#or like a flimsy-looking door on hairpin legs

[elephantbitterhead]

At long last, I have found a desk that satisifies my seemingly-simple-yet-somehow-actually-impossibly-arcane demands. It's a close cousin to the desk I left behind before moving to Scotland, minus that desk's ~200lb slate top (which is why I rejected the possibility of shipping it here). After 12 years without a desk, I'm looking forward to putting things in drawers & pulling out those little slab shelves.

Its top is also nicely aged/dinged up & I will enjoy running my hands over it -- see below:

It's going to be a tight squeeze to get it into the room where I plan to use it, so let's hope I can channel my crafty-furniture-mover persona (or that the top comes off easily).

[peachbear88]

Tale as Old as Time

A/N: Yes, it's basically Beauty and the Beast. I LOVE DISNEY MOVIES OKAY?

------------

You shiver on the cold stone of the jail cell, wrapping your cloak tighter around you. How did you end up in the jail cell? A series of long, unfortunate events.

------------

The door to your shabby home swings close as you prance down the cobble streets, book in hand.

"Little town,"

"It's a quiet village."

"Every day,"

"Like the one before."

"Little town,"

"Full of little people,"

"Waking up to say."

Windows are flung upon as the townspeople peer down at you.

"Bonjour!"

"Bonjour."

"Bonjour!"

"Bonjour!

"Bonjour."

A man with a long white apron proffers a tray of fresh, steaming buns towards you and you snatch one, nodding your thanks.

"There goes the baker with his tray like always,"

"The same old bread and rolls to sell."

He opens his mouth to protest but thinks better of it.

"Every morning just the same,"

"Since the morning that we came,"

"To this poor provincial town."

A man approaches you, tipping his hat.

"Good morning Y/N." You smile at his kind, pudgy face.

"Good morning Monsieur Hogan. Have you lost something?"

"Well, I believe I have. Problem is I can't remember what." He scratches his chin. "Oh well. I'm sure it'll turn up somewhere." His eyes float down to the book clutched in your hand. "Where you off to?"

"To return this book to Monsieur T'Challa. It's about 2 lovers in fair Verona." He snorts.

"Sounds boring."

You shrug and continue down the stone path towards the small town library.

"Look there she goes, that girl is strange no question."

A small band of boys watch you as you walk down the street.

"Dazed and distracted can't you tell?"

"Never part of any crowd,"

"'Cause her head's stuck on some cloud."

"No denying she's a funny girl that Y/N.”

The marketplace is bustling as usual as you slip through the many stalls. The familiar buzz of conversation fills your ears.

"Bonjour, good day, how is your family?"

"Bonjour, good day, how is your wife?"

"I need, 6 eggs."

"That's too expensive."

You sigh, spinning around.

"There must be more than this provincial life!"

You fling the door of the library open to find your second favorite person in the world, T'Challa, dusting the shelves.

"Ah, if it isn't the only bookworm in town! Where did you run off to this week?" He waves the duster at you, making you cough.

"Two cities in Northern Italy. I didn't want to come back. D'you have any new books?" You inquire, leaning over the small collection piled in the corner.

"I'm afraid not," He sighs. "But you may read any of the old ones you'd like."

You pick out your personal favorite.

"Your library makes our small corner of the world feel big." T’Challa smiles.

"Bon voyage!" He shouts as you close the door behind yourself.

"Look there she goes, that girl is so peculiar,"

"I wonder if she's feeling well." A scholar mused as you passed.

"With a dreamy far-off look,"

"And her nose stuck in a book."

"What a puzzle to the rest of us is Y/N."

You hop onto the stone wall of the well, still reading the book, nearly stepping on the hands of the laundresses cleaning on the edge of the well.

"Oh, isn't this amazing?" You twirl around on the stone wall, earning many disgruntled looks from the laundresses. "It's my favorite part because, you'll see." You hop off the stone wall, continuing down the path back to your home. "Here's where she meets Prince Charming, but she won't discover that it's him, till chapter 3."

"Now it's no wonder that her nickname is Beauty,"

"Her looks have got no parallel."

A disgruntled mother says, her fair daughters standing behind her, glaring daggers at you.

"But behind that fair facade,"

"I'm afraid she's rather odd."

"Very different from the rest of us,"

"She's nothing like the rest of us,"

"Yes, different from the rest of is Y/N!"

Peering through his golden telescope at you, Steve Rogers sighs from atop his handsome horse.

"Look at her Sam. My future wife." He hands Sam the telescope who accepts it rather reluctantly. "Belle is the most beautiful girl in the village. Makes her the best." He whispers confidentially, waggling his eyebrows. Sam cringes.

"But she's so... well-read. And you're so..." He looks Steve up and down. "Athletically-inclined." Steve waves him off, setting his horse at a healthy trot towards the town.

"Yes, ever since the war, I felt like I've been missing something. She's the only girl that has ever given me that sense of..."

"Je ne sais quoi?" Sam proffers. Steve scoffs, entering the village.

"I don't know what that means."

"Right from the moment when I met her, saw her,"

"I said she's gorgeous and I fell."

"Here is town there's only she,"

"Who is beautiful as me."

"So I'm making plans to woo and marry Y/N."

The fair girls from before swoon as Steve walks by, who only has eyes for you.

"Look there he goes,"

"Isn't he dreamy?"

"Monsieur Rogers!"

"Oh he's so cute!"

"Be still my heart,"

"I'm hardly breathing,"

"He's such a tall, dark, strong and handsome brute!"

They shriek in disgust as Steve hops off his horse, splattering them with mud. Sam hops off his horse as well.

"It's never going to happen ladies." He whispers as they whimper in distress.

"Bonjour!"

"Pardon!" Steve attempts to push through the crowds to get to you.

"Good day!"

"Mais oui!"

"You call this bacon?"

"What lovely flowers!"

"Some cheese, ten yards, one pound-"

"Please let me through!" He grabs a bouquet of flowers from a nearby stall.

"This bread."

"Those fish!"

"It's stale!"

"They smell."

"Madame's mistaken!"

"Well maybe so-"

You burst through the masses of people, twirling as you reach your home.

"There must be more than this provincial life!"

Steve slicks back his hair, approaching you at a smart pace.

"Just watch, I'm going to make Y/N my wife!"

The town resumes their unashamed staring at you.

"Look there she goes the girl is strange but special,"

"A most peculiar mademoiselle!"

"It's a pity and a sin,"

"She doesn't quite fit in."

"'Cause she really is a funny girl,"

"A beauty but a funny girl,"

"She really is a funny girl,"

"That Y/N."

The townsfolk resume their normal quarrel and haggling as you slip through the flimsy gate and through your cabbage patch. Steve follows.

"Y/N!" You turn to find Steve flashing you what he thinks is a dashing smile. You recoil in disgust, instantly speeding up your pace, hoping to get inside before he can get to you. A flood of hope grips you as your hand wraps around the door handle but a strong arm grips your other wrist and you deflate.

Sighing, you turn to face Steve.

"Yes Monsieur Rogers?" He flashes a greasy smile your way and shoves the flowers into your face.

"For your dinner table! May I join you tonight?"

At least he has the manners to ask, you think.

"Not tonight, no." He deflates slightly.

"Oh. Busy?" You wince, prying his fingers off your wrist.

"Not exactly."

"Oh. Then why not-" You cut him off.

"Listen, I really have to go. Books to read, places to explore, people to ignore." You open the door, sliding in and closing it before he can follow you. "Good bye."

---------------

You sigh with relief, taking a moment to catch your breath before continuing further into your home. A drawing pinned to the drawing board catches your eye. A charcoal sketch of you. Well, baby you to be exact. A smile graces your lips as you tear your eyes away from the sketch and to your father, Tony Stark. He hums a small tune as he tinkers with an elegant music box.

"How does a moment last forever?"

"How can a story never die?"

"It is love we must hold onto,"

"Never easy, but we try."

"Sometimes our happiness is captured,"

"Somehow our time and place stand still."

"Love lives on inside our hearts,"

"And always will."

You wrap your arms around him and he smiles.

"Hello papa."

"Hello Y/N. D'you think you could pass me the-" You roll your eyes, handing him the tool before he finishes his sentence. "-tweezers- Oh. Thank you." He pulls a broken cog from the music box. "And now, something long and thin-" You pull the hairpin from your hair and hand it to him. He glances at it and a smirk grows on his face. "No, no, not quite-" He glances at the machine again. "Actually, yes, exactly."

With a final prod, the music box comes to life once again. The two of you share a small smile before he shoves it into his leather satchel and hauls it outside. You follow him, watching as he loads it into a rickety wooden cart along with a few other items. Your horse, Elm scuffs the cobbled pathways with his hooves, eager to get a move on.

"Well, I'm off to the market dear. Anything you'd like me to get for you?" You smile, leaning against the horse as Tony swings his leg over the horse to straddle it.

"A rose." He scoffs, tipping his hat down to you.

"You ask for that every year!"

"And you bring it ever year." You retort and he smiles, giving you a quick peck on the forehead.

"Very well. A rose you shall receive. I'll see you in a few days!" With a flick of his wrists, Elm starts off at a trot and Tony waves goodbye one more time.

"Be careful," You whisper as he disappears from your sight. With a sigh, you return to the house.

-------------

You throw your dirty clothes into a barrel, adding some soap rinds into the mix before carrying it to the town well and rigging it to a horse which marches around the well. You smile proudly at your handy work. Self sufficient laundry machine.

Leaning against the wooden support beam with a sigh, you pull out your book and start reading. A small voice next to you grabs your attention.

"What are you doing?" You smile at her.

"Laundry. Come, come!" You pat the spot next to you encouragingly. Tentatively, she sits next to you and you hand her the book.

-------------

The pastor storms towards you and the little girl.

"Teaching another girl to read? Isn't one enough?" He sneers. You glare back at him, snapping your book closed indignantly.

"Nothing wrong with wanting to know more."

"We've got to do something about this." His wife mutters.

Before you can comprehend the meaning of her words, a man pulls your barrel of clothes out of the well and throws them to the ground, spilling the contents everywhere. You fall to your knees, scrambling to pick up the clothes as others laugh at you.

------------

"Wow. You are so beautiful. No wonder everyone wants to marry you. So dashing." Steve whispers seductively, flexing in front of the mirror. Sam clears his throat causing Steve to jump. "What do you want Sam?"

"A certain damsel in distress awaits you." He quirks an eyebrow, gesturing with his head to where you crouch, gathering your sopping wet garments. He turns back to the mirror, slicking his hair back.

"It's hero time. I'm not done with you yet." He winks at the mirror before rushing to you. Sam leans into the frame of the mirror.

"Me neither."

------------

From the corner of your eye, you spot Steve approaching rapidly. Gathering the last of your clothes, you scurry away.

"Ah Y/N!" You groan at your luck. "I heard you got in trouble with the pastor. S'all right. He never liked me anyways."

You groan in frustration.

"I was just teaching a child to read!" He smirks, sliding closer. You step back.

"The only children you should be concerning yourself with are..." He gestures between the two of you. You arch an eyebrow. "Your own!" You scoff, slipping through the gate and into the cabbage patch. He jumps over the flimsy gate and stomps towards you, squashing at least 4 cabbages. You watch him with barely disguised disgust.

"Look, you know what happens to girls when their fathers die? They end up like poor Agatha, forced to beg for scraps!" He points at Agatha, a rather kind but unlucky woman.

"Well, I'll cross that bridge when I get to it." You reply coldly.

"Look, let me make it simpler for your tiny female brain." He growls. You arch an eyebrow at his choice of words. "Marry me and you will never have to deal with that." You scoff.

"Marry you? I'd rather marry a rock." You slam the door in his face. He sighs, rubbing his face with a calloused hand. Dejected, he walks back to where Sam stands. You glare at him from where you stand on the balcony.

"Can you imagine, me, the wife of that boorish, brainless..."

"Madame Rogers,"

"Can't you just see it?"

"Madame Rogers,"

"His little wife."

You groan in disgust.

"No sir, not me,"

"I guarantee it,"

"I want much more than this provincial life!"

You sprint towards the green hills a good distance from the walls of the village.

"I want adventure in the great wide somewhere,"

"I want it more than I can tell."

"And for once it might be grand,"

"To have someone understand,"

"I want so much more than they've got planned..."

You sigh, running a grime covered hand through your hair before returning to your home.

---------------

You're pulling the ripe cabbages from the ground when it all comes crashing down.

A panicked whine comes from beside you. Your head shoots up to find Elm, pawing at the gate nervously.

"Elm? Where is papa?" Elm rears back, clearly skittish. "Take me to him!

---------------

You arrive at a monstrous looking castle, stone gargoyles with vicious fangs guarding the doors. You gulp, brandishing a large stick. The door handle is cool to the touch, sending shivers down your spine. You enter to find a well lit entrance hall, adorned with brilliant paintings and sculptures, although in the dark, they appear much more menacing.

With a gulp, you continue on, bringing the massive stick a little closer.

"Look Doctor Strange! A girl!" A voice whispers from the shadows.

"Yes I know it's a girl! I can see." A second, older voice snaps.

You whirl around but all you see is a flash of misty blue. Squaring your shoulders, you prepare yourself to investigate the blue wisps when a rough cough sounds out from above.

"Papa!" You race up the winding stairs into a much more sinister looking tower. Laying there on the cold stone floor is your father, his face pale and body shaking with each cough. The cold sunlight illuminates his face and he jumps up, grabbing the metal bars of his cell.

"Y/N, what are you doing here?" You shake out of stupor, smacking the iron bars in a futile attempt to free him.

"I'm here to rescue you." Fear floods his features.

"No! You must get out of here! I'm old and my days are numbered. But you, you're young and you have so much to live for. Go, get out of here before she comes back!" You scrunch your face.

"She?" Massive footsteps echo from further up the stairwell. You raise the stick in front of you. A tall shadow appears on the stone walls of the tower. You gulp, inching forward but the figure stays in the shadows.

"You should not have come," A heavily accented voice rings out and your throat dries up.

"I had to. He's my father. Please, let him go." You call back but the figure scoffs.

"Your father is a thief!"

"Liar!" You cry.

"He stole a rose."

"I asked for that rose!"

An idea forms in your head and you slowly lower the stick. "Wait. What if you let him go and I take his place?"

"No! She means forever!" Your eyes widen.

"You monster! A life sentence for a rose?"

The woman laughs humorlessly.

"I was given a life sentence when I was little. Do you think I deserved it? You may call me a monster but trust me, I've been called much worse." You sigh, the gears in your brain whirring.

"Can I at least have a moment to say goodbye to my father?" The voice grunts and the shadow recedes. "Are you so cruel you won't even allow a daughter to kiss her father goodbye?" The figure pauses but slowly comes back down and into the light. Your throat dries up at the sight.

A beautiful girl in a blood red cape with auburn hair that burned in the torchlight, you felt your ears flush bright red. With a flick of her fingers, a red mist surrounds them and the metal gate swings open.

Your eyes grow wide at the display.

Magic.

You don't have time to think about it however as a strong set of arms wrap around you.

"Y/N!"

"Papa!" The two of you embrace as you discreetly waddle around so that his back is to the cell door.

"Y/N, listen to me. You have so much to live for. I lost your mother already and I can not lose you too. Live your life! Forget about me." He whispers into your hair and you feel a tear slip down your cheek.

"I will never forget you Papa. And don't worry. I will find a way out of here." His eyes widen before you push him through the threshold of the cell and slam the door behind him. He stumbles, falling onto his back, betrayal clear in his eyes.

"Y/N!" The woman stares at you for a moment, disbelief glimmering in her eyes before it disappears.

"You fool." She spits. Your father watches you with wide, horrified eyes. The woman grabs him roughly and drags him down the stairwell, his screams echoing off the walls.

"Papa! Don't hurt him!" A sob escapes your throat as you curl into a ball, wrapping your cloak further around yourself to preserve the warmth.

------------

You sigh, shivering as a cool gust of wind hits your back.

'Forever damned to freeze in a cell. Some adventurous life this is' You think to yourself as sleep claims you.

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Taglist: @username23345 @musicinourlips @gingerbreadcookieforlife @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @ima-gi--na-tion @nicole-rayleigh-hot @olsensnpm @peabrain112

[16reapergrell66]

500,000 Coin Lowblow

Lucio Morgasson is a bounty hunter. He's sent to retrieve the head of Wyverne Lochland, a woman who had been selling in other bounty hunters. Can he keep his cool around this vixen, or will he be the next one sold?

Special thanks to @vesuviannights for the idea! She had gotten this as a fake fic prompt and I didn't realize how much I needed this till now.

Features: Pining, shower masturbation, blood/gore. Viewer discretion is advised.

It was a quiet night in Vesuvia. The Marketplace was quiet, save for a handful of people left. The lanterns were still lit, softly dancing in a light breeze. Lucio mingled with the crowd, trinkets still clinking and the leftover scent of warm pumpkin bread still clinging to life. He fingered some trinkets, watching them shine as they passed through calloused fingers. Others gleamed, catching his eye, and he picked them up, feeling their weight before placing them back.

 Just a 500,000 coin low-threat, huh? His mind wandered back to that wanted photo of her. Tamed curls, russet brown in color, eyes the color of emeralds, lips painted in a gorgeous shade of red. Freckles dusted her nose, the round apples of her cheeks. She had given the camera a particular smolder, one that gave him weird feelings--a tight, fluttery heart and warm, soft lips licked eagerly to cool them.

     He spotted her, carefully picking along the jewels and trinkets. Her hair was tied back into a loose knot, a beautiful hairpin helping to keep it in place. She laughed, a soft tinkle of bells among the hushed voices. She paid for a few jewels, pocketing them in her pants before leaving the stall.

     Shit, shit, sh-- His mind blanked. His heart skipped a few beats. This awful feeling crept through his limbs, warmth spreading down to other equipment. How in the world she rivalled his own beauty, he didn't know.

     Lucio gently shook his head, trying to clear it of irritating things. He gently grabbed her elbow, pulling her into a nearby alley. He pressed her against the wall, knee between her legs, lips just shy of her ear.

     "Don't you realize what you're doing?" He had growled this, low in her ear. "Why don't you wear a robe? You'll get yourself killed." He still couldn't shake the feeling, how his lips longed to be against hers, how he wanted to mark her, take her, claim her. He couldn't place the feeling, but he absolutely hated it.

     "Um...I-I'm...I….," Wyverne stumbled, stuttering her words. She played this innocent act well, yet there was something stirring in her abdomen. He was so close, a man of his allure doing things to her heart and mind.

     "You need to change, or you'll get caught," he growled, low in her ear. He handed her smooth material, soft and silky in her smooth hands. "Keep this, and please, get out." He pushed himself away, going out of the alley and disappearing back into the flimsy crowd.

     Wyverne clutched the black fabric, her heart racing. That was him! That was the bounty hunter, the one they called simply Morgasson. He was just as handsome as the rumors said, though he was a dangerous edge that loved the taste of blood on his long, silver tongue. She swallowed thickly, a hand over her heart. That was either a lucky shot or he was incredibly stupid! She was wanted for a reason, yet he seemed to buy into her act. If it was gonna be this easy, she'd have to wrangle more dumbasses more often.

♡♡

It was a few days later, the early morning greeting an already busy Marketplace. Wyverne was dressed in something more flattering for her figure, her top partially undone to softly reveal her cleavage. A long flowing skirt hid those legs, those gorgeous curvy legs with delicious thighs. She laughed at Selasi, a hand over her mouth to stifle snorts of pure laughter. Lucio cursed under his breath. Of course this wickedly good vixen wouldn't leave. She just had to stick around. 

     Wyverne grabbed her loaf of bread, paying Selasi. She tore off a chunk with a practised hand, bringing it to her lips. He watched them part, the piece of bread slipping inside, catching on her tongue. Again came that warm feeling, the one that wanted to claim her, mark her, bend her over the nearest stall.

     Lucio saw her disappear down a side alley, the same one as the other night, and followed her. He held an arm in front of her, making her lightly bump into him. She turned to face him, a momentary look of shock on her face. He pressed her against the wall, not as close as last time. His heart was pounding in his ears, a little too fast for his liking.

     "What the hell d'you think you're doing!?" Lucio was in exasperation at this point. Over the past few days, he had given her things he thought she needed--cloaks, blankets, medicine, books. She wouldn't tell him much, but this time he hoped she would.

     "Look, Morgasson. I appreciate the offers, the trinkets, the advice. But I can't leave. Not yet," Wyverne told him, voice soft yet firm. Her lips were painted with that ruby shade again, catching his eye. He bit his lip, smacking his fist against the wall.

     "What else do you need so that you will take my advice and leave this gods damned place??" He almost whined the last bit of his question, trying to look anywhere but at her. His pants felt awfully tight this morning, did they shrink?

     "I can't tell you, Morgasson. It'll put them in danger," she said, giving a slight shake of her head. She glanced down, then met his eye one more time. "I hope that's just a knife in your pocket, big boy," she remarked, ducking under his arm and carrying on with her day, still eating the warm bread.

     Lucio had groaned, low in his throat. That's why his pants felt tight this morning. Did she even know what she was doing to him!? He doesn't have time to pine after a target, he's got others for a lot shallower prices on their heads than hers. If only she'd stop her game--but then again he's loved games in his spare time. 

♡♡

It had been a few days since then, each time his conversations with her grew more and more, till it could almost be called casual flirting. He was sitting at his desk, early morning light shining through the sheers as he finished up a call with his bosses up top.

     "Yes. It took a while, but I found her." A pause, listening. "Mmhmm. Yes. She'll be gone tonight. Right. Take care." He hung up, sighing. He ran his golden hand through his hair, looking at the notes he had made sprawled on the desk.

     He had to do something, this was taking too long. Surely there were other pretty faces like hers, ones that he could easily take and pretend its her. He groaned, leaning back in his chair, rubbing his face with his hands. Why was he going through all this trouble for a gods damned crush? He has refused to make his move for almost two weeks now, he needs a plan in mind. Sighing, getting up and lazily stretching, he moved towards the bathroom, drawing a warm shower for himself. 

     He took off the red silk bathrobe, the steam billowing from the shower as he stepped inside. Water drummed over his skin, making it pink from warmth, running in rivulets down sculpted muscle and countless scars from past skirmishes with other prey. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back and wetting his blond. He could see her, in his mind's eye, the way she had looked at the breadmaker's stall. He growled, low in his throat, wishing that she would leave his mind already as he took a small amount of soap and scrubbed his head. He rinsed the soap through, picturing how her top had shown just enough to tempt, how easily she had laughed, how she had thrown her head back, exposing her lovely neck. Lucio could feel himself hardening, almost tempted to freeze himself out with a cold shower. He grabbed the soap that smelled of pomegranates, and poured some in his hand, washing himself as his mind wandered again.

     Lucio could picture her, under him, a gorgeous look on her freckled face as she moaned his name. He could almost feel how she clawed at him, could almost feel how her walls pulled at him as she came undone. He flinched, a small twitch of the eye, furiously shaking his head. Now was not the time for such thoughts, even though he had washed himself to a full hardness in a matter of seconds. He rinsed off, and another mental image came to mind.

     Wyverne, on her knees, her lips pulled thin from him, her hands on his thighs, his pants around his ankles. He could almost hear her, how she choked on him, the soft pop as he allowed her to pull away, her soft lips dancing mere inches from his cock. He hadn't realized he was stroking himself, thumb running around the sensitive head of his cock and slipping through his slit. He tried to mimic her soft mouth and warm tongue, picturing the way she would look as she begged for his come. He rocked into his hand, fucking it as he pictured himself taking her, pressing her against a mirror, fogging it up as she cried out for him. A low groan, and he spilled onto the tile wall, his come painting the rich blues a creamy white. He stroked till he was spent, grabbing more soap to wash off again.

     "Gods damn she needs to leave," Lucio muttered, to no one in particular but himself. He turned off the shower, pulling the glass door aside and grabbing a fluffy white towel.

     He drew the towel over himself, softly sighing. If only she hadn't lured him.in with that delicious body and gorgeous eyes...and pouty lips. He mussed up his hair, smoothing it back when he left the towel fall around his shoulders. He looked in the mirror, then lathered his face and shaved the shadow of stubble he had. Lucio hummed to himself, applying his signature aftershave that smelled of warm, mulled wine and campfire smoke.

     He left the bathroom, tossing his towel aside, and pulled on a thin undershirt, loose and flowy and looking more like a tunic than an actual undershirt at this point. He pulled on his pants next, a tough canvas that he relied on more and more these days, fitted well so it hugged all the right places. His boots were next, a deep brown with a slight heel to add to his 5'10" frame, boosting him to a height of 6'2". He grabbed a vest, slipping it on and he grabbed his neck belt, fastening it over the popped collar. He grabbed his knife belt, slipping it over this thigh and fastening it, since that's all he needed nowadays. He glanced at the pointed armor, the stuff made for his golden hand, the one he lost to another high-priced bounty. He shook his head, deciding he didn't need it, and headed out, smoothing his hair back with a bit of pomade from his dresser.

♡♡

Wyverne was wandering the Marketplace, her eyes savoring each trinket and fabric roll. She absently popped another torn piece of bread into her mouth, the warm spices of pumpkin filling her. She ran fingers through silk, wool, and brushed cotton, eagerly spinning thoughts about her next tailoring project. She had glanced up and caught him in the very edges of her vision, clean shaven with glistening golden hair still wet from his shower.

     It was amazing, how a man like him could make her feel like a giddy teen again. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her fluttering heart as she continued like she hadn't seen him, a warmth spreading through her and gathering at the base of her spine. She popped another piece of bread in her mouth when she gently bumped into the bounty hunter.

"Hello, butterfly," Lucio said, greeting her. He noticed her hair was up in a bun, messily done with a hairpin to keep it all in place.

     "Morgasson," she replied, a smirk on her lips. He softly bit his lip, trying to not let a soft whine escape from his throat. "What brings you here?"

     "Just you, butterfly." He brushed her cheek with his cool metal gauntlet, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and leading her away from the Marketplace.

     He led her down towards the docks, which weren't such a hustle and bustle this morning. Lucio snuck a piece of bread for himself, chuckling when Wyverne playfully smacked his chest. He went to lick his fingers, but Wyverne grabbed his wrist, a smirk on her lips that he was getting all too familiar with. She brought his fingers to velvet lips, breath catching as she slipped them inside her warm mouth, suckling the few crumbs from his slender digits. Her tongue swirled around them, soft little mewls escaping her throat. She pulled away, looking like the cat that got the cream as she ran to the docks.

     Lucio groaned, a smirk on his lips. His pants were awfully tight again, maybe he needed new ones. He ran after her, long legs quickly catching up to her, strong hands gripping her waist and pulling her back, spinning her around. Wyverne laughed breathlessly, hands on his arms, head thrown back against his shoulder, slight wisps of hair in her face.

     Lucio gently set Wyverne down, resisting the urge to kiss her like a man starved. He wasn't expecting her to kiss him, the softest lips in Vesuvia placing a kiss along the scar on his right cheekbone, red lipstick leaving behind a perfect print of her full lips. She smirked, fingers brushing his hand as she disappeared into a group of people, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

♡♡

Midnight. The streets are quiet. Too quiet. The only ones out are the girls, the ones looking for a fun time in colorful dresses and corsets. Lucio walked into the Town Square, the three tiered fountain lit up. He knew his target would be here, lost in an attempt to go back home.

     There she was, a scared look on her face. The perfect match for Wyverne. Lucio stalked his prey, keeping a distance away from her. She was frantic, muttering to herself as she tried to go back home. She kept looking over her shoulder, wanting to know if she was being followed or watched. She stopped, just beside the fountain, trying to remember how to get back.

     Lucio was behind her, his breathing stilled and heels silent on slick cobblestone. He reached for his knives, still on his thigh, a steel to the silver glinting in the light. When he was close, he wrapped his hand around her mouth, preventing the shriek that followed from escaping her lips. She tried to pry him off, to get away, to scream and shout through his warm flesh hand. He drew the blade across her throat, letting her feel the cool metal against heated flesh.

     "Your luck just ran out, little dove," he whispered in her ear, the point of the blade just drawing blood from her skin.

     She struggled harder, screaming and crying against his palm, trying to break free, kicking him in his shins. The knife plunged into her side, dragging down, ripping the silk dress she wore. Blood poured from the wound, her screams muffled against his hand. She struggled against his body, crying rivers of tears as the knife was drawn across her throat--once, twice, three times. Blood poured down the front of her, ruining the pure white with deep crimson. He finally let go, and she slumped to the ground, laying in her own blood.

     Lucio made short work of the decapitation, bringing it back to his boss for the reward money. 500,000 coin, and Lucio was gonna give it to that very-much-alive, drop dead gorgeous vixen that haunted his dreams.

♡♡

It had been weeks since that night, and Lucio hadn't seen Wyverne around at all. She had seemingly disappeared that day, like she had left Vesuvia. Lucio sighed, toying with the coin purse on his desk. Well, if he wasn't gonna see her again, might as well drink to her honor.

     The Rowdy Raven was as rowdy as ever. Barth greeted Lucio with a nod, bussing the bar area. Patrons laughed, sang merry shanties, played cards, and were just generally in good spirits. Lucio ordered himself a drink, and was about to sit down when he saw her, dancing in all her lovely glory.

    Wyverne's tamed mess of curls shone like a beacon, her laughter hitting his ears like a godsend. She raised a glass, rimmed with salt, and shouted cheers, downing the rest in one single shot. She pressed her lips to the inside of her wrist, and he swore she had glanced his way, making his heart positively ache for her touch.

     Lucio grabbed his drink and followed her, walking to a corner booth and sitting down across from her. He dropped the coin purse in front of her, a loud clink of coin. She looked up at him, green eyes full of wonder.

     "That was your bounty, butterfly," Lucio said softly, bringing his cup to his lips and taking a draft. She watched him, his Adam's apple gently bouncing as he drank.

    "How much...how much was it?" Wyverne spoke softly, her hand over her heart, voice gently shaking. She touched the rough cotton, feeling the weight in her slender, small hands.

     "500,000. It's all yours, butterfly," he told her, as easily as telling someone about the weather.

    "500,000!? Morgasson I couldn't possibly--" Wyverne was in shock when she was cut off, his metal hand on her soft ones. She looked at him, her lower lip trembling, her eyes wide and soft and oh how he wanted to just kiss her.

     "Just take it, butterfly. You need it, and maybe you'll leave this place." His tongue darted out, licking his lower lip. His fingers entwined with hers, all soft sweetness.

     Wyverne bit her lip, taking a sip of her full Salty Bitters, the salt still clinging to her lips. She swallowed the drink, and leaned over the table, kissing him with all the softness in the world. Lucio kissed her, easily parting her lips and slipping inside. Sure, it was a little bitter, a little salty, but something stirred in his gut, something predatory and primal. He pulled away, before the feeling got too strong, his fingers brushing her cheek.

     She kissed his fingertips, scooting around the table to sit next to him. Chat and conversation came naturally, and when the food came around she readily shared, occasionally feeding him. He didn't want the night to end, didn't want to leave her side, not without making her feel so good.

     "I'll see you around….Lucio Morgasson," she whispered to him, his name full of wanton desire. She kissed him again, his hands roaming her sides before she pulled away. Wyverne left the table, and when he looked down, there was her address, signed 'B' for his pretty nickname.

The next day, he went there, to her home on MagickAlley Lane. Her home was modest, colored in a dull brown, her flowers bright and vibrant. Lucio went up the worn oak door, his fingers feeling the smooth metal handle, about to pull it. His fingers fell when he found the note, plastered to the door with his own knife. Strange, since he didn't remember missing any.

Morgasson,

I can easily spend that 500,000 on my own. That sick friend story was just to get you to pity me. Read up on me, big boy, maybe you'll find something interesting for your….equipment.

Cheers lovely! B

Lucio chuckled, deep and low, almost a purr. So, that was her game, her fun and sexy little game. Alright, he could play that game. It was sexy while it lasted, he supposed, as he ripped the knife from the door.

     Guards swarmed him from all angles as he put the knife away, slamming him into the door. They spread his legs, patting him down, ripping the knife belt from him, tearing his shirt almost in half as they searched his chest.

     "Look, guys, if you wanted me naked all you had to do was ask," He commented, smirking like an evil maniac. The Guards simply shoved him further into the door, reading him his rights.

     "We were tipped off that you were here! By one Wyverne Lochland! She's skipped town. So sorry, 'big boy!'" The Guard sneered, pulling him back by the blond locks. "Maybe you'll find a new lover in those dungeons! Move him into the carriage!"

     Lucio busted out into laughter, an evil little laugh that shook him through and through. So she was the one who ratted him out!! That little minx!!! He was shoved into the carriage, still laughing. How dare she think she could put him away and act like nothing happened? Well, he'd remedy that, one way or another. Sure, it'd be a few years with all his charges, but he'd get his last fuck, right at the honeymoon

[stusbunker]

Known: The Prick

A Supernatural Dark Fan-fiction

Featuring: Dean x Female OC, Dean x demon!Reader, Crowley, Sam, John and Old Man Collins

Word Count: ~2980

Summary: We start with a flashback and some insight into Chloe’s family. The rest is nearly all needless sexy times. Dates are listed to keep us in line with season 9 air dates. Please ask if anything doesn’t make sense! xoxo Stu

Warnings: racial tension, cruel metaphor, SMUT: oral (both), vaginal, minor anal play, mental health.

Series Masterlist

June 29, 1999

Montana Hwy 566

Dean leaned back over the seat to slip the hairpin into Sam’s hair as he narc-ed out tucked against the window. John drove with the front windows down, it was amazing Sam could sleep with the cacophony of gushing air, even if it was a soothingly warm draft. John cleared his throat, “How much farther?”

“Uh, right, well the turn off should be only a few more miles, but there won’t be any signs out here,” Dean squinted at the map, following the route with a pen he had been chewing on.

“A few?”

“Less than ten and more than two.”

“If we cross the border, we will be trespassing and I do not want to disrespect these people, Dean.” John wasn’t angry, but a nervousness made him louder than necessary. Dean nodded and glanced around them in the afternoon sunshine, watching for the turn before running into the reservation’s boundary lines. It was three minutes and a shifting wind before they spotted it, they shared a satisfied look and a nearly matching grin before they took the dirt path that led off the two-lane road. The Impala’s tires crunched the small patches of gravel as they slowed before a simple house, not quite a cabin, not quite a shack.

“Wait here with Sammy, I’ll let him know we’re here.”

Dean rocked back in the passenger seat, leaning against the door as he rested his eyes. There were no naps for navigators in the Winchester family. He heard the growl of a small engine approach, thinking little of it until there was a pounding on the roof of the car above his head.

“Who the hell are you?!” The voice demanded, Dean froze as Sam groaned awake behind him. Dean squinted as the girl’s face came into focus, a small motorcycle helmet still strapped to her chin. She couldn’t be much younger than he was and she was, what he would later define as ‘angry hot’.

“Uh, we’re the Winchesters, my dad’s,” Sam started, looking around at where they had stopped. “You’re a—"

“If you say Indian, I’m going to punch you where you sit, dumb ass,” she threatened.

“I was going to say girl, myself,” Dean snipped. His face jolted with the force of her backhand.

“Okay, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb, what are you doing at my Grandfather’s in the first place,” her uncanny pale eyes pierced daggers at them. Sam and Dean shared a look before crawling out of the car, letting this chick know who she was messing with. Sam had just hit a growth spurt and he was closing in on Dean and John in height. The guard dog seemed unimpressed with their size, arms still crossed over her chest as she waited for their answers, she settled between them and the humble home.

“We’re here for a hunt, my dad said your grandpa is someone he needed to check in with before we get on our way,” Dean muttered, clicking his lips and nodding at the adults as they joined them.

The older men’s voices wafted to the tense threesome, her grandfather called out in the Cheyenne language, Tsėhésenėstsestȯtse, leaving the visitors in suspense. Whatever he said made the girl relax, but her eyes never left the two brothers.

“So, what are we hunting?” she asked with a gentle crook of her eyebrows.

“Wait, we?!” Dean looked to John on the porch, frustration growing.

“Got a whole pack to take out, need the extra hands.” John said simply.

“Chloe, get these boys some weapons, they’re going to need them,” her granddad’s voice was deep and resonating, an unquestionable request.

***

“How long has her mother been gone?” John asked from the breakfast table, eyes falling on Chloe sleeping on the recliner, a large bandage on her forearm and dried blood matting her hair.

“Three years, but Constance never stayed put. And I didn’t ask her to.” Old Man Collins replied. He never corrected anyone from the moniker, leaving the nickname to accompany the stories of his hunts.

“Well, me and my boys will be out of your hair before long. Can’t let them get too attached. She’s a pretty thing,” John reassured him.

“I’d like to see your boys try something,” his voice held no laughter. “Besides, girl’s a mule. Not much to worry about.” John nodded, understanding the double meaning too well. “What has you so scared, John?”

“There’s something I need to ask you, but I don’t want to be rude, sir.” The marine straightened, leaning in and lowering his voice. “Do you still have contact with the angel?”

Old Man Collins stared at the ragged hunter, dark eyes searching for hope in a damned world. He shifted in his seat and looked out over the kitchen sink to the brightening morning light. “After my wife bared me my daughter, I thought the possibility of life’s miracles was endless. But I was a younger man and I didn’t yet know of the darker things. The demons came for her and my child, though the angel had left her once our Constance was born. The things of Heaven and Hell are not mine to tell you John. You know already. Stop searching for a solution beyond man, because both sides take from us in the end.”

Dean woke just after dawn, his right eye swollen closed and throbbing. He found his dad packing up the trunk of the Impala. “Get Sam and clean up your gear. Time to move on.”

“But, Dad, we’re pretty banged up. Probably should lay low for a few days.”

John stood, watching Dean lick his split lip and glance back at the house. “We’ve out stayed our welcome, son. Pack it up.”

Dean dragged Sam from the pullout, stripping the sheets before tucking away the flimsy mattress. They shook the Old Man’s hand and thanked him for their lodging. CC had left to dress in private. Dean circled her bike outside and before John could notice, he slipped a small scrap of paper in the saddle bag. She watched him from the single bedroom window, possessiveness fell away to curiosity as she watched them drive away.

February 16, 2014

A Demon Outpost, Louisiana

Crowley stared at his minion in mild disbelief.

“Sir?”

“She’s just hunting? What kind of mockery is this?” Crowley’s thoughts drifted as the demon recited the known whereabouts of the demon that rode Chloe Collins and the clearly lacking details when she was within the Winchesters’ presences. He reasoned it out, she wasn’t on Abaddon’s radar, she couldn’t be. What was this about? What was her angle?

“—then she drove to”

“Enough,” Crowley interrupted, earning a few appreciatively sighs from the surrounding demons. “While your account is thrilling, in the same vein as nature documentaries and tax law reform, I’m going to stop you there.”

The demon shifted and swallowed before closing his notebook to watch his King’s response. When none came, the atmosphere shifted. After an uncomfortable five minutes, he continued, “Sir, should I return to my detail?”

Crowley shifted his jaw and sighed. “No need. No, it’s time I speak to this renegade myself. Give her a chance to come clean or clean her out.”

The Bunker

February 18, 2014

“On your knees.”

As if you had no choice in the matter, a thoughtless reaction followed: you sank to the ground. It was there below his semi-surprised gaze that a page turned in your mind with the shuttering of your core. There was a power about him that seemed off and oddly comforting at the same time. It all clicked as he lingered on the other side of the room, apart from and above you, this was the Dean you remembered, the Dean of your past. Your torturer.

You had CC waiting for the Winchesters at the garage entrance to the Bunker for over an hour. They had returned from back to back hunts, still ornery as hell with one another. The way Dean’s eyes fell over her body made you shiver despite the extra layers beneath her jeans and jacket, the Kansas winter had been bearable, but the trek back from Montana hadn’t been. Sam gave you a quirk of his lips and a tight nod before storming down the hall to his room. Without a word or welcome, your evening had begun.

You watched Dean carefully, the light shifted on his face as he moved closer, the shadows hid the clenching of his jaw. The mesmerizing fear pinned you between lust and panic. Dean strolled on his strong legs, bowed and distracting in his faded jeans.

“I knew you were a good girl, despite your smart mouth.” Dean cooed at you, the deep notes of his words sent shivers over your tense body. “You going to do what you’re told, CC?”

Your chin shot out instinctively, “It depends if I like what you tell.”

Dean’s lips twitched, fighting back his amusement. “Well, how about I tell you what I want then? What I want, is to leave you bent over and crying for more. What I want is to fuck you six ways from Sunday. What I want,” Dean’s voice lowered as he approached your expectant face. His arousal pitching against his pants as your eyes lingered on the straining denim, his rough hand reached down to palm his dick. “to fill you up and feel that tight throat on my cock.

Now I know that is something you like, and even if I didn’t, the way you are rubbing your thighs together is a helluva tell, Cease. Just how hungry are you for it?” He bit his tongue with a flash to his darkened eyes. “So, let’s stop playing and how ‘bout you just open up for me?”

Without a word, your hands snaked up his thighs, your teeth gnawed at your bottom lip to keep from gesticulating how much his words got to you. How much you wanted to feel him, everywhere. How empty you felt without his cock, his thick fingers, his tongue.

You tossed your hair over your shoulder, letting the now familiar weight keep you just out of reach, giving your hands room to work Dean’s fly open. With a full handed grab of his delicious ass and a stern grunt from Dean, you worked his jeans and boxers down his legs, setting him free. Your mouth ready to remedy the situation. You started stroking the straining shaft, watching as his eyelashes fluttered before he could compose himself. You lay her stern lips over the swollen tip, massaging the flesh while gently lapping at the tiny slit. The taste reminding you of his watchful glare and before he could demand more, you took him deeply.

“Atta girl,” he grunted, patting the wisps of hair out of your eyes. “Look at me, you like that don’t ya?” You swallowed, catching him just before gagging over the way he stretched your throat. You hummed in response, shallowly dipping your jaw, working his head against your depths. His hand trailed down until his thumb pinched at the hinge of your jaw and growled, “relax for me.”

Your eyes rolled back at the command, your core clenching as your mouth relinquished control. Dean snapped his hips quickly, the sensation of being stuffed overwhelming you as he kept your head steady. You worked to keep from gagging as he fucked you into a drooling mess. You held his shirt up, helping him now that his hands were busy, which brought his lust creased eyes back onto yours. When he sped up, you began swallowing in quick succession, silently begging his finish forth.

He groaned, suddenly holding you both still, except the gentle pull of your tongue and soft palate against his quaking cock. You drank him down desperately, knowing you would be rewarded, soon enough. Dean snarled as you released him, the cold air stinging along his blood hot spit drenched member. You licked your lips as you stood, dragging yourself up by the hem of his shirts. Dean kept your face in the palm of his hand before pulling you in for a teeth clashing kiss.

“Get your clothes off and get comfortable,” Dean purred in your ear. “I’ll be right back.” He fixed his pants and left you alone in his room without a second thought.

***

Dean marched into the library, bee lining to the drink cart and the whiskey, most importantly the whiskey. He bit back the sting as he stared at the wall, the heat in his body coming out in waves. He knew he had signed on for something big when he took the Mark from Cain, but he hadn’t realized the other things he had put on his plate along the way. CC fell to her knees like a damn dream, her mouth soft and tight, his skin still sung with the electricity of his orgasm. What the hell were they anyway?

He had no fucking clue, but what he did know was that he was going to bury himself between her thighs for a few hours and forget about Angels, Demons, his brother’s resentment and Biblical branding for a good long while. He pinched another glass between his fingers and clutched the decanter as he headed back to his room and the promise of more of her distraction.

***

The heat from his mouth puckered your skin as Dean ghosted his lips over your chest. Your nipples pearled, dark, rich targets against tan skin. His eyes sparkled as he jostled each breast, appreciating the weight in his calloused hands. Just as you were about to whimper, he latched on, strong tongue stroking the peaked flesh and sending spirals through every nerve, each exploding the delicious fuses of your center.  Walls fluttering as the want pooled in anticipation.

“Up you go, Cease,” Dean reached a hand around your waist, pulling you up as he settled on his knees between your thighs. He held you firmly to his chest as he inched you back against the headboard, once more his mouth found your nipple, the scruff teasing the soft skin as he nuzzled his way into the heat of your cleavage. Your back arched as you shimmied for him, letting the weight off your thighs and backwards onto the wall.

With his newly freed hand, Dean stroked himself against your damp folds, teasing your clit before sinking lower. Your hands found his hair as he perched you atop his dick. You bit your bottom lip and sunk down, feeling the heavy stretch of his size from the luscious new angle. Your legs moved without thought, locking around his waist as he thrust into you. Your back hit the wall, jarring your eyes open.

“Sorry,” Dean whispered, rubbing your thigh.

“Don’t be,” you panted, rolling your hips to meet him. And then he resurfaced, the beast who took your throat and left you gasping. He bucked into you, thudding you repeatedly against the wall, as he watched each twitch and quake of your countless curves. His hand snaked up your side, his wide palm holding firmly against your breast bone. He thrust himself into a fever, the tension rolling off him and tightening every pull of your core. With his thick thighs, Dean fucked you upright, before he lost himself again, he let you fall. Sliding you mindlessly down onto the pillows, he backed away.

The withdrawal of his throbbing length sent you shaking. Desperate, you searched him out, finding him gasping, kicking out each leg from the strain. Before you could meet his lips, he rolled you back, pulling your knees out from under you, and hooking them strategically over his shoulders before winking up at you. A cold stream of air hit your mound, dragging from clit to ass and back again. When Dean’s tongue touched you, it was nothing like you had experienced in a human body, before or after damnation.

He stroked and lapped up your juices, tasting and teasing you. His thick digits found your swollen entrance, prodding until he hooked them just so, nearly causing you to sit up and suffocate him properly. With devilish eyes he watched you watch him eat you sloppy. Moaning with pleasure, his pink lips pursed and pulled against your heated flesh. Paying special attention to your throbbing bundle Dean provided not one, but two orgasms for you before he let you catch your breath.

“That’s it, this sweet pussy is going to ruin me,” Dean grumbled, nuzzling against your folds before sliding away at last.

He wiped his face on the nearest pillow before pulling you to his chest, the tremors racking you from the inside out. He palmed your thigh, pulling your leg over his waist before sinking inside you once more, his shaft stiff and almost cool to the touch from the heat of your weeping lips. He rocked into you as your body called him deeper, his want covered face buried in your neck. Dean took his time, a lone finger stroking your ass as he fucked you until you were both drunk and dizzy. Before he could finish, you came for a third time, clinging to him, as hot, treacherous tears stung your eyes. Everything exploded in and around you as he filled you at last, a silent promise on a moonless night.

***

Chloe woke with a start, Dean’s face piercing through her dreams with fear tinged by a dejected understanding. His eyes were dark, and his jaw was set; he was there to hurt her. Now that she gasped in the underground air, the foreign memories still overwhelmed her senses. She needed to get as far away from there as possible. Suddenly a heavy palm rolled over her side, pulling her to his chest. The rough patch of skin on his forearm stung against her hip. The grounding comfort still a surprise after the months long dance of theirs. She exhaled and let her eyes fall back closed. Staring back at her, behind her own lids were a pair of glossy black pools. She swallowed at the blatant truth of no longer being sane.

Tags: @mogaruke @dontshootmespence@because-imma-lady-assface@mrswhozeewhatsis@smi727@sassykayla255@supernaturalboi @eve05glee@veroinnumera@spn-dean-and-sam-winchester@fanfictionrecommendations-com @soullesscollection-world

Next Chapter: And the Ass’s Jaw

[baeinette]

The Parade

So I couldn’t stop listening to In A Crowd of Thousands and all I could think of is a one-sided love ChloeBug/LadyBee fic and so here you go. 

This fic is set with the premise that Ladybug never chose the additional heroes/the Bee Miraculous was never lost so she has no idea it’s Chloé behind the mask. 

May upload this to AO3 but haven’t decided yet.

The Parade

Wide eyes were enraptured with the scene unfolding before them. Large displays of color and feats of artistry paraded down the boulevard for the crowd of thousands that stood before them. A heroes day celebration for the true heroes of Paris.

There was Ladybug, standing high above the crowds, waving to all the citizens she protected. A wide smile was on her face that stirred something within Chloé. She couldn’t help the grin that slipped across her features as she stared up at her idol.

What she would do to be noticed by her, be friends with her. To fight alongside her would be out of the question. Ladybug was fierce, kind, graceful, loyal. . . She could spend days describing the being that was Ladybug and still not do her justice.

Ladybug was everything Chloé was not, but that didn’t stop the blonde haired girl from trying. She loved everything that Ladybug did and tried her hardest to be her biggest fan. Being lucky enough to be in her presence the few times she had was amazing, despite the fact that they may have been less than desirable circumstances.

Their eyes met and Chloé felt her chest surge in awe. Deep cerulean met sky blue and for a moment, just a moment, time stopped. The roar of the crowds seemed so far away and it felt like they were the only two in the street. She admired the way that Ladybug’s smile reached her mask, the way the sun highlighted the indigo in her hair.

In a blink, the moment was gone. Chloé was thrown back in the throes of the crowd who were completely oblivious to what had happened. She watched Ladybug’s form disappear farther down the parade and felt part of her go as well.

Chloé made a promise to herself that day. The next time she met Ladybug, it wouldn’t be because of an akuma she caused or something she had done. The next time they met, she wanted it to be because Ladybug wanted to see her and be worthy of it.

~~~

Hey Chloé! I’ll be all finished with the history project tonight so you don’t need to worry!

The soft glow of her phone screen illuminated her face as she read over Sabrina’s text. She glanced over to where her textbook laid unopened and abandoned, her thumbs dancing over the keyboard for a moment before tapping lightly against the screen.

It would be done faster if I was there. I’ll make daddy send me over in a car.

Her thumbs hovered over the screen for a moment, before quickly sending another message.

I want to help.

~~~

A bell chimed as she entered the small establishment. Chloé was bundled up tightly in her coat, not necessarily to keep warm but to try and go unnoticed. The shop was empty except for her and she hovered by the door for a moment before a voice carried across.

“Welcome to Boulangerie Patisserie! How may I-” The voice stopped abruptly. “Chloé?” She took in a deep breath before unfurling herself and strutting over to the counter and meeting Marinette’s confused expression.

“Hello Dupain-Cheng.” She broke eye contact and began eyeing the series of pastries laid out in the display cases before her. “I. . . I need your help with something. . .” The latter expression coming out much quieter than the first,  that Marinette had to make sure she heard right.

“My help?” She brought a finger up to point at herself to make sure she was asking for the right person. Marinette was at a loss for why Chloé would be seeking out her help of all people. “Well. . .what can I help you with?”

Another deep breath in, she fiddled with some of the fur on her coat before looking back at Marinette.

“Can you show me how to make madeleine cookies?”

~~~

The weather was nasty out today which is why Chloé kept her pacing to make it back to Le Grand Paris before it got any worse. Though if this wind threatened to ruin her hair one more time, someone would pay. She jogged the last few meters to the entrance of the hotel, the skies threatening to break open any moment before someone caught her eye. Why would you wear a Hawaiian shirt in Paris in the middle of July?

An older gentleman was struggling against the force of the winds, losing his grip on the bag of groceries he was carrying. Before she could react, the paper bag ripped open, spilling its contents onto the sidewalk. A quick glance around, she saw no one else was nearby to help so she made her way over to assist.

“You really should invest in reusable bags you know. They are much more durable than those flimsy things.” Her hand wrapped around a bottle of tea that she tucked under her arm before picking up a few more items. “Come inside and we can get you something different to put these in.”

“Oh thank you Miss. You are too kind.” The older man held onto what he had managed to not drop and followed her towards the entrance of the hotel. The two entered the lobby and Chloé moved to set the groceries on the front table before hunting for another bag or a box at the main desk.

“Here. This should hold up much better. Plus it looks so much better than a boring brown paper bag.” She returned with a multicolored reusable bag and handed it to the gentleman who took it happily.

“This will be perfect. Thank you again.” He loaded up his groceries, slinging the bag onto his shoulder. He produced an umbrella from the small bag on his back and made his way back towards the entrance. “Have a wonderful day Miss.” Before anything else could be said, he was gone.

Chloé bunched up her brow in confusion with his sudden departure, but shrugged it off. She did her good deed of the day and it was time to relax.

~~~

“Hm?” Chloé eyed the small box that was left on her nightstand. She gingerly picked it up and examined it before turning around and exiting the room.

“Jean! Did you put this in my room?” Her voice echoed in the living room with no response back. She furrowed her brow at the silence before gazing back down at the box. “Well I’m not going to say no to a gift.” She gently lifted the lid before a flash of light erupted.

“What is this!?” She shielded her eyes with a hand until the light dissipated.

Chloé stared down at the box in her hand, a glittering hairpin shining back at her. She barely registered the voice that spoke to her as she processed the object in her hand. With a careful hand, she plucked the object from the box.

“Does. . .does this mean. . .” Her voice hitched slightly, almost afraid to say it.

“Does it mean what my Queen?” The small yellow kwami inquired, her antenna bouncing slightly with the movement. Chloé was startled slightly at the voice, jerking her head up to actually look at the being that had appeared. She had a million thoughts flying through her head at the moment, but found herself only able to verbalize one of them.

“I get to fight alongside Ladybug?”

~~~

Pollen told her that she would be expected at Saint-Jacques Tower at midnight. After several hours of taking in everything that was happening and processing the opportunity that was being presented, Queen Bee found herself at the top of the tower.

She didn’t know what to expect. Was she meeting the entire team? Was she only meeting Ladybug and Chat Noir? The nerves had started to set in on her way over and now they wouldn’t leave.

“Will I be good enough?” Queen Bee turned over the top she had been given in her hand, fingers tracing the black lines. Her legs dangled on either side of the gargoyle structure that jutted out from the roof, and she kicked them slightly with the wind.

Before she could get further lost her in own mind, Queen Bee was alerted to the sound of something landing on the roof. She turned her head towards the direction of the noise and sucked in a breath.

Ladybug stood not even ten feet away from her, retracting her yo-yo and looking back at the new superhero before her. Queen Bee quickly rose to her feet, straightening her posture and dusting off her suit. She felt a soft blush cross her cheeks that she prayed was unnoticeable due to the time of night.

“You must be the new holder of the Bee Miraculous.” Ladybug extended her hand towards the yellow superhero. “I am Ladybug. It’s a pleasure to meet you. . .” She trailed off.

Queen Bee faltered for a second before stepping off the ledge and extended her hand to complete the gesture.

“Q-Queen Bee.” That was the name Pollen had suggested and she liked the ring to it. She did a small bow before releasing the super heroine’s hand. “And the pleasure is all mine Ladybug. I won’t let you down.”

[savingprimrose]

between the stars and waves

Jeankasa Fairytale AU. 

Title from the song 241 (My Favorite Song) by Rivermaya and quotes from the song 214 by Rico Blanco. Happy reading! 

(A summer night in heaven

Between the stars and waves

Gaze across the old bonfire;

Trample on my heartbeat)

He is standing on the shoreline, head tipped back and admiring the Milky Way, when everything around him illuminates with a blinding flash of light and he watches as a star falls to earth and crashes in the ocean, a little too close to the shore. He is momentarily blinded by the light and forgets to make a wish. He blinks and rubs at his eyes, his eyes watering as he does so, and when he finally opens them, everything has turned dark once more.

He is about to head home when a girl emerges from between the waves like a goddess clad only in a flimsy, see-through material with long dark hair framing her face and clinging to her shoulders. He watches, wide eyed, as she makes her way to him. His brain is telling him to run but he is transfixed by her beauty, his body unmoving.

She cups his face in her hands the moment she is close enough. Her hands are cold as ice and he flinches from the contact.

This is it, he thinks and closes his eyes.

He thought that she might kiss him and take his life away. Aren’t stories with ethereal beings always, always end up with a man giving up his life for a taste of her? He didn’t know if he wants to die just yet so he takes a step back and her hands fall from his face.

When he opened his eyes, he found her face closer than he had expected. He takes another step back, wanting to put as much distance between him and her – this mysterious fallen star – but she follows suit and clutches at the shirt he’s wearing with her hands.

He readies himself to bolt - plants his feet firm on the uneven sand and rakes his brain for ways to push her hard enough to get away yet not too hard so as not to hurt her – when he notices the expression on her face and the frightened and distraught look in her eyes.

Supernatural happenings weren’t new to him, he had always been gifted, so to speak. People in their little village would always come knocking on their door and ask him to look into their futures. He doesn’t read palms or use tarot cards or anything like that. He dreams instead.

But when she fell in the waters of his island home, he was utterly surprised. None of his dreams had prepared him for this, none of them had told him of a falling star. Living on his own was hard enough as it is and now he has to look after some girl who came from the cosmos.

Thanks a lot, dreams.

But despite this, he tries his best - tries to make conversation with her, tries to figure out what she is, and what she needs in the days following her arrival. But she is silent, always so silent, and does nothing but watch him with sad, lonely eyes.

It’s been more than a month since. And Jean has provided her with everything and yet he still knows nothing about her except that she sleeps most of the day and would tug at his shirtsleeves at night to accompany her to the shoreline to watch the night sky.

They would sit side-by-side. He’d cross his legs and lean back on his hands and she’d hug her knees to her chest and stare longingly at the stars. He’d often steal glances at her as they sit in silence and would try to figure out what’s going on in her head as a gentle breeze blows from the sea.

Sometimes, he’d see her wiping at her eyes and something inside his chest would always clench at the sight.

He hurts for her, for his silent fallen star.

He is awfully aware of her presence and her wide-eyed stares whenever he does the most menial of tasks at home – whether it be fixing the leaky faucet or washing the dishes or hanging up the laundry. She would always be hovering around him, taking everything in with childlike wonder. And always always observing – almost as if she wants to learn but cannot express her intent to.

So, to combat this, he teaches her and shows her how to make a home. There are nights where they prepare dinner together and there are mornings where he wakes up to the smell of fried eggs and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore.

Ever since she crash-landed into his life, his psychic dreams have ceased. And for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know what tomorrow would bring. He can’t decide quite yet if he likes his dreamless sleeps or not but one thing is for sure – he likes having her around despite her silence.

He would often tell her stories of his work in the fish market, or of the crazy antics of his friends, or of the beauty he sees on the ocean floor when he goes diving for mother-of-pearl. Even though she doesn’t say anything, he knows that she enjoys hearing about his day for when he had first told her stories, she smiled and laughed and urged for him to tell her more.

And he thinks that her smile is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

The first time he heard her speak was when he was scaling a coconut tree to harvest its fruit.

She was a few feet away from the base of tree with a wicker basket in her arms, ready to catch the coconuts as he tosses them her way. His foot had slipped as he was coming down and he heard her say be careful in such a soft voice that it would have been lost to the wind if he weren’t so attuned to her so much.

He’d run to her then, with the biggest smile plastered on his face, and almost knocked her to the ground. She dropped the basket in surprise and gave out a yelp as he picked her up and swung her around. He was laughing and so was she.

She was not mute after all.

They fall into a routine.

She would always make breakfast, pack his lunch for work, and they would always make dinner together. He loves coming home to her and he would often give her trinkets that he thinks she’d appreciate – a hairbrush, star-shaped hairpin, or a dainty necklace with a seastar pendant. Sometimes, he’d bring her flowers as well and she’d put them in a vase and place them on display the following day.

Lazy Sunday afternoons are his favorite. Most of the times he’d read to her from his old worn book of fairytales under the shade of the palm trees, his head nestled on her lap while she plays with his hair. Sometimes, he’d teach her how to read as she leans back into his chest, his heart against her spine, and he thinks that exchanging his dreams for her company is not quite so bad after all.

She still prefers to be quietly observing and she still has lots to learn. He doesn’t mind it though. He likes the silence and he likes being there for her.

On idle days, they’d sit by the shore, the waves lapping at their feet and he’d point out things to her and recite their name – sand, sea, shore – and she’d repeat them to him. Sometimes, she’d point at things she hasn’t learned the name of yet and he’d gladly tell her – sky, boat, tree.

It suddenly occurred to him that he still hasn’t told her his name, despite living together for more than a year now. And so, he tells her on one sunny afternoon while they were out at sea.  

She was seated across from him and he wasn’t quite sure if she heard him for she didn’t stop leaning over the side of the boat and watching the fish swim below amongst the brightly colored reef.

He flushed, suddenly self-conscious, suddenly aware of how generic his name was, how ordinary. Maybe she didn’t like his name, maybe she thought it was lame, maybe she’d hope that his name was something cooler. Just as he was about to will himself to turn into smoke and ask the ocean to swallow him whole – she whispers his name. The sound of it rolling off her tongue made him flush him even more and his heart hammer away in his chest.

Clear skies at night are her favorite. He’d point out the constellations to her and traces them with his finger, as they lay under the stars. Orion and its belt, the raging bull, the twins. He wonders if she can recognize her fellow stars from down here, if she can see where she once was amongst the multitude of asterisms and star systems in their vast, vast universe.

He steals a glance at her and the same look of longing still etched on her face.

“Would you like to go back?” he asks, his voice low.

He dreads what her answer might be. A part of him wants her to say no, wants her to stay even if he knows that he can’t keep her with him forever. Another part of him knows that it is selfish of him to restrain her, to tie her to him, to keep her in a jar like some specimen meant for his eyes alone – especially when he knows deep in his soul that she wants nothing more than to be back up in the night sky with her brothers and sisters. She belongs to the stars, after all.

He had long accepted the fact that she might leave him someday but he doesn’t ever want to know what that entails for him.

He doesn’t want to know a future without her.

“Yes.”

It hurt – her answer hurt more than any physical pain he has ever experienced. It felt as if someone punched through his ribcage and took his heart out. And her presence at home only makes the heaviness in his chest even more unbearable.

So, to combat this, he tells her that he’d be sleeping over at a friend’s place for a couple of nights. He’d half-expected her to protest, to stop him from leaving, but all she said was take care of yourself.

And it sounded as if she was saying goodbye to him for good.

A week passes before he’d gathered enough courage to return home. If she wants to leave, she can leave. You’ll be alright, Jean. As you have always been.

He’d arrive home late and expected her to be out by the ocean, looking up at the galaxy, but was surprised to find her sitting on the bamboo stairs of their nipa hut.

Her face lights up for a fraction of a second when she sees him and something in his gut twists and his heart clenches in his chest.

“You were waiting for me,” he’d said. She must have been terribly lonely without him.

She nods and takes his hand in hers and led him towards the ocean. Jean thinks that this is it – she’d say her goodbyes to him on the shore where she came crashing into his life all those months ago. But she leads him under a row of palm trees instead and he is surprised to find a blanket laid out underneath. She sits down and he follows suit.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she blurts out, her voice small and broken, as tears start to spill out her eyes.

His heart shatters at the sight and he pulls her toward him, cupping her face in his hands and wiping away her tears, “You can leave if you want. I won’t stop you.”

She shakes her head, “I’m not going to leave. I want to stay here with you, Jean.”

He was prepared for the worst and her confession caught him off-guard. He blinks at her – once, twice, three times – before what she’d said finally sunk in. His heart soared and he can’t quite decide whether he wants to kiss her or he wants to marry her right then and there. So, he rests his forehead against hers and cries instead, tears of mirth spilling out his eyes.

A troubled expression passes over her features, “Are you not happy? Don’t you want me to leave?”

This time it is he who shakes his head, “No, never.”

“Then why are you crying?” she inquires, her hands bunching up the fabric of his shirt, her eyes searching his face. With this, he laughs. She must think of him a lunatic now.

He takes her hand in his and brings it to his lips, kissing her palm, “I’m so happy I’m crying and I never wish to be parted with you again.”

(Take my hand

And gently close your eyes so you could understand

That there's no greater love tonight than what I've for you)

[punk-in-docs]

You Were Always Mine, Chapter 26

AU Tom Hiddleston - Romantic, Historical Romance, set 1909. Edwardian Fic. Based off the imagine; ‘Thomas spying on you after your divorce and doing anything to get you back. Including threatening your new beau.’ Prompt found on this blog. Link to the imagine(s) that inspired it, here, and here….   Chapter number: Chapter 26 Author: punk-in-docs (Here is my Masterlist for more chapters… Don’t laugh at me cause it’ s so, ridiculously tiny) but do take a look if you feel so inclined… Triggers/warnings: Physical and emotional abuse in this chapter, the last thing I was to do is trigger someone, so please proceed with caution, darlings. and another note with this one, it was a bonus chapter I wrote that I couldn't fit anywhere into the original story, so this settles into it’s own plot line much, much earlier, around chapter 2, when Vianne/Henry go to an Edwardian society house party in the country for a week, and Thomas follows them, interjecting, to attempt in winning her back.

Not for the first time, Vianne sat scrutinizing herself in the looking glass. She and Henry were shortly bound downstairs. The bedroom she sat in was not her own. For they had been counted among close acquaintances of Lord and Lady Hexham, and were subsequently invited, along with many fashionable, upper echelons of Edwardian society, to attend a week long house party out in Kent. For quite the most fashionable event in one’s social calendar. The house, Briarwell, was a charmingly perfect chateau, situated in acres of green fields, with comfortable drawing rooms, and was packed, fit to burst, with ladies and gentleman. Keen, raring for a week of hunting, shooting, and riding for the men. Whilst the women could sketch, walk and gossip away snidely to their hearts content.

This party was deemed the most un-missable event, held every spring, a prized gathering. And people regarded themselves especially lucky to be invited. She did not reckon herself among that sort of crowd. This was more Henry’s scene than her own. He brushed shoulders with Lord Hexham when they were lads at the same boarding school, so for tonight, he would be among equals. And she, she knew with dread, would be esteemed as the sore thumb. The outlier. The heiress who favoured a ward, a nurses uniform, and wounds, more than people of her own ilk. These people were more at home in ballrooms, grand houses and navigating the hazards of being upstanding in society.

She was about to spend a most torturous week being buffeted and dressed down in sly degradations by nasty young women, and being flirted with or stoutly ignored by dismissive noblemen. She could not deny, was dreading it. And she knew far better than to expect Henry to fight her corner when the ladies were making cutting insults to her, with big smiles on their faces to better dilute their acerbity. She knew that he would not be there to shield her from unfriendly eyes, when men raked over her figure with predatory stares and filthy remarks. And talked about her oddness, loudly, behind her back. But within earshot to better put her in her place.

Tonight, after they arrived, she (not Henry) had suffered a lukewarm greeting from their hosts, and they were both assigned their separate rooms - Henry being in the men’s quarters, they were after all affianced, and not married - after their luggage was taken up, she had bathed, and changed into tonight’s gown. Emerald gossamer over an emerald satin underlay. The thin material ruched and bunched at her upper arms, leaving her shoulders bare, and the cut of the dress cut down low below her shoulder blades. Usually she’d relish a chance to wear this dress. But this eve, she detested it.

Her stomach was tying itself in knots and her mind was fuzzy, erratic, busy with worries. She felt too hot and her corset felt far too tight. She sat at the vanity table, scrutinizing herself so harshly, as the evening wore on, she grew more and more reluctant to move from her seat. She never thought she’d be thankful that the hosts had decided that tonight’s party would be a masquerade event. But the gold mask she chose to wore to cover across her eyes somehow gave her more strength. It bolstered her that she had atleast that small, little thing, to hide behind tonight, for if her bravery shrivelled up and shrunk down inside her. She’d secured the mask on long ago – with good reason – and was just attending her hair, half of it secured up, and half down by her shoulders, drying into wavy curls from her bath an hours previous. She was still fussing and preening, when there came a knock at her door. Without waiting to be invited in, Henry barged through the door regardless.

She met his eyes in the oval looking glass, he came in slowly, looked across at her, twitched a small smile, and shut the door behind him. Crossing the room, bedecked in his white tie and tails, his strides were softened by the thick carpets. Henry had a broad frame. Heavy set shoulders, thick arms, and a wide torso, tapering away to strong legs. He cut a perfect figure of a man. His hair gleamed a rusty russet in the low candlelight of her room. He wore a simple, black damask mask across his eyes, whereas hers was more ornate. A gilded gold, swirling with baroque patterns. He marched across to her, and his hand lands a strong touch on her shoulder, skimming along her skin. Assessing her. Petting her.

“That dress?” he asks her, his tone degrading, unsure. That little slight that made her confidence falter in no more than two words. Her stomach withered. She never set out to displease him. She knew better than anyone the consequences of her doing such a thing.

“I like this dress…” She defends. Smoothing a hand over her stomach. Fussing with it, as if idle fixes would make him like it any the more. She watched his eyes flutter, displeased over the way the cut of it so carelessly flaunted her figure. “It’s unsuitably eye-catching. I don’t want any other man drooling over your figure at dinner. In that dress you’ll make some stuffy Duke fantasise about forcing on you his next heir. One look at you in that dress they’ll think you’re a glutton for male attention” He dismisses cruelly.

“I can change, if you’d prefer…” She says in a small voice. He grunts. Annoyed, but not pressing the situation further.

“If you changed, we’d be rudely late. I won’t have that.” He accepts. Luckily, for her, he let that be. His eyes fell on her figure again.

“Not that necklace.” He speaks up. Unlatching the clatch, and pulling the band of jewels off her throat. Throwing it away, discarded, atop the covers of her made bed. He rifled rudely through her jewellery box, his big fingers raking through her delicate things, selecting another, securing it tight around her throat, tugging her hair roughly out of the way.

“You’ll wear your hair up, Darling. We don’t want people saying you’re vulgar to be letting it loose.” He instructs.

She reaches for her hairpins, the flimsy metal skidding about in her gloved hands. She made sure to keep them tied tight on her upper arms tonight, if they slid down, her nasty encounter from the other night would be revealed. She makes work on her hair. Conceding to his rule. He watches her, sat on the end of the bed.

“You seem quiet. More so than usual. Are you not looking forward to tonight?” He asks with an edge in his tone. One that made her realise he was at risk of thinking her ungrateful to be invited for such a soiree. Henry was part of their crowd. He had friends, colleagues, and other doctors to mingle with, and the women couldn’t admire nor flirt with him more. She would be seem as an unnecessary addition on his arm. An annoyance.

“I’m merely…nervous.” She explains. Quick not to rile his temper. “You know me, Henry. This lot downstairs are not my crowd.” She puts gently.

“I don’t like it that you consider yourself more at ease with poor invalids, paupers and working class nurses. When we marry, Vianne. You will have to find yourself comfortable with ‘this lot’ as you so maliciously put it…” He began.

“Henry, I didn’t mean to sound spiteful …” She speaks back, evenly. Turning round to face him. He sat on the end of her bed. His back ramrod straight. Those dark eyes gazing out at her from the holes in his dark mask. She swallows and when she speaks. Her voice is meagre, and weak.

“I’m sorry.” She relents. She didn’t want this to be a battle. It would be hard enough fighting to be civil with everyone downstairs. She needed every ally she could lay her hands on for tonight. “I am, delighted, to be considered eligible enough to warrant an invitation here, amongst your close acquaintance. I’m sure we’ll have a…a… lovely week.” She beams gently. Though her smile felt uncomfortable, meek, and not to mention forced.

Henry made a short, sharp noise of displeasure.

“Atleast we’re out of London.” He sighs. “Nice to get away from the shadowy threat of him. Lurking round you like a baying dog. Stalking your every move.” Henry growled in displeasure. Her throat closed up with the mention of Thomas. She tugged up her gloves, and swallowed. Her voice unusually thick. How she kept down the cloying lump that had formed in her throat since Henry began speaking of him, she’d never know. She turned back around, not facing him. Putting up a façade. Her hands shook as she unstopped a bottle of scent. She could feel the dangerous, heavy, uncomfortably hot weight of his stare burn holes into her back.

“I’m not encouraging him on Henry. Please believe me to be sincere on that.” She relays quickly before her breaking voice betrayed her softness, and her partiality to that man.

Even though she still loathed him, and thinking of his sins made her skin crawl. He held the ability to make her soften. To weaken. She didn’t know how else to explain it. Nor how he managed it. She had mourned for her relationship with Thomas. Rotting in a festering, cold sanitorium for months, weeping the grieving tears of a widow. But she wasn’t. She didn’t mourn her escaping Lucille and her odd fascination and flippant nature. One minute they’d be tolerable friends, the next, she was trying to slit her throat. She didn’t mourn that. She did lament over the person she was when she was with Thomas.

He had seen a softness in her. Found something, kind, and sweet. And with her departure of him, she felt as if she had left that benevolent, kind heartedness behind. As if it had dried up. And nothing but an aching shell of a woman she now was had taken its place. She passed through her life since, trying every day, to distract herself from her thoughts wandering back over her old life. She focused, with little enthusiasm, on all that her new one would bring. And it had brought her here. To people she barely tolerated, who considered her with the same, cold, disinterest in return. With women who sought it as their duty to mock her, and men who either ignored her, or flirted with her. Her life now, Henry was trying to make her see, was going to be so much more than fraternising with paupers and the sick. Their marriage would elevate her to rub elbows with the gentry, noblemen, and titled people with a station.

“I’ll believe that he has given up, when we are wed, and he knows to leave well enough alone. I mean it Vianne. He comes near you, or I, again. And there will be dire consequences for that reprobate…” He warned. Her eyes found his in the mirror. They were half agony, half curiosity. And Henry could read them, and the way she had so obviously stilled at hearing his threat.

“Dire?” She asks.

“Dire.” He repeats flatly. Smirking. Nastily. She looks away. Keen to forget it. And the hateful spark in his eyes that told her he’d take pleasure in hurting Thomas to warn him off her.

“I’m certain he’s given up the idea of wanting to interfere in our relationship by now.” She finalises. Wishing that to be the end of it. “I haven’t seen nor heard from him since the night at Lady Sulbrows Ball…” She spoke. Not looking at him as she finished her hair, and went to slide diamonds earrings to sit dangling from her lobes. She hoped those too met with his strict standards.

“You mean the night that left you with another man’s love bite on your neck after you returned to my side?” He asked.

She stopped dead in her actions. Sitting still. Looking fearfully at his reflection behind her. Wary that she had just encouraged another castigation. She didn’t wish to relive what he had done to her by way of punishment for that infraction. Thomas had given her a love bite. And Henry had given her marks of his own in return. Her ribs were still aching and bruised black and blue from his chastisement. Her corset pinched, and tears were squeezed from her eyes, tonight, at the pain of it being laced so tightly into it due to that particular injury.

“Need I remind you how I felt about that mishap?” He asked in a low voice.

“You reminded me plenty enough the evening after.” She finishes curtly. She watched him tilt his head. A slight wrinkled frown crowning the space between his brows.

“You’re not suggesting I enjoyed that, are you?” He enquires.

“Good god, no.” She speaks. Her voice flat. “That would make you a monster, Henry.” She concedes.

He remains silent. Watching her assess her finishing touches. The conversation slowed to a dead halt because of the reminiscing. She couldn’t stand the throttling silence, punctuated only by the sounds of the fire crackling in the hearth.

“We should be heading down.” She adds. Turning about, tugging her skirts out of the way so she could stand up. She straightened her knees, that felt almost too weak to hold her up. She came to her full height, and crossed around the end of the bed. He held out his hand for her, she flinched lightly, before she went to him. She slid her gloved hand into his, and he tugged her to him, close to the bed, reeling her to drape over his thighs, tucked close into him. His warm hand cupped her neck and throat. Almost gripping, but only just. Letting her know his hold on her was absolute.

“Don’t be downcast tonight. I’ve a lot of friends here. I don’t need them saying you’re a glum face at the dinner table. You should be very happy to be here. Lucky even. And more so, happy to be with me.” He suggests. She strokes a hand down his chest.

“I am happy.” She lies. Or atleast, she was as happy as she felt she deserved to be. “I will act accordingly.” She promises. Kissing his cheek. Secretly, feeling more now like an added embarrassment, than she already did before he entered the room. The old version of her would have recoiled at being so plainly ordered about. But she was too cautious to fight back. She needed him tonight. On her side, against all odds. She was lucky to have a man like Henry. After the altercations of her sordid past, he was more than she deserved.

“I do love you so very much you know, Vianne.” He states seriously. His eyes boring into her own. She meets his gaze, and she nods.

“I know, Henry. And I heartily concur.” She breathes, feeling ultimately, very false. She hoped after they were safe and married, that she could allow herself to love him more. His jealousy of Thomas, or any other man, would melt away, and they could perhaps even, feel relaxed and content in one another’s company. She longed for that day.

“Let’s go down. I promised Merton a drink with him before dinner.” Henry proposed. Setting her on her feet.

She stood, fixing her dress. He kept his hand on her lower back as they crossed her room. Out of the door, and across the landing, when they got to the stairs he loops her arm through his, holding her tightly as they descended the grand imperial stairs to the raucous nature of the house below. Where the evening was just beginning. There was a large, boisterous party of thirty invited to the house. A mix of single and married people alike. In the main parlour, Vianne could hear a comforting gathering, she could hear glasses clink, and Irving Berlin wailed on the scratchy gramophone, she can hear laughter, conversation and the air was rife with the heady scent of fine perfume and fresh roses, lilies and geraniums in place all over the house to showcase Hexham’s vast wealth as a cabinet minister. The lifestyle must be accordingly gaudy to reflect that of his income, Vianne supposed.

She kept hold of Henry’s arm, before he caught the eye of a gaggle of old friends, who shoved a crystal cut tumbler of whisky in his hands. He dropped her arm and joined his friends.

Callous enough as to slide away after relaying her strict instructions which she was to adhere too, on pain of death. Or, in actual fact, on pain of another nasty set of bruises. He kissed her on the cheek before they departed. He shielded her from the sight of the room with his body, the ulterior motive being so that he could grip her wrist tight in his hand. Wrapping his fingers around it, her skin pinching already, but his touch turned to a fierce grip that bit harshly into her skin.

“You flirt with another man. You so much as look at one. I don’t care who he is. I’ll make you very, very sorry. Now mingle, and be polite. If I hear you’ve been anything less than courteous. You know what I’ll do. And it’ll start with me getting very, angry. You know what happens when I get angry, darling.” He forewarns.

She snatches her hand back. Staring at him for a second. Snapping on a false smile, and claiming she needed a drink. She slipped away, watching him roar with laughter, smiling with his friends like he was a different man. She oft wonders how he could be a doctor, so caring for patients, when he could treat her so. Jekyll and Hyde sprung as a quick comparison to her mind.

She was just heading for a refreshment, when she is accosted by Lady Shackleton. Vianne had met her before, often at socials gatherings and the like. She was also a patroness of the London, where Vianne worked, as if that gave her divine right and omnipotence. If this wasn’t an exercise to deliberately exert her influence and power, then Vianne didn’t know women.

This woman currently drew a sigh to rise out of her, as Vianne noticed, with horror, she was intending in her direction with purpose.

She was an almost elderly lady, with greying hair fixed in a huge colonial coiffure that sat like a hazy grey cloud of hair atop her head. Vianne would’ve said that it looked like an inconvenient halo, but she knew the woman better than that to call it so. She wore a draped evening gown, with a cape over the shoulders, and voluminous sleeves. It was black velvet swirled with rosettes, and white petticoat style trim. She was still so old fashioned as to wear the suffocating s bend shaped corset, at her late age, to project her bust forwards and hips backwards.

She had a beaky face, which took an opportunistic delight seeing as her hooked nose spent so much time preying upon other unfortunates. Speaking of such, the dead swathe of fur around her shoulders looked devoid of life, staring with glassy eyes, still wearing its paws and feet. Lucky bastard. Vianne praised it for being able to escape this conversation, and she not. But then again, it was doomed to spend the evening swathing that woman’s shoulders, and she couldn’t decide which was the lesser of two ultimate evils. Her mask was a venetian style, held up to her face on a pole, though Vianne couldn’t help her brain interjecting a certain pathway from doctors masks. Plague. And to be avoided at all costs. Something of which she associated with the member of the gentry currently making their way towards her.

“My dear, so refreshing to see you… I didn’t think you’d be among Lady Hexham’s ilk.” The woman lied through a pinched smile, and teeth that were gritted.

Vianne smiled demurely at the woman. Remarkably, every compliment the lady breathed to people, always sounded like a cloaked insult. It was astonishing how she managed it. It must take such effort to be so slyly cutting at every turn.

“My fiancé is more, of that ilk, than myself. But I’ve known Lord and Lady Hexham as intimates for a few years. Their son, Lord Hexham, is a colleague of my betrothed.” Vianne smiles. Folding her hands. “They work together at St. Thomas’s.” She adds.

“I admire your zealousness to be so, forthright in celebrating such connections.” She smiled serenely. Though her words were not as such.

“How do you know Lord and Lady Hexham?” Vianne asked with clenched teeth. And fists. As she held them, tightly pinched together, at her front.

“We’ve enjoyed intimacy within their circle since the day they owned Briarwell, and Bertie, Lord Hexham, inherited. I have known this family all the way back to the 1860’s. I knew the sixth Lord Hexham…” She congratulated herself, if she were an animal, right then, she’d have been ruffling her feathers in pride. Showcasing herself.

“Well.” Vianne bit back. “I won’t judge you too harshly on that front. After all, this lighting isn’t of the most flattering sort.” She cut quickly. Allowing herself to enjoy the small look of horror and insult on the woman’s face after she digested the remark. Vianne excused herself quickly after that to slide away and fetch a drink. Henry could batter her blue for her rudeness, but she didn’t care. He didn’t much bother with the rude old bat either.

She slipped noiselessly from the room. Feeling a sharp stab to her ego as a group of young debs burst into cruel, chattering laughter after she passes them by. She heard their mocking. They delighted in letting her know of their displeasure. “That’s his fiancée.” “She works you know, can you imagine? An heiress who works? Who does she think she is?” “She’s brave to wear such a dress… I’d be worried wearing a dress that looked like it came off the ark, too.” They drawled. Cackling.

So she wasn’t dripping diamonds, and her dress wasn’t the most up-to-date model of fashion, it was barely a month old, but clearly, that was still enough to be scrutinised. She snatched a glass of champagne from one of the stiff footman, stood invisible and quiet by the door. She tips it to her lips. And decided, expressly against Henry’s wishes that she be the conversationalist belle of the ball, that she wanted to explore Briarwell.

It was such a handsome house, it seemed a mighty shame to waste an opportunity. As they were such a large party, all the rooms were opened up for them to wander in and out of. Silent staff glided about tending to needs. Vianne faded from the room full of snobs and nasty women to be on her own. She didn’t wish to be among them, and their cruelty. Everyone had obviously read somewhere that the very rich could afford to give offense wherever they go. That it was somehow amusing for them to be so.

She wandered alone, sipping her champagne, happy to be so, and then she found herself longing to be somewhere. For the place that oft provided her the most succour when she needed it. She came across the library.

It was a wonderful size, lined with verbose novels, and titles. A thousands worlds, and thousands of words, all housed in one room. She realised then, that the music she heard coming from this part of the candle lit room, was not to be confused with the gramophone in the main sitting room. But rather, here, it was a piano that called out its tune to her. She was idly admiring a thick, leather bound book of Nietzsche, when the music captivated her. She recognised the familiar fluttering tune, in a minor, of Beethoven’s Bagatelle. Always her favourite in comparison to the pomp and flare of his other symphonies. As she walked along, skimming her hand along the bookshelf, she came to the end of the shelf, at which, a secret door was ajar, through there, the music reached a crescendo, becoming louder and louder. She peeked through the door, feeling like a voyeur, glimpsing into someone else’s secrecy. She stood her now empty glass on the side table. She didn’t know what was making her head lighter, the quick consumption of champagne, or the music.

The room she was glancing into, was a grand music room, as were all the rooms in Briarwell. An extension of the library with high ceilings, and that too, lit by the sumptuous quality of candle light, gave the room a golden, ethereal air, when accompanied by the soothing lull and pattern of the jovial piano music. Vianne decided that she couldn’t afford not to compliment this person on their talent. And at playing one of her favourite songs too. She couldn’t see the figure past the open piano lid, she couldn’t even discern whether they were female or male. She didn’t mind, they played with extraordinary feeling.

She opened the door, and stepped quietly into the room. Walking quietly, just listening to their skill in the music. She spoke to them, whomever they were, reverently, softly, so as not to disturb their playing. She timed her speech perfectly, they had just dipped into the third movement.

“You play beautifully. I used to have an acquaintance who could play that...” She flattered. The music came slowly, fluttering to a stop, a pause. She jumped out of her skin when they spoke. Because she hadn’t expected the voice to reply. And what’s more, she hadn’t expected to recognise the voice…

“Who is this charming acquaintance of which you speak?” Came a smug, male, interjection, before the playing resumed in its talent. Teasing her. Making a fool of her.

She came to three instant conclusions before she rounded the piano and looked to the figure playing. The first, was that she knew them very well. The second, that they definitely were a member of the male gender. And the third, was that she was never far from the reaches of Thomas Sharpe.

Under the brim of a dark crimson mask pressed to his face, his eyes flicker up to look teasingly at her, raking over the sumptuous figure her dress offered to him, and he smiles, before his attention reverts to the piano keys below his adroit fingers. She watched their nimble dexterity dance across the keys. Drawing the music out of the instrument so skilfully. Vianne didn’t want to find herself thinking it, but he looked, sinfully good, bedecked in crisp white tie, and tails. She had a feeling he knew of this information, judging by the arrogance in his smile when he detected the flush of her cheeks, brightening her pale skin under the golden hem of her face mask.

She looked so tempting to him, he had to peel his eyes away and focus on the music. That dress showcasing the gorgeous shape of her figure. Confidently projecting her bust, placing her hips to urge them backwards. The thin fabric drifting lazily about her shoulders, baring her neck and her décolletage, made him skip over a key or two, he was sure of it. He felt his heart beat faster when she spoke. He had taken himself away from the preening eyes of the society debs that did naught but flirt and flutter their lashes at him. He was seen a veritable rascal, yet so very wealthy. No woman would encourage their daughters toward him. The men viewed him equally as distastefully. New money was as insulting and as vulgar to their kind as no money at all. Fed up of adoration or loathing from either quarter, he had taken himself off to explore Briarwell. Clearly, she was in the same boat as he, so to speak. Both outcasts, on the fringes of a social gathering. As they had been, as a matter of fact, when they met.

“Where did you learn to play like that?” She spoke up when he’d finished the song. Retreating his limbs from the instrument, turning to look more fully at her, releasing himself so he swivelled to face her.

“We’ve been apart for two years, my love. A man must have his secrets after all…” He smiles.

“What are you doing here? How on earth are you acquainted with the Hexham’s?” She asks. He chuckles, shifting around, replacing the lid down over the keys. Running his hands along the black, polished, smooth wood lid. He was enjoying her curious confusion.

“Lady Hexham jumped at the opportunity to invite me here, She explained that Briarwell was the event of the season. And when I enquired as to the guest list, and wouldn’t you know, my ears leapt at the sound of a Mr. St. Clair and one Miss Earnest-James accompanying him. I couldn’t resist..” He teases with a carefree shrug. Vianne sighed in irritability.

He came to his full height, stood a little too close for her liking. His hands folded behind his back as he stood and assessed her with sharp blue eyes. Somehow they were made brighter with the mask he wore. His inky hair was brushed, swept back off his forehead, the usual defiant strands swung deviously down by his brows. His smile was infuriating and his eyes burned brighter than ever because they were alone. Together. Once again.

“Try to resist more, in the future… Good evening, Mr Sharpe” She warns him with annoyance in her eyes and in her tone. Wishing those to be her final words to him. But she would not be so lucky… His suited body crosses her path, blocking her way.

“Now I have the pleasure of having you alone…” He speaks, purring at her. Having darted in front of her. She stumbles back. Not wishing to fall under his spell once more. She was unwillingly susceptible to it. The last time he came near her, leaving evidence of his proximity, Henry nearly broke her ribs.

“Don’t make this difficult, Thomas.” She snaps. Hoping he’d understand, because he would get out of this unscathed, if he so chose. It was different for her. Henry had a temper that he liked to take out on her. He had no dangers from being near her. But she had a lot more to be scared of…

“Don’t make what difficult?” He asks playfully. One dark brow crooking up on his forehead. As if thrilled him that her parting from him, she admitted to be hard.

“Don’t be coy. Trust me when I say it doesn’t become you.” She barks out lowly. Intending to sidestep him and return to Henry. Before he got her in trouble which would lead to more suffering and pain.

Again, he blocks her way. She glowers up at him. Started to sense her breath become ragged in annoyance. He looks down at her, with more playfulness than sincerity on his face. That made her clench her teeth. Clearly, tonight, she wasn’t able to escape all the people who irritated her.

“Trust?” He asks. Mocking for. The last time he had trusted in her, she had broken their marriage and left him aching for her, broken hearted and wretched.

“I’m not going to be talked down to about my sins, by a man who has a list of sins as long as my arm.” She insists firmly, voice rising. Her flaring anger bubbled up and out of her, and she shoved him aside.

He moved to counteract her, his fingers stole around her wrist, wrapping only gently, to keep her here to argue some more. But unbeknownst to him, even the gentle grip was enough to make her hiss out in pain. Her face contorting into a painful grimace. She winces, and tears her arm from him, not meeting her eyes. She regrets flickering her gaze up to meet his. A look of utter shock, and disbelief crossed his face.

His stance turns aggressive and he slams her into the nearest bookshelf, his body bracketing hers, keeping her there. She tried wriggling, she tried pleading. But it’s no use. He had her arm. And he was busying himself now, by peeling off her glove. And when he does, he stares, inelegantly at her arm. The glove in his grip slithers to the floor as a whisper of silk, forgotten, as he takes in the sight that awaited him on her pale arm.

Her wrist was ringed with almost black bruises, that were just shifting into a dark purple. Sprouting from her hand, up to her forearm almost. Marks put there by someone’s rough, violent hands. He could see where fingertips had a vice grip burned deep into her skin. Anger flared in his lungs, storming through his heart, making his blood heat up. She jerked her arm away, and refused to meet his livid gaze. She shrunk back in on herself.

“He did that to you?” He asked tersely.

“That and plenty more besides…” She explains, lowering her mask. Her lovely face looking up at him. His heart felt like it had been run through with a stake, when he saw she had a fading yellow-purple eye too. The bruises concealed by her mask.

She placed it back on, and he gave her, her glove back. Having bent to retrieve it. She felt ashamed, embarrassed, and suddenly, inexplicably angry with him. Furious.

“Vianne…” He sighs in pain.

“Don’t pity me.” She flinches. “Anything. Just don’t pity me…” She remarks coldly. Brusquely wiping away a tear from her aching cheek.

As she slid the glove back up her arm, securing it back in its place. He watched her lower lip wobble. He felt deflated, here he was flirting like a randy schoolboy with her, and she was black and blue all over from another mans violence. A man who claimed to love, and cherish her. He had a hell of a way of showing his possession of her, he thought.

“The man’s a damn, rotten, animal, for leaving marks such as those on you.” He growled, quite rightly incensed. He recoiled slightly, when Vianne stopped dead, and glared hell fury at him.

“Just because Henry’s abuse leaves marks on my skin, doesn’t mean your abuse was ant less valid. Thomas.” She cuts. His mouth fell open. She heads for the door, pausing when he speaks again

“Don’t you dare compare me to him…” He snaps. “I would never deign to..” He began. And when he does. She whips back, and her voice exits her in a burst, a shout. A rasping cry.

“You… BROKE MY HEART.” She fairly yells. Her voice scraping painfully, and hoarse, through her throat. Now that her anger had come bubbling forth, she couldn’t find the energy to contain it any longer.

These are the words that had whirled around, unsaid, in her head and heart for two, long, years, and letting them loose was a tirade she was unable to stop.

“You treated me so coldly. You kept me an arm’s length away, and somehow made me feel like it was my fault. My misunderstanding. I was too in love with you to ever be mad at you for it. So I just punished myself. For MONTHS. I kept away and stayed away because I thought that’s what you wanted and expected of me as a wife... I became used to thinking myself second best. Because that’s all I was, next to her, wasn’t it? Do you have any idea, what our marriage put me through? I hated what you had made me into. This pathetic, lovesick woman, pining for you. Aching for a smidgeon of feeble attention that I’d never win. Turning me into someone whom you ignored at your own behest. Far more interested and concerned in fixing your infernal machine, and keeping Lucille from tearing open my throat. when in fact, all along…” She shook her head.

“I cannot put into words what finding out about what the two of you, did to me. I was so angry, I wanted to hurt you, as deeply you had hurt me. I wanted to scream, and kick, and claw blue murder, and scratch your stupid eyes out with my bare hands, for what you did. After that, I couldn’t bear to let you near me, touch me, or even look at me. I had, to leave you. I couldn’t live a lie, day in, day out. Especially not pretending to uphold a one sided love from a man I so admired. I was exhausted. And I couldn’t do it anymore.” She swallowed. But her rage was far from done.

“…and then one day, who should waltz into a London ball, but the very man who cheated on me, lied to me, deceived me, and used me. You. You, strode in, and then whispered such… insulting things. Teasing me. Flirting with me. Saying you loved me, needed me. That you didn’t want to lose me. Couldn’t live without me. You lost me two years ago, and it’s high time you learned, that I can never love you again. I can never be your wife, nor can I pretend that you didn’t shred me to absolute pieces for the way you hurt and betrayed me. You’ve done your damage Thomas Sharpe. And believe me when I say this, it is eternally scored on my heart.” She finishes.

He sags. Her unleashing two years’ worth of pain and her heartbreak on him sapped him of all his fighting spirit. His chest rose and fell, and other than that, and the candles flickering in their stands, there is no movement in the room coming from either of them. Far off in the house, she heard the dinner gong sound. She was pleased to see her raging outburst had hit him squarely in the chest. She wanted him to feel guilt, and shame, as she had felt it, those years ago.

“I have to return to Henry now…” She speaks. Her voice raw. And this time, he lets her go. He’d be a fool not too.

She wipes her tears, and makes her way back to her beloveds side. She comes back into the proverbial lion’s den, not surprised to see Lady Shackleton glaring mildly in her direction. She goes to stand silently by Henry’s side. Her back to the door. Stood trembling, and miserable from her outburst, and Thomas knowing about the true nature of Henry’s foul temper and treatment of her. More people filter into the room, coming through to take their place at the dinner table.

She feels her beau tense up, and she doesn’t need to turn towards the door to know that Thomas Sharpe had just stepped across the threshold, accompanied by none other than a simpering, smiling, Lady Hexham herself, showing him off to all the eligible young ladies, who preened at him like fussing hens.

She heard Henry’s fingers rub, where he squeezed tighter against the glass in his hands, in annoyance. She’s not surprised to feel his lips, hot, present, and angry at her ear. And his big hand painfully clutches her elbow. Tugging her to stumble closer to him. She didn’t have the energy to fight back. Not tonight.

“Did you know that bastard was invited to this gathering?” He growled lowly in her ear. His whisky breath stabbing down into the skin of her neck. She could feel the weight of Thomas’s stare flicker to her, prickling her skin, when Henry moved to grab her elbow.

“Why would I?” She answers back blandly. Henry grit his teeth, and chucked back his dram in one swift go. Anger shuddering through his broad frame. Her hands clasped demurely in front of her, Henry slammed his glass down. She didn’t flinch.

Just as she didn’t need to look to know Thomas’s gaze was secured firmly upon her. She could feel him staring at her as plainly as she could feel the suns heat on her bare skin.

~

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