, and had followed me down, knocks twice on the door as I tuck my hand into the back pocket of the curve-hugging black jeans I wore for the day. Moments later, the steel door swings open with a low whine from the give of the rusted hinges. The scent of blood and sweat is the first thing I notice followed by the image of the room. 

Five men stand beyond the doorway. The man who opened the door stands near the edge of steel, gun hanging loosely at his side. Two bodyguards stand in adjacent corners of the room, making sure it’s possible to guard the others with in. Two others, the two most trusted of the household, including the right hand to the leader of the Manhattan Mafia Empire, stand imposingly in front of a man bound to a chair in the center. By the amount of fresh blood dripping onto the floor, this wasn't just some petty offense against the leader. Which draws my attention to the final man, leaning carelessly on a table filled with painful weapons. Nicholas J. Fury, the leader of this mafia clan, and my adopted father. 

"You summoned me from my apartment, Boss?" I say with a smirk while jutting out my hip. 

Phil Coulson, father's righthand, gives me a smirk in return while Maria Hill, his enforcer, just sends a half-hearted glare my way. However, father's face remains neutral.

"I did." He spares me a one-eyed glance. "Tell me what you see?"

I hum in thought to myself as I stalk my way around to see the captive's face. The top half of his once light-colored shirt is now hanging open from being cut by a knife or something similarly sharp. But it's cut open enough to view a tattoo resting on his right breast. 

A red skull surrounded by a halo of octopus tentacles. 

I grunt in distaste. "HYDRA scum."

The man lifts up his bloodied and beaten head to snarl at me. He twists his mouth before lobbing a spit ball at my feet. The glob of mixed spit and blood lands inches from my black, closed-toe heels. 

I scoff at the action and brush my hand into the waistline of my jeans. When I feel the slim metal hilt, I maneuver the object into my palm. With the push of a small button the knife of the switchblade extends before I quickly drive it into his thigh. He screams out in pain as I keep the blade firmly in place. When his screams turn into tired wails of agony, I turn towards my father. 

"Who is he?" I ask, motioning my head towards the man.

"We believe he's behind the hit on George Barnes. Or at least, is attempting to put the blame on us." He explains in his no-nonsense tone. 

My eyes widen in shock, my lips parting slightly. 

"George Barnes was shot at? Is this why I've been called in?" The prisoner painfully chuckles, quietly enough for only me to hear him. 

"He's dead, sweet cheeks." He whispers with a smirk of victory.

I growl at him before twisting my knife and yanking it out while I stand.

"So, why am I here? I assume it's not to attend the funeral because you know I can't. It was just a risk just to even come here." My father gives me a pointed look.  

"I need you to go with them to the warehouse with the prisoner while your siblings and I attend the funeral that's being held in a couple of hours. After the funeral, George's son and I will discuss some business about our alliance with the Brooklyn clan. I'll call you with the details." I nod at his instructions. 

"You know the FBI is going to have me all over this case once they receive word of Barnes’ death, right?" He nods. 

"I'm counting on it." 

"I'll be waiting by the van." I tell him before wiping my knife on the man’s already dirty shirt and tucking the now closed switchblade into the band of my jeans.  

I'm escorted back up the stairs towards the side of the house where the cars sit waiting in father's massive garage. Though the reason for the escort is now clear. My safety. My personal bodyguards, some of my father's most trusted men, meet back up with me to continue through the house. The sounds of nearing footsteps draw my attention to another hallway. My siblings, the twins, round the corner with their own group of bodyguards. 

Wanda, the youngest, according to her brother, is dressed in all black. Appropriate for a funeral. Her brown hair is in casual waves while her makeup is mostly minimally visible. Her natural eyeshadow pairs well with the red lip tint she chose. Her normal red leather jacket is replaced by a similar black one that's draped over a black dress which is cinched at the waist. Her normal array of colorful and seemingly mismatched jewelry has been changed into a long silver chain necklace and a simple dark color bracelet. And to top off the outfit, she put on a pair of high heeled ankle boots. A surprised gasp leaves her lips when she spots me and soon, she's running to me as fast as she can in those heels. Her brother, Pietro, follows not too far behind her. 

Pietro is dressed in a similar fashion. His silver dyed hair is brushed into gentle waves. A black leather jackets lays over a black dress shirt while matching pants and shoes. He also wears a small silver chain with a blue pendant on it. A gift from his twin.

Wanda pulls me into a tight hug with an excited squeal and I laugh, returning her hug with equal excitement.

"Y/N/N what are you doing here?!" She giggles as she pulls back. I laugh while Pietro pulls me into a similar hug. 

"What? Can't an older sister stop by and see her two favorite siblings?" I gasp in mock offense once I'm released from the hug.

"We're your only siblings." Pietro reminds with a roll of his eyes. 

"Besides, being undercover doesn't really allow time for social visits." Wanda points out. I only sigh. Sometimes she's too perceptive. 

"It has to do with Brooklyn doesn't it?" Pietro asks while crossing his arms. As the only male heir of our father, Pietro is often included or informed of current affairs. Again, I sigh in defeat, though I shouldn’t be surprised he knows.  

"Yeah, father called me in. This is a real shit show and I have a feeling this is just the beginning of it." I mutter distastefully.

They both nod in understanding, but Wanda looks equal parts sad and disappointed. But this is our life, we're used to it by now. Even though it's not always what we wish to have.

I gently smile before pulling them both into a big hug. 

"Promise me you two will be careful out there?" Wanda tightens her grip on me. 

"It's not us," She begins slowly. "Who you should be worried about." I chuckle dryly, knowing she's right, as I squeeze her back before pulling away from both of them.

"I suppose not. Still, I do. Now, I need to be going soon. I will see you both later." Pietro nods in acceptance, but Wanda let's her head droop slightly. I give her hand a tight squeeze before me and my bodyguards resume our way to where the cars are. 

I climb back into the car that I came here in, and wait patiently for the driver and everyone to clamber in. The car is started but we remain idling sitting. As a way to occupy myself, I reach into the side door and feel for what I hid in there before I went in. When my fingers brush over the leather holster, I grab it and attach it, and the gun it holds, to a pocket on the inside of my leather jacket. When it's secure, I fold the jacket back over my chest, concealing the firearm in the process. 

A muffled struggle echoes through the once silent garage.

"You want me to take care of that?" I ask the men who sit with me in the car, my fingers brushing over the spot in my jacket where my gun rests. 

"Nah, I'll go check it out." One of my bodyguards, Mackenzie, or Mack as he's called, replies from the passenger seat. 

"Of bloody course you'd be the first one of us lot to check it out." The driver, a Brit, by the name of Hunter scoffs.  

Mack just shakes his head before he opens the door and leaves. When there's a few moments of silence after the car door is shut, that’s when Hunter speaks again. 

"What are the odds of him bringing up something about needing that shotgun-axe again once he gets back in here?"

I chuckle and I see the shoulders of the person next to me move slightly. 

"High." May, the bodyguard next to me and the one that I trust with mostly everything, responds with a slight edge of humor in her voice. Then she turns to me. "Boss, I was going to wait until we cleared the property,-"

"A good idea, May. I don't know much as of now, I can tell you that, but I'll tell the rest once we’re on the move."

She nods and the front passenger door opens at the same time. 

"You'd think the men would know how to handle prisoners, like that one, by now." He grumbles as he settles into his seat. "I swear, one look at a shotgun-axe would scare the life out of those boys. Maybe they'd actually listen to simple instructions at that point."

We all the chuckle as the caravan of cars begins its trip out of the garage and to the warehouse. As we pull down the driveway, I reach into the pocket behind the passenger seat and pull out the object I stashed there and clip it inside my jacket, not too far from my gun. The gold of the badge reflects the light onto the side door while I begin to put on the mask that's essential for my survival out there in this scary world. The letters of F, B, and I revolve in my mind as I stare out the window at my former home. My life is a dangerous one and every aspect has a devastating risk with it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The warehouse is a dark place. Even if there is daylight present, streaming through the dirty frosted windows, a dark and dangerous feeling surrounds the place. It clings to it like the smell of a cigarette on clothes. For newcomers, like the prisoner that followed us in another van just a few behind our own, it's daunting. It's certain death. To me and my bodyguards, only our hairs stand on end in anticipation of what is to come.

I informed my guards of what I knew about the situation on the way here. A reverent silence filled the air at the mention of the late George Barnes' death. He treated his men well, was honest and loyal to his allies, and was a good man. Brooklyn and all of New York will miss him.

I stand in the empty warehouse floor, several paces in front of the unconscious prisoner, who's slumped against his restraints. Turns out the men are really in an impatient mood today. I cross my arms while I zone out observing him. Why did HYDRA do this? What did they gain? What's the bigger picture that I'm missing?  

The faint sound of gravel crunching under tires drags me from my head and has me turning towards the opened garage-looking doors. Three black vans drive in and come to a stop not too far from the entrance. Father and Coulson are the first to step out from the center van. My siblings then file out from the one on the right. The rest of the men who were in the cars climb out and seem to form a barrier between the front entrance and the four people headed straight for me.

"I thought I would be receiving a phone call first." I give father a weary glance, noticing his seriousness about something.

"Change of plans." He answers swiftly, and rather seriously. I begin to grow uncomfortable.

The sound of more approaching vehicles has my eyes widening as I turn my curious and nervous expression on my father who gives me a reassuring nod. 

"Fury." I hiss under my breath, not liking the idea of going into a situation blindly. He simply ignores me.

My focus is drawn back to the entrance as car doors closing harshly sound in my ears, though my gaze never wavers from my father's profile. A cadence of footsteps march across the unpaved driveway and into the warehouse, only pausing in front of the line of father's men. It's only when the footsteps draw nearer that I finally look at the party joining us.

My eyes widen, ever so slightly, at the sight of three imposing men nearing closer to where I stand. The man on my left is tall and broad-chested. His shiny blond hair reflects the dim light of the warehouse. His jawline is clean and sharp like a knife, adding to the dangerous air around him. The man in the center is just slightly shorter than the one on his left. A few strands of his long brown hair frame his face while, I assume, the rest is pulled back. However, the stubble on his face and those piercing blue eyes that I can see, even in the dim warehouse lighting, gives me an idea of who I’m dealing with. James “Bucky” Barnes. A man whose reputation for being a cold-blooded killer and a ladies’ man is very well known. However, any idea of seriousness is completely forgotten when I notice the man on my right, James’ left, who’s giving me a hard scowl. The familiar sight of the deep chocolate brown skin, hard eyes, and black hair puts me at ease. I could almost laugh at the situation.

“Samuel T. Wilson.” I chuckle when I see his eye twitch at the sound of his full name.

The trio stops not too far away from my father’s group and me. The sight of those two chocolate brown eyes, that look like they want to murder me, have me smirking.

“Special Agent Y/L/N of the FBI.” He growls, and I feel the tension in the room immediately spike. “I thought I saw the last of ya when I was let go.”

“You’re welcome for that, by the way.” Wilson scoffs and folds his arms across his chest. I also notice Barnes shifting in my periphery and sigh to myself as I think of how to reword things. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have been let go so easily. There wasn’t any substantial evidence against you, but the other agents were going to keep you locked up to send a message. I let it slip to our boss, and he had a big problem with what they were doing. You were let free not too long after. So quit looking like you want to kill me, and maybe offer a ‘thank you’ instead.”

He goes to speak, but that’s when father decides to step in.

“Gentlemen, we came here to discuss a business transaction, not hash out the past. If you three would, follow me. Agent, you too. Son, keep the rest of our guests some company.” There are a series of soft grumbles and complaints, but ultimately, everyone listens.

When the three Brooklyn boys pass the now awake prisoner, his face turns a scary shade of white. And that’s considering the fact that he was already pale due to blood loss. I feel a shiver begin to creep down my spine, but I suppress it. I tell myself it’s because of the type of fear these men can instill, but deep down, I know that it was a low growl I heard somewhere over my shoulder.

Father takes us to one of the few offices in the warehouse and has me shut the door. Barnes sits in the chair across from Fury with both his men flanking either side of him. The only person at my father’s side is Coulson on the right, until I walk up to the vacant spot on my father’s left.

“I think proper introductions should be made before we begin talks.”

“I agree.” Barnes cuts in. “I didn’t realize this meeting would include a dirty Fed.”

I scoff but am interrupted before I can make any smart remark.

“This, gentlemen, is my eldest child. Y/N was the first I adopted and raised in this life. The only reason she is in the FBI is to help us deal with HYDRA.”

“HYDRA is everywhere.” I start explaining. “Like cockroaches in an old building. The only way to make sure every loose end has been tied up is to have all the information. There’s no better way to do it.”

“Hold up. I thought your last name was ‘Y/L/N’.” This time, Wilson interrupts.

“A cover, obviously. If the FBI learned of my ties to the Underworld or to my father, it would be worse than if they thought I was just corrupt.”

“The point is that Y/N will be passing on any information she learns about HYDRA and their plot.”

“I’ll also be keeping a very close eye on anything that may have to do with what happened to your father.” At the mention of him, I see James’ lips twitch slightly while the furrow of his brow deepens. “I am sorry for what happened to him. Your father was a great and very well-respected man.”

The only sign of acknowledgement I get from the new leader of the Brooklyn clan is a slight nod of his head, and I begin to grow uncomfortable in the silence that follows. Luckily, a phone ringing stops the awkwardness from becoming worse. However, it’s not just any phone. It’s my phone. I quickly snatch it from one of the pockets of my leather jacket and glance at the screen.

“It’s my boss.” I inform before answering. “This is Y/L/N. Yes, sir. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.” He hangs up. “I’m being called in. Send me the rest of the details later.” My father nods as he motions for me to leave. Before I do, I look over the three new faces and say in the most professional tone I can gather, “It was nice to properly meet you, gentlemen. I look forward to working with you.”

Without waiting for a reply from one of my father’s, hopefully, new allies to say anything, I hurry around the desk and out of the office. Once Hunter receives the word to get the car ready, I tuck my phone away again.

As I leave the warehouse, goosebumps prickle my skin. Not because it’s cold, or because I’m scared, but because of the pressure that’s suddenly fallen around my shoulders. This attack, this changes everything. HYDRA has always threatened the clans, carried out small or petty attacks, but they have never directly attacked the families. The death of George Barnes is only the catalyst. 

A war is coming, and blood will be spilled. But how prepared am I for what I expect to come?

Part 2

[monsterlovinghours]

Can I please get some soft Scarabee? I have this idea of the reader getting a tarot deck from him, and giving him the first reading, and getting the lovers or a bunch of love cards and BOOKING it out once they realize their subtle crush is not so subtle?

You knocked softly at the door of Scarabee’s attic workshop, your stomach fluttering at the sound of him moving within, which you firmly reminded yourself was nerves and nothing else. Of course he made you nervous, he was a centuries old demon who practiced black magic; he’d make the most stout-hearted of men nervous. Which, of course, is why your hands always seemed to shake when you were around him, why your heart seemed to hammer and your stomach felt as though it were curling into knots. You had hoped your frequent lessons with him at the estate he shared with his associates would dull the effect his presence had on you, that you’d become used to him and grow more comfortable being alone with him. But, while you had always felt safe during your lessons, never once fearing that he would hurt you or cause you harm, your nerves hadn’t seemed to abate. Sometimes, you wondered if he knew how he made you feel, if he could hear your heart race or smell the change in your aura or something. If he did, he never let on. 

Exhaling a deep breath, you arranged your features into a smile when you heard the door open, mismatched eyes and a crooked grin greeting you. “Right on time, cher,” he crooned, stepping back and gesturing for you to enter. You weren’t sure, but you thought you heard him inhale deeply as you passed by, as if breathing in your scent, and the thought caused a shiver to roll down your spine. The door closed behind you, and you took a seat at the table, your usual place for lessons. Scarabee sat in the chair opposite you, as he usually did, but this time, he laid both hands palm-up on the scrubbed surface of his work table. “Gimme your hands,” he said softly, and you did, a little confused on his intentions but obeying nonetheless. Ice cold against your skin, his hands pressed your palms together, the soot that always seemed to cover them leaving gray-ish streaks. “You’ve been my apprentice for a while now, darlin’, and you’ve been making great strides with your magic.” He smiled proudly, and your stomach gave another roll, your cheeks feeling hot.

“Thank you,” you murmured, wanting to look him in the eye but not quite able to bring yourself to do so. You had always had trouble with eye contact, as if looking too close or too deep would burn your eyes, like looking into the sun. His grin hitched a fraction before he continued. 

“I’m right proud of the work you’ve put in, ma cher, so I wanted to give ya a little something.” His hands released yours, pulling your palms apart, and though you’d felt nothing to signal its arrival, a small, handpainted box appeared in your left hand. Your eyes widened a bit; you had seen a box similar to this in his attic, though the patterns and colors were slightly different. 

Before you could ask, he proudly announced, “Voila! Your very own tarot deck.”

There was no quelling the twisting of your stomach as you brought the box closer to inspect it, noticing the detail that had gone into it; he’d included your favorite flower, runes for protection and knowledge, even the constellation that made up your star sign. Opening the box, you saw the cards inside were equally beautiful, all hand painted, bearing floral patterns that incorporated your irises and his lilies; he’d even worked in his signature gold paisley around the edges. 

“Scarabee...they’re gorgeous.” You fanned them out, stunned by the intricate artwork. “This must have taken you ages!”

Crossing one leg over the other, he leaned back in his chair and made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Not as long as you’d think, sugar. Besides, it was my pleasure. You’ve earned it.” You could feel his gaze skate over you, as if sizing you up, then his smile grew wider, showing off the pointed tips of his teeth. “Say, why dontcha break ‘er in?”

You looked up, brow furrowed. “Break it in?”

“Yeah, go ahead and give me a reading real quick. Nothing fancy, just a little something to help you get to know your cards.” Something deep in his eyes flashed. “Or to help the cards get to know you.”

Your throat suddenly felt dry, and you prayed your cheeks didn’t look as red-hot as they felt as you nodded. “Sure,” you agreed, your fingers delicately shuffling the cards the way he’d taught you, techniques he’d learned from decades of professional gambling. Scarabee leaned forward again as you spread your cards in an arc across the table, his attention squarely focused on you. Lungs expanded as you took a deep breath, closing your eyes and letting your hand drift over the cards. Three seemed to leap out at you, tingling like a spark of static electricity when your fingertips made contact. Leaving them facedown, you pulled them from the deck and put the rest to the side. Letting out that deep breath, you flipped the first card. 

Ace of Cups.

Your gut twisted; you knew the meanings of each card, each Arcana inside and out, and you knew very well that this card represented new relationships, that feeling of first love, butterflies in the stomach, giddiness and hope. The urge to look up at Scarabee was strong, but you ignored it, knowing you wouldn’t be able to handle the look on his face once he saw the panic etched into yours. Fingers trembling, you flipped the second card.

The Empress.

A card brimming with sensuality and romantic connection. You felt sick to your stomach. Surely the third card wouldn’t betray you! You turned it over.

The Lovers.

Scarabee couldn’t contain himself; he threw his head back and cackled, his laughter shaking the table. Fire spread across your face in a mortified blush as you hurriedly scooped up the cards and shoved them back into the box, mumbling something about having to leave and scurrying out of the attic as quickly as your legs could carry you, forgetting entirely to take your new tarot deck with you. 

You found an empty library, most likely one of Zhuk’s, and curled up in an enormous high-backed chair upholstered in leather, hiding your face in your hands and nearly wailing with embarrassment. That couldn’t have gone more wrong. You weren’t ready to admit your feelings for Scarabee to yourself, let alone have your brand new tarot deck spell them out right in front of him! You wondered if you could convince Bajo to dig a hole in one of his gardens and bury you inside it so you wouldn’t have to look the Cajun in his mismatched eyes ever again.

Some time passed, you weren’t sure how much, before there was a soft knock on the door. A flash of gold made your heart skip, but the curls and gentle sprinkle of freckles gave the clone away. Bee didn’t say anything as he approached you, only smiled gently and knelt beside the chair. He took your head and pressed something into it; the box containing your new tarot deck. You swallowed hard, then thanked him, finding it easier somehow to look Scarabee’s clone in the eye than the actual man himself. Bee leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your cheek, lingering perhaps just a second too long before he straightened and left the room, the chill of his lips stark against the spreading heat of your blush.

Inside the box, you found a note tucked amongst the cards, and you knew from the handwriting who had penned it. Your stomach gave a flutter as you unfolded it, your heart beginning to pound as you read it.

Ma petite, 

My apologies for laughing, sweetheart, that must have seemed rude of me. I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, but seeing your pretty face go red so quickly was, quite frankly, adorable. I just couldn’t help myself. 

Now, you and I both know what those three cards meant, darling. And I want you to know, they wouldn’t have leaped out at you like that if those feelings weren’t mutual. Understand me, honey? I know you’re probably feeling embarrassed and shy, and that’s alright, but as soon as you’re ready, you just come on up and find me. We’ll have a little talk about how many kisses I need to give you to make up for my transgression. 

And where on your sweet little body those kisses might end up. 

Scarabee.

[ikeromantic]

Balloon Ride

An Ikemen Vampire fanfic written for @kissmetwicekissmedeadly featuring her MC Elaine and Napoleon. This is part of my 300 follower Thank you! 

Approx 3000 words, fluff and smut - be fair warned. 

Elaine and Sebastian had their hands full with picnic goodies and supplies. Comte’s announcement at dinner the night before took them both by surprise. No one expected him to announce a ‘family’ picnic, but no one objected either. 

That left Sebas and Elaine with a lot of prep to do on short notice. They’d been up since dawn cooking and preparing a variety of treats for the mansion residents. Well, Sebas did most of the cooking between them if Elaine was honest, but that left her to round up everything else.

It was strange though. Elaine went to get a heavy picnic quilt, and instead found Theo and Arthur carrying out a pavilion, with Leonardo and Isaac carrying a table out behind them.

“I - I thought we were having a picnic, not building a new dining room outside,” Elaine said, loud enough the boys could hear her. 

Leo chuckled. “Comte never does things simply. Why don’t you go grab some baskets for Sebas, cara. I’m sure he’ll need them.”

“But what about this,” Elaine held out the blanket she’d found. 

Arthur snagged it with one hand and tossed it over his shoulder. “Perfect to bring along so you and I don’t get grass stains on our clothes when we - owww!” He didn’t get to finish. 

Mozart tossed a coin that hit Arthur right in the middle of his forehead. “You’re being too noisy.”

Elaine couldn’t help but laugh. “Thanks Wolf. I guess I’ll go get those baskets.” She turned to go and then glanced back again. “Has anyone seen Napoleon today? I- I think he woke up before me this morning.” Which had been quite a surprise. Leon never woke up before his good morning kiss, but now that she thought about it, he was probably running some errand for Comte.

“Noticed he’s not holding your leash today, hondje,” Theo grinned. 

Arthur, still rubbing the little red spot on his forehead, answered. “He’s at the meadow already, setting up the - ah - some things, I mean, with Jean.”

“Best run along, cara,” Leo added. “There’s a lot to do, and you’re a hard worker, right?” He fished out a cigarillo.

“We don’t have time for you to stop and smoke,” Isaac huffed. “Can we just get this over with?”

Theo and Arthur continued on with the pavilion, clearing the way for Isaac and Leo. Leonardo tucked his cigarillo away with a sigh and gave Elaine a parting wave before carting the table out. 

Elaine sighed. She couldn’t imagine what Comte might have asked Napoleon to do, that Arthur wouldn’t tell her about. Well. She’d find out soon enough. Her gaze found Mozart, still standing on the stair, watching her. “What are you working on for the picnic? Or, did you decide not to go?”

Mozart sniffed. “Comte told me if I didn’t come willingly, he’d hire me. So I am coming. I need to go set up the phonograph.”

“That will be nice, having music outside.” Elaine smiled brightly. It was one of the things she missed about the modern day. There was a certain bliss to popping in your earbuds and putting on a playlist. But with no way to recharge her phone here, in Comte’s mansion, she had only a small selection of records to listen to. 

Mozart gave an abrupt nod and left Elaine to finish her work. She couldn’t think of much left to get for the picnic, besides baskets to carry the food and drink. She went to fish those out of a closet. 

When she returned to the kitchen with four large picnic baskets in tow, Sebas was wrapping sandwiches in waxed paper. “You sound cheerful,” he said without looking up from his task.

“I am.” She set the baskets down. “It turns out we’re going to be eating under a pavilion. At a table. With chairs.”

“Of course,” Sebastian nodded. 

Elaine shook her head. “Does that even count as a picnic?” 

“It does when you’re celebrating spring with a group of wealthy 19th century vampires.” Sebastian finally looked up, his stern expression belied by the light of mischief in his eyes. 

“Point,” Elaine grinned. She sat down and started packing food into the baskets. There was wine and cheese and pastries, sandwiches, and cold, roast chicken. Fruit. A variety of sweets and candied delicacies. It was honestly more food than she thought the group could eat, but Sebas liked to make sure everyone had their favorites, with enough to share. 

“I haven’t seen Napoleon this morning,” Elaine said. “Arthur made it sound like he’s off on a secret mission.”

“He is.”

“Sebastian! You know too? You have to tell me!” Elaine pleaded.

Sebas shook his head. “Nope. Now, did you pack the container with Dazai’s miso soup? I’d hate to forget it.”

“Yes, it’s in the basket. But, why won’t you tell me what Napoleon is up to? What’s so secret about it?” Elaine saw the thump coming and tried to dodge it, but Sebastian was too fast. 

“Stop asking silly questions. You’ll have your answer soon enough. Now come on. It’s nearly lunch time.” 

Elaine did get her answer the moment they crested the short hill between the forest and the flower meadow. A large, colorful hot air balloon sat on the ground, the fabric slowly inflating. Napoleon and Jean were operating the burners that heated the air. 

Napoleon saw her coming and raised a hand to wave her over. His smile was so full of joy that it set Elaine’s heart pounding. She started to walk faster, almost a jog.

“If only I could get you to move this fast on your chores,” Sebas chuckled. 

Elaine didn’t even shoot him a dirty look. She was too busy hurrying toward her love. After spending the whole morning without him, she found she really needed that good morning, or afternoon, kiss.

She set down the picnic baskets as Napoleon swept her into his arms. His lips were warm and firm, and his tongue darted playfully between her lips as he kissed her thoroughly. In front of everyone.

When Leon set her down, Elaine’s cheeks were bright pink and her eyes were fixed on her feet in embarrassment. 

“Now that’s how you say hello,” Arthur laughed from where he sat at the table. 

“Her face is very red,” Jean whispered loudly. 

Comte chuckled. “Come now, let’s give the lovers a moment. Help Sebas set the food out.” 

There was a flurry of activity as the mansion’s residents moved to do as Comte suggested, leaving Napoleon and Elaine as alone as they could get out here. 

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Napoleon laughed, stroking a finger down Elaine’s cheek and along her jawline. “But I couldn’t help myself. I had to do without a good morning kiss.” 

“I - I’m not embarrassed,” Elaine said, stubbornly refusing to admit the obvious. 

“Mhmm. I don’t remember your cheeks being so red normally . . .” He pinched one cheek with his other hand. 

“Hey! Let go!” 

Napoleon laughed. “Alright, nunuche. Alright.” He let go. 

Elaine glanced over at the hot air balloon, still filling. It was tied to the ground by several thick ropes, secured to stakes driven into the soft dirt. “Is this why you were up so early?”

“Oui. Jean and I had a lot to set up. When Comte suggested the picnic, I thought this might be a nice surprise for you. I’m glad Jean was willing to help. I’m not sure I could have managed on my own.” He rubbed a hand through his hair. “I’d have tried though. Seeing you smile is worth it.”

Elaine felt a rush of love for this sweet, thoughtful man. She threw her arms around him in a hug. “I love you.”

“Love you too, nunuche.” He put a kiss on the top of her head.

“So - you know how to work a hot air balloon?” Elaine asked, her face still pressed against Napoleon’s chest. It felt so good to be held by him. It was really hard to let go. But she did. The others were only a little ways away, sitting under a bright red pavilion and pretending not to eavesdrop. 

Napoleon nodded. “I was fascinated by them. One of my generals set up a balloon corp but,” he shrugged. “It didn’t work out. Too much equipment to haul around. Too fragile.” The balloon, now full of enough hot air to lift, began to strain at the ropes that held it to the ground. The patterned fabric of the envelope shone in the warm afternoon light. 

“I didn’t know that,” Elaine sighed. There were so many things she didn’t know about Napoleon and she wished she knew every detail. 

Leon laughed and nudged her side. “A man must keep some surprises from his lady love. How else to keep her interested?” He took her arm. “Now come, let’s enjoy the feast Sebas prepared.

Comte and the others pretended they hadn’t listened in on the whole conversation, chatting and asking Napoleon for stories from his hot air balloon experimentation. Elaine laughed along with them as he told them about the time they’d tried to fire a cannon from one and nearly blown themselves into the sea. 

“Twould make an interesting scene for the theatre,” Will commented, his mismatched gaze thoughtful.

“Yes,” Arthur nodded. “I wonder if I could use that in one of my novels.”

Napoleon shrugged. “If you think people would like to hear about it. Just leave my name out.”

Then it was time for trips up. Elaine expected to get to go up first, but Napoleon didn’t even glance at her. Instead, he took Comte and Mozart. Leonardo was invited as well, but he’d fallen asleep under the table, using his coat as a little pillow. 

Then Theo, Arthur and Dazai went up. And Vincent and Will after them.

While the others took their trips up in the balloon, Comte helped lay out the blanket Arthur brought. Elaine laid on it looking up. The bobbing air balloon did look pretty neat from here, as she patiently waited for her turn. 

Jean came to sit next to her, a quiet, solemn presence that she found strangely comforting. He was the sort of person you could rely on, even if he wasn’t full of smiles as some of the other vampires were.

“I did not think there could be love beyond the end of life,” Jean said softly. He was looking up at the hot air balloon, not at Elaine. But she knew he was talking to her.

“I didn’t know there could be love for me a hundred years before I was even born.” 

Jean glanced over and gave her a brief half smile. “You two make me almost believe . . .”

Whatever else he meant to say was interrupted as the balloon set down. Arthur and Dazai were smiling brilliantly, while Theo looked vaguely ill. They hopped down and Napoleon called for Isaac. The physicist was nowhere to be found though, having slipped off at the earliest opportunity. 

“Looks like that leaves just us,” Napoleon’s jade green gaze caught Elaine’s eyes. There was something naughty in that look, though she couldn’t put her finger on what.

Comte smiled. “It seems Elaine will be the last of us up. And just in time to see the sunset. How fortuitous.”

Behind them, Sebastian was organizing the packing up of picnic items. 

“Oh, but I need to help Sebas,” Elaine scrambled to her feet and looked over at the world’s most amazing butler. He’d marshalled the remaining mansion residents and they were already carting away the table and chairs. 

“I think Sebas will handle things just fine without you, ma cherie.” Comte gave Elaine a wink as he ambled away. Jean followed him without a glance back.

“Looks like you’re all mine, nunuche,” Napoleon held his hand out to her. 

Elaine eyed the hot air balloon basket, feeling a little nervous. “Is it safe up there?”

“I would never risk you,” Leon answered. He meant it too. 

Elaine took his hand and let him help her into the basket. It wasn’t very big, and it creaked alarmingly as Napoleon turned the burner up, causing the balloon to rise. She squeaked when a gust of wind shook them. Her fingers found Napoleon’s arm, which she held to tightly. Safe or not, she felt better touching him.

He kissed her temple and kept working the burners until they finally reached the height he desired. 

Elaine wasn’t sure how far it was, but when she peered over the edge, the flower meadow below them was only a patch of distant ground, stained in the red-gold glow of the sunset. “How far up are we?” 

Napoleon smiled. “Mmm, about a mile, maybe a little less.“ 

“That’s a long way . . .” Her eyes followed the light west, where Paris sat. From this distance, it was like a bunch of little toy towers and tiny buildings. The River Seine was a rippling band of gold that faded to silver in the east. What wasn’t lost in shadows shone in the dusk-light. 

“It’s beautiful,” she said in a voice filled with awe.

“I wanted to share this with you.” Napoleon wrapped his arms around her and set his chin on her shoulder. They stood like that, watching the sun slowly slide beneath the horizon. 

The stars came out, sparkling like diamonds, scattered carelessly across the blue velvet night sky. And beneath them, fireflies lit the meadow in answer. “As in heaven, so on earth,” Napoleon whispered, his voice low and husky. Breath tickling Elaine’s ear. 

She shivered, and not from the evening chill. “Is this heaven then?” Elaine gave a soft laugh and turned her head to regard her lover.

“Not yet . . .” He spun her in his arms until she faced him. His mouth captured hers in a kiss that was slow and sweet. His tongue stroked gently at her lips, he nipped her lower lip. She returned his passion hungrily, eagerly.

Napoleon’s hands slid to her waist band, tugging her shirt loose. Cool fingers slid under the fabric, caressing her skin. His light touch made Elaine gasp, but he didn’t relent. His hands slid round to her back, undoing the clasps of her bra. Once her breasts were free, his hands sought them, rough callouses rubbing her sensitive nipples.

Elaine let out a little moan of pleasure, one captured by Leon’s lips. His knee slid between her thighs, pushing them apart. Sliding her skirt up. 

He finally freed her lips to kiss down her neck, leaving little love-bites along her collar bone as he undid the buttons of her blouse. Cold air hit her breasts, her nipples hardening at the sudden temperature change. 

“Nn-napoleon! It’s - it’s cold,” she gasped, only half complaining. 

“Then I best warm you up,” he laughed. His warm breath taunted her as he spoke against her skin. Then he captured one breast in his mouth, the other in his hand. His tongue lathed her breast as he suckled, teeth scraping gently. 

Elaine suddenly didn’t care that it was cold up here. She didn’t feel it. Her body pulsed with warmth and need. She could feel his thigh pressing up against her and she ground against him, unable to resist a shudder of desire. 

Napoleon answered her with actions. He slid his free hand down to her panties. His questing fingers slid beneath the linen. He teased, stroking the edges, letting his fingers dip - almost - almost - to touch her clit but only a bare touch. 

Elaine tried to suppress a needy whine. Her hips pressed toward his hand, desperate. 

“So greedy,” he laughed, and switched from one breast to the other. “I can’t say no when you make such beautiful music for me.” His fingers slid down into her cleft.

Elaine moaned as he began to play a rhythm, his rough fingers sliding in the slickness of her. Each stroke down, he’d curl his finger to catch just so against her clit as he came back up again. It was maddening. Her back arched as she felt her climax close in. She wanted to hold back but there was no way . . . no way to stop the fireworks that burst behind her eyelids as she came against his hand. No way to stop the cry of pleasure, his name, or the way her muscles tightened and shook. 

Napoleon’s breath was coming in short gasps too, and he let out his own little groan. He pushed her panties to the side with his sticky fingers, and with his other hand, freed his hard cock. Its tip glistened with pearl of cum, proof he was as desperate to make love to her as she was to have him. 

Elaine gave him a wicked smile that turned into a gasp of pleasure as he lifted her hips and pierced her. His cock was hot and hard and it felt so good as he thrust into her still throbbing core. She couldn’t help the way her hips tilted toward him, wanting him deeper. More.

She would have ridden him to climax in a rush, she wanted it so badly. But he wouldn’t let her. After that first, desperate push, he withdrew slowly, holding her against him. Then drove into her again. The length of him stroked against her clit with each deliberate movement. 

The basket rocked with their motion, the balloon bobbing above them. The burner hissed, keeping them afloat, lost in their own private heaven.

A gradual heat built between them, in panting breath, and locked gazes. Their lips found each other, tongues entwined. Parted for breath, mingled moans. Elaine felt her toes curl. Napoleon’s thrusts sped as he too neared his peak. 

Then the crest broke, like a storm-wave, pleasure crashed over them. Their cries met in the cold air, plumes of breath entangled as their souls. 

[cursewoodrecap]

Session 22: Five-Dimensional Man-Go

This is a session I’ve been looking forward to for quite some time. I get to introduce three of my favorite characters in the entire campaign. 

In the real world it’s been a while, but this was the session we officially welcomed a new chaos goblin player to the table. And damn, am I glad we did.

Valeria goes to Hoeska’s armor smiths for some upgrades, and accidentally kicks off a goth fashion montage. Her new armor has gorgeous black detailing with purple rose accents, accessorized with a brand-new Shusva-skin bag with matching claw clasp. Gral picks up a fancy Shusva-leather cloak and belt. Shoshana, realizing that a vampire’s castle is basically a Hot Topic, gets some fishnet arm warmers to accompany her fang necklace. We also get some healing potions and hope they aren’t made from lost souls or anything.

Valeria resummons Aethis, who pops back into existence in a burst of glitter that’s entirely incongruous with the local grim aesthetic. Apparently celestial gators are only mildly inconvenienced by fatalities.

As we hitch up the horses to get back on the road, we find out Ser Boris is also preparing to head out. “Woods full of many nasty creatures. Must keep hunting! Maybe I find way down to Barroch, I have heard monsters are attacking workers there.”

Gral perks up at the name of his people’s capitol. “I’m sure the orcs will treat you well. What kind of monsters are they dealing with?”

“Wolves, bears, maybe werewolf? I will find out when I get there! Cursebreakers do not have much of working relationship with orcs, so info is scattered. That is why I must investigate!”

While he heads south into orc territory, we’re gonna go north toward Sturmhearst to look into all the Key nonsense Professor Bjork told us is goin’ down. It’ll be a long trip; it’s on the coast, and we’re well into the heartland of the wood. As we get closer, we’re gonna have to look for new maps, too – the patchwork of safe zones and Curse disasters changes rapidly, and the roads that were passable a month ago might be deathtraps today.

We trek for several blessedly uneventful days. One night, in a region where a sizable number of halflings have settled, we have the fortune of seeing an inn on the horizon as night starts to fall. A sign proclaims the Fusilier’s Rest, a combination winery and inn located on a lush vineyard. Valeria’s kind of suspicious of anything too plant-based right now, but the rest of us totally want a winery tour.

We hitch up our wagon next to a post labeled Valet Parking. Aethis parks themself in the stables. Looking at the place, with its rather low doorframe and quaintly painted décor, we suspect Demish wine snootery instead of weird plant cults.

We duck through the door and take in the scene. It’s on the upscale end of totally normal, with locals sitting around eating and a huge pot of Demish onion soup bubbling on the hearth. The old halfling bartender is wearing pieces of a worn but well-cared-for blue-and-gold uniform. Two polished old pistols hang within reach on the wall, along with a pristine old Fusille musket in a place of honor behind the bar. Shiny medals in a handmade case are proudly displayed atop the bar.

As is D&D protocol, we look around for any notably wacky characters. We find them in the corner: an old man with unkempt white hair and multi-lensed, colorful glasses, engrossed in a game of Man-go against a young human doctor. We know he’s a doctor, because he’s got a stubby-beaked Sturmhearst mask pushed up to expose a tired but friendly face. His coat might once have been a lab coat, but it’s since been patched and sutured together so many times that it’s probably done a full ship-of-Theseus. His right arm is in a makeshift sling, and he’s nursing a small glass of Kevan vodka; probably the closest thing they have to rotgut moonshine in a wine-snob place like this.

We’re like, neat. Let’s eat soup.

Valeria orders a local vineyard wine and chats with the bartender about it. “The man who runs it is a madman; he thinks he can grow good wine grapes in Valdia. But he pays my sister well, she does her best.”

“Oh, don’t listen to René, his sister does marvelous work! No halfling will admit that wine grown outside Demionde will be more than spoiled grape juice,” teases one of the local barflies.

Gral asks Valeria who’s winning the Man-go game. The old man is rambling pleasantly, barely paying attention, and he is absolutely crushing the young doctor. The doctor looks like he’s totally aware he’s being taken to the cleaners, but he’s gonna let the old guy have his fun. As the game draws to a close, the younger man smiles ruefully and hands over a few coins. Meanwhile, the old fella, his eyes magnified to mismatched sizes by his funky glasses, spots our most conspicuous party member.

“Kyr! How’s the wine?” he calls, beckoning her over.

“Quite good actually!” Valeria chirps. “Was that the Kiloni maneuver?”

“Yes, or a variant I picked up somewhere! The Killam maneuver…kilometer…kilowatt? Something of the sort.”

Valeria very much wants to play him, and the old guy’s defeated opponent is happy to trade her his spot. The young man’s propped up leg hits the ground with a suspiciously loud clunk as he vacates his chair for her.

The old man peers up at her, bright-eyed even behind multiple layers of glass. “So what brings a Knight of the Rose here?”

“We’re headed to Sturmhearst, actually!”

“I see! I’ve heard the roads between here and there are pretty tricky to travel, you know.”

“No kidding. Do you have an updated map?”

He snaps his fingers. “No, but I just came from there! I’ve got an old map and I can easily update it for you kids. René is on night watch, I’ll leave it with him so you don’t have to stay up waiting for me to finish it. I know a route that’ll get you there lickety-split and safe as trousers! Now let me guess, you played at the clubs in Aurentium? You have the look about you.”

“Not the clubs, precisely…”

“Ah! Street rules, then!”

Valeria, who played Man-go against literally everyone who would have her, shrugs. “Maybe?”

“René, we’ll need some cups and a dumb hat!” the old man calls.

The young doctor wanders over to the bar and gets a refill, settling down next to Shoshana. “Hey, wanna bet on their game? The old guy’s pretty sharp.”

Shoshana laughs. “Oh, my friend is definitely gonna lose. I’ll put a silver on her, though, out of loyalty.”

It’s an odd game to spectate. Valeria falls behind early on; an insight check shows he’s not cheating, he’s just VERY good. Oh, and also Valeria’s assuming an entirely different set of house rules than this guy, and it’s tripping her up. Wait, are we doing street style, or dock style? Anyway, Valeria’s wearing the dumb hat now. At one point they both spit on the board.

“Y’know, I’ve never seen anyone from Sturmhearst take the mask off,” Shoshana says to her new drinking buddy, watching the game with confusion.

“On the clock, it’d be a safety hazard! But off the clock, eh, it’s fine. Some people get more elitist than me about it, I’m a hometown Valdian through and through.”

(You’re from Joisey, I’m from Joisey! What exit?)

“I haven’t actually been to the university since the Curse started, but I’m heading back to research some stuff I found out up in the Grammelsmarsh swamps. Some real disconcerting stuff regarding undead, and the like. The locals refer to it as the Wailing Wight.”

Shoshana gives him a once-over, rolling a decent Perception. He’s scruffy, though that could mostly be from hard travel, and definitely looks like he’s had a rough time of it. His arm’s in a sling and the little exposed skin Shoshana can see has more than its share of nicks and scars. His gait when he walked over was slightly uneven, one leg making a suspiciously heavy thunk against the wooden floor. Over his shoulder, he’s carrying a long, heavy case sealed with tar for waterproofing.

Hold up. She points to the case. “Do you have an alive guy in there?”

“…Uh.”

“You hesitated, and that’s not great.”

“Uh…no. No, I do not have an alive guy in here,” he says awkwardly.

“Okay, because the last time there was a weird bag, there was a whole-ass dude in there, and it turned into a whole thing.”

“N-no, no no no, there’s no person in the case,” he protests, not quite meeting Shoshana’s judgy cat eyes. He definitely doesn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, even though the case has started gently twitching.

Meanwhile, old Man-Go man has proved himself quite fluent in Draco-Aquilian, though with an unmistakable mammalian accent. Gral butts into the lively conversation when it winds back to Valdian. “It seems like you’re rather well traveled. What is your profession?”

“Oh, y’know, I go here and there. I’ve been around. There’s so much to see out there!”

Valeria smiles. “I can’t fault you there. Anything in particular you’re looking for?

“I go wherever the winds take me, mostly,” he says, as if Cursewood travel isn’t the most dangerous hobby since they invented pyromancer cookoffs.

Valeria, impressively, only loses the game by a little. The old man jovially shakes her hand and promises to go get started on that map to Sturmhearst for us, springing to his feet with surprising deftness for his age and bustling up toward his room.

Gral and Shoshana, meanwhile, are busy makin’ friends with the doctor guy. “What swamp were you fighting undead in?”

“The Grammelsmarsh? It’s downriver of Mornheim.”

“Ohhh! We heard some, uh, adventurers did a purifying ritual on the river. It might help your situation?”

“That’s great, but…I dunno. Once you mix in swamp gas, things get a lot more interesting.”

“The explosions kind of interesting?”

“…Sometimes.”

The players have noticed that our doctor friend here is, like…not an NPC, there’s another guy at the table (the same player as Isadora! :D), so we start sizing each other up as travel companions.

“You seem like a pretty decent guy,” Gral says, immediately insight checking.

“I mean, you guys seem on the up-and-up too?”

Shoshana winks at him. “Well, I’m not that up-and-up but these two are very diplomatic and important.”

“If you’re also headed up to Sturmhearst, it might make sense for us to travel together? I’m not very quiet,” he admits, knocking on his knee with a clang, “but if you-“

“Hello!” Valeria, hearing clanking, has clanked over loudly to join. “Kyr Valeria Argent, at your service!”

“Uh, hi! I’m Vigdor. I’m a doctor! I mean, you knew that, with the, uh-“ He points to his bird mask. “If you need any balms or salves – I mean, I’m mostly a surgeon, but I know some herbology.”

Is that so! We chat about Dr. Ulmus and Dr. Kjeller. Everyone loves Dr Kjeller!

“I’ve heard of Dr. Kjeller! I haven’t met the guy, but he’s the leading expert on troll physiology. Getting him to come lecture hasn’t worked out so far.”

We ask René the innkeeper about any local threats. Apparently this town’s gotten lucky; the biggest threats recently have just been bandits and one overaggressive badger.

“Oh yeah, one of my cats fought one of those, it went badly,” Shoshana remembers. “For the badger, I mean. I have weird cats.”

(The inn also has cat. His name is Jean Clawed.)

Eventually we all head upstairs. As the night bears on, the girls fall asleep, presumably after painting each other’s toe claws and gossiping. Gral’s still awake, practicing his lute in the rare luxury of a single room, when he pauses. Something doesn’t sound right.

Putting his lute aside, he listens cautiously at the window and feels a deep dread grow in his stomach. The faint scent of ozone drifts in the air. The crickets and night birds have gone dead silent, and in the unsettling quiet he can hear the terrible growling, piping sound he’s heard twice before: once in a house in a hole, and once as Bullbreaker’s expedition faced its destruction.

With great urgency and no volume control, Gral sends a Message to a sleeping Shoshana: “RED ALERT, KEY SHIT’S HERE.” Shoshana wakes up and kicks Valeria.

Gral then sends a Message to our new friend Vigdor, more calmly. “If you have weapons, get them now. Something is happening, it’s going to be dangerous.”

The early warning lets Vigdor and Valeria armor up, Shoshana helping Valeria buckle on the heavy pieces in a hurry. Meanwhile, Gral sprints downstairs, casting Mirror Image as he goes.

René the innkeeper is cleaning his fusille with practiced precision, humming an old marching song. Gral can hear something moving in the kitchen behind the old halfling, so he pops another stealthy Message cantrip. “This is the orc from earlier. I think something bad is in the kitchen – I’ve heard that noise before. Hold on tight to that musket, I’m going in.”

“The back door is locked, I would have heard someone come in,” the old soldier whispers back.

“These things don’t use doors,” Gral hisses.

A 17 Persuasion convinces René, who loads a bullet into his musket. “Where are those friends of yours?”

A heavy clank from upstairs answers that question, as Vigdor and Valeria thud toward the stairs. Gral scopes out the room and sees, on the bar, a big leather map case. The map from the Man-Go guy! Then he peers into the kitchen and, yup, that’s a fleshhound, all right.

Everyone else upstairs bursts into the hall just as a second fleshhound emerges into existence next to them. Shoshana, without hesitation, hits it with a gout of flame. Its strange ethereal flesh solidifies for a moment, but then it shakes itself and charges forward, its displacement energy restored.

Meanwhile, the one downstairs doesn’t aim for Gral or René, trying to run past them. Gral plays a discordant note on his lute, using his Minor Key at the opposite frequency to its vibration and preventing it from displacing, before he strikes. A spectral, scarred orc swings a warhammer down on the creature, Thrice-Burned’s ghost getting some payback as Gral’s blade strikes true.

René takes a shot with his musket and crit-fails, understandably freaked out by the writhing mass of teleporting tentacles, the wild shot careening directly into Gral. Luckily, it only pops a Mirror Image, but everyone upstairs hears a frustrated yell of “NO. FRIEND! ME FRIEND!”

Vigdor dashes past Valeria to the stairs, his previously-motionless arm reaching out of its sling to slap her on the armor with a resounding clash of metal. A silver Jotunn rune glows through the cloth of his sleeve, and she feels Protection from Good and Evil snap into place over her. She takes the cue and stabs the hound, rose vines bursting from her trident and stabbing their long thorns into its oddly flickering flesh.

The pupils on the Eyegis snap to the space behind the beast. Our normal eyes see nothing, but the Key-aligned shield’s eyes see a magical gate, faintly connected to the hound.

As a member of the Order of the Rose, Valeria’s trained to deal with fiendish incursions. This isn’t a portal to the Hells, but she thinks it might get closed similarly. As she charges forward to deal with it, everything seems to move twice as fast as it should: the Key’s spatial distortion has made certain areas the opposite of difficult terrain, where you can move double your speed. Nyoom!

Shoshana zaps it with lightning and heads downstairs to help Gral, who’s being slapped by tentacles. The zapped one flees toward the portal, but Valeria Sentinels and stabs it to death. The downstairs hound gets its tentacles into the real Gral.

Vigdor moves to Gral’s aid, ripping away the last of his sling and clamping a large circular blade to his forearm. With the pull of a ripcord, it loudly whirs into motion. As the Buzzing Butcher slams into the displacer hound with a gory squelch, he asks about sneak attack, like a rogue!

A very, very loud rogue.

Gral breaks away from the hound’s tentacles and looks around. Through the windows, more fleshhounds have appeared outside. The space outside is warped – leaving this inn is going to be very difficult while all this nonsense is going on. The lights of the vineyard seem miles away.

However, Gral realizes, the hound responded to the sound of his lute. And when he used his Minor Key he caught a glimpse of the portal it came through. He begins to play again, using the Minor Key to try to take control of it. The GM allows him to burn a 3rd level spell slot for a colossal roll of 33. He moves the portal inside a wall, to temporarily block anything coming through.

René takes a shot at the remaining hound and misses.

Valeria, upstairs, draws her chained sword and spends a 1st level slot to try to close the portal, the same way paladins close Infernal gateways. The chains of Rack extend from the sword and stitch the portal shut.

(Gral and Valeria each gain inspiration for using Portal Trixx!)

A Thing Occurs at initiative 0, and we hear strange piping coming from the stables. We’re kind of occupied, so we trust Aethis to bite anything that bothers the horses.

Shoshana sprints down the stairs and to the bar. Aw, there’s another flesh hound coming in from the kitchen. Her Chill Touch misses, and the new monster slaps Gral.

Vigdor nyooms through a Zoom, which makes some Really Weird doppler effects happen with his clanky leg and his buzzy arm. He slides across the bar like an action hero and slams his saw down, missing the hound and showering the room in a hail of splinters.

Valeria is still upstairs, and it is LOUD downstairs. She’s gonna dash to get the heck down there and rejoin the festivities.

Gral Phantasmal Forces the new fleshhound, and in its mind, horrible liquid tendrils emerge from the soup pot and constrict around it. The soup rises to the defense of the Fusilier’s Rest!

René gets his wits about him and takes a pistol shot at the nearer fleshhound, tagging it with a bullet and keeping it in place. “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE. OUR POLICY IS NO PETS! I will not make an exception for you, you do NOT seem particularly polite!”

The fleshhound grabs the map case off the bar and starts to run for it. René hits it with the butt of his rifle. The second hound can’t attack Vigdor since it’s too busy convincing itself soup isn’t dangerous, so Vigdor’s free to draw his pistol and unload a Sneak Attack bullet into the fleeing hound’s back.

René reloads his musket. It’s been a long time since he’s done it under fire, but the Royal Fusilier Corps of Demionde does not half-ass their training.

The portal the hound’s heading for bisects a wall now, so it might be hard for the hound to get through.  Before it can worry about that, though, it comes face to face with Valeria, who’s ready to rumble. She kills it, dropping the map to the ground, and skitters through the Zoomy Zone to try to trident the second hound. It displaces out of the way.

Gral seizes control of another portal, and this time decides to use it to see what’s going on. He tries to hop out to the stables, where that weird noise is coming from. He enters a weird nether space full of the flickering bodies of fleshhounds, writhing and blinking, which the DM calls the Threshold. Gral accepts psychic damage to see what’s going on, and the patterns become clearer as the Key takes hold temporarily in his brain. These portals all connect to each other and the Threshold at the same time. Whatever’s out in the stables, making that eerie piping noise, is tied to the portals – it can’t fully exist in our realm. So if you close all the portals, it’ll force that thing to leave; if you drive it away, the portals will close. Either way, the Key’s influence on this place will fade.

Oh, and that thing out in the stables? It’s the Lurke r again.

Gral’s old enemy wrests control of the portal back from Gral, who stumbles back out into the inn, reeling from the sudden whammy of Key taint.

Shosha shoots lightning at the nearest hound, which retaliates by leaping through her, disrupting her matter with its own. It’s a highly unpleasant experience. A new hound jumps out of the portal next to Valeria. As Vigdor, Shoshana, and René all attack, Gral shuts another portal with his lute’s magic. “Guys, there’s something horrible in the stables!” he shouts. “If we bust enough portals it’ll go away!”

The Lurker continues to make mysterious dice rolls, but apparently it’s rolling poorly, so we don’t quite find out what it’s up to. It peers through one of the last few portals, only visible to Gral and the Eyegis. It’s hard to get a good look at, fifth-dimensional as it is, but it’s weirdly humanoid, actually? It’s surrounded by floating lanterns and holding some sort of pipe or flute.

(The DM notes that Jean Clawed is awake and doesn’t see why any of this is his business. He’s capable of using the portals; he’s not Key tainted, that’s just how cats are.)

We exchange blows with the remaining hounds, Chromatic Orbs flying and chainsaws buzzing. René bayonets a hound to death, for the honor of all NPCs.

Gral powerslides on his knees across the Zoomy Zone, playing a complicated riff, woobling himself right through the fireplace into the kitchen. He spends another level 3 spell slot to get the portal to dance itself shut. “And that was Through the Fire and Flames!”

René reloads his gun. Shoshana blasts the hound with fire, so Vigdor’s action goes off and he chainsaws it to death, the body and spine getting caught in the spinning chain. FATALITY.

The searing light of Shoshana’s fire casts sharp shadows on the walls of the inn, which begin to writhe and re-form, swirling together into a lithe, snarling feline shape that springs toward the Lurker. It pounces with an odd, broken yowl that’s incredibly familiar – although Valeria and Gral have only ever heard it once, from underneath an overturned laundry basket.

Vigdor, who’s never met a flesh-hound OR a cursecat before, makes an arcana check to figure out what in the seven hells is going on. It seems some sort of entity is thinning the barriers between realities? Its very essence seems to be intermingled with portal; it cannot fully leave the portal or exist in this realm. Like a malevolent, sentient pair of curtains.

He’s like okay, curtains sound like something I can chainsaw. It’s curtains for you, see? (Fun fact: if he rolls 21 or higher on attack roll with chainsaw, he gets sneak attack regardless of other circumstances. Because it’s a goddamn CHAINSAW.)

The Lurker turns its attention directly on us, or at least to the enormous hissing cat hellbent on ruining its day. Gral, still strumming furiously, realizes the Lurker’s only got a couple of portals left. He’s closed a portal already; he’s gonna try to close all of them for good. The DM imposes disadvantage and a brutal pile of psychic damage, but Gral is unphased, hitting a power chord that shakes the entire inn.

The Lurker screeches and reaches for him, the space around Gral beginning to warp, but it’s too late, the portal slamming shut against it. The Zoomy Zones vanish; the portals close, the strange atmosphere fades. The road looks to be the size it was before instead of an endless stretch of packed earth; the vineyard is once again an easy ten-minute walk away.

His big solo complete, Gral sways and collapses unconscious. Valeria runs over and Lays On Hands so he doesn’t die, while Vigdor starts casting Mending on the destroyed bar furniture. Shoshana, meanwhile, just stares dumbstruck at the place where a huge spectral cat is dissipating into shadowy smoke.

“…Schmendrick?”

René is holding himself together, but he’s an old man and it’s been a while since he fought this much. He took a bit of damage; Valeria pat pats him some HP. “Thank you, Kyr. I…I need to check on my other guests. The old man with the Man-Go game, we must find out if he lives.”

Valeria accompanies him upstairs. Rack’s glowing rose vines are still visible, stitching the portal shut; it’s healing more quickly than Valeria’s used to seeing. The door to the old man’s room swings open under Valeria’s cautious knock. The bed is unmade but empty, and the old man’s luggage is gone. The only things left are a generous tip on the counter and his odd multicolored glasses.

As Vigdor steps outside to clean viscera off his chainsaw, Gral scopes out the stables. There’s evidence of disturbed earth around the grounds, but nothing conclusive. Aethis seems to be unbothered.

We reconvene without much to show for our investigation. But we have one last clue: Why were the hounds so interested in the old man’s map? We spread it out on one of the bar tables and crowd around. It’s a map of Valdia, but the path it shows us to take to Sturmhearst makes No Sense. It’s not even contiguous! It tells us to start here and wander north, and then the line cuts off next to some scribbled equations, the route picking up again elsewhere, where he’s drawn a symbol we don’t recognize – and so on, in strange and nonsensical disconnected paths.

Shoshana, on a hunch, puts on the multicolored glasses the old man left behind. Like 3D glasses, they reveal the hidden image. Through the kaleidoscopic lenses, she can see remnants of the Key’s influence all around the inn; the fading Zoomy Zones and closing portals light up in ultraviolet. The map, meanwhile, has gained an entirely new dimension, like a layer of holographs. NOW the shortcuts make sense – they route through other dimensions along the z-axis, with additional symbols and labels giving helpful hints.

To be honest, it does look like a much faster route. And one of the notes says it leads to the “Drowned City” – hey, isn’t that where Bullbreaker ended up? But we’re all rightfully wary of hopping right back into another flesh-hound portal disaster.

We now have the Extradimensional Map and the Stranger’s Glasses.

Oh! The map has a note for us: “Happy Journeys to a fellow master of the game. Your friend, T.T.”

We immediately rifle through our notes and realize he may have been Professor Trevor Twombly, Headmaster of Sturmhearst. Vigdor, did you know that guy?!

Vigdor didn’t recognize him. Maybe the guy looked like Twombly, if you squint? There were a lot of old men at Sturmhearst, and they wear masks most of the time? Also he had distracting glasses? So, like…maybe?

As we bicker, Vigdor snags the glasses off the table and heads to his room, opening up his case and taking a look. The lenses don’t reveal anything new about the object inside.

Unfortunately, the poor rogue didn’t bother to stealth. “Whatcha doin’ in here?” says Valeria, who followed shortly behind.

“Um, just looking at my leg, seeing if anything is weird-“

Valeria immediately checks Vigdor’s lower limbs for wounds. “I can help! An extra pair of hands can always-”

“No, no! I think I’m okay! Really!” he protests. He glances into the case again, clearly torn, and sighs. “Let me explain.”

He lifts a whole human leg out of the case, kicking and twitching.

“This is my leg, and I’m taking it to Sturmhearst. I’m not sure if it’s wholly mine anymore.”

Through his torn pants, Valeria can see a clunky clockwork leg to match his buzz-saw arm.

One player immediately yells “FULL METAL ALCHEMIST.” Another player says it again, in a slightly different voice.

Dr. Vigdor Gavril has joined the party!

[beyondtheciouds]

.30. Part 1 of 3

Grace groaned, being over dramatic as she followed Christopher down the rotten and creaky stairs to the basement lab. She had volunteered to assist and now she regretted it. Her hair, white ash; untamed like the snowy feathers of a swan fluttered around her shoulders as she took one rotted step at a time.

Her hands; trembling pulled the heavy robe she'd snatched from a closet around her tighter to shield the cold from her body. The robe she'd realized too late was wool and a hideous shade of purple that was approximately several sizes too big. The hem dragged behind her like a veil. For once, Grace was at ease. She gave a doleful look as she opened her mouth. They'd only gone down about a dozen and already she was tired. "How many stairs are there? A thousand?"

Christopher wasn't as oblivious as he seemed. He had been paying attention; listening to her light breathing like a piece of information his brain needed to explain to his heart. He tried not to move as fast as he usually did and walked in front of Grace with a slight skip to his step. In his hand, he held a witchlight in one palm. A smile; hidden in the corners of his mouth formed. His other hand was sweating in the pocket of his trousers clutching the inner fabric nervously. He didn't glance back at Grace when he answered her. He was far too preoccupied counting her breaths. He instinctively took the narrow steps two at a time, multiplying. "Not quite, but a good guess nonetheless. One hundred and twelve to be exact."

Grace groaned again, her gray eyes on the back of his shirt and the crissed crossed brown suspenders he wore. "Seriously?"

For no particular reason, Christopher Lightwood had become a mystery to Grace in the months she'd been working with Lucie. Every now and then he would show up while Grace and Lucie were having tea, discussing the next necessary steps. He'd only speak to Lucie, never acknowledging Grace while he delicately devoured lemon tarts.

Grace Blackthorn was not used to his ignorance and the fact he was oblivious to her had Grace feeling shaken. She was not alright with being ignored.

"Yes," Christopher said, nearly tripping. He caught himself immediately and was shocked he hadn't fallen on his face.

The two moved in a new, comfortable silence until the last step when Christopher announced they'd arrived.

Much sooner than Grace expected they were at the old wooden doors. Christopher opened up the double set of doors and the creak of the hinges echoed in the underground laboratory. The basement opened up to a much larger, cleaner room.

Grace was immensely impressed. "Oh my!"

Tables and chairs scattered about; benches filled with green glass beakers and blue tubes. Images. Images not paintings carefully strung up on copper wires. Boxes and boxes full of color papers and blueprints. Foreign tools and peculiar instruments littered dusty shelves. Scientific equipment arrangements were all over the room like blooming flowers. Strange and unusual inventions and inventory were stacked in every visible corner.

Grace smiled as Christopher turned to face her. Her eyes were wide as she took in all the intense colors of the tubes and beakers.

"You did all this?" Grace asked, astonished by the multitude of items.

Christopher blushed, suddenly shy. "No, well. This is Henry's lab but don't worry. We---- I mean, I am allowed to be in here."

Grace raised her eyebrow, turning to lookat Christopher. She gasped as he pulled off his dusty glasses and wiped them on his shirt. His eyes confirmed her suspicions that he was relieved that she'd wanted to come to his favorite place in the Fairchild Manor. The irises were iridescent; a peculiar lavender shade bright enough to remind her that he was James's blood.

Neither noticed the silver eyes flaring in the shadows as they moved into the room.

Grace leaned over a mental monstrosity on the table, her eyebrows now up into her hairline.

Her features held an increasing amount of worry in the lines that appeared on her forehead. She did not admit that she might be skeptical as she eyed the entire entanglement of large nuts and small bolts; long screws and short nails holding together mismatched pieces of wood and metal. Somewhere in the middle was a control panel with brightly colored knobs, buttons and gears.

Grace continued to eye the machine suspiciously as if it would soon come alive as she moved to the other side of the table where the chairs were. "What is this terrible looking thing and why do you have it here?" She finally asked after several minutes.

For the first time in his life, Christopher felt the lightbulb go on over his head and a tingling feeling in his chest. Someone other than Henry and Thomas were interested in his passion. He now understood what James was referring to when he looked at Grace. She wasn't just beautiful he decided, she was ethereal. "Are you sure you want to know?" His voice teased lightly and surprised both of them.

Grace hesitated, feeling nervous and reached out her hand timidly to touch the gears. "Of course."

Christopher clutched the bright tube in his hand as he sat down in Henry's rocker beside where she stood. The purple liquid in the glass test tube fizzled and bubbled as he moved. "Oh! Don't touch! Sorry! That's... That's Henry's Top Secret investment."

"Top Secret investment?" Grace asked, interested and snickered. She'd wanted to press, but his eyes told her that she'd never be able to loosen his lips the way she could with James. If something was a secret in Christopher's confidence, it stayed a secret. "What does this...calamity of metal and wood precisely do?" Grace asked, her curiosity like a cat winning her over.

"Never you mind," Christopher said playfully, careful not to spill the acidic concoction on his pants. They were already stained from rain and mud. Suddenly he was once again shy and uncertain; perhaps embarrassed by his ruined clothing.

Grace suspected that Christopher was tongue tied and against the voice in her head, she let him be. She gracefully rolled her shoulder and gestured a manicured finger to the tube Christopher held instead of pushing further. The light of the candles painted their silhouettes on the ceiling and Grace wondered if Jesse would be the same when he returned from Purgatory. If. If he returned. If.

Would he still love her? Would all the pieces fit?

She hoped the spell would work as she sat down on a wooden chair. She hoped to be out of Idris soon and away from the other Shadowhunters. Everything that happened next would depend on the accuracy of the spell and of Christopher's potion Grace decided. "Can you tell me what that particular wretched smelling liquid is, Christopher?"

Grace pronounced his name so informally that Christopher blanched, then turned several shades of pink. He tried to sound more calm than he was at her attention. He wasn't even sure how he was feeling. The thing that struck him and took his breath away was that he didn't even consider that Grace Blackthorn knew his name. "Compound X. I would like to name this liquid Compound X." Christopher paused, gathering himself. "Entirely composed of natural and semi-natural ingredients; imposed crystalized crystals then liquidized arnum lily petals, crushed sparrow bones, smashed spider spindles---"

"Right. I get it," Grace interrupted with a sour taste in her mouth. She didnt need to suffer complicated details but she didn't want to be mean. She waved her hand at him as if he were a fly buzzing about her on a summer day.

Christopher laughed uneasily, not understanding the change in Grace's mood. "Sorry. Sometimes I get ahead of myself."

"What does it do?" Grace asked and raised an eyebrow. She smiled sweetly, inching the wooden chair closer to Christopher's.

Christopher grinned, his lavender eyes lightning up like moon flowers. "Hopefully it will bring your brother back."

***

James sighed, leaning against the door. He checked his pocket watch for the third time in ten minutes. "Quarter past three."

"We've got time before the Fairchild clan awakens.. and Lucie said to wait up."

"For bloody sake, the birds aren't even awake Tom. What are we even expecting to happen?"

Thomas cleared his throat, his mind already foggy from the few drinks he'd gulped down during the third and fourth rounds of gin rummy. He sat on the couch with his arm wrapped around a square pillow. "We need to call Alastair."

James felt nauseated. "No," he said, unable to convey agreement. He needed sleep not to be standing here arguing like fools. "Why? Didn't you hear what time it is, Tom? He is probably well fast asleep like we should be by now."

The maid was finally asleep but mostly passed out, drunk in a chair by the window. Her eyes were closed and she whispered unintelligible prayers. Thomas glanced uneasily at her before speaking. "We need the extra help. Lucie said we need to make a complete circle. An even number."

"Without Cordelia with us---even with Alastair there will not be enough." James argued; angry at being deprived of his sleep. This was to be the only night he'd get rest after recieving a letter from Will staying he'd found Tessa. Lucie and her mess had taken it from him originally and now Thomas was corrupting what little time was left.

He was suddenly jealous of Cordelia, sound asleep and refusing to indulge in his sister's madness.

James's nose twitched and he felt the edge of his vision blur; a voice fraying in his ear as the edges became obsolete. Belial wasn't pleased.

"Why are we helping them raise the dead again?" James asked, undeterred by the way his voice slurred, becoming distant.

He was fading.

"Because she's your sister. Obviously this means a hell of alot to her if she has convinced us to risk exile." Thomas said, his own words slurred. James was as crooked as Thomas's smile. "Besides James, you'll have to help keep Lucie safe."

James caught his breath, his lungs burning. "Exile? Lucie never mentioned Exile to me, Tom."

Thomas had the temporary choice to be embarrassed or confused. He chose confused. "I...she never told you?"

James and Thomas had been quietly arguing for the last fifteen minutes and now this new information was the icing on a very thin piece of cake. James was done talking to all of them. He wanted to get to bed before his head imploded with another rotten expose. "No, apparently I was not privy to that piece of information, Thomas but I wish I had been."

"James. James, I am sorry you did not know of the risks involved with her plans but you should have still known."

And of course, he had a faint idea of the consequences.

"Call upon Alastair if you must Tom." James said bluntly and paused, watching Thomas's complection turn white. James's gold eyes were furious and flaring. Thomas sat up straighter, expecting some imitation instruction. Perhaps his friend knew more than Thomas thought. Perhaps that was not news. Perhaps James already knew that Alastair was to be part of their group. Part of the plan. Unknowingly, Thomas's cheeks burned red as James continued on. "But if you do include Alastair in this nightmare, please do know you will be the one dealing with Math when awakes from his drunken slumber. Goodnight, Tom."

James frowned, upset with Thomas. He turned quietly on his heel and sighed. He stormed out of the room like a rotten child who wanted a piece of chocolate that was refused.

James had to get away before he dissolved into darkness.

Thomas sat on the couch quiet and more sober than he was drunk. His hazel eyes were bloodshot wide and unblinking. He was too shocked and stunned to speak.

[hollywoodx4]

Thanksgiving-Modern AU

Hi I’m finally here! I’m Danielle, and I’m the coparent to this modern college AU-So this one of the moments @dilforpheus​ and I have talked about over and over again and it is one of my most favorites, so I had to write it. I’ve been sitting on this for a long time but I’m excited for this AU to find air other than us screaming at each other all hours of the day even though I love screaming about it. I am so happy that ten years later we’re still on our bullshit. It is SO special to me. - The only thing you need to know is that Orpheus and Eurydice go to college together-she studies in a coffee shop on campus and he notices her there. They both end up going there just to see each other but not saying anything, until Persephone invites her favorite student with nowhere to go for the holiday over to her family Thanksgiving. This is the result.  -

The doorbell rings and Orpheus looks up from the mashed potatoes with curiosity, scanning the room. It seems as though they’re all here; Hades stirring one pot and monitoring another, Hermes sitting on the island stool transferring roasted carrots to a different plate. Orpheus has been mashing the potatoes for a while now, the back-and-forth motion making him feel useful in a kitchen commanded heavily by his culinarily anal uncle. He can hear the soft click of Persephone’s footsteps moving across the floor of the entryway, then the slight squeaking of the front door and a bright greeting. The voice that responds is familiar, but in a distant sort of way; Orpheus stops his mashing in hopes of hearing the conversation better-there’s slight laughter, distant but sure, like a music that pulls him.

Persephone enters the kitchen first, reaching an arm out and pulling a girl in beside her. The girl, small in stature, smiles slightly and waves at Hades, who gives the first greeting. Orpheus is frozen; the cropped haircut, bangs just above her eyebrows-the sound of her laughter and the soft, lilted timbre of her voice…this is the girl from the coffee shop. She orders dark coffee with extra espresso, always has her nose in a book or her feet hurrying her somewhere. This is the reason he’d started playing more in that coffee shop, lugging his guitar halfway across campus to somewhere with poorer acoustics and more chatter. This is the girl he’d been thinking about since the beginning of the semester, always a song on the tip of his tongue. When she turns her gaze to him and flashes him that friendly smile, Orpheus lurches at the feeling of his heart skipping in his chest.

“I’m Eurydice,” She steps toward him, leans slightly on the counter in front of him. Eurydice-he can feel the way her name would roll from his lips, four syllables in absolute melodic harmony, a sigh of thanks straight from his soul. He realizes that it’s been too long after everyone else has introduced themselves and his hand shoots away from the bowl of mashed potatoes and reaches to hers. In a flurry he realizes the residue on his hands and quickly wipes them down the old kitchen apron he’d put on. A quick heat rises to his cheeks as he attempts again, and she takes his hand and shakes it.

“I’m Orpheus.” It’s about all he can manage to get out through the near magical feeling of her hand touching hers, even in something as cordial and demure as a handshake. Her dark eyes meet his and he almost forgets to let go-that this is just a handshake and nothing more. It’s a tiny voice that interrupts them, Junie’s light figure bumping against his leg and breaking their eye contact. He takes in a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Junie’s gaze is fixated on Eurydice, who bends down to her level and introduces herself again. The toddler, in all her amazement, lunges forward to hug her. Eurydice laughs-the sound of music and light-and hugs her back before asking her name.

            “I’m Junie, are you a princess?” Eurydice can’t help but feel herself warm to the question; she’s dressed simply, a thrifted shirt slightly too big for her small frame with ornate detailing tucked into a pair of dark skinny jeans. She’d taken her boots off at the door, and was left with a pair of mismatched socks thrown on when she realized she’d be late if she didn’t leave her apartment soon enough. The back of the hand she’d shaken with everybody still had remnants of a list written with ballpoint pan; things to do, a new work schedule. She felt like Eurydice, with the arms of the toddler of the mysterious, beautiful musician from the coffee shop wrapped around her.

            “No, I’m not a princess,” She brushes the girl’s hair back instinctively, gently. “I bet you are, though.”

            The little girl claps, clearly satisfied with that notion, and begins to skip around the kitchen. She holds the hem of her big dress with two hands, lets her soft ringlet curls bounce up and down as she parades. Persephone calls her name, warns her about running in the kitchen as she weaves between Hades carving the turkey and Hermes with a stack of dishes in his hands. Junie then calls for Orpheus, pulling on his hand, and he follows dutifully behind. Persephone shakes her head, sipping from a glass of deep red wine.

            “Our daughter-man she’s a firecracker. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. We waited eighteen years for her and it was worth every heartbreak.”

            There’s something tiny, indescribable that shifts through the air at this notion; Persephone’s daughter, not his. They race across the edge of the kitchen singing some kind of princess song, Junie’s tiny, powerful voice and his softer one, laughing and playing. Eurydice bites at the corner of her lip, shifting on her feet as she watches them skip by, finally looking away to flash a smile at Persephone.

            “She’s beautiful,” They’ve gone into the adjoining room and so Eurydice turns back to the three adults standing around the kitchen island, accepting the offer of a wine bottle and a glass wordlessly held up by Persephone.

            When dinner is served Eurydice ends up on one side of Orpheus, who pulls out the chair next to her with the slight turn of his lip and a nod. She nods back, turning her focus to Junie climbing her way into the empty spot on his other side, fitted with a booster seat in the big chair. Her big dress settles around her like a cupcake, all tulle and frill, but she settles her cloth napkin in her lap as if its second nature.

            Persephone begins the dinner with a speech-something about being together “just like Sunday dinners,” thanking a quiet, grinning Hades for orchestrating the entire dinner.

            “You might’ve made too much, but you’ve been up for a month planning and researching this menu so I can’t say that.”  The family laughs, and Eurydice does too-this man with his white-grey hair and large presence is feigning offense, gesturing to the table full of elaborately plated dishes with pride. Once Persephone gives the go-ahead the meal is served, plates passed back and forth around the table. More than once she bumps hands with Orpheus, who hands her dishes of food after serving both Junie and himself. More than once she feels color rise to her cheeks, dismisses it with the warmth of the room and the wine just beginning to hit her system. But the electric feeling lingers between them all night, bumping elbows and making jokes, and she barely remembers the meal she’s eaten when everyone gets up from the table.

            She moves to the kitchen but Persephone stops her, shaking her head vehemently.

            “You’re our guest, you’re not washing dishes.” She shoos her away and Eurydice finds herself in the living room, where Junie has settled herself with a large bin of dolls. She sets her wine on the coffee table and sits cross-legged on the floor next to her. Junie immediately pushes a group of dolls her way and gives her instruction, babbling on in her tiny voice as she scoots herself closer to Eurydice.

            In the kitchen there is a hum of activity, instantaneous and simple from years of practice. Persephone washes and Hades wraps up the leftovers. Hermes dries and Orpheus puts the dishes away, stacking them neatly back in the wide expanse of cabinets the gourmet kitchen is filled with. The dried dishes begin to stack next to the counter, however, and when Hades is done wrapping his eyes catch the pile. Orpheus is leaning against the kitchen island, one finger tracing mindless patterns on the granite countertop. He calls for his nephew but receives no response. Hermes and Persephone turn around-the water is shut off, the dishes done, and the adults watch the boy they raised stand idly, uninterrupted.

“Are you even listening?” Hades raises his voice a bit, prodding his nephew with one giant hand on his shoulder. Orpheus’s lean frame lightly sways in response, but he does not turn to face his uncle. Persephone chuckles from beside him, bringing her glass of wine to her lips.

            “It’s the girl,” she points to the pile of toys on the floor, a trail of them leading up to the ornate Victorian-style dollhouse in the corner of the living room. Eurydice is lit by the glow of the fire, her voice changed to match the doll in hand, putting herself in the elaborate story they’ve created. Junie leans up against her, her body nestled in the crook of Eurydice’s elbow. Their backs are turned to the kitchen but he catches glimpses of her turning her head, leaning down to speak to Junie. There is something more to the way she cradles Junie’s sitting frame close to her, the way her voice changes to match the characters she’s set out to play from the endless expanse of dolls. Her full attention is focused on the girl, who’d just met her only hours before. He finds himself transfixed by the scene, by the girl he’d only admired from afar until she’d walked through the door. He wonders briefly what kind of strange magic had brought her to this Thanksgiving, and then remembers Persephone’s brief wording days before.

            “She doesn’t have family-she doesn’t have anybody. She’s my favorite student-brilliant, quick as a whip. I invited her over for dinner. She’ll have us.”

            “Go talk to her.” Hermes finally pulls him from his daydream, her voice startling him and causing him to jump slightly. Persephone laughs, moving to stand alongside him and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Go.”

            “She’s the girl I’ve been telling you about-the one from the coffee shop.” It’s almost breathless, the disbelief in his voice as he looks into the living room at her small frame and warm smile. Of all of the people on their college campus-of all of the students Persephone teaches-he can’t believe that she is sitting in his aunt’s house, playing with his niece. He can’t believe the luck-the coincidence that feels more like fate to his poetic translation. But as much as he feels the pull toward her he cannot seem to move his body, rooted to this place in the kitchen by an unrecognizable force.

            “Here,” Persephone pours him a hefty glass of wine, much to Hermes’s warning glance-their boy is a lightweight, but the woman with beautiful rolling curls and a coy smile does not take his overly-cautious caveats; this is typical of Hermes, who’d always been the more serious in raising their boy. “Take a little sip of liquid courage and just go over there. Speak your truth.”

            “No,” Hermes interrupts with his slow, careful wording in the most delicate and intelligent of voices. He narrows his eyes at Persephone, turning to Orpheus with a caution in the back of his eyes. “Go on and talk to her, but don’t come on too strong.”

            He looks then to Hades, who’s polishing off the pieces of the gas stove, reading glasses perched neatly on the tip of his nose. He chuckles, shaking his head.

            “Just talk to her, boy. It’s as simple as that.”

            Orpheus, taking a long sip of red wine, finds the confidence to saunter into the living room. At least, it feels like a saunter. His long limbs perform the action with less grace and poise, certainly. Junie turns to him first, hearing him coming, and reaches his arms out to him. He sits on her other side, nodding again at Eurydice, who grins back. She’s completely illuminated by the warm glow of the fire and his heart nearly stops there, the words he’d practiced on the short walk completely forgotten. All he can muster is another hi, spoken through a gentle tenor knocked over by her presence. The words he wants to say get mixed up, and he’s not sure where to begin; I feel like I’ve known you forever-I’ve seen you at the coffee shop before-I’m the one who bought you coffee and sent it your way last Monday-I haven’t been able to find the words to say to you-I

            Persephone calls Junie’s name, appearing in the doorway. The toddler pouts, crossing her arms-she knows what’s coming before Persephone can tell her.

            “No bed.” She shakes her head, looking between Orpheus and Eurydice. She doesn’t want to miss the fun; she’s sure her uncle has come to join their play. But Persephone gives her a pointed look and she groans, little yet sure, then tugs at Orpheus’s arm.

            “Ophie put me to bed.”

            “No, sweetheart, let me do it.”

            “No, Ophie.” All Junie has to do is look up at him with big, adoring eyes and a refusal is out of the question; he shrugs at Eurydie, an apology more to himself, and picks his niece up, cradling her in his arms.

            “Queen Buggy has spoken,” He coos, kissing her forehead and hugging her close. “I’ll be back. Say goodnight.”

            Junie lays her head on Orpheus’s chest and waves, then he turns and moves to bring her upstairs while speaking to her in a silent, slightly singing voice. Eurydice watches them go, still clutching both barbies in her hands, until Persephone begins to pick up the mess around her.

            “She’s a good girl,” Eurydice offers, tossing her dolls into the large toy chest against the wall. Persephone merely grins, with a hidden sort of prodding within the mask of outward happiness that causes Eurydice to blush in immediate understanding. Persephone gestures to the couch and she sits, hanging Eurydice her glass before taking a drink from her own. The older woman sits on the coffee table, one leg crossed over the other.

            “I’m glad you could come,” Persephone softens upon looking at the girl-really looking at her. With her soft, rounded features and fringed bangs over tired eyes, she is a thing of beauty. Exhausted, intelligent, hard-working beauty; she is effortless in her posture, humble in the way she thanks Persephone for giving her somewhere to go. She has to work later-the Black Friday rush-and Persephone wonders briefly if this is the first Thanksgiving she’s spent with the company of a family and warm food. It seems so; her frame is tiny, and she’s debated heavily on the topics of humanity and the reality of family ties in class before. Her papers have been moving, completely compelling. She wonders now, with the girl sitting with her body toward the front of the couch, if her arguments had been born from experience.

            Orpheus returns then, standing awkwardly in the doorway, and Persephone jumps from her place on the coffee table and pats the couch.

            “Here, Orpheus,” She prods, with a pointed look so natural to the blatant nature of her personality. “I don’t think you’ve had a chance to talk much yet-keep her company while I settle some things with Hades?” She’s nodding, not giving Orpheus a chance to give in to the bustling anxieties living underneath the pull in his heart. She bustles quickly from the room then, moves to stand behind the kitchen island, just barely out of sight. She watches as her nephew sits, Eurydice laughing at whatever introduction they’d given themselves. She pulls Hades and Hermes to stand next to her, watching the younger adults talk.

            “I have a good feeling about this-look at him, he’s gone.”

            Orpheus leans back on the couch, taking practiced breaths as he attempts light chatter. She volleys answers back to him-she’s a communications major, spends most of her time in Persephone’s classes. He’s a music major, a year older. The more she talks the more he’s hinged on her words, the tonality of her voice and the warmth of the room-the crackling of the fire, the soft music coming from the speakers in the dining room-wrap Orpheus in a consuming serenity. She’s just finished telling him about a final paper when he loses it, that restraint he’d been so surprised with having for so long.

            “I’ve notice you before-in the coffee shop.” He stammers over the words that spill themselves involuntarily from his lips, and he immediately feels the overwhelming heat that reaches his cheeks. Eurydice lets a soft smile reach her lips, her head tilting slightly.

            “I’ve noticed you too-you always have your guitar. Working on something important?”

            “A few things-I haven’t finished anything yet, though. The coffee shop is always busy-the acoustics aren’t the best. I used to work more in one of the practice rooms, but you have to stay where your inspiration is.”

            “Oh,” It’s all she can muster-she isn’t sure what to make of Orpheus’s words, the meaning she thinks she deciphers behind them. He looks at her with a gentle nature unfamiliar to her, speaks in a voice so light she feels as though it could carry her away at any moment. She thinks of him with his guitar, settled in the corner of the coffee shop with a notebook balanced on the arm of an old chair. She thinks of her abandoned notes, the time spent watching his careful concentration as he plugged away at combinations of chords that felt like otherworldly symphonies. Her intention of drinking dark coffee with extra espresso had been laced with the promise of the possibility of seeing him again, hearing more of his musings, and now he sat next to her on the couch talking of inspirations and bad acoustics. There’s a flood of pictures in her head-him and his guitar, him chasing his niece around the kitchen earlier in the night, him chasing other children with her dark hair and his light eyes. She blinks the vision away, frightened at the strange intensity that draws her to him. Instead of drawing back, however, she feels herself pull closer toward him. Setting her glass on the table beside them, she shifts her weight on the couch, turning her body to face his. Her request is wordless-she’s not sure she can speak at this point, so enraptured by his soft eyes and the visions in her head. When she puts a hand on his jawline he meets her lips, eager yet slow. She moves against him instantly, pushing herself against him as the immediate spark flies to the forefront of her mind. He holds her then, hands gentle and soft, encompassing her in warmth as she moves her hands to the hair on the back of his neck. There is nothing else-just Orpheus, the name she breathes as she lowers his body to the couch. Her musician has a name and it is beautiful just as he is, with his hands holding her hips and his lips brushing her neck.

            He isn’t sure what’s come over himself but once her lips meet his, Orpheus feels impulse kick in. He wants to hold her; hear her voice sighing his name, feel the hitch in her breath as he kisses her neck. He wants to lose himself in the song of her action, her body, her soul. It’s as if he’s known her for years, but is kissing her for the first time, familiar yet so new, and something he wants to do until his lips turn blue and his lungs give out.

            “Come home with me,” He whispers the words as she presses his forehead against his, feels the strength and rapidity of her heart beating in her chest. She nods, wordless, and takes pause to catch her breath. They’re interrupted by the clearing of a throat from the kitchen, voices speaking louder than need be, and as they sit up Persephone appears in the doorway.

            “We were just going to take out some cards-want to play?”

            “No-uh-no thank you, Seph. We-we’re going to get going now.” Eurydice nods, biting her lower lip and clearing her throat and trailing Orpheus to the coat rack by the front door. He holds out her coat to her first, helping her slip it on before finding his own.

            “Thank you so much for inviting me-it was a beautiful dinner, and it was so nice to meet everyone.” She’s still near breathlessness, a slight giddiness in her voice as she and Orpheus move to hug everyone goodbye. He wraps a hand around her waist then, and she falters as they make their way for the door, waving one last time before the cold air of the night hits them as brisk as their impatience.

[revisionaryhistory]

Three Days ~ 33

Catch up on AO3

~*~EMMA~*~

Sebastian gave me a quick recap on his day that ended with, “Now, I’m mostly trying to figure out a way to climb through the internet so I can kiss you. We've still got some catching up to do.”

"I can't decide if that’s adorable or one of the sexiest things I’ve ever heard." I licked my lips and bit my lower lip.

Sebastian squinted his eyes, "I’m curious what would rate sexier?"

"The way you told me if I said stop we'd stop."

"That's just common courtesy." He shrugged off my reply.

I shook my head, "It's really not and it wasn't the words as much as the intensity with which you said them."

"I like intensity."

Good thing he wasn't arguing that point. "I like your intensity. The look in your eyes and the tone of your voice."

His eyes dilated and his voice deepened, "Any guess what I want to crawl through the phone to do now?"

The look on his face made his thoughts clear. "I like how you want me. I want you too."

Sebastian scrubbed his hands in his hair, leaving it sticking up in all directions. "It's only Wednesday."

"Yes, it is. What time will you get here?"

"Four thirty."

"Perfect." I could run home after work, freshen up, and change. We stared at each other. I’m pretty sure we were thinking the same things. Dirty things. Our smiles morphed into laughter. I changed the subject. "Tell me about your home."

"My home?"

I raised my eyebrows and nodded. "You've been here. I know nothing about where you live."

"Want a tour?"

"Yes, please."

He stood up, "I'm going to try to switch to the other camera. If I hang up, I'll call you back." His finger got close to the screen, then I was looking out into the room. "Excellent, it worked. This is an extra room off the main living space. As you can see, I use I as an office. Sleeper sofa for guests."

The long wall was bookcases full of books and pictures. One short wall was a desk with an iMac. A sofa was in under the window across from the desk and an oversized doorway opened into a larger room. His furniture was eclectic and comfortable. I had a suspicion he'd added pieces as he had more space, keeping the first due to comfort or maybe sentimentality. The room didn't look mismatched, it was similar in style, and looked like someone lived here. A TV hung over an entertainment center with various equipment. A drawered cabinet that looked like an old library card file stood to the side.

"I love the cabinet. Are they really drawers or a facade?"

"Drawers. I can’t let go of DVDs and CDs. I might need your dad to bring me up to date."

I laughed, "I'd be very surprised if you have anything he hasn't already digitized."

Sebastian continued the tour. "Dining room and kitchen."

The space was open with the dining table separating the living area from the kitchen. The dining table sat six. I could imagine a gathering of friends sharing stories and a meal there. Black cabinets with grey marble countertops lined the wall with a penny tile back splash in variations of white, gray, and black. There was a big island for serving or prep. "Does the island turn into a bar at parties?"

I couldn’t see Sebastian, but I heard his snicker, “It makes an excellent bar. All the booze in here. Even a small wine cooler." He opened the cabinets underneath before flipping the camera around where I saw him. "What are you favorites? Make sure I’m stocked up."

"Tequila is my favorite. I love this Partida Blanco and a Volcan Blanco. I like a good whiskey. Vodka gives me a headaches, unless it’s super distilled. No Jägermeister."

"I have lots of tequila. I like tequila. Jäger is shit, but I have friends who love. I think there's some Absinthe under there too."

"Absinthe makes for an odd night."

He turned and walked down the hall into what had to be his bedroom and turned on the light. As he'd told me the room had a dark blue grey wall amongst the grey. His king-sized bed had a dark blue patterned comforter and almost as many pillows as me. The room’s odd angles gave it lots of space but some trouble with where to put things. He had a rather sad excuse for a fake tree in the tiny corner, wrapped in something.

"Nice plant."

"Ah, wait for it." The camera pointed at the dark brown hard wood floor and I could hear rustling. "See!" He pointed the camera back at the tree. It was now lit up and I could see the "wrapping" was white fairy lights.

I laughed, "Beautiful!"

"No, it's not." He turned the camera back to his face. His smile took my breath away. "It's a weird acute angle. Will bought the tree as a housewarming present and Chace did the lights. Makes me smile."

"That's awesome." I love silly things attached to happy memories. "Thank you for showing me your place."

Sebastian was walking back toward the living room, "You're welcome. You should come see it in person. I'm coming there this weekend, you come down here the next."

"Sounds good." I'm pretty sure my eyes widened for a split second. We hadn't spent a second weekend together and he was planning the third. I was good with it, but it did surprise me. I’m not sure why. Not a bad surprised. The good kind. This was really just one more in a long list of surprises with this man.

"Good. We'll figure out details this weekend." Maybe I didn't do anything noticeable. "You looked surprised."

I bit my lip, letting it slip away as I smiled "Everything about you is surprising. In the best way possible." He raised an eyebrow, which let me know the answer was considered incomplete. "We're making plans farther in the future than we've known each other. It's good."

"Yeah, it is." He laid back on the couch. "Can we talk about what you biting your lip does to me?"

"Want me to stop?"

"Oh no, not what I want at all. What I want is to bite your lip."

"I want to bite your shoulder."

I watched him shift around, knowing what he was doing. He closed his eyes and grimaced. "Supposed to be hot on Saturday."

I smiled, but left it alone, "It is. You should feel free to take off your shirt. Or sit in the shade."

"I will if you will." His eyes shifted away then back. "Speaking of... isn't it about time for practice?"

"Yes. We're using the gym at my school tonight. Might be late."

"No sand." He got a strange look before going on, "Will you text me when you get home? So I know you're safe."

"Sure." He continues to be the sweetest man ever. His request didn’t feel like he was checking up on me, it came from concern and felt good. I didn't suffer a lack of people caring about me, but this was different.

Practice did last late. I stripped off my clothes as I walked upstairs and fell naked on my bed.

Emma ~ I'm home

Sebastian ~ Long practice.

Emma ~ Good though. Tired

Sebastian ~ I'm glad you're home.

Emma ~  Were you worried about me?

Sebastian ~ Not yet. Maybe a little.

Emma ~ You're very sweet.

Sebastian ~ Go to bed. I'll talk to you tomorrow.

Emma ~ Night night

I woke up the next morning wrapped up in my comforter, having fallen asleep where I was when I was texting Sebastian last night. I must have been more tired than I thought. I rolled onto my back with a smile. My alarm had pulled me out of a more than pleasant dream. Sebastian and I were laying by a pool, stretched out on a lounge chair with me between his legs, leaning back on him. His hands were holding mine and resting on my stomach. We were laughing and talking. I don't know what about, but the dream felt good.

I lay on my bed with a stupid grin on my face until the last possible moment. I was almost late for work and forgot my lunch. Fingers crossed that the lunch room was serving something edible. About nine I got called to the office for a pick up. I opened the door and was greeted with our attendance clerk and secretary singing, "It's raining men. Hallelujah it's raining men." They pointed to a beautiful vase full of flowers. Light pink roses, white roses, lilies, lisianthius and sweet peas. It was simple and beautiful. I could see the card tucked amongst the blooms, which I didn't need to open to know who sent them. No way in hell was I opening it in the main office.

Karen shook her head, "We want to know who this man is. Those are some gorgeous flowers.”

I smiled as I picked the vase up, "Somebody new with good taste."

"Keep him."

I laughed as I walked away, "I’ll do my best.

I walked back into the room and put the flowers on the corner of my desk. I was able to pluck the card out before a herd of children converged on me chattering about how pretty the flowers were, asking who they were from, and if they could smell them. I said they were from a new friend and backed away to let them sniff. I grabbed my phone and took a picture of the commotion. Sending would have to wait and I knew he would understand.

After dropping the kids off, I brought my lackluster lunch back to the room. The unread card had been burning a hole in my pocket all morning. I stuffed a chicken nugget in my mouth and tore through the envelope.

"I'd be happy to sit and be quiet with you. Sebastian"

I stopped chewing. Holy shit. What an insanely lucky woman am I. Fuck me.

Emma ~ I'd love to be quiet with you.

I opened my photo gallery and found the picture of us at the festival and ran my fingers over his face. His gorgeous face with the expressive blue eyes.

The text notification startled me.

Sebastian ~ We'll make it happen.

Emma ~ The flowers are beautiful. Thank you.

Sebastian ~ You're welcome

Emma ~ <attached picture> I'm not the only one who liked them.

Sebastian ~ Ooops, sorry.

Emma ~ Don't apologize. Best part of my day.

Sebastian ~ Where are your kids?

Emma ~ Lunch

Sebastian ~ Can you talk?

Emma ~ Yes

Incredibly cute that he asked. My phone rang and I decided he needed his own ringtone. "What's up, Sebastian?"

"Nothing." He laughed. "You've got staff meeting and practice. I've got a dinner thing now. I wanted to say hi. So hi."

I laughed and leaned in to smell my flowers. "Hi." It took all my self-control to not sigh.

"Tomorrow. How about we go get some dinner then find someplace to be quiet?"

"Sounds good. What's your dinner thing tonight?"

"Part meeting, part fun. I told you about the photo shoot. It's with the company to talk about the ad campaign"

I cringed, "Doesn't sound a lot of fun."

He made a noncommittal noise, "A couple of drinks will make dinner to bearable. After is a cocktail party could be fun. Could be tragic."

"Couple of drinks will make that tolerable too."

The sound of his laughter was going to make the rest of my day better than tolerable.

"Might not be bad. I'll get myself up. Room full of strangers can go two ways. Fun and easy or dog and pony show where I'm the main attraction."

"And you don't like that." I was reminded of what Eli had said about him blending into the background at parties.

"Not my favorite thing. But tomorrow I get to see you, which is one of my favorite things. I’ll focus on the goal. Tomorrow. About 4:30."

"I have something same time."

"Lucky me."

Students streamed into the room with their usual high level of post lunch energy. Not surprisingly, Sebastian could hear them. "Lunch is over. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow."

"Me either."

The rest of my day was a blur. Staff meeting turned into a bitch fest. Our principal wanted to change the layout of the rooms. Pretty much everyone would be moving. I saw this as an opportunity to do some redecorating. I ran home before practice to grab something to eat and do a quick clean. I’m pretty good cleaning as I go, so I ran around spraying and wiping things. Practice was at the bar complex. I wasn't looking forward to the sand. We had fun and we were doing well. Before we left the brackets were up and we were the number three seed. First match at twelve, with report time at eleven. Perfect. I didn't have to go to bed too early tomorrow night.

[nancywheelxr]

For a prompt (if you’re still taking them): Rosalie x Bella but the setting is The Secret History?? Yes that is purposely vague because I’m interested in what you’ll come up with.

Oh my god, these are two of my favorite things, I absolutely love this prompt and I really hope I’m making it justice to both Donna Tartt’s writing style and this premise! 

( also, let’s just pretend there’s no murder or incest because. well. i didn’t want to include that. vampires is dram enough. )

*

Bella had not planned ahead of Hampden.

The idea alone of getting here had been a long distant dream, unattainable in its difficulties, and yet, after barrier after barrier were dropped by what had then felt like the invisible hands of Fate– she found herself overwhelmed by its uneventfulness.

That first week, she had passed as if in a dream, haunting the halls of her dorm in search of something to do, someplace to be. Jessica Stanley, the girl who lived two doors down her own, had done her best to entice Bella into embracing the nightlife of the campus. "A party or two won't kill you, Bella," she had said more than once, red nails glinting in the ceiling lights, "aren't you like, from California or something?"

In hindsight, one might say it could’ve, it did. At the time, though, Bella had not corrected her, too conflicted between Forks and Phoenix, two towns so unlike one another, she wondered what that said about her.

In any case, maybe that's why she had been so drawn to them in the first place. When placed against the grey backdrop of cloudy Hampden, their mismatched group had seemed to glow, lighthouses in the underwhelming sea of students.

Honestly, how could Bella not be hopelessly drawn?

She had seen Emmet first, his large figure standing out in the crowd, laughing at something, loud and careless, and his beer had sloshed dangerously closed to spilling from the crytal-clear glass in his head. That, too, had struck her as odd, even then– a glass cup in a dorm party full of red cups– and to this day, Bella could map out the way moonlight had glistened on his pale skin, a Greek statue, fluid and alive. She hadn’t approached him that first night, even if her eyes lingered on absurd difference of his posture and Jessica explained in excruciating details who he was and why she should not get herself invested in a lost cause, but after noticing, after knowing about them, Bella couldn’t help picking out the flashes of their presence all over the campus.

Next, came Alice, a nymph of a girl, with her pixie haircut and bubbling smiles, floating through the grass in strange clothes that made her look inexplicably ethereal, half-there, half-somewhere else. The first time she saw her, Alice had an umbrella over her head in the rare sunny day, and Bella had thought it strangely endearing, smiling to her book as Alice breezed past, the faint smell of cherries and lavender following. Later, she would find that Alice had not taken that path through the grass by chance, but a deliberate attempt at seeing Bella in person, in the present, living and breathing and alive.

Then, there had been Edward. This one had been nothing but luck, or, as Bella had been rather inclined to believe at the time, Fate or something of that effect. His red hair had been a flame of color in the library, making his hesitancy at the threshold all the more noticeable, and Bella had taken in his pressed shirt and dress shoes and prayed fiercely he’d find another empty seat that wasn’t at her table. With a pained expression, Edward had sitten down across her, his hold on the edges of the desk white-knuckled, and it had not taken him fifteen minutes to abruptly stand up, chair screeching on the floor, and dash out the open doors. Bella had tried not to take it to heart and failed– if this were to be her first impression with the mysterious Classics class, she couldn’t bear to think of her odds of enrolling.

Of course, one can not forget the twins. Jasper and Rosalie Hale. The similarities between them were easily spotted from a distance– both are golden-haired in a way that glimmers in the light as if true gold, curling at the ends, and regally tall, heads held high as if bearing an invisible crown. Apollo and Artemis, side by side, their divinity like a halo shimmering in the air around them. Jasper with his melancholic eyes and perpetually haunted expression thrives in the gloom of the town, a true Byronic hero in his quiet demeanor and bottomless devotion towards Alice.

And Rosalie– here, Bella can’t find the words to accurately transmit the truth. How can one describe true divinity? How do you explain the exhilarating surprise of finding the closest thing to a goddess in modern times? Anything Bella could say is inevitably tainted by her own biased view; Bella could never be neutral when it came to Rosalie, not even in the beginning, not even now. Ice queen, Jessica had called her, but Bella had never agreed with that description– queen is too little a title for Rosalie and how can you blame a deity for not concerning herself with mortal affairs? Just the idea of Rosalie in a house party is enough to send Bella into a laughing fit, no matter how many years go by.

So yes, Bella had been a bit in love with the Classics class before she had even knocked on Carlisle door, but no one would ever be able to claim her heart and soul quite in the way Rosalie did, not then, not ever. 

Perhaps, it's only that in the same way things often do, that group lost shine when looked from up close – once she was side by side with them, it was easier to see them as people rather than the cryptic image they telegraphed. Not that she loved them any less; again, as things often do, her love just shifted.

Still, it wasn't easy. Carlisle turned her down twice, warmly polite every time, before yielding to her stubbornness; privately, Bella thought it was her love for Paradise Lost that did it, not strictly a Classic, but a personal favorite of Carlisle nonetheless. Of course, years later, she'd find that while quoting Dante did work to endear her to him, it had been Alice's pleading that solidified his decision, her talks of future days, laughing in a town by the woods, a fireplace running while music played quiet.

Never let it be said that Carlisle doesn't put his children's happiness above everything else.

That had been about two weeks ago. When Bella walked into class now, the scene she finds while looking fitting for a renaissance painting, was rapidly becoming normal for her. Edward and Jasper sitting on their desk, speaking in low tones with eyebrows drawn together, worried and fearful and terribly melancholic, tragic heroes of the turn of the century, Emmet playing on his phone, the electronic chime drifting jarringly in the picturesque atmosphere, Alice glancing up from her magazine, clippings scattered around her desk, and grinning up at Bella just a second too soon to be a coincidence, hair spiking at all directions, a nymph stranded in the city, her magic wild on her eyes, and finally– Rosalie, sitting on the window sill and looking out at the fields, face impassive, the sun catching in her hair like golden threads, a perfect statue, and Bella wonders if this is what Paris saw every time he walked into Helen's tower; if so, it'd make sense for him to go to war over it.

Bella took the desk closest to Alice, skin burning in a way it shouldn't, not when it was untouched like this, and her bones sang to find a different direction. These first few days, they were wonderfully confusing, and there were times she wished to go back to them, to the simplicity of ignorance.

But then, of course, Rosalie would press a kiss to her lips, drinking the nostalgy out of her mouth, and Bella would forget why she'd look at the beginning as anything other than that– the turning point of her life, the starting of something new.

[gale-gentlepenguin]

ML angst fic : Abandoned

(Based heavily on this idea that @lenoreofraven posted. I recommend reading this first) 

Warning, the following is a deeply disturbed brainchild I have been brewing since this morning. There are a lot of twisted themes, and a bunch of stuff. you have been warned. Character death.

Fu arrived home, he had a wonderful night with Marianne. She was so sweet and wonderful. Without any threats to the miraculous, he could finally be with her.

The old man had decided that tomorrow, he would officially give Marinette the right to be a guardian. That means he could finally retire, he could be with Marianne without care.

He walked into his apartment to find it dark. The light switch wasn't working.

”Wayzz? Did I remember to pay the electric bill?” The only man fuddled for his phone to have some sort of light.

”You should have better locks old man.” a voice from the darkness cut in.

Fu felt himself freeze. That voice... it sounded so familiar. But that couldn't be. He hadn't seen or heard from him in over a year.

“Who are you? Show yourself!” Fu commanded as he got into a stance.

The voice let out a sickeningly dark chuckle.

“You really don't remember? I guess age really does mess with your memory. I will give you a hint.”

The figure moved in the darkness faster then Fu could react. The person covered Fu’s mouth and knocked his head against the closed door. 

The old man felt his consciousness vanish in an instant.

The mysterious individual took his miraculous and put it on his wrist. The turtle that popped out of his shirt tried to fly out and get help.

“Wayzz. stay.” The voice ordered sternly.

The turtle creature stopped. He couldn't disobey the wielder of the miraculous.

______________________________________________________________________

Fu woke up. His head was hurting and his vision was blurry. The only light was from a dim lamp that he always kept forgetting to change the bulb of.

“Awake are we?” The voice called. “I would be disappointed if you died too soon.”

“Who... Who...” Fu tried to speak

“I thought your were the turtle miraculous holder, not an owl. Oh wait, you ARENT the turtle miraculous holder anymore are you?!” The voice mocked

Fu tried to look at his wrist but couldn't move. He was tied to a chair and his wrists were behind him.

“Don't try to struggle. I made them tight. You will only hurt yourself.” The voice’s tone shifted as he warned the old man.

Fu tried to gather his thoughts. Whoever this figure was, they knew about the miraculous, they know who he is, and they are incredibly dangerous.

“Who are you...” Fu asked, his words finally able to be coherent in a sentence.

The figure in the shadows began walking closer to the light. The old man’s eyes went wide. He knew this teen.

“Adrien! But...”

“So you do remember. I was gonna be hurt if you forgot the chosen you abandoned!” Adrien exclaimed.

It had been a year since Hawkmoth’s arrest and unveiling. He remembered that Ladybug had talked with him about taking his miraculous back. Fu had agreed that it was the right course of action, he was the son of hawkmoth. Had he known the truth, he would have never made such a choice. The new chat noir was much better suited for the job anyway.

Adrien looked different. The former model’s short blond hair was now long and shaggy much more wild. His once sweet baby face was marked with a vicious scar over his left eye. His clothes were mismatched and had patches of different fabrics They were much too warm for the summer, but the old man could assume this wasn't a choice he made willingly. But the most horrifying change were his eyes. The once innocent emerald green eyes now lost all light and were colder then ice. The Adrien that had once been chat noir had died, and this newer, more clearly unhinged version took his place.

“How did you...”

“Find where you live? I wasn't even looking at first. I was minding my own business when I saw you out with that old woman I met a while ago.”

Fu mentally slapped himself. He should have known this could have happened.

“I am going to ask you something Fu and you better listen. Who. Is. Ladybug?”

Fu gulped. The old man kept his mouth closed. He refused to let this blond psychopath hurt Marinette.

Adrien sighed.

“I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you wouldn't say who she is. She always was the favorite. But considering how I ended up, you made the right call.” Adrien joked.

Fu looked at the blond with anger and sorrow. He could not help but feel responsible for what happened to him. He may not know all the details, but he should have realized something was wrong when the boy’s father was put in prison. Instead of comforting the boy, he tells Ladybug to act on her feelings and take it aways from him. He likely lost his only friend.

“I know you won't talk. But your little friend will. Or, My little friend.”

Wayzz appeared from behind Adrien. His expression filled with sorrow.

“Wayzz! Don't.” The old man pleaded.

“I am sorry Master... I can't disobey his orders.”

Adrien smiled.

“The old book took months to decipher but it did have some neat tips on Kwami training, including how to make them obey.”

Fu felt his face go pale.

“Wayzz, be a dear and tell me who Ladybug is?” Adrien practically sang as he asked. 

Wayzz didn't say anything. The green kwami did his best to keep silent.

“Wayzz, I order you to tell me the secret identity of Ladybug.” Adrien repeated with much more force.

“Marinette! Her name is Marinette!” Wayzz caved. The look of horror and then silent resignation on the turtle Kwami’s face after the words popped out broke the old man’s heart.

“Marinette? Of Course! It was so obvious! I should have known.” Adrien laughed lightheartedly. “If this had been a year ago, I would have been over the moon. Finding out that Ladybug was Marinette.”

Adrien’s smile vanished.

“Now I couldn't care less. who she is. She could be Lila for all I care, it won't change what I feel about her now.”

Fu felt himself shiver.

“What do you feel about Ladybug now?”

Adrien had a sinister smile.

“I feel like destroying her life like she destroyed mine.” Adrien responded. “When she is left heartbroken and alone, I will appear in front of her and grant her mercy. Taking the cursed jewlery from her ears.”

“She has done nothing to you! If you want to blame someone, blame me!”

Adrien turned from the tied up guardian.

“Do you want to know why I want the miraculous Fu?” Adrien asked innocently.

The tone was unnerving, but Fu felt he needed to know, while his hands worked on the knot.

“Do you want to turn back time? Fix all of this from happening?” Fu guessed.

Adrien shakes his head.

“Oh Fu, I am not so foolish as to think going back in time would fix this. I would just be put into a cycle where I inevitably end up back here, in this exact moment. But it was a good guess.”

Adrien turned back to the old man.

“Guess again.”

“You want your family back?” Fu asked.

“My father is a cold distant criminal and my mother is decomposing in a secret basement in my former home. I think asking for them back would not fix the situation I am in either.”

Fu’s eyes widen at the disturbing ease he said that statement. Fu felt the sorrow for the boy get overshadowed by the fear of what this boy wants.

“Do you want to know the answer now?”

“No.”

Adrien smiled.

“Too late, I am gonna tell you.”

Adrien goes over to his ear and whispers in his ear. Fu felt for the first time in decades, true fear.

“You...you have gone insane!” Fu barely managed to speak.

Adrien looked the old man in his eyes.

“No need to be so harsh, you are at fault for leaving me out like this. I have abandonment issues.”

“Ladybug will stop you. You can't beat her with one miraculous.” Fu answered.

Adrien smiled.

“Excellent point. Wayzz? I order you to tell me where they are.”

Fu felt immediate regret for his words.

Wayzz pointed out where the box was hidden. Adrien smiled gleefully as he walked over and opened the box.

Fu struggled as he was almost free of the rope.

But before Adrien went to grab the miraculous from the box. he turned to Fu.

“Don't think I didn't notice you trying to escape. If I learned anything on the streets, never take chances.”

He transformed in front of the old man using the turtle miraculous.

“Consider it a kindness. I will reunite you with Marianne.”

“What did you do to Marianne!?” The old man questioned angrily.

“She came looking for you, you had forgotten your wallet. Such a sweet old woman. Came in at the wrong time.”

Adrien lifted the shield high into the air. He watched Fu’s expression change to one resembling loss and hurt.

“But I will be nice now, give you two love birds a nice quick reunion.”

All that could be heard was the disturbingly eerie crunch and a drop to the floor.

[ncityislove]

NCT 127 React to You Crying

Taeil

Taeil stood frozen in front of you awkwardly as you broke down in tears. You grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward, crying into his chest.

"Please don't cry, y/n," he said wrapping his hands around you and patting your back.

You hiccuped as you tried to explain why you were so upset but gave up, frustrated, as the words weren't coming out clearly.

Taeil pulled away, leaving you alone with your thoughts and you only began to cry harder. However, Taeil returned a minute later with a cup of water, tissues, and a blanket. He sat them down as he enveloped you in a tight embrace, kissing your temple.

"I'll do whatever it takes to make you smile again."

Taeyong

Taeyong pulled you into a hug as soon as he saw your bottom lip begin to quiver. It had been an overwhelmingly stressful day and you'd been bottling up your frustrations all week. You couldn't help but burst into tears when Taeyong asked how your day had been. He spent the entire day glued to your side, listening to your complaints and wiping your tears away when you started crying again. Even when you demanded he go home, as it was getting late and you didn't want to be a burden, he refused to leave until you felt better, ending up spending the night on your floor with you in his arms.

"I’ll stay by your side forever if I have to.”

Johnny

"Y/n?" Johnny called when he walked the front door.

Johnny was met with silence. He shrugged and went to your kitchen looking for something to eat, assuming you weren't home yet. After heating up a Hot Pocket and grabbing a warm water bottle, he sat down at the kitchen island with his phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly through twitter. A few bites into his snack, there was a tell-tale creak of the floor boards over his head indicating that he indeed was not the only one home.

"Y/n, is that you?" He called out.

Again, his question went unanswered. Johnny shuffled up the stairs to your bedroom door, knocking fervently.

"Hey, 'you in there?"

"...No," you said, sniffling.

Johnny opened the door just enough to peek his head inside, his eyes landing on you, instantly softening. He let himself in, wordlessly crossing your room to your crumpled form. Your hands reached out for him, seeking his warmth as he cradled you into his chest, weeping.

"Shh," he hushed you, placing his chin on the top of your head. "It's okay, I'm here now."

Yuta

Yuta hounded you with questions, wanting to know what happened, where it happened and most importantly how it happened. He tended to get worked up when you weren't your usual happy self and knowing this, you responded as best as you could. After explaining how your boss demoted you in front of all your co-workers, Yuta got angry. There was a flicker in his eyes that you had never seen before but just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.

"What an asshole," he said taking your hand into his and pressing his lips to the cold skin. "I'm gonna kill him."

You laughed at this and Yuta's frown dissolved as he realized he made you smile.

"Is that a smile I see?" He said poking your cheeks, causing you to laugh again. "Jerks like him don't deserve your tears, love."

"Aw, why are you so sweet." You said wiping your runny nose.

"Oh, trust me, I'm not. I'm planning his death as we speak."

Doyoung

Doyoung squished his cheek against yours as he slowly massaged the back of your neck with his fingers. You leaned into his touch unconsciously as you filled him in on the details of what happened to be the worst day of your life. Doyoung seemed infuriated at the situation but remained silent as he waited for you to finish your story.

"God, that's awful. I'm so sorry that happened to you, y/n," he said, clenching and unclenching a fist with his free hand.

You put your chin on his shoulder as he enveloped his arms around you. "It's okay, really. It's nobody's fault."

Doyoung pulled away from you, leaving you feeling cold and you shivered.

"It's not okay," Doyoung said cupping your tear-ridden face. "I mean, look at you! You're clearly upset—hell, I'm upset. You shouldn't belittle your feelings like that it's unhealthy."

You pressed your lips together in a frown as you nodded in agreement.

"C'mere," he said pulling you back in for a bear hug. "I'll make this right, I promise."

Jaehyun

Jaehyun pressed his lips to the top of your forehead, resting his cheek on the top of your head.

"I'm sorry to hear about your day, love," he said, hugging you closer to his body, if possible.

You hummed, swiping a stray tear away as it fell. Jaehyun, feeling the movement, groaned, squeezing you until you couldn't breathe and you grunted.

"Why are you still crying?"

You let out a choked noise unable to reply and Jaehyun finally got the signal and released his hold barely but just enough for you to take a breath.

"I'm just really glad to have you. I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here today," you breathed, tapping the back of his shirt for emphasis.

Jaehyun pulled away, allowing your eyes to gaze upon his dazzling smile briefly before returning to his previous position.

"Just don't cry anymore okay? I don't ever wanna be the reason you cry, so no more tears. Got it?"

You agreed, lazily nodding your head.

Sicheng

Sicheng rushed to your house as soon as he heard your shaky voice through phone asking him to come over. So there he was, soaking wet from running through the rain wearing his t-shirt inside out and mismatched socks with his Nike slides, banging on your door like a mad man.

You swung the door open, eyes swollen with mascara and eyeliner smudged everywhere that only widened when you took in his trembling form. You pulled him inside, scolding him for being so reckless. Sicheng only stared at you as you began to strip him of his wet clothing, scurrying off to get a towel and the returning.

"You can get sick! Haven't you ever heard of pneumonia?" You said, removing his sopping wet socks.

Sicheng put his arm on your shoulder, ceasing your nagging for the moment. "I don't care about that right now, I was worried about you."

"Well, I care, Sicheng! Don't do crazy things like this again, alright? Promise me. I mean, why couldn't you get someone to drive you?"

"Okay, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said holding up his hands.

"It's just—I don't want you to get sick because of me," you said, your voice beginning to quiver.

Sicheng sighed, pulling you until you fell into his lap. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make things worse."

"I know," you sniffed, weaving your arms around his neck.

"I just can't stand to see you upset; you know that," he said pouting.

"Yes, I know," you mumbled into his shirt. "You got my clothes all wet."

"Sorry," Sicheng chuckled. "I should probably change, huh?"

You pulled away from him, throwing the towel in his face. "Well, duh."

Jungwoo

Jungwoo's eyes bulged out of his skull when you suddenly began to cry mid-way through your game of Jenga. Thinking he did something wrong, he began to apologize profusely and you turned away shaking your head, embarrassed. Your head fell into your hands as your body shuddered from the abrupt wave of tears streaming down your face.

"Y/n...are you alright?" Jungwoo asked as he cautiously shuffled next to you.

You merely shook your head 'no' as you turned away from him again, determined not to let him see you cry. You nearly jumped out of your skin when a pair of skinny arms wrapped around you, pulling your back flush into Jungwoo's chest. You tensed up at first, surprised by his sudden act of skinship but eventually relaxing into his hold, finally drop your hands from your face. You stayed like that for a few minutes before Jungwoo suggested you wrap up your game.

"Do you wanna take a walk and talk about it? And maybe we can put on your favorite movie to cheer you up afterwards; how does that sound?"

Mark

Mark burst into your room, slamming the door against the wall as he rushed to you.

"Y/n! Are you okay? I got your text," said Mark. He rested his hand on your shoulder and the other on the bed as he kneeled to your level.

Your throat was tight as you tried to reply, only managing to make out odd strangled noises. You tears cleared enough to see Mark's eyes, wide in panic as he tried to figure out what to do. 

"C-can you hiccup bring me hiccup s-some tissues?" you asked.

Mark nodded, rushing to your bathroom and back, a fistful of tissues in hand. You thanked him before blowing your nose, disgusted by the amount of mucus that came out. Mark brought more tissues and moved you to the top of your bed, throwing your duvet and blankets on top of you. You thanked him again and Mark furrowed his eyebrows, poking out his bottom lip slightly before he sat down next to you.

"You don't need to thank me." He pushed your hair back so it wasn't in your face.

"But I do. I know you're always busy and I don't wanna distract you from your work."

Mark sighed. "Nonsense," his hand sought out yours, interlacing your fingers with his. "I'll always have time for you."

Donghyuck

Donghyuck noticed you were quieter than usual, becoming more and more concerned as the night went on. You, Donghyuck, Jaemin,  Jeno and Renjun we're gathered around their too small dinner table eating the spicy ramen Jaemin prepared, you slumping in your chair with your hair covering your face.

After everyone finished their meals, they chased each other to the living room to watch a movie, leaving you and Donghyuck behind to clean up. Donghyuck took the task of washing the bowls and you dried them. Donghyuck paused, placing the bowl he was holding to the side.

"So," Donghyuck chirped, wiping his hands on his jeans. "You've been quiet all night; how was your day?"

You sighed. "It was fine. Hyuck, can you pass me the bowl?"

Donghyuck folded his arms across his chest, turning his body to face you. "No, y/n, you're not fine. You know you don't have to lie to me. Tell me what's going on."

You bowed your head, your curtains of hair shielding your face once again as tears brimmed your eyelids but Donghyuck tucked the strands behind your ears, wiping away the salty tears with his thumb. You threw yourself into his arms, breaking down into tears and he enclosed them around you, swaying side to side.

"You don't ever have to hide from me, y/n. I'm here for you."

[missmarquin]

The Perfect Brew (For the Perfect Future)

I’m a goob, and totally forgot to post this here when I posted it for Day 2 of Sylvix Week. @sylvix-week

...

A brew is only as good as the company it's shared with. Oneshot, AU. Day 2 of Sylvix Week. Read on Ao3 for better quality!

....

Sylvain isn’t a coffee person, but the tiny cafe is the perfect spot to hide.

He has to hand it to the woman-- Margrita Alpazar of House Rowe was a force of nature. If he’s going to be shackled to a woman and forced to bear children with her… well, he can appreciate someone with a decent backbone.

The problem with Lady Alpazar though, is that she has too much of a backbone, and that she’s just too damn assertive. It’s why his mother adores the woman, and why Sylvain still cringes at the mere mention of her.

He ducks past the wide wooden door, flattening himself against the limestone wall of the interior. He doesn’t risk looking to see if she’s passed him up, but he still waits a long moment, holding his breath.

Really, he’d wait for hours if it will throw her off his trail. And surely she isn’t about to follow him all the way to Low Street. She has standards.

Sylvain can’t stop the grimace that slides across his face. Who’s he kidding. She’s actually followed him to far worse places before, and he wasn’t even thinking about that one time at the brothel.

That was when he learned Lady Rowe packed a punch. Literally.

The cafe smells nice at least-- if you like coffee. Porcelain cups and plates clatter as customers enjoy their daily brew. He’s more of a tea person, really, but he can appreciate the bitter taste and biting aroma, and--

He turns into the business proper, only to find a shorter, quite aggressive looking man staring right back at him. His linen shirt is old and off-white, and his apron is stained with coffee grounds. He balances a tray on one hand easily, holding a steaming coffee kettle in the other. Inky, dark hair hangs in his face, the longer bits tied haphazardly in the back.

He looks Sylvain up and down, taking in his appearance. Sylvain’s dressed in his finery, due to his meeting with his betrothed, and he sticks out like a sore thumb. And while it isn’t the slums… well, he wasn’t on High Street either.

Sylvain already has an excuse on the edge of his silver tongue, when the other man speaks.

“Not black,” he says curtly. Sylvain blinks. Well of course he wasn’t, was the man blind-- “You’re the type to mask the taste, so sugar and cream. More so the former than the latter. And then you’d likely ruin a good brew with a bit of chocolate.” A pause, as he adjusts the tray against his shoulder. “There’s a table in the back. At least take a seat and fucking order something, if you’re keen on camping here.”

Oh.

Well, Sylvain isn’t dumb, but he’s slow on the intake sometimes. “Do you have any tea?” is his response, and he can tell by the man’s immediate scowl that it was absolutely the wrong thing to ask.

“You’ll find your pansy water on High Street.” He must see Sylvain’s wince, because then the man scowls with a tsk. “Just find a seat. I’ll bring you something.”

Sylvain dumbly does what he asks, and the man is gone before he can think much else of it. He tucks away to the back corner, tucking himself into a too-small chair, and clasping his hands awkwardly. He risks a glance towards the entrance door, but they don’t fling open.

He’s apparently lost his tail, thank the fucking Goddess.

Eventually, the sour-faced barista finds his way over to the table. He drops a tray loudly onto the surface, followed by an old coffee mug and plate, and then a very small glass pitcher. “This isn’t my most popular brew, but you might not hate it.” He lifts the cup, pouring the contents of the pitcher into it.  “Something about fruity notes, and hints of cocoa. Honestly, the merchant bored me with the details. Dark Roasts are for the weak-blooded.”

It’s pretty much all gibberish to him, but Sylvain reaches for the cup when the dour man holds it out.

“Dark Roast, right,” he repeats.

The other man sneers, but waits. Sylvain realizes he’s waiting on him. He lifts the mug to his mouth and takes a sip.

He’s never really liked coffee, but holy shit, this brew is something else. He takes another sip. And then another, and it must show on his face, because the next time he looks at the barista, his scowl has been replaced by a smug smirk.

“This is uh--”

“Yeah, I was right it seems.”

Sylvain swallows another sip.

“Who are you hiding from?” the man asks, and Sylvain is caught off guard.

He places the cup down, thumbing over the handle and replies, “My future wife.”

The barista winces in what looks like solidarity. Then he motions to the coffee. “It’s on the house.”

Before Sylvain can refuse though, the man is gone and assisting another table. He looks down at the dark drink. He never drinks this stuff black but-- He lifts the cup carefully, sipping at it.

It’s the best fucking coffee he’s ever had.

…

Sylvain wants to go back the next day, but holds himself back. He blames it on paperwork and a generalized I’m working. Margrita manages to corner him again, but only to pout about their missed date the day before. She doesn’t seem angry that he slipped from her presence though-- only mildly amused-- and she smirks as she tries to reschedule. Sylvain hedges around the idea, but eventually agrees to sharing a cup of tea when he finds the time.

Which, if he can help it, will be never.

Still, there’s something about the cafe that tugs at him. Or rather, someone.

It takes three days for him to finally cave and pick his way back to Low Street. He tells his mother that he just needs a walk. He tells Margrita that he’s out playing cards with the boys. He narrowly escapes his Father’s assigned guards (babysitters), but manages to sneak away.

The cafe smells sharp with the scent of coffee beans, and he takes a deep breath. Yeah, he’s still not used to it, but it’s growing on him, this coffee thing. He slides towards the same table as before. He looks around, trying to--

Ah, there he is.

The barista is… wearing the same shirt as yesterday-- he can see the coffee stains from where he sat. He looks tired, bags cut deep under his eyes, but his hair is sleek and brushed out. Today it was braided and thrown over his shoulder.

Sylvain watches as the man pours a cup out for a guest. The woman in question says something with a flirty smile, and the man scowls, biting back a clipped remark. Sylvain hums at that. Interesting.

And then the man is at his table, that scowl directed right at him. “Got lost on your way to High Street again?” he asks, but it’s not really a question.

Sylvain leans back in his chair. “I’d have to be going to High Street for that to happen. Instead, I spent nearly two hours trying to find this place again.” There’s a pause, and then, “I mean the coffee is good and the place is decent enough. But then again… the help?” He motions to the dark-haired man himself and his coffee dusted apron. “Leaves a little to be desired.”

The barista scoffs, his lips twitching in annoyance. He leaves, but then comes back, this time with a cup and pot. “Medium Roast this time,” he says shortly. “Imported beans from Brigid, roasted with orange peels. My least popular brew that I offer. I don’t know why, but maybe that smart mouth of yours might be the only that will enjoy it.”

He practically slams the cup down on the table, and whisks away to grab the ticket. He slaps that on the table as well, before flitting off across the room. He doesn’t come back.

Sylvain’s so distracted that he doesn’t notice that he’s been charged double at first.

And when he does, he happily pays it.

…

Sylvain’s hates that particular brew, but he goes back every single day that week.

The barista scowls everytime, his lips twitching exasperation as he takes in his high-class finery. Yeah, Sylvain doesn’t really belong there, but he doesn’t really care. Every single day, that same terrible brew is dropped before him, chipped cup and mismatched plate accompanying it.

Sylvain always finishes it, despite the bitter and acrid taste.

Four days later, he asks another barista who the owner is, and she nudges her head to the side. Towards the man with the awful disposition.

Oh. No wonder he’s pissed.

Still, Sylvain learns his name that day. It’s Felix.

…

“What’s your favorite brew,” Sylvain asks one day. He prefers the counter to the table, he’s realized, because it allows him to bother Felix. And honestly, it’s a miracle the man hasn’t kicked him out yet.

The cafe isn’t as full as usual, but perhaps it’s because it’s later in the day. He’s been at it for a month by this point, spending every afternoon with his favorite prickly friend.

Felix doesn’t scowl at him anymore, not much at least. The look’s been replaced with a constant mask of disdain and eye-rolling. Sylvain considers it a victory, even if he doesn’t quite know what he wants from the man.

Felix pauses, mid pour, the stream of coffee cutting off abruptly. Dark Roast again, this time grown in Almyra. Something, something, lemons and thyme. Pairs well with fruit scones, whatever that means. “That’s not for you to know,” he says, resuming his task.

Once the cup is full, he slides it over the countertop.

“You wound me, Felix,” he whines.

“Hugo,” the other man snaps. Sylvain smirks at him, before sipping at his cup.

This one isn’t bad. This one is decent, and it’s one that he would drink again. He adds it to his mental list.

“Say Felix,” he drawls, ignoring the requested what-he-assumes-to-be last name, “Teach me how to brew a good cup? Margrita complained about what I made the other day, and I can’t bear to see her frown like that again.”

Felix pauses again, his face unreadable, but then he tsks. “Idiot.”

It isn’t a no though, nor does he correct him when he calls him by name.

…

“So this is where you spend your afternoons.” Margrita hums lightly, as she looks around. Her arm is slung through his own and she clings to his side, like butter on bread. Sylvain doesn’t like it, but frankly, he’s too exhausted to fight her off. So he leaves her be. For the moment, she’s behaving. “It’s cute.”

Sylvain nearly warns her about that particular word, but Felix is already there before he can.

“Cute,” he practically spits. His glances follows the entire length of both of them, no doubt scowling at their velvets and jewels. “It’s bad enough he gets lost everyday, now you too?”

Margrita’s eyebrows raise at such speech, but her lips quirk in amusement.

“Don’t mind my friend,” Sylvain sighs, patting her arm gently. “Felix thinks that cute ruins the image he’s actually going for.”

“Then what is he going for?” she asks.

“Robust,” is Felix’s answer, and the woman cackles in response. Robust, like a good brew, he’d once told Sylvain. Felix lips twitch downwards as he points at her. “I don’t like her,” he says to Sylvain, before turning on his heel and wheeling around the edge of the counter.

Who does? Sylvain thinks, but when he looks at Margrita, she’s watching him carefully, not Felix.

“Some friend.” She doesn’t look angry though, her eyes narrowed with an amused brightness. Really, she isn’t as bad as she could be, he supposes. And with her tanned skin and bright green eyes, she’s cute to boot.

To bad she isn’t Fe--

It’s like water has been dumped over him, and he shoves that thought away as soon as it comes. “He’s still getting used to the idea,” Sylvain finally says, but his tone is a little more subdued than his normally cheerful self.

But Margrita laughs, and he smiles back thinly, leading her over to his favorite table in the back.

The brew that is brought to them is a medium roast. Felix says something about the coastal region of the Adrestian Empire, cherries and something called cascara.

Sylvain imagines that it probably tastes good, considering the pleased hum from Margrita across him. But as Felix pours out a second cup, Sylvain watches how his eyelashes flutter when he blinks, and the delicate ripple of his forearms, visible where he’s rolled up his sleeves.

He swallows thickly around the lump forming in his throat.

Felix slides the cup towards him, across the table. And when they meet gazes, his scowl relaxes into a smile.

When Sylvain sips the coffee, all he tastes is ash.

…

It’s been a year since Sylvain came to the realization that he loves Felix.

At first it was a quiet little thing. Sylvain would pick up on the small details that he wouldn’t notice before-- the stray strands that escape his various up-dos and how silky they look. The way that he scowls in mock anger, but let’s out a little tsk of amusement.

But as time passes, that feeling grows.

They aren’t at the cafe this time. Felix has surpassed friendship into something else. Companion? Confidant? Whatever it was, Sylvain’s household doesn’t ask questions when they see the dour-faced man slinking through the hallways.

Sylvain loves it. He also hates it.

They sit on a bench in the garden. Even though they’re alone, Felix is still on high alert. Sylvain’s since learned that he’s a veteran who fought in the Holy War, always on edge. He’s swapped his sword for coffee beans, and has tricked himself into living a simpler life. Sylvain wishes he could do that same, just disappear himself and be free.

“I’m going back home,” is the first thing Sylvain says.

Felix, who’s already pulling out a water kettle, pauses. It’s barely there, the grief on his face, but Sylvain sees it. He wants to see it, he realizes, he--

Actually, he doesn’t, because that’s going to make this a hell of a lot harder.

“My father is sick, and it’s about time that I take over my lands,” he  finishes. The words sound lame in his mouth.

“Duty,” Felix says quietly. He’s never really confirmed it, but Sylvain has figured that he’s high born. Felix just reads well bred, when you look hard enough. Again, there’s that green-eyed jealousy, bursting in his chest. Felix was lucky enough to escape wherever it was, that he came from.

“Yeah, crests you know. Can’t be a Gautier, and not give a shit, right?” His tone is as bitter as that one medium roast that Sylvain really fucking hates. His friend reserves that brew for when he’s angry at him.

Felix hums, but doesn’t respond. He sets out two cups, followed by glass press and plunger. There’s a quick snap of his fingers and then a small flame, before lighting the kindling under the pot. He’s not good with fire, but he manages well enough with this.

And then he pulls out a tin that Sylvain doesn’t recognize. Old and dented, the green paint flicking off. It’s not from the cafe stock. “I’m sorry about the Lady Alpazar.”

Ah, right.

There was an argument, and then some words, and Sylvain might have said something that he severely regrets. Something, something, I love him. She hadn’t gotten angry, instead he had just sighed in resignation. And then a smile. And then a pat on the cheek, followed by a kiss to the forehead.

Really, he regrets it because there isn’t a woman in the world as understanding as the Lady Alpazar, and if he’s going to have to marry someone that isn’t Felix, she was definitely his top choice.

Except that she isn’t a choice anymore.

“Yeah, me too.”

Felix watches him for a moment, before opening the tin and spooning out a liberal amount of ground coffee. He must have done that bit before arriving. They sit in silence as the coffee brews, and it doesn’t smell like anything he’s ever tasted.

“I don’t want to, you know,” he says finally. “I don’t want to go back--” He paused, knuckles tightening. “There’s nothing for me there,” he finishes weakly. He’s entering dangerous territory.

Felix pours the coffee. Sylvain reaches for it, and Felix’s hand lingers for too long, before pulling away. “A good friend once said that a brew is only as good as the company it’s shared in.”

Sylvain chuckles darkly. “No wonder everything I drink tastes like shit.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” Felix immediately responds. His voice is quiet, but it’s sincere.

Sylvain sips his cup, and it is bullshit. He laughs again. “Figures this would be the best fucking cup you’ve evermade me.”

Felix hums at that. “You once asked about my favorite brew,” he says.

“That’s not for you to know.” They’re repeated words, but ones that he remembers well.

“Pecans, Maple and Vanilla, with enough caffeine to fuel an army. I don’t think I’ve ever given you a blonde roast, but here you are.”

“Figures.”

“I…” But Felix hesitates, worrying his own cup between his hands. “I’ll miss you,” he finally admits. “When you leave.” Oh, the fucking dramatic irony. Sylvain can’t help but laugh, and Felix huffs at that. “Is that funny to you--”

“No it’s not,” Sylvain says quietly. “It’s tragic.”

Felix turns to him, his brow furrowing into a cute little wrinkles and-- Sylvain sighs.

But Felix knows how to read him. “What happened between the two of you?” he asks gently.

“We had a fight.”

“Did she not want to go back with you? Gautier lands are quite unforgiving.”

“I told her that I didn’t love her.”

Felix blinks at that. “Was that a secret? It’s not as if she loves you, and she doesn’t strike me as stupid--”

“I told her that I love someone else.”

Felix’s mouth snaps shut. “Well, not what a lady wants to hear.”

“Not usually, no.”

Felix sips at his mug. “She must have been angry.”

“She told me to go for it.”

“What?”

Suddenly, the coffee seems cold in his hands. “Yeah, hence the fight.”

Felix tips his head to the side, his eyes narrowing. “The woman gives you a pass, and you argue over it? How stupid are you?”

“It’s pretty complicated.”

Felix hmphs at that. “There’s very little complicated about you, Sylvain.” But then his expression falls tender. “Will you?” he asks hesitantly.

“Will I what?”

“Go for it?”

Sylvain is quiet for a long minute, rubbing his fingertip along the edge of his cup. Watching the garden and how the sunlight filtered through the trees around them. He’s about to make a mistake. He’s about to throw caution into the wind, and quite possibly fuck up his entire life. He turns to Felix, who looks back in curiosity.

He reaches out suddenly, pressing his fingers against the high arch of Felix’s cheekbones. He’s prepared for the man to pull away, but he doesn’t. “There aren’t any coffee shops in Gautier,” he finally says.

“Sylvain--”

“I’ve come to enjoy it a lot. Coffee, I mean, but it’s not really the drink that I like. What was it you said earlier? The brew is only as good as the company its shared with?”

“Sylvain.” Felix’s voice pitches high and breathy.

Sylvain moves to grasp his chin gently. “Would you come with me? Up North?”

“Idiot.” Felix reaches out, gripping onto Sylvain’s shirt like it’s a lifeline. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

But he doesn’t say no. He’s red, and embarrassed, and he drops the cup of coffee in his lap. It clatters to the ground, cracking. And he still hasn’t said no.

Sylvain smiles, before leaning in.

Felix meets him halfway.