marvelsswansong · 11 months ago
Text
show and tell
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summary: a white rose at the train station. his hand in yours at the zoo. his mother's golden mirror. does he love you or is he simply trying to gain the public's favour and secure the Plith prize? you're unsure. and so is he, until he very much isn't.
tags: coriolanus snow x fem!reader, slow burn (ish), fluff, angst, technically a happy ending but quite dark, purely based off the movie but I take some creative detours, CW for violence, mentions of starvation, toxic/manipulative behaviors and a semi-dark!snow (please read at your own discretion, take care of yourself above all else :))
☆ word count: 5.6K+ words ☆
⚠️ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞.⚠️
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Coriolanus hates waiting. 
The stillness, the eerie silence of an early morning at the Capitol train station. It eats away at his core.
His mouth tastes like copper, his throat's starting to itch from the dryness and there's a brief moment of fear as he ponders if he's making a huge mistake. A sharp whistle ringing through the station signals the train's arrival, and as his eyes adjust to the billowing grey smoke and a sea of white (the peace keepers), the flower in his left hand suddenly feels heavy. As if the weight of the situation is starting to bear on his shoulders.
He wasn't supposed to be here. If all had gone to plan, he would've already been the recipient of the Plinth Prize and taken the first car back home to buy his grandma'am some chocolates and Tigris a new dress. No more worrying. No more surviving on dwindled fortunes. No more pretending to fit in with high society. 
Then, of course, the rules had to change. Viewership was down and it was of both Dean Highbottom's and Dr Gaul's opinion that what was missing was spectacle. Now, whoever the best mentor was in transforming their tribute into prime entertainment would win the prize. 
"Your role is to turn these tributes into spectacles. Not survivors." 
The silence that hung after this announcement in the Academy was heavy, but Coriolanus knew better than to show his true emotions on his face. After all, if there was one thing that he knew how to do as the star student of the Academy: it was to plan. And when he saw your... unruly introduction to the public, sneaking a snake down a woman's dress before cussing out the audience, it dawned on him that it would be a tall order to endear you to the public.
But not impossible.
The sounds of the tributes being roughly unloaded off the platform snaps him back into reality, his eyes easily landing on your figure as you jump off the train, your upper arms supported by the tribute (Jessup, Coriolanus recalls his name being) standing next to you. Pushing through the soldiers, the blonde nearly breaks into a small sprint to catch up to you as you turn your head upon hearing the sound of hurried footsteps.
"Welcome to the Capitol." the strange man in front of you says, before holding out a pristine white rose. It's a peculiar looking flower, you think, a kind of flower you've never seen before (at least, certainly not back in your home district). It looks almost artificial, you think, with how perfectly white and untouched its petals are.
The blonde assesses your cautious glance - the sunlight hitting the under color of your irises perfectly in a glistening twilight - and a fleeting thought passes by, that the tv camera didn't do your natural beauty justice. He has to suppress a smirk when you finally respond, narrowing your eyes at him with your arms crossing above your chest.
"You seem like you shouldn't be here."
He chuckles at that.
"I'm not supposed to be. And yet here I am." A pause. "But I'm your mentor. Coriolanus Snow."
That's a first, you think. Mentors for tributes. 
"And what does my mentor do except bring me roses?" you question, flicking the buds with your fingers. Coriolanus just smiles. 
"I do my best to take care of you." 
Your supposed mentor says it so sincerely, you think, and he's obviously charming with his devilishly handsome looks and low whisper. But there's something that stops you from holding out your hand and taking the rose from his fingers. You suppose he isn't lying - after all, what would be the point of it - but there's something in his eyes that you can't quite explain. 
Something that makes your stomach flutter in both excitement and dread.
"Move." the soldier behind you then barks, shoving you and Jessup forward. You decide to give your mentor one last grin and a quiet "see you later", thinking that's going to be the last you see of him for a while.
The last thing you expect is for him to jump into the back of the vehicle alongside the other tributes, drawing the eyre of a few who pin him against the moving vehicle and start taunting him with violence. 
"You look rather out of place." the tall boy pinning Coriolanus drawls.
"I'm not, I can assure you. I'm here for (Y/n). I'm her mentor." 
That puts the unwanted attention on you, as the other tributes begin to circle around you with sinister expressions twisting on their lips.
"Mentor, huh? How come little miss music gets one but not the rest of us?" a brunette girl drawls, eyeing you up and down.
The boy pinning Coriolanus down applies stronger pressure to his neck, and you rise in an attempt to intervene, but he meets your gaze discreetly and motions for you to remain seated. 
"You all have a mentor, they're just... not here." he croaks. 
"Right, and we're all supposed to believe you?" another girl, this one from district 4 you believe, taunts. "What's to say we shouldn't just kill you now?" 
The blonde shoots you a nervous look and that's when you feel pity. Just like you, he's in a foreign environment and pretending to be brave. You suppose also that he's your only ticket out, your only chance of potential success at surviving in the games.
So you intervene.
"You could kill him. But then the moment this truck stops you'll all be gathered round and killed by the peace keepers. He's clearly Capitol. And if they're willing to hang District people simply for stealing, can't imagine what killing a member of the Capitol would mean for punishment." 
That scares them off and Coriolanus sits down next to you, breathing heavily in an effort to catch his breath, before quietly thanking you.
"You really wanna thank me?" you quirk, leaning over to whisper in his ear. "Start by thinking about how I can actually win." 
The truck then suddenly comes to a halt, and the next thing you know the truck is being tipped over and the doors fly open. Coriolanus grasps your arm in lightning speed, pulling you close towards him so that he'd hit the harsh ground first, absorbing most of the impact.
When you shakily stand up on your feet, you realize you're enclosed in a large metal cage akin to that of an animal enclosure. There's even an over enthusiastic TV presenter in the background, who now seems to have noticed your mentor and begins to call out to him.
"Where are we?" you breathe out, already shivering from the autumn cold.
The blonde barely shifts, only dusting off his suit in a calm manner.
"(Y/n) (L/n) from District 12, welcome to the Capitol Zoo. Would you like to meet my neighbors?" he jokes, eyes slyly shifting to the right to refer to the small audience that has now gathered around the TV presenter. 
You hesitate, but then he takes your right hand in his before leaning over to whisper in your ear.
"You want to win, right? Good. I'd like to win as well. And the first thing you'll need to do? Perform for the cameras." Coriolanus accentuates the end of his sentence by sliding the rose behind your ear, a gesture which draws an excited reaction from the crowd.
Is your mentor doing it for the cameras or for something else? You're unsure. But given your desperation to win, and the fact that he clearly knows more about the games than you do, you decide to play along.
Warm hands twisting in the cold, Coriolanus drags your enjoined hands towards the TV camera as he does what he does best. Lie, smile, and charm the audience. Even when the attention turns to you, as Lucky Flickerman (that's his name, you learn) directs questions towards you, the blonde never lets go of your hand in his.
Before he leaves, as news of his rule-breaking spreads amongst the members of the public, you grab him out of desperation one last time.
"Please get us some food, we've been starving since the Reaping."
The blonde nods, but you can't help but feel anxious: not knowing if his previous gestures of kindness were just for show. 
-------------------------------
"Who's that for?"
Coriolanus had meant to sneak the sandwiches and cookies into his spare napkin discreetly, but of course Clemensia had to be two steps behind him, interrogating his every move. 
"Just not very hungry, that's all." he nearly grits through his teeth, forcing a fake smile.
The dark haired girl chuckles at that, shaking her head sideways.
"You don't have to lie to me, Snow. Especially me."
"... It's for (Y/n)." he quietly admits. She hums at that, picking at her own food from across the table.
"That's awfully nice of you. What, already going soft for some girl you met yesterday?" she teases, and it immediately elicits an angry refusal out of him.
"It's not like that." Coriolanus snaps, his sudden harshness making his classmate flinch in surprise. "I just... can't have her dying before the games even begin because she's not as well fed as the others." 
Clemensia scoffs, flicking the rest of her orange peel into the trash.
"Honestly, Snow, I don't know why you bother. She's clearly not going to survive. I mean, have you seen the tributes from districts 1 and 3?"
Ignoring her comments, he wordlessly slips away from the table and hails a ride down to the zoo. News of his intentions travels fast and whilst he doesn't mind Sejanus' company, it takes intense effort to force himself to look away from Arachne when she tags along and decides to taunt a caged tribute with a glass bottle. 
"You came back." you mutter, staring at the neatly wrapped napkin in disbelief. Coriolanus dislikes how surprised you sound, then hates himself more for caring about what you think. 
Why do you care what she thinks? he scolds himself. She's just a tribute you're mentoring.
"Of course I did. Can't have my tribute dying before the games even begin, now can I?" he teases, feigning nonchalant. 
The presence of academy mentors seems to have attracted a crowd, with a few photographers even pointing their lenses towards you and Coriolanus as his hand slips through the metal gates to meet yours to hand off the food. When your fingers touch his, a part of you wonders if he would've ever came back if there was no PR involved.
Too grateful and too hungry to care, you just say thank you, before breaking off a piece for Jessup and offering half a sandwich to your mentor.
"Oh no, I'm not hungry." he says out of instinct, surprised by your offering. You raise your eyebrows in response, pursing your lips.
"You sure about that? Because I could hear your stomach growl from a mile away." you retort. 
"Right. Uh, thank you." 
Biting into the soft bread, you chew, savoring every bite. A silence settles between the two of you as you both eat, right before you ask him a quiet question.
"... Did you get into a lot of trouble for what you did for me yesterday?" your eyes shine with worry, you nervously looking up at him for an answer. He finds himself again surprised by how much you seem to care. 
Yes, he wants to say. I nearly got myself disqualified as a mentor and it would've been the end of my family's future in the Capitol. But he swallows his thoughts down, alongside the dry taste of the tuna sandwich.
"Not much. Actually, I was able to convince the gamemaster, Dr Gaul, to implement a few changes to the games."
"Really, like what?"
"To let the public send you donations. That way, I could send you supplies you needed into the arena - food, water, medicine. It'd mean having to do the extra job of playing to the public and getting them to root for your survival, but with a voice like yours, the songbird of Panem -"
Your smile drops at that, your gaze turning stern at his suggestion.
"I only sing when I please for an audience I choose." your eyebrows furrow, your usually sweet expression melting into something more sour. It's oddly cute, he thinks. 
"I know, but I'm really going to need you to try. It's for your own survival. Our survival." he emphasizes, staring right into your eyes. You can't suppress your sad smile at that, crumbling the empty napkin in your hands.
"Are you sure it's not just for your survival?"
Your question haunts Coriolanus that night, alongside the sounds of broken glass and pained gasps as Arachne lies bleeding on the ground, having been stabbed in the neck by one of the tributes. When he quickly runs to his classmate, he doesn't get to see your expression, as you're ripped away by Jessup pulling you into safety in an instant and peace keepers swarm the scene in an effort to remain calm.
When he's back home and the crimson blood coating his hands have dried from where he was holding his dying classmate's wounds, he wonders if there's any truth to your answer.
-------------------------------
Everything changes at the arena tour.
You've not had much sleep. You're confused, you're angry, but most of all you've been haunted by your conflicting feelings towards your mentor and the name he'd called you - songbird. A silly little songbird, you think spitefully. 
To sing and charm the very same public who had doomed her to a violent game of death. 
It was absurd, really, that he'd even ask that. It made your stomach churn and your head ache at the thought of cheapening your craft for something so juvenile.
And yet, when you spot the familiar red suit and white blonde hair in the mass of other mentors at the arena, you can't help but feel warmth in your chest and stomach. A part of you even feels lucky, given that the other mentors seem to waste their time insulting their tributes or being too afraid to talk to them. Whilst Coriolanus, on the other hand, seems to be full of ideas to ensure your survival.
"The game master liked my suggestions. So the donations system is going to be implemented, with a broadcast beforehand for the tributes to get a chance to endear themselves to the public for donations." He's speaking so fast that you almost think he enjoys explaining the games to you. "Now what this means is that assuming you get enough donations, when the bell goes off, you don't go for the weapons. You don't fight. You just run as fast as you can, hide and stay alive for as long as you can." 
"How can you even be sure I'll get enough donations for you to be able to send supplies?" you mutter, looking around at the other tributes. "A lot of these folks are a lot taller and stronger than I am. They've got a much better chance at surviving than I do."  
Coriolanus surprises you by taking both of your hands in his, squeezing your palms tight in his cold palms.
"I know, but we have something none of the others have."
You scrunch your face in confusion.
"What's that?"
"A story. A strong connection between you and me, a Capitol mentor and a District 12 tribute. Not to mention, your incredible singing and songwriting. Match that with my knack for public relations and we'll have enough donations to send you any supplies necessary for your victory in the games."
You realize then that Coriolanus is unlike anyone else you've ever met. So confident, so sure, so perceptive of other people and their secret desires and pitfalls. His unwavering commitment to his beliefs is admirable, if not almost foolish, but you keep that part to yourself.
"How're you so sure I'll even survive the first few minutes?" you push back, still unconvinced, though you don't pull away from his hold. "And, again, I don't just sing for anyone."
The blonde opens his mouth to respond, but he's interrupted when a sudden cascade of dust and fire crumbles down from the ceiling of the arena. The sound of a bomb exploding reverberates as you're both thrown off of your feet by the impact. Your head is still ringing from the chaos when Jessup pulls at your sleeves, commanding you to walk away from the wreckage. 
Rising onto shaky legs, you even spot another tribute running from the guards towards a blown out hole on the side of the building. And when your eyes meet with Coriolanus' frantic ones, his lower half trapped underneath rubble, you both recognize that you now have an unbridled chance to escape - 
But you don't.
To the blonde's complete shock, you instead shove your friend off, screaming as you lift the heavy cement column with all your strength in an effort to pry the debris off of his body. With the help of a few peace keepers, it works, but Coriolanus falls into unconsciousness quickly as he succumbs to the excruciating pain of crushed ribs and bruised limbs.
The last thing he sees before he fades into darkness is your teary eyes, a sight he so badly wants to fix by wiping away your tears with his fingers... 
When he eventually wakes, it's in a dark hospital next to his grandma'am and sister. There's a roar on the television screen as you're brought onto the broadcast, shy smile and a glittering guitar in hand. It hits him that you're actually going to sing. 
"I didn't have a chance to... uh... write a new song. But I'd like to dedicate this performance to someone very special who's recently been hurt." you say into the mike, your eyes clearly brimming with nerves and doubt. 
As you sing, there's a tight sensation in Coriolanus' chest once the lyrics settle into his mind - a small voice whispers in his mind that it's jealousy, for you singing about a boy back in your home town who broke your heart - but it's overwhelmed by the feelings of gratitude and awe that you'd ended up doing what he asked you to do. All that, after selflessly saving his life.
"A...are you okay, Coryo?" is all Tigris asks, brushing his hair back and gently guiding him back down onto bed upon seeing his expression twist into one of discomfort.
"She could've run." 
"What?"
"At the arena. The blast blew open a large opening on the side of the stadium. I saw one of the tributes actually make it out that way." he lets out a shaky breath, hating you for what you've done to him to make him feel this way. "Damn it, Tigris. She could've run. She could've-"
A single tear drops from his left eye and onto his injured palm, his weak voice giving away his true emotions.
"She could've saved herself from even having to participate in the games. But she stayed. She fucking stayed behind to lift the debris off of me."
"She saved your life." his sister finishes for him, the atmosphere turning somber as she wraps her arms around his shoulder. "I'm just so glad that you're both safe." 
As you retreat from the screen, the donation numbers only piling up higher as Lucky Flickerman closes out the broadcast, a hot fire lights up in Coriolanus' stomach. 
He has to save you.
No matter what it takes.
--------------------------------------
"You know he's just using you, right?"
After the broadcast, once it's revealed that you were given the largest amount of donations out of all the other tributes, Coral from District 4 corners you backstage. 
"Pardon?" you fake ignorance, a small smile playing on your lips, which only seems to aggravate the girl further. 
"Your pretty boy mentor. He's only been faking all sweet for you to get the public to send you donations. In fact, I bet he didn't even bother to try and pull himself out of the wreckage so that he could get more public sympathy.
You snap at that, all fake modesty melting away in an instant.
"You have no idea what the fuck you're talking about, Coral. Coriolanus isn't like that." you spit, but all she does is look down at you with a nasty smirk on her lips.
"Oh really? And how would you know, little songbird? Think he'd care about someone from district 12? And why do you think he wants you to win so badly? Because he's a good person?" she mocks, her face now a mere inches away from yours. "No. I reckon it's more for the prize money." 
You can't sleep that night at the zoo, tossing and turning in the dark. Your mind can't seem to rest, torn between the adrenaline and dread for the games tomorrow, alongside the constant worry over Coriolanus' wellbeing and doubts over his genuinity and trustworthiness.
Coral's just trying to get in my head. you repeat to yourself, over and over again. You're on the edge of sleep, exhausted and upset by your conflicting emotions, when you hear a familiar voice coming from the darkness. 
It sounds like Coriolanus. 
You sit up straight, and it's true: he's here, and he's whispering your name repeatedly, beckoning you towards the front of the cage and away from your sleeping competitors. Suddenly, the overwhelming exhaustion and fatigue disappears, and you find yourself gravitating towards the only person you've been thinking about for the past 24 hours.
"Coryo, you're... you're alright." you sigh out, almost overwhelmed with relief. You don't even realize you're crying until his hands reach up and brush away your tears, his warm hand a stark contrast to the freezing cold of the night.
"I am. All thanks to you, songbird." he breathes out, his fingers tracing the ripples of your cheeks. His head feels dizzy and his hands tremble as he searches his pockets for his mother's golden compact mirror. 
"Don't call me that." you weakly laugh, as he does too. "What's this?" you ask, staring at the object he’s folded gently into your hands. 
"It's for you to use in the arena. Now listen to what I say very carefully. Don't breathe this in, don't spill it on yourself, and only use it when you really need to." he slowly explains, as if he's terrified that you're going to harm yourself by merely carrying it in your pockets. 
"Is... is this allowed? For you to sneak in and give me this?" you whisper, looking around your surroundings, but it's pitch black. 
The blonde purses his lips, using every muscle in his body to keep his expression neutral.
No, it's certainly not allowed. I am risking my life, as well as my family's future, by doing this.
"That's not important. What is important is that the blast from the arena has created a hole leading out to a bunch of service tunnels. I tested it out myself, it leads towards the outside, far away from the peace keepers." 
"Wait, I don't understa-"
Desperation grabs a hold of him, and it's a foreign feeling - the crushing despair of wanting to protect someone that he can't, the burning urge to want to put someone else ahead of him for once.
"What I need you to do tomorrow, (Y/n), is to run. The moment the alarm rings, don't even think of running towards the weapons or fighting the others. Don't even hide anymore. Just… just run towards the tunnels, by yourself, and get out."
"But what about Jessup-" you hiccup. Your head's spinning, confused and horrified by your mentor's change of plans and the prospect of leaving behind your friend to die in the arena. 
"Forget about him." Coriolanus snaps. Suddenly, his eyes are cold and his voice is firm, commanding you as if you have no choice in the matter. "In there, he's as dangerous as the other tributes. You can't trust anyone, not even your supposed friends, okay? The games, they-" he chokes on his own words, and there's something again in Coriolanus' eyes that you can't quite decipher. "They bring out the worst in people. Promise me you'll run."
It makes your stomach twist in anxiety.
"I-"
"Please." 
As he begs, his face crumbles, his voice so desperate and feeble that you can't find it in yourself to say no. 
"I... I'll try." you relent, and he lets out a sigh of relief at your agreement. 
"Good. Perfect." He takes your head in his hands and softly kisses your temple. "I won't let you die in there, okay? Just like you took care of me after the explosion. I'm going to take care of you."
"I'm your mentor. I do my best to take care of you." 
Coriolanus' words from the train station echo in your head as you nod, pocketing the mirror deep inside your dress to hide it away from plain sight.
"Will I... will I be able to see you, after the games?" 
You immediately feel stupid for even asking that. Everyone knows winning the games merely allows your return to your home district. And on all logical accounts, it wouldn't make any sense for the man to give up his life in the Capitol to follow you back to 12.
But he smiles at your innocent question, only nodding whilst squeezing your hands in the dark. To your feeble heart and mind, it feels like a genuine promise.
"Of course, my songbird. I'll do whatever it takes."
"Don't make promises you can't keep." you whisper.
"I never do." 
And for the first time, you think you actually believe him wholeheartedly.
----------------------------------
You can't believe it. 
You've won.
You were so sure you were going to die once the snakes had been released, eyes closing shut once the venomous snakes began to crawl up your skin, but as you continued to sing... The reptiles simply slithered by your side, remaining docile and non-threatening. And based on the snakes' sudden change of behavior and Highbottom's scowl when he announced you as the victor of the 10th Hunger Games - "consider yourself lucky, little girl, as it seems your mentor was willing to break more than a few rules for you" - your stomach churns at the realization that Coriolanus kept his promise.
He did whatever it took to get you out. 
Even cheating. 
You've only heard whispers of the punishments for cheating at the Capitol. But based on the frequent hangings of rebels in your home district, you can't imagine that the punishment would be very kind.
Weeks have passed since your victory, since the last time you've even seen Coriolanus, but it does nothing to erase him from your mind. You still see his faint silhouette in the mornings, when your eyes have barely adjusted to the morning light and there's a pile of clothes sitting on the chair beside your bed. You think you hear his voice amongst the sea of strangers’ conversations, calling out for his 'songbird'. And you swear you see his face in every crowd at the bar.
Unbeknownst to you, Coriolanus is having the same struggles on the opposite end of the country. Luckily, bearing the last name Snow meant his punishment for cheating was to be lighter than the usual hanging: mandatory military service. District 8. But he's sure to bring his last few bills to bribe the immigration officer for a transfer to 12. 
All to come find you. 
He suffers through the first week of training - grueling hours, hanging ceremonies, endless ramblings from Sejanus about making a change for the better. He pretends not to notice Sejanus establishing connections within the rebel community, until he can’t ignore it anymore. After all, Coriolanus simply can't afford his friend’s idealism and recklessness to get him killed too, and potentially you, when you're thought to be linked to the movement by mere virtue of association.
Especially not you, Coriolanus thinks.
After the games, of having to watch you bleed, sob and fight for hours on end as he stood helplessly, only able to watch: even the passing thought of your death elicits a violent reaction in him. He'll do anything for you. 
Even if that means turning in his only friend to prove his loyalty to the Capitol.
It's an unremarkable Wednesday night for you when you're singing a song at the bar, black guitar in hand and the smell of booze thick in the air, when your eyes come across a familiar face. 
It takes you a few seconds, of course. You almost think it’s a hallucination, if it wasn’t for the sea of other soldiers surrounding him, validating his presence. His fluffy white locks are gone, replaced with a clean buzz cut. He's lost a bit of weight, his shoulders more broad and rough from military training, and the lack of expensive bright fabrics draped around his figure is jarring at first. But it suits him, you think. 
The song can't finish any faster before you're slinging your guitar to the back and rushing up to Coriolanus, immediately throwing your arms around him. He stiffens in your embrace before relaxing, his arms finding your waist and squeezing you tightly. And you can't help but savor every essence of his being: he smells of sweat and coal (unlike his Capitol uniform which always smelled of florals and clean linen) and you can feel the cool metal of his dog tags press against your collarbone at this angle.
"You came back for me." you breathe out, still not believing that he's in front of you. Your ex mentor just smiles, tapping your cheeks with his hands.
"Said I'd never break a promise, now didn't I?" 
As the next performer goes up on stage, recapturing the attention of the audience, you pull him away towards the back room, far away from the bustling crowds and twinkling lights.
"I've thought of you every day, my songbird." Coriolanus whispers against your skin once you two are away from the crowds, his head falling forwards into the nape of your neck.
Your cheeks warm at his comment, your fingers coming up to play with the dog tags around his neck, before a light chuckle escapes your lips.
"What's so funny? Did you not miss me?" the blonde teases, and you shake your head sideways in denial.
"Of course I missed you. I missed you more than you could imagine."
"Then what's the chuckle for?"
You let out a short sigh, not knowing if it’d be wise to bring it up. But all he does is encouraging you, looking deep into your eyes and nodding, urging you to say what’s on your mind. You relent, shoulders sagging. 
"It's just... when I won the games, Highbottom congratulated me. But not for winning the games. But for surviving you." you awkwardly chuckle in hopes of diffusing the seriousness of your question. "Is it true, Coryo?"
"What are you getting at?" is his response, coy and low. You can't tell if he's amused, annoyed or disturbed. 
Or all three at once.
"There's rumors, you know. I heard that you... you had to kill a tribute." you whisper, as if what you’re saying is the biggest secret in the world. "Is it true?"
Coriolanus pauses at that, the smirk on his face dropping for a fraction of a second before he's cupping your face and lifting your gaze to meet his eyes. His stare is so strong, so unwavering, almost to the point of unnerving you. But it's matched with such warmth and softness in his touch as he strokes your hair.
"You have to understand, darling… It was just like the snakes. If I hadn't rigged the game by getting the snakes used to your smell so they wouldn't attack you, you would've died. And if I hadn't killed the tribute charging at me when I had to sneak into the arena to rescue Sejanus-" he sighs, slow and long. He looks as if he’s thinking hard. "I had to, my songbird. I had to do it to protect you. To take care of you." he emphasizes.
You're not sure what kind of an answer you wanted, but you're unable to respond immediately, as it slowly dawns on you that this man both cheated and killed another person for you. 
His response to your silence is a swift kiss, calloused hands dropping to your waist to pull you in close, the gesture desperate and messy. Breathing heavily when he parts from you, he kisses you once more, this time a short peck which is more rough and demanding.
"I would do anything for you, (Y/n) (L/n). Anything for you."
Coriolanus chooses to keep quiet about the fact that technically, he could've just injured the tribute charging towards him instead. Or that it felt freeing to have ended the tribute’s life. Or that just a few hours ago, he tipped off the Capitol about Sejanus' rebellion. All in an effort to secure your unbridled safety. So that he doesn’t ever have to let go of you again.
"Now, where are your manners, my songbird? Aren't you going to thank me?" he whispers against your lips, smoothing out your hair.
"T-thank you, Coryo." you manage to stutter.
He smiles at that, kissing the top of your head as he sways you from side to side.
"Of course, love. Don't worry. We’re going to be just fine. In fact, everything will be fine from now on."
As you peak out from under his embrace, you're not so sure if you can believe him anymore.
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a/n: leave it to a new hunger games movie and Tom Blyth playing young!Snow to make me return from my 1.5 year long writing hiatus.
I'm quite nervous about this one as it's my first time writing for a semi-dark character and also because it's been so long since I posted my writing on here... But I hope you enjoyed, please leave a comment, like, reblog, etc if you liked it. If this one is received well I might go ahead and post the other Snow fics currently sitting in my drafts!!!
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thesirenisles · 4 months ago
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Examining the "Feminine"
mythology & meaning of venus, taurus, and libra ♀
by thesirenisles
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Dark/Night Mode recommended. Do not steal, rewrite, or copy any of my original writing. Photos are from Pinterest or collaged by me. If it does not apply, let it fly. All rights reserved. © 2024 The Siren Isles
Your Majesty,
It is as if you manifested in this world to be adored and cherished. Blessed with royal charisma and a natural grace, your Venusian energy is often happily welcomed. Even with afflictions, there is just something(s) about you that others value.
A Venusian is blessed to enjoy the material aesthetics and splendors of this world. They understand high-quality, material value in items and prefer the nicer things. They have an inherent taste for what is aesthetically pleasing. The Venusian tends to collect all of these things... while being on the journey to understanding that they can't collect people.
At your core… you are here to create and increase the value, beauty, harmony, and love in the world around you.
It's all about life’s pleasures when you’re a child of Venus and they float diplomatically, steadily seeking pleasure of all forms, whether this be from material means, the five senses, or even the addictive taste of social relevance.
╰┈➤ Think: Serena VDW from Gossip Girl, waltzing around with her “Golden Retriever” energy lol. Beyoncé, (Venus 1H) no matter the rumors... honestly can she actually ever be canceled? Jasmine Tookes (model) has such a Venusian complex, Venus 1H)
With this energy dominant in the natal chart, you can become a natural feminine role model for the women in your life. Venus is a benefic and a lucky chart ruler energy. But, this does not come without its lessons usually involving worth, value, and balance.
-`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´-
In astrology, the gifts of Venus manifest in:
⋆˚⋆˚ ❥ TAURUS (fixed Earth) 2nd House (Possessions, Values, Skills) understands tangible & personal worth but is seeking to understand the value of intangible beauty in life.
⋆˚⋆ ❥ LIBRA (cardinal Air) 7th House (Marriage and Partnership) understands how to create beautiful social and romantic relationships based on justice, but is seeking to understand the true value of self love & worth.
-`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´-
If you control the feminine deity,
you control the feminine.
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VENUS (Aphrodite to the Greeks, Hathor to Ancient Egyptians) is the Goddess of love, feminine energy, erotic desire, harmony, balance, and to some motherhood.
Greco- Roman Mythology:
When consuming any ancient mythological texts, one must consider the social and political attitudes or even agendas during that time period to add context. This female social status very clearly carries over into their mythology.
-`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´-
🐚 In Ancient Greece: "Greek women had virtually no political rights of any kind and were controlled by men at nearly every stage of their lives." (source)
🐚 In Ancient Rome: "Unlike society in ancient Egypt, Rome did not regard women as equal to men before the law." (source)
Glamour is the enemy of truth.
Her sordid birth is GLAMOURIZED in an undeniably gorgeous painting: “Birth of Venus” by Sandro Botticelli; 1486 (see below).
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🐚 This beautiful portrayal led to Venus being OFTEN glamourized by women, especially here on Tumblr. We feel empowered by her, which is justified. But, her Greco-Roman mythology is anything but empowering. No shade, but it embodies the social limits and pain for women within the dominant European culture. 🐚 The Goddess is often presented on display, (as above) her womanhood made a spectacle! Her very "feminine" form is written to have manifested from the discarded sexual organs of a male God, (Uranus), Also then.. technically her father.
This is a DIVINE Goddess and YET ...
Her adoptive father, Jupiter (Zeus), literally sold her to her "husband", Hephaestus (Vulcan), like property.
She has petty grudges stemming from vanity, tormenting beautiful young maidens.
She engages in frequent, extramarital love trysts with a sibling, Ares (Mars)
... & we're supposed to romanticize this??? ✋🏾(It's giving Cersei Lannister).
-`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´-
🐚 Negative divine feminine imagery creates a space to demonize the many beautiful traits associated with Venus! This became especially apparent after the bloody global shift into Christian and Catholic dominance.
-`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´-
and alas life imitates art:
"HOTTENTOT" VENUS
🐚 The Greco-Roman/ European depiction of Venus being on full display makes a disgusting reappearance in their humiliation, brutalization, and rape of naturally curvy and voluptuous African women. 🐚 Most notably, a South African Khoikhoi (or Khoisan) woman named Saartjie (or Sara) Baartman, who was fiendishly deemed the: "Hottentot Venus." (a racial slur; see image below) Her divinely feminine body was, like Venus , put on live display and defiled for ANY paying Europeans. Most all had never witnessed such divine beauty, 1810. (source) 🐚 They were socially conditioned to gawk, hyper-sexualize, and inflict pain upon the female form. Even after death, she was taken in 1816 and displayed in a French museum until as late as 1985."
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Venus Figurine:
🐚 This grotesque misuse of Venus in the news article title takes its inspiration from: The Upper Paleolithic “Venusian figurine”, an example the “Venus of Willendorf” (28-25,000 BCE; see below) which also shows pronounced hips and figure. Men were said to carry these in thought of women. However, the exposure is none short than Venus' own in the Botticelli painting.
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🐚 While similar in their representation, the Greco Roman translation of this Goddess is far too crass and none of Venus' listed Greco-Roman origin stories have any symbolic feminine connection or adoration to the actual bull or scales! LOL. So, I went on my search to connect the lost ancient mythological mysteries that did not make it past the Euro-Colonialism eradication and re-naming. 🔎🕵️
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"Mother of the Pharaohs"
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taurus: the horned cow🐄
HATHOR is the (Ancient Egyptian Goddess of the Divine Feminine, Love, Fertility, and even expression of female sexual desire). The Goddess is a cow or a maiden with cow horns, typical symbol of Taurus.
How is Venus connected to Hathor?
🐄 Since the moment they step foot in the "ancient New York City" that was Ancient Egypt, their European neighbors were enamored of Ancient Egypt's Neter (Gods), especially the "Mother of the Pharoah's". The Greco-Roman nations would come to conquer Egypt. Under Alexander the "gr8" in 332 B.C., they renamed one of the seven major African cities that worshipped Hathor: "Aphroditopolis" or City of Venus and made it a CAPITAL of its district. 🐄 The Venus planet symbol ♀ is literally the African Ankh. This fascination and renaming is like the renaming of Thoth into Mercury, Hermes, or "Hermes Trismegistus". (some say they explain it with "reincarnation.") You, as the reader, decide which mythology matches the energy best for yourself.
Mythological Origins:
🐄 Hathor is said to be born from the eye of Ra, like Sekhmet. She was thought of as beauty, love, grace incarnate. Her presence is said to exude an aura of allure, femininity, and attraction. She embodies passionate expressions of desire, love, and the pursuit of exquisite living. 🐄 A maternal symbol, she is considered the mother or nourisher of all of the Pharaohs. The presence of the Goddess in a Pharaoh's royal court is essential to ensure the connection to the divine. 🐄 Music and dance are another keystone of Hathor's energy. The female body is created to release tension and trauma with the very movement of your hips! Connect with your inner Goddess! 🐄 Symbols for Hathor: Cows, Sun disk with Cow Horns, Lotus Flower, Sistrum, Protective Cobra, Mirrors, and Cosmetic jars.
Why the cow? 🐄
🐄 Ancient Kemet (Egypt) connected their Gods to the natural skills, gifts, and talents of the animals within their ecosystem. This is the reason their Gods’ are called Neter, like “Nature". (For example: Lions of Leo are native to Africa) 🐄 The African cattle breed: “Ankole-Watusi" has female cows with very large horns… similar to the male bull. These horns are depicted holding the sun disk upon the head of Hathor, (as seen above & below in the Egyptian bas reliefs).
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🌷Cows are the mothers!🌷
┈➤ Bulls are the male cow. Heifers are the females without offspring.
🐄 The natural feminine physical traits associated with the cow are: plush eyelashes, a pretty symmetrical face, pronounced nipples that produce milk, and wide hips. 🐄 However, the cow also provides fertilizer, which brought forth the agriculture of the African Nile Valley. The cow , not bull...is a perfect fertility symbol.
Hathor provides the Pharaoh the ANKH or “Venus planet symbol.” ♀ (see below)
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Bas Relief of the goddess Hathor, Temple of Horus, Edfu, Egypt, Ptolemaic Period, c251 BC-c246 BC
"soft life"🐄
🐄 I imagine a Taurus (or 2nd houser) thriving in the energy of the cow, frolicking the lush green lands, eating their fill, and providing nourishment. If the 5 senses of a Taurus are satisfied, they are content. 🐄 They will create this value around them, often ensuring that their spaces smell good, the food is prepared excellently, and only the best to drink it down. Access to a Taurus is access to their natural value. 🐄 They will bless you with gifts that you need because they care enough to pay attention and want to increase your value too.. all while being loyal! I love Taurus energy, so similar to cancer... but less mood swings.
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(noun). a person, especially a woman, who pursues a lifestyle of buying luxury items or of seeking them as gifts from lovers and admirers.
🐄 Taurus most often manifests Venusian gifts in the physical and sensual. This can be "classically" feminine physical traits, such as wider hips or ample bosoms, etc. On a negative, these traits can be hyper-sexualized or demonized while they are young, like their sister sign, Scorpio. But, it can also be literal material gifts and blessings.
🐄 On a positive, Venus will bless them with options! Many suitors will present these Earthly gifts, writing love poems to woo the feminine cow. Taurus may find pride in the flattery that comes with this treatment and beauty privilege. They are used to being adored (unless badly aspected).
Beware the love Bomb.
🐄 In love, these cows are especially vulnerable to being victims of love bombing. (When a potential suitor bombards one too quickly with serious promises, excessive flattery, and material gifts. This can be friends as well.🧿) The key here is to not allow flattery to falsely parade as love.
🐄 Taurus (2nd house) carries a natural royal energy and an air of grace. It’s your silent, but solid confidence of being a fixed sign. They are extremely loyal when they consider you kin. However, this dogmatic belief system can result in you charging your horns into sketchy territory. This reminds me of John Snow and his “honor” energy (from Game of Thrones).
it’s nearly impossible to change your mind.🌸
🐄  In love, this can be ignoring all of your friends over a partner who is not good for you. You find yourself giving all of your love, loyalty, and even money (most have a language of gift giving and receiving) to an undeserving soul. On the bright side, these tragedies will result in a tower moment marked with major transformation (also like sister sign Scorpio).🌷 🐄 Ultimately, I feel and often see that the Taurus (2nd house) native will be challenged to vacate the creature comforts in which they enjoy in order to transform like their sister sign, Scorpio. When in doubt, do NOT choose the Hephaestus (safe choice).
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"Queen of the Earth"
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libra: moral scales ⚖️
MA'AT (Ancient Egyptian Goddess rules balance, justice, harmony, law, order, and morality.) She is depicted as a maiden adorned with beautiful wings, very similar to Isis.
⚖️ I often find my beautiful Libran queens confused about the meaning of the scales and how it connects to femininity. I hope to be a light bearer. ⚖️ Ma'at represents the typical light feminine attributes in my opinion (elegance, forgiveness (justice), and nurturing energy (Venus). Similar to Librans, who inherently know how to enact these gifts create harmony in their social spaces and float amongst varying personalities. (Think: Lady Liberty or Lady Justice). However, the sign is the masculine side of Venus.
Mythological Origins:
⚖️ Ma'at is also a daughter of Ra, sometimes written as his wife. She manifested with Ra from the waters of Nun (Chaos). Her existence brought order to the realms . She is often depicted holding an ANKH and a scepter to symbolize power and eternal life. (See Below) Some sources say that she was married to Thoth (Mercury) and birthed 8 children, known as "The eight gods of Hermopolis." (Just like Aphroditopolis)
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Why the Queen of the Earth?
⚖️ As mentioned, Ma'at was said to be present at the beginning. She was present when Ra stood upon her "mound" (seen above) for balance as he created the realm of Earth... ending chaos. This placed the Goddess in charge of the cycle of seasons, the movements of the sun, moon and stars, all parts of religion, relationships, and the moral actions of both mortal and God-alike. This is very powerful!
⚖️ The Libra native can carry very similar themes. In life, they may feel the need to regulate amongst their social circles and be the organized hostess. Cardinal energy blesses them with the drive to girl boss through anything!
⚖️ The ethical and spiritual foundation of Ancient Kemet was presented by a woman. The head of religious worship and justice was called "Priest of Ma'at". From this, you gather that Ancient Kemet was nothing as Egypt is today in terms of equality for women. Women were free to own their own properties, businesses, marry one-another, divorce their husbands, and even rose to be Pharaoh like in the case of Pharaoh Hatshepsut. (personal fave)
Why the scales? ⚖️
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The Libran scales literally determined if a soul had lived their life with balance and morality! (7th House).
⚖️ The actions and morality of the Ancient Egyptian people were guided by a set list of commandments, known as the "42 Laws of Ma'at". These ancient texts predate the Bible, but have uncanny similarity in diction to the 10 Commandments. ⚖️ It was believed that Upon death, before one could enter the Duat (Underworld), the heart was weighed on the scales of Osiris (God of the Underworld) in comparison to a single feather of Ma'at. Osiris is linked to Saturn which is exalted in Libra. The weighing was done by Anubis (God of funerary practices and care of the dead).
“light as a feather”🪶
⚖️ If the heart weighed less or the same, the spirit was granted access to Aaru (a sort of heaven). This explains the scales of LIbra. If it did not, the heart was eaten and the native faded into nothingness.
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(noun) a woman who acts as master of ceremonies, moderator, or who receives and entertains guests in her own home or elsewhere.
⚖️ The mythology of Ma'at is excellent... a little too excellent. She is like the oldest and favorite daughter who must be 100% perfect. Many Libra's may have father or projection issues in this way. The expectation of excellence begets pressure! ⚖️ This carries over into the relationships of course. This balancing act is where things get tricky for the Libra. This can manifest as people pleasing to keep the peace with friends, family, romantic partners, or co-workers. There can be a distaste for controversy or not wanting to damage the public image. It gives "Dollhouse" by Melanie Martinez vibes at its worse. Rich Auntie vibes at it's best!
Their scales will be tipped. ⚖️
⚖️ The Libras/7th housers will find themselves in situations where they have to STAND on their boundaries. It's like a self-actualization that has to happen. Venus is teaching them to respect and protect their Venusian gifts. Similar to Taurus. Venusian energy will bless you with generous suitors. BEWARE THE LOVEBOMBERS. ⚖️ They bear the reputation of almost needing to be in a relationship. This is obviously due to the 7th house ruling, but also stems from it's less favorable position with the sun.(Father). It is also kind of true, because it is apart of your life path. ⚖️ While it can be painful to have to experience relationship after relationship, these are apart of your life path and contribute to your glow up! To love and be loved is truly a blessing. You guys are blessed with so many loving friendships and romantic experiences!
Regina George?
⚖️ There can be some performative behavior and some judgment! After all, this is scales. Blessed with beauty, style, and grace... they can end up judging those who aren't. Mean Girl vibes. But, I believe this comes from the Libran urge to judge and lead the masses LOL. Ma'at energy. ⚖️ Despite any of this, Libra is the least slandered amongst the air signs (unless it’s Libra moon… I see quite a bit of slander? LOL.) Ma'at seems to bless the Libran with this air of favor. It's like they can really do no wrong, even sometimes after doing so. People are going to think the better of them 9/10 because the Libra has already established their character and value amongst social groups. The air just adds a bit more flow, allowing more harmonious energy in their relations.
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Conclusion
♀ The intention of this post is to shed some light on lesser known mythology and symbolism of the planet Venus. I also believe that it is worth noting a very beautiful pattern among Venus and her signs.
♀ The Libran scales and Taurus Cow horns both resemble the female reproductive system. They also resemble the African Ankh symbol (of fertility and eternal life). Nature makes no mistakes and everything has duality, just as the Ancient Egyptians understood so well. It’s beautiful. (See below).
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Thank you for reading!! Wishing you blessings!
@thesirenisles | masterlist | Enjoyed? Support!🧜🏾‍♀️
All rights reserved. © 2024 The Siren Isles
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crosshairlovebot · 5 months ago
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falling for mr. batchbury / hunter x f!reader
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pairing: hunter x f!reader
description: your feelings for Mr. Batchbury blossom as he and his brothers train on your father's estate before they go off to war. During his stay, you realise just how deep your feelings for him go, and maybe, just how much he feels for you too.
REGENCY AU
word count: 6,767
warnings: none. kissing. pining. secret crushes. love confessions.
i have loved the regency romance genre for such a long time, and i was struck with this idea and simply needed to realise it. this was SO fun to write. a good challenge, but mostly just an absolute delight. i hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it!
also posted this on ao3. feedback is welcomed, reblogs are appreciated.
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PART ONE
Naval Officer Lieutenant Hugo ‘Hunter’ Batchbury had always been the kind of man who stood out in a crowd – whether he liked it or not. Not only did he sport a unique birthmark the rich colour of port wine across one side of his face, but his roguish handsomeness coupled with his taciturn air had every debutante of the ton vying for his attentions and hand in marriage.
It was vexing.
It was vexing for you, at least, to watch society fawn over the man who had held your heart for more than half a decade. He had been your secret – no one knew of Mr. Batchbury until after the Napoleonic Wars when he and his band of misfit brothers returned from sea.
Society relished in the gossip that the Batchbury family had made their fortune in the war. The tale of their enlisting was scintillating and circled the ton’s social circles like wildfire, whispers in every ballroom and gentleman’s club. Having initially enlisted in the Royal Navy to support their younger sister and save her from a life of destitution, Mr. Batchbury and his brothers moved through the ranks swiftly with the acquisition of prizemoney – their ship infamous for capturing many enemy ships, never losing a battle.
They were heroes in every sense of the word.
But you knew it before anyone else.
Your first encounter with the Batchbury family was when they arrived at your father’s estate for training with nearly nothing but the clothes on their backs. It was a highly irregular practice, but your empathetic father, a commodore of the Royal Navy, had allowed the Batchbury Brothers and their sister to stay with your family as they trained so they would not be separated from their younger sibling, who was but 13 years old with no other known family.
You and your mother had greeted them all upon arrival, politely welcoming them. 
They’d stepped out of the carriage one by one, the tallest and broadest of them first. You wondered how he’d fit inside the coach. Then the spectacled one, then the grey-haired one and then Mr. Batchbury, with his long hair and facial birthmark. You remembered taking in a breath at the sight of him in all his glory. With his brown skin and dark curls blowing in the morning breeze, you were already taken with him, but that only increased tenfold when you watched him turn to help his sister down from the carriage, lifting her from under her armpits and setting her down next to him. You’d been unable to hide your smile when you watched him take his sister's hand in his.
“Hello,” was all he’d said, inclining his head politely before his eyes moved across your mother and then met yours, lingering there.
You were smitten.
You barely remember what words were exchanged between your father and mother and the Batchburys. Just their names. William, Thomas, Carlisle, Hugo, and Meg. You remember curtsying politely when you were introduced, your face hot as you met Mr. Batchbury’s gaze with a small smile. You also remember the whole interaction was slightly awkward and stilted; the Batchbury Brothers unsure of how to accept your family’s generosity.
Meg, however, was eager and talkative. You liked her.
Once they started their training, you spent the coming weeks watching them from afar with Meg, who longed to join them. And boy, were they quite a sight. 
The Batchbury brothers were a healthy mix of brash, loud, clever and cunning. All close in age, they drew the eye in both looks and temperament, but they impressed your father astronomically. The four of them were his finest officers.
Finest in more ways than one, you often thought. Every single one of them was handsome in their own way, but the handsomeness of Mr. Hugo Batchbury had drawn your attentions immediately, and they have not strayed since.
You often spent hours looking out your drawing room window at the garden below, watching him train with his brothers and your father. He would grow sweaty and would end up wrapping a tie around his forehead to keep his collarbone length hair out of his face. Sometimes he would look up at the window, seeming to always know when someone was near, and wave at his sister before nodding at you. You’d flush every time.
You lost count of the number of times you had been scalded for daydreaming, thinking only of the way his ivory shirt billowed in the wind as he sparred with his brothers, a determined look on his face. But who could blame you? Daydreaming of Mr. Batchbury was, in fact, a better use of your time than embroidery.
In the evenings, the Batchbury family dined with your family. The thought thrilled you, knowing you would end every day in the company of Mr. Batchbury. He was often seated diagonally from you, giving you the perfect line of sight of his dark brown-grey eyes, his hooked nose, and his full lips. His face was truly sculpted by the Gods. You wished those dinners lasted all night, just so you could stare at him longer.
He would only engage in conversation when spoken to directly, otherwise, he remained quiet, only humming in agreement or nodding. Sometimes, you felt his eyes on you, but you were most likely imagining such things. 
His brothers were the same, quiet bar a few snide remarks from Carlisle towards William, who often pouted in response. Meg would giggle until she received a chiding look from Mr. Batchbury. His spectacled brother, Thomas, could chatter on about everything and anything. You rather liked all of them. 
You also enjoyed the way Mr. Batchbury’s mouth would quirk upwards at his brother’s ramblings. He truly was the most beautiful man you had ever seen in your life.
There was one morning, early in his stay at your estate, where you encountered Mr. Batchbury outside of these timetabled activities, and from there began your tumbling down into love.
You walked through the gardens, taking the air after a morning of lessons. Meg was a quick learner, but she bored easily of learning tedious hobbies like pianoforte, and so did you. While she snuck down to the kitchens for more food, you decided to go for a walk.
Your mother had these gardens landscaped to include a small hedge maze in the south corner. No one entered it anymore, except for you, which meant there were no chances of being bothered until you reemerged. But as you followed the familiar pathway towards the centre of the maze, you were surprised to find Mr. Batchbury sitting sideways on the stone bench you usually occupied, his legs stretched across as he hunched over something.
“Oh!” you gasped in surprise, stopping in the entrance to the maze’s centre.
Mr. Batchbury startled uncharacteristically and twisted to see you, his strange-coloured eyes wide and curly hair lifting in the gentle breeze. He wore his training gear, sans the tie around his head. The strings of his shirt were open to reveal his deep brown skin with a smattering of dark curly hair right on his sternum. You felt heat grow in your cheeks and tingle between your thighs. You averted your eyes. It was one thing to view it from your window, but another to see it mere metres from you.
“I am terribly sorry, Mr. Batchbury,” you apologised. “I did not expect to find anyone here.”
Mr. Batchbury inclined his head and turned his body towards you. “It’s quite alright.”
His voice was smoky and deep, and you felt it right down to the core of you. You flushed again.
“Please excuse me, I’ll let you get back to your…” You peered down to his lap which held a sketchbook, with a portrait of a woman you couldn’t completely make out. You watched as Mr. Batchbury swiftly covered the sketch with his forearm. Your face burned at the embarrassment of encroaching on his private work.
“I’m sorry. Good day, Mr. Batchbury.”
You turned on your heel, desperately wanting to get out of there, walk into the lake and act out Ophelia’s death when his voice called out.
“Wait. Stay. I will go,” Mr. Batchbury closed his sketchbook and stood.
“That is not necessary, Mr. Batchbury. You were here first; I will find someplace else to hide from my mama.”
Mr. Batchbury’s mouth lifted in amusement, his entire face brightening at the show of delight. “In that case, we both must stay. I am also hiding...but from my brothers.”
You smiled and took a tentative step towards him. “Is that so? I can’t imagine why you would hide from them.”
Mr. Batchbury shook his head. “You would if you were permitted to spend an afternoon with them.”
You laughed lightly and when Mr. Batchbury gestured to the stone bench for you to sit down, you obliged. Your whole body alighted when you felt him sit down next to you, hyperaware of his strong arms inches from yours as he placed his sketchbook on the other side of him. After a moment of silence, you spoke up again.
“Are you quite certain that I am not intruding?” you asked, turning towards him.
Mr. Batchbury nodded. “I am quite sure. It is nice to have polite and quiet company.”
You smiled. “Your brothers do not often speak at dinner. Except for Thomas, of course.”
Mr. Batchbury took in a breath as he stared out towards the hedge. “My brothers and I are not used to high-born life. And I have told them to be on their best behaviour at dinner. In private, my brothers talk and argue often.”
You studied his profile. Up close, you could see the way the edges of his birthmark were not exact lines and instead seemed to fade into the skin around it. You wanted to reach out and touch it, trace the imperfect lines with the tip of your finger softly and feel the roughness of his stubble as you moved across his face gently. But it would be extremely improper, so you curled your fingers into your palm tightly to suppress the urge.
“I imagine it has been an adjustment staying here whilst you train with my father.”
Mr. Batchbury linked his own hands together. “He is a great man. But yes, it has. I believe my brothers are anxious to go to war, just to escape the expectations of being guests. My sister, on the other hand, is quite enjoying her time. She was very pleased to hear your father will be allowing her to stay whilst we go abroad to fight.”
A warm smile danced on his face at the mention of his sister. You knew he was the eldest, and so the care of her fell mostly onto him. But he did not seem burdened by it. In fact, he seemed to enjoy being the parental figure for his sister. And Meg spoke of him often, telling you stories of how he would stay with her at night in their old cottage, curling around her to keep warm when they ran out of coals. Or how he would give her at least half of his food, even if it was their only meal of the day and he was starving. These tales not only solidified how much he loved his sister and what he was willing to sacrifice for her, but stoked the flaming crush you had on him. 
He was already a hero to his sister, and he hadn’t even gone to war yet.
“I will be glad to continue to have her company,” you told him honestly.
Mr. Batchbury met your eyes and smiled at you, and you felt the air leave your lungs. He left you breathless, and to receive such a smile from him…one so unfiltered, warm, and so genuine, you felt lucky. His whole face lit up, his eyes bright as they creased at the sides. The feelings bubbling inside your stomach only grew. You averted your gaze, face heating.
You quickly moved the conversation on. “Are you anxious to leave as well?”
“In some ways. But in others…” Mr. Batchbury trailed off, gaze lingering in your periphery before he shook his head and continued. “I will miss Meg terribly. But we have to protect her, do what we can to ensure she is safe.”
You felt your heart squeeze at his words. His devotion was unmatched, and you had the sudden wish to be included in it; for him to be so devoted to you. What would it be like to be loved by Mr. Batchbury? You imagined it would be rather wonderful.
“It was very admirable, what you are doing for her,” you said, smoothing the fabric of your gown.
Mr. Batchbury only shrugged. “Anyone would do such a thing for their family.”
You looked at him with a smirk. “I would not be so certain.”
He sounded genuinely surprised by this, blinking at you as he placed a hand on his rather muscular thigh and turned his body to you. “No?”
“I’m sure there are many out there who would simply send their siblings off to school,” you told him. “I know of men who do that now, who are not at war, so they do not have the responsibility of caring for a child beyond sending tuition money.”
Mr. Batchbury shook his head. “I can’t imagine leaving any of my siblings behind like that, let alone Meg. I don’t even want to leave her behind at all, but war is no place for a child.”
You gazed at him, and you could not hide your admiration. How could a man like this exist and not be a figment of your imaginings? He must have been sent from heaven, for a man on Earth could never be so exceptional, so lovely.
“You are a good man, Mr. Batchbury.”
Mr. Batchbury met your gaze and watched you with an expression you could not recognise. No matter how much you wished, no matter how much you could feel heat rushing to your cheeks, you could not look away from him. His brown-grey eyes bore into you, like they were seeing into your soul, and giving you a window into his. When you looked at him, you saw someone so kind and so unselfish, so devoted to his family and to keeping his sister safe. Someone willing to put himself in danger in the hope that she would be taken care of in his absence. His heart was huge, and he downplayed all of it, acting like it was not a choice, but something he simply did because he loved. 
When Mr. Batchbury loved, you'd learnt, he loved faithfully and unwaveringly. His heart found a place to belong, and then never moved. It was a mountainous kind of heart, that stalled and weathered storms for those it loved and shielded them from harm, that remained strong for eternity.
Oh, how you longed to experience it.
You absently parted your lips and watched as Mr. Batchbury’s eyes darted towards the movement. He gazed there, zeroing in on your mouth for a moment too long before he cleared his throat and abruptly looked away. 
“I should find my brothers; ensure they have not caused any trouble while I’ve been hiding.” He stood up, gathering his sketchbook and pencils, sounding a little breathless.
“Yes, o-of course.” You could barely string a sentence together, overcome with how much you felt for this man, and how he just looked like he had wanted to kiss you.
“Thank you for the company,” Mr. Batchbury inclined his head before quickly walking away, back through where you came from, his footsteps light against the gravel. 
You took a deep breath and attempted to calm your racing heart. But you feared your heart would forever be hurried as long as Mr. Batchbury continued to exist in the same time as you.
In the several weeks that followed, you would have unplanned meetings with Mr. Batchbury in the maze. At least, they began as unplanned, before you both found excuses to meet each other there. It was so easy being with him, to talk to him and laugh with him. Some days you would regale him with tales of your childhood, and then beg him to tell you of his, no matter how fleeting it had been due to their circumstance and his position as eldest sibling. On others, you both did not talk at all, only sat beside each other, you with a book, and him with his sketchbook aimed away from your eyes.
One day, after many meetings in which your feelings for him grew beyond your known capacity, you taught him several dances. By his request, surprisingly.
“I did not take you as one to dance,” you teased him, standing up and walking several metres to where there was a space for you both to dance unobstructed.
You watched as the port wine stain across Mr. Batchbury’s face deepened slightly in colour. Was he blushing? “I am not. I think it will help with…my training.”
You gave him a strange look before you began teaching him.
“Now half turn, and pass by my shoulder,” you told him, and he followed your instruction. He was a fast learner, and as it turns out, a fine dancer. Perhaps the entire Batchbury clan were quick studies.
“Hold my hands, and we turn together,” you instructed.
You felt his hands encircle yours and through the barely there lace of your gloves, you felt the heat of his palms on yours. You hitched a breath as his fingers curled to hold yours firmly; securely. You met his eyes, which were on yours in an intense gaze that left you breathless. You dared not look away from his eyes, one side surrounded by his birthmark, as he turned with you. You forgot what choreography came next as you both turned slowly around each other, moving closer and closer, hands intertwined. 
Eventually, you slowed to a stop, but neither of you moved to break apart. Your noses nearly touched, and you’d never been so close to a man in your life. You could feel his breath on your skin, and you were sure he could hear just how fast your heart was beating. Mr Batchbury’s hold on your hands was the only thing that tethered you to the Earth, nothing else could be comprehended but his touch and his eyes. You felt the pad of this thumb gently move across your knuckles in a gesture you’d only read about in books. You inhaled softly, heart expanding in your chest.
“Mr. Batchbury,” you breathed.
“Yes,” he breathed back.
“I…I don’t remember what comes next,” you whispered, not sure what else to say.
Mr. Batchbury blinked several times, as if he suddenly realised where he was and how intimate their position had been, and took a step back, placing distance between you both. He then looked down at your hands and then gently let them go.
“I’m very sorry. That wasn’t…” He paused before he settled on, “Right.”
You quickly shook your head, wishing he would come closer once again. “No, it’s quite alright. Really.”
Mr. Batchbury shook his head. “No. It’s not. Your father would not be pleased.”
“I care little of what my father thinks. And we were only dancing.”
“Dancing,” he repeated like he was unsure himself.
“Dancing,” you confirmed. You held out your hand, desperate for him to take it again. “Please, let us continue.”
Mr. Batchbury looked at your hand hesitantly before he took it again, this time his hold loose and non-committal and you longed for the way he held you just minutes ago.
You raced through the rest of the dance, and when you had finished, Mr. Batchbury thanked you before making an excuse and leaving swiftly. You sighed and sat on the bench, thinking back to the way he had looked at you; the hold he’d had on your hand and the way he’d moved his thumbs across your knuckles. He had been so close…surely…surely he had wanted to kiss you? No one looked at someone like that, held someone like that in a dance without the hope that their lips would meet their partners…right? You put your head in your hands. You did not know, and there was no one you could ask. 
You wished he had. You wished he had pressed his lips to yours, and ended your misery. You imagined it endlessly. You thought of the way he would hold you close against him as he moved his lips against yours. His looked so soft, you imagined they’d feel soft too. They’d be gentle, coaxing, teaching yours. You’d place your fingers into his hair, tangling them in the curly locks hoping they’d get trapped in there, chaining you to him forever. He was so proficient in everything else he did, surely he would be when it came to kissing too. 
Oh, yes, you thought. To kiss Mr. Batchury would be heavenly indeed.
The next day, you weren’t sure you would find Mr. Batchbury in the maze. As much as you wished differently, you suspected that after yesterday afternoon’s dance lesson, you would not see him again until the evening. 
But you reached the centre of the maze and saw him sitting there with his back to you, no doubt his sketchbook on his lap. He had tilted his head slightly at the sound of your footsteps – his hearing was exceptional.
You swallowed and began to walk towards him. He turned to face you, swivelling his body as he made room for you on the bench. He pulled his sketchbook to his chest, hiding the pages from your eyes.
“I apologise for yesterday,” he said. “I should not have been so…”
“We were only dancing,” you were quick to reassure.
He did not say anything, he only looked at you, something indiscernible passing over his face as you watched his hands tighten on his sketchbook, the pages squeezing under his fingertips. You watched him curiously, trying to decipher the crease of his brow. If you were brave enough, and were sure your actions would not scare him away yet again, you would push the pad of your thumb into the lines formed between his brow, flatten them gently until they were gone. Your need to touch him only intensified after how close you’d been to him yesterday. To feel the tickle of his breath on your cheeks tease how easy it would’ve been to close the distance was a cruel twist of the knife into your feelings for Mr. Batchbury, knowing you would not get that close again. 
After several beats of silence that seemed to feel endless in your agony, he said, “My brothers and I will be departing tomorrow at dawn. Your father says we are ready.”
Your breath hitched in surprise. “Oh.” 
You felt your throat close up. You knew it was coming, but did it have to be so soon? You had grown so used to his presence these several weeks, to seeing him training, to dining with him, to spending these precious hours with him in the maze…how would you do without him? And he was going to war no less…the thought that he might never return was so violent you felt it proverbially slam into you, and you had to grip the edge of the stone bench to steady yourself.
And even if–when, when he came back, so much could change while he was away. Your mother would surely take you to London for another tedious season, desperate for you to make a match. Only none would live up to Mr. Batchbury. And if you did marry at your mother’s behest, he would return, and your feelings would come back stronger than ever, only now there was no chance of anything to come of you both. He would surely find someone else, and marry them instead.
You felt like crying. You wanted him to stay. But he never would, and it would be selfish and foolish to ask.
It seemed as though Mr. Batchbury would be someone you were only meant to know for a short time. 
“I’m sure you and your brothers will be missed by your sister,” you managed to choke out. And by me. I will miss you so terribly I fear my chest will break open with the ache of it.
Mr. Batchbury gave a pained expression. “I feel sick at the thought of leaving her.”
You didn’t stop yourself this time, placing a hand on his forearm. “I will look after her. She will be okay. I promise you, Mr. Batchbury,”
He looked at you, brows slanted in a way that broke your heart and mouth stretched into the saddest of smiles. “That is my only comfort, knowing you will be there for her.”
“It is the least I can do,” you strained out, forcing a tight-lipped smile you only hoped fooled him into thinking you did not feel as much as you did.
He looked at you, eyes darting over your face for several moments before looking away, his knuckles white with their hold on his sketchbook. You traced your gaze across his profile, outlining the hook of his nose against the overcast sky. You had already memorised it, but you allowed yourself one last look. If you were accomplished at drawing, you would’ve filled sketchbooks with his face, a visual ode to his beauty, and a eulogy of your love.
“I should go,” he cleared his throat. “Ensure we are ready, spend as much time with Meg as I can.”
You blinked away tears. “Of course.” Would he really say nothing more to you? After all this time spent together?
Mr. Batchbury stood up and in the movement, his sketchbook dropped on the ground in front of you, page splayed open to his drawings. You looked down and inhaled a sharp breath when you finally laid your eyes upon the sketches that had evaded you.
The drawings…they were all of you.
Mr. Batchbury bent to hastily pick up the book and close it roughly and caged the book against his chest, concealing the drawings of you once again. You looked up at him, mouth parted in shock as he pointedly avoided your eyes the port wine stain on his face growing darker as he blushed. 
“Mr. Batchbury–”
“I must go,” he strangled out and started to walk. 
You couldn’t let him leave like this. Not now. Not when you’d just discovered this; his sketches of you. You stood abruptly and blocked his path, your hand raised in a stop motion which he bumped into. “Wait, please.”
His expression was full of anguish as he finally met your eyes. But you needed to know, even if he wished you didn’t.
You turned your palm up between you slowly, your brows slanted as you looked towards him. You watched his eyes move down to look at your waiting hand and then back to your eyes. 
“May I…?” you breathed.
You watched his arms flex as he hesitated, his chest rising and falling behind the sketchbook. After a moment, he reluctantly handed it over. You opened it gingerly and began to slowly comb through the pages. 
The book started with florals, landscapes, and portraits of his brothers and sister before they slowly became interpolated with the sketches of you. Your heart raced as you looked through them. There were so many. You knew he had little money at all, let alone for something as frivolous as an art book, and yet he’d filled so many pages with you. With you sitting at dinner, of you laughing, you from the drawing room window, you on the bench reading. 
He'd filled a sketchbook with you.
All these weeks, he’d been looking at you as you looked at him? This whole time? 
You then landed on the most striking of all – your eyes yesterday, up close as he’d stared into them as you danced. 
They were remarkable, and all done by memory – you hadn’t sat for a single one.
You looked up at him, and his eyes flicked to yours, an expression a combination of pain and embarrassment as his port wine stain was still darkened with blush.
Your voice was but a whisper. “They’re all of me.”
“Yes,” he rasped, but his eyes never left yours.
“W-Why?”
“Because you are bewitching to me,” he told you, his voice stronger now. He’d answered it like he could not believe you had to ask, like he was shocked it was not obvious to you. Like it was fueled with the truth. Mr. Batchbury did not lie, and his words were spoken with conviction, as sure as the mountains his heart mirrored. “Because I am unable to go a single moment without you in my thoughts, and I’m not sure I ever want to be free of such notions.”
You gaped at him. “Mr. Batchbury–”
“I apologise if I overstepped.” He spoke directly, as though he had embraced his truth; his actions. Like he was no longer embarrassed, but rather empowered and confident in how he felt. “I should have asked. But how could I?”
You did not know. Maybe if you weren’t reeling from his confession, you would have an answer for him. But even then, perhaps there was no right way to say you wished to capture someone’s likeness tens of times over.
You wanted to speak, but you were shocked. You were bewitching to him ? He could not stop thinking about you ? You could hardly believe it to be true. You could hardly believe that a man like Mr. Batchbury had been occupied with thoughts of you . You, a mere earthling to an ethereal angel such as him.
But Mr. Batchbury did not lie. He was as faithful as the mountains, after all.
At your growing silence, he perceived this as your disapproval of his actions; of his feelings. He took a shaky breath as he slowly took the book from you and closed it.
“I…I have upset you,” he deduced, dejected. “I–”
You cut him off, desperate to tell him of your own feelings. Desperate to say you thought of him the same. “You have not upset me.”
Mr. Batchbury’s brows raised and his eyes widened in surprise. You swallowed as he gazed upon you. If he had been brave enough to tell you, you could tell him. But how? What words? What arrangement of phrases could you string together to fully convey the extent of what you felt for this man? You feared you could not. But you would try.
You blinked at him before shaking your head. “You…are so incredibly cruel for telling me this now, when you cannot stay.”
You watched his expression as he registered your words and what they implied, as they sunk into his bones. You watched his mouth part with a breath and his shoulders relax – you had not even been able to tell how truly anxious he had been waiting to know how you felt.
He shook his head, his voice quiet once again, but still held the strength of his truth. “I know.”
“And yet,” you took a breath as you smiled at him, eyes stinging at the bittersweet moment of the truths you were unveiling. “I cannot be angry with you, not when my heart is completely and utterly yours.”
Mr. Batchbury sucked in a breath at your words. You watched his eyes soften around the edges as the breeze blew through his curls, lifting them off his shoulders at the same time the corners of his mouth lifted slightly too. His grip on the sketchbook slackened. Your heart warmed at the expression on his face, the look of disbelief mixed with joy.
His voice was softer than you’d ever heard it, that smokiness only highlighting the vulnerability of his words. “You truly mean that?”
You let out a breathy laugh, smiling. “I do.”
He dropped his sketchbook, falling to the side of you both as he stepped forward and took your hands in his, squeezing them gently and securely. His palms pressed into yours, the warmth travelling under your skin and igniting your insides. His chest brushed against yours and you looked up into his brown-grey eyes, watching the way light seemed to dance in them when he was happy. 
“Tell me again.”
Your heart skipped a beat and you squeezed his hands as the words fell out of your mouth earnestly and easily. “My heart is yours.”
Mr. Batchbury sighed, closing his eyes and pulling you flush against him, pressing his forehead to yours, his arms now encircling your waist. You gasped, placing your hands on his chest. You let your eyes fall closed as your noses touched. You were even closer than you had been yesterday – though now you couldn’t believe you thought that had been close, not when you were pressed against him like this. 
You catalogued every detail of his body against yours. Even through your corset, you felt the hardness of his chest. He was so warm and solid, and under your hands, you could feel the steady beat of his heart moving rapidly, matching yours. His breath tickled your skin, and you breathed it in, his hot breath filling your lungs.  He smelt of soap and cedar and it was entirely intoxicating. You had to find a way to bottle this smell up, and keep it under your pillow to breathe in. He had completely engulfed you, physically and emotionally.
And you never wanted him to stop.
You felt his throat vibrate, the deep tenor of his voice trembling under your hands. It was like he was speaking inside you. His voice was husky and you felt the breath of his words on your lips. 
“One more time.”
You did not hesitate. “I am yours.”
He kissed you then, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that felt like your entire body was on fire. You drew in a breath as you felt his hold on you tighten, his head tilting as he moved his lips against yours. You had never been kissed before, but something told you that kissing did not always feel like this. Just as he engulfed you before, he overwhelmed you now. His mouth was hot, and passionate, his kisses deep as one hand cradled your head to his. He kissed like he loved; faithfully, strongly. You could never guess what was in his heart when he kissed like this. It was obvious.
You had imagined kissing Mr. Batchbury would be heavenly. But it was better than that. His full lips were soft, as you thought, and though his kiss was passionate, it was never controlling or taking without permission. His kisses coaxed you, draw you further into him.
You moaned into the kiss and you felt his hold on your body tighten again. Your mouths opened for air, but you did not end this embrace. You moved your hands into his hair and fisted his curls as you'd always wished to, and drew him in closer again, kissing him once again. You could not get enough. How could you stop? It was dizzying. You felt his groan against your hands and lips as he deepened the kiss once more before pulling back. 
He did not go far, and neither did you. He pressed his forehead into yours once again, noses against each other and you both caught your breath.
“Am I dreaming?” You spoke without thinking.
Mr. Batchbury’s chuckle sent every nerve ending in your body tingle. “I hope not.”
You laughed lightly and drew back a little to see Mr. Batchbury’s smile. What a sight to behold, the way his cheeks stretched to accommodate such joy on his features. His eyes seemed to sparkle too. You felt dazed, like you’d just seen heaven on Earth.
You allowed yourself to trace the outline of his birthmark with your finger, just as you’d always imagined doing. You felt Mr. Batchbury’s arms encircle your waist, his eyes never leaving your face as you performed your featherlight ministrations down his forehead, across his cheek and all the way to his chin.
“You have to come back,” you whispered, your voice breaking a little.
He blinked at you, and you felt his face move under your fingers as he spoke, a hint of disbelief in his voice. “You’re willing to wait for me?”
You frowned at him. “How could you ask that when I just told you I am yours?”
Mr. Batchbury shook his head and leaned in again to kiss you once more. This kiss was much shorter than the one that preceded it. And it was sweeter too. You smiled into the kiss before he pulled away. The expression on his face one of uncertainty.
“What about your father? He will not approve.”
You shook your head, fingers moving to his curls, pushing them back and tucking them behind his ear. “He likes you a great deal.”
“Maybe. But I am…” He trailed off and you frowned and cradled his face in your hand. He kissed your palm as if it was instinct.
“You are what?”
Mr Batchbury bit his lips as lifted a hand from your waist and cupped your jaw, his thumb running across your cheekbone as he looked at you with such devotion you thought you might cry. 
“Poor. I have nothing to offer you, my love. And I am going to war.”
Your heart squeezed. Had this been the source of his hesitation all along? You shook your head. “I do not need anything but this–” 
You placed the hand that held his face on his heart. You felt it pick up under your palm as you gazed into his eyes. You watched his face cycle through several emotions before it seemed to land on adoration. His eyes softened, and his birthmark deepened in colour before he shook his head.
“Bewitching,” he whispered before he leaned in to kiss you again. You felt his every emotion in this kiss as if you truly had fused together, feeling each other's emotions as your own. You felt his love, his devotion, his agony. You wished he did not have to go. But he had his duty to his family. It was cruel that you had managed to know the tiniest feeling of what it would be like to be loved by Mr. Batchbury, and now had to give it up. How could the stars be so vicious? To pull you both together, only to rip you apart again. 
You squeezed your eyes shut as you moved your mouth against his, deepening the kiss until tears fell down your cheeks and he pulled away, pressing his forehead against yours, a strangled sound coming from his throat. 
You opened your eyes to see his full of anguish and pain. When he saw the tears that stained your cheeks, he brought the backs of his fingers to your cheek and brushed them away gently. You sniffled as he cradled your face with both hands before pressing a lingering kiss on your forehead. When he met your eyes again, his expression was determined.
“I will come back.” He meant it and believed it.
“Promise me,” was all your voice was strong enough for.
“I promise.” His voice was smokey and hard. Immovable devotion – that was Mr. Batchbury. A mountainous heart that loved fiercely. That loved you fiercely. “I will come back and marry you so I can love you forever.”
You could no longer speak in fear of sobbing in his arms. So you kissed him once more, doing everything you could to memorise the feel of him, so when you woke the next morning and he was nowhere to be found, you could fall back into your daydreams, this time knowing what he felt like and that you would feel it again one day.
He promised you.
Now, almost half a decade, an earned nickname, and a conclusion of a war later, you watched him from the other side of the ballroom. And when Mr. Batchbury – Hunter, as he was now known, met your gaze, he smiled at you knowingly, his eyes soft with the same love you remembered from the maze. You returned it before excusing yourself from the conversation you were not listening to, and disappeared from the ballroom towards the gardens.
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banner art by @vimse i hope you enjoyed this FIRST installment. yes, FIRST, bc what is a regency romance without a steamy encounter...hehehe ANYWAY stay tuned!!
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TAGLIST FORM
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funemployed-fangirl · 5 months ago
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Which couple elopes in your modern AU?
What is Violets reaction?
Technically speaking, none of them. But...
Anthony & Kate, Colin & Penelope, and Daphne & Simon all have nice, traditional society weddings.
They're big, but not excessively so. Tasteful. With Daphne being Violet's first to get married and Anthony being the oldest, they would never get out of doing big society affairs. And Colin & Penelope kind of like the spectacle of it all. Plus, Penelope's mother would never pass-up the opportunity to show off the family's new connection to the Bridgertons.
Benedict & Sophie and Francesca & John/Michael have small affairs.
Benedict & Sophie don't want to wait to do a full society affair. And besides, Sophie doesn't have any family or really that many friends doesn't know that many people, and Benedict doesn't want her to feel uncomfortable at her own wedding.
Francesca & John are just out of college, so its a respectably sized event, but nothing huge. When Francesca & Michael get married, they decide they don't want to make a huge deal of it, but still want to do something special, so they have everyone fly out to Cabo and do a beach ceremony.
Eloise & Phillip and Gregory & Lucy come the closest to eloping.
Eloise & Phillip have been living together for awhile, and one day decide they should just make it official. They set a date for a courthouse wedding, and inform the family. Anyone who can make it up is welcome to be there, but they aren't changing the date.
Gregory & Lucy go to the court house not long after the whole "crashing Lucy's first wedding" incident. They decide that a full wedding so close to the incident is probably in poor taste, but they don't want to wait. Like Eloise & Phillip, they tell people they're going, though that message may have gone out the morning they went to the courthouse...
Hyacinth & Gareth go BIG.
There are big society weddings. And then there's Hyacinth & Gareth's wedding. With both Bridgerton and Danbury money going into the event, and Hyacinth's personality making decisions, it's an over-the-top event that people are talking about for years. The bride and groom have multiple outfit changes. The reception goes for hours. The couple and their friends go bar hopping until 4 AM.
The weddings don't really matter to Violet, as long as her children are all happy.
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cosmogone-spectacles · 5 months ago
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I, for one, would definitely be interested in learning about your flondon main, if you're willing to share
Oh, I suppose I can go ahead and share a tad... presuming my poor, skittish heart survives the ordeal. ^_^;; +++
"D. T. Oversol, Silverer. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
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(Portrait by my good friend Cheru at @cheru-art-time!)
Primary Skills: Persuasive / Dangerous; Glasswork / Artisan of the Red Sciences
Feel free to send a calling card! Lengthier character introduction beneath the cut. +++
Mr. Oversol (or Oversol, as he is commonly referred – he seems rather particular about sharing more than the initials of the rest of his name) is an immensely private individual. Whilst he is semi-commonly present at a variety of high-society events, and, of course, the occasional apocalyptic threat to London, he always seems to subtly direct conversation towards topics related to others rather than himself. This aire of mystique, as some have put it, is only furthered by the bombazine-dark veil he has not been seen without in many a year. ...In fact, one might note, he wears black gloves, too, and a high-collared shirt, and even dark spectacles beneath hat heavy veil... God forbid one foregoes manners enough to ask about all the pomp directly, of course. High society leaves little room for such straightforwardness. A silverer by trade, his services are peculiarly difficult to obtain. First comes the mere challenge of locating the blasted man, should you not find yourself fortunate enough (or, em, unfortunate enough?) to be inundated with party invites. Oversol's offices lie somewhere in the twisted back-streets set about the foot of the Bazaar, and the longer one searches the clearer it becomes he may not want it to be found. Does he even have clientele? And why, for goodness sake, is a silverer rumoured to turn away all of the Bohemian-and-creative sort? Truth be told, Oversol is a bit of a hermit – mostly due to a displeasure with rowdy environments, a few too many suitors, and a healthy appreciation for his own privacy. This most certainly has nothing to do with a rising paranoia that has grown steadily over his years in the Neath, and irrational fears over what exactly some unsavory party might do with information on his good self. He makes true companions exceptionally slowly due to this, and finds himself primarily in the company of one Dola Hallowrove, monster hunter (@peliginspeaks), and a Captain-Correspondent Ren Haarsink (@indefinitely-sealed). —Er, perhaps not the latter. Not at current. Not after recent events. Regardless of the man's paranoid tendencies, and resulting stiff public face, he is exceptionally warm and loyal to those he considers his trusted and beloved few. They, of course, are welcome at his office any time of any day (set just beneath his lodgings, in fact; both are decorated in expensive fashion, yet stay within the line of good taste), aside from the middle of his appointments, and may even be allowed knowledge of his dear young daughte– ahem, feline companion, Boo. Sure, his gifts tend to be inordinately and unnecessarily expensive, and he will most certainly refuse a romp through Prickfinger or any other destination lacking a proper road, but you can always count on him to lend a good ear and as many perfectly-steeped cups of tea as you'd like. (Oh, ah— One last little thing. You would be well-advised not to allow him inebriation; he's a nasty rash streak with a little alcohol in his system. Last time he took drinks at a bar, he ended up across the zee on Gaider's Mourn daring pirates to most unreasonably dangerous competitions. Ghastly, that hangover was. Ghastly, and awfully zalty.)
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('Portrait' by me, on MSpaint with mouse, because my tablet is broken.)
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krispycreamcake · 1 month ago
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Interview with a vampire:
A Sakamaki exposé, episode 2
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We're going on air in.....3.....2......1!
Gooood morning everyone! And welcome back to Interview With a Vampire, with our host Claudia Bogdan!
So Claudia, our last episode was quite a spectacle- at least according to our viewers. Since then, apparently public outrage has increased by at least 10%. Ranging from social media posts to downright strikes. What do you have to say about that?
Honestly, I wish I knew more vocabulary so I could express what I want to say. I think that it's a good thing that people are finally waking up, and last night actually- I know it's a bit silly, but last night I teared up at the thought of how we're actually doing some good in this world.
That's nothing to be ashamed of! And a little bird told me actually that we're having another guest star on today's episode.
Ha! Well you heard right, today we have someone else that we will be interviewing. Hopefully this time a little more responsive than the last guy.
Well don't keep us shrouded in mystery, who is this ominous stranger?
Why don't we all find out together hm? Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our very own renowned videographer and journalist, Decima Amadeus!
Welcome Decima, it's so nice to see your face again!
Ahaha- please no flattery until I'm sure you can cover the expenses of both our dinners tonight.
So Decima, are you ready for another groundbreaking interview?
I myself wouldn't call it groundbreaking- ahem. But yes, let's get on with it then. Today we have Ayato Sakamaki, the one and only, Prince of the Underworld, here with us today!
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Yours truly is sure you must be eternally grateful to have me here on your show at such an early hour, so let's cut the small talk and get straight into it!
Right.... Well then. Let's start off easy. I'm presuming you've watched our most recent episode with your older brother, Reiji Sakamaki?
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Huh? Oh that- Yes I've seen it. If you ask me, Reiji's too uptight to be doing interviews. You'll never get anything outta that guy, unlike Ore-sama, I'll actually provide for your viewers.
Ah, I'm sure you will. Now, the reason I brought that up is, would you like to refute any statements he's made? Add on to anything in particular before moving on with things?
Like I said already, there's nothing you'll get from focusing on him. Let's just continue with today's interview, kay?
Right, my apologies. So now that you confirmed for us that you're all receiving a healthy, if not gluttonous, blood supply throughout the years while the rest of us are here fighting a pandemic-
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W-Wha!? I never said that! What're ya putting words in my mouth for, huh?
I'm not. Earlier I asked if you'd like to refute any claims made by Mr. Sakamaki from our previous episode, and you said you'd pass on it and instead would prefer to, and I quote, "continue with today's interview."
And the last time I spoke to him, a very interesting topic of classism was brought up and I highlighted the fact that you Sakamakis have a personal blood blank as to which you can access at any time. That to which, your brother did not deny.
First of all, it's not a blood bank! Get your facts straight woman. Secondly, I believe my brother stated that our family matters are none of your concern.
Oh? Well according to my sources, they state otherwise. You have a blood reservoir and refuse to share with the rest of the Bat clan, barely contributing anything to our society, yet we are meant to call you "Princes of the demon realm."
Ha! Talk truly is cheap! What? Do you think we just go out of our way to build a secret blood facility in the human realm and just pump out the blood whenever we feel like it?
Is that not the case?
You and your fans wish! I've dealt with enough women throughout the years to know how you all think. You're trying to get me to slip up and say whether or not we have some fancy stash of blood and where it comes from right?
I never-
Well let me tell you somethin lady, you may have duped my pain in the ass brother, but I'm Ayato Sakamaki, the one, the only, the great, Ore-sama and I refuse to sit here and be manipulated by some three star journalist.
Hm, is it fine with you if I circle back for a moment?
Ah? Sure, do whatever.
You said you're accustomed to dealing with women from your past experiences throughout the years, correct?
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Yeah so?
Can you just give us a time span to be exact? I just need to make sure I have the timeline correct.
Haah? Time span? I dunno, I guess maybe from the past couple hundred years or so? I haven't been seeing anyone for a while so it's hard to recall. Why? What's it to you?
Ah- well you see Mr. Sakamaki, from what I've gathered from today is that, not only are you hording some form of a blood supply in the human realm, via containment unit or not, you've also spent the last hundred years leisurely lazing around with women-
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Oi! Now wait a-
Please Mr. Sakamaki, I'm far from done. While our society is on the brink of collapse, you're drinking a free, and presumably, infinite amount of blood whilst simultaneously having sex with all these women you claim to have been with.
And on our last episode, when I called out the Sakamakis for sitting on their pampered asses, I was criticized and ridiculed by those of the higher ups.
Well you have it here everyone, the world as we know it is ending and our lovely princes have been engaging in adultery and gluttony.
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NO! That's not!-
Til next time dear viewers!
From author: The next one's gonna be so juicy god I love doing these. Anyways, TYSM for all your support! I love you all, byebye!!
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k-howlett · 2 months ago
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Prey | Jason Todd X gn!reader [PLATONIC]
TW: Character Death (Jason Todd), Mentions of hospital Equipment, Smoking & Drinking, light catholic mockery
Rating: Teen+, Implied Violence, Mild Descriptions of Gore, Smoking & Alcohol Use, Gender Nonspecific, Angst (With A Happy Ending)
A/N:
A songfic to hopefully get you guys excited for my(@/k-howlett) September Playlist Challenge (Which will be a 30 day writing activity (Songfics) that you’re all welcome to participate in! I will drop the list of songs and characters (specific to my account) sometime this month!)
Thank you for the continued love on my series (Breaking and Entering), I am very much in a DC mood as a convention is coming up soon, though I have a residual rush of Deadpool and Wolverine overload so expect lots of superhero fanfics in the coming weeks!!
as always,
with love and healing
-Lark(ly)
��⋆.˚
prey - the neighbourhood
⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻
♫⋆。♪ ₊˚♬ ゚. ♫⋆。♪ ₊˚♬ ゚.
As long as,
you notice,
I’m hoping,
That you’ll keep your heart open
(keep your heart open)
I’ll keep mine open too
(I’ll keep mine open too)
♬⋆.˚
“They say some secret society runs the upper echelons of Gotham, y’know?” Y/N chimes in from where they lay on the roof of a beat-up Cadillac shell. The windows are busted out, and the paint is worn thin by Gotham’s relentless weather.
Jason tilts his head back, his expression a mix of amusement and skepticism. “Like the Illuminati? You gettin’ into conspiracies again, Y/NN?” His lanky frame is propped up against the car’s torn-off panel, his eyes flicking from the dark sky to Y/N’s silhouette, illuminated by the cold moonlight.
They were waiting for the fireworks to start, a rare spectacle that both of them, despite their tough exteriors, had always looked forward to.
“No, not the Illuminati. It’s much worse,” they insist, leaning over the roof to peer down at him, their face earnest, almost grave. The two of them, alley kids by definition, had always found solace in each other at the Gotham City scrap-yard. It was near the docks and dodgy as hell, but neither seemed to mind. They knew how to be careful—the needles that littered the ground were easy to avoid if you paid attention, and the dilapidated buildings surrounding the chain-link fences were just part of the landscape, nothing more.
Jason’s grin widens, that trademark smirk of his playing at the corners of his mouth. “Uh-huh. And I suppose you think the moon landing was fake too?”
“Oh, c’mon! Is it really that hard to believe? Think about it. The rich get rich, and the poor get poorer. Ain’t that what the saying is? Someone’s gotta be corrupt at the top, pullin’ the strings. How do you think Joker breaks out all the time? Or how GCPD’s incompetence hasn’t been talked about outside this city? Hm? And they say it’s hard to leave, too! Once you’re here, you’re stuck, ’cause they don’t want people like us to be free. To be like them,” they argue, their city accent thick with conviction, as if they’ve spent hours turning this theory over in their mind.
Jason chuckles, a low, throaty sound that vibrates through the night air. “You’ve been spending too much time listening to the old timers down at the docks. Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me the Bat’s in on it too.”
Y/N rolls their eyes, exasperated but not defeated. “Ah, whateva. One day you’ll see. Just how fucked this place truly is.” They cross their arms behind their head and lie back down as the first burst of fireworks lights up the sky.
For a moment, the world is silent, save for the crackle of fireworks high above. New Year’s Eve in Gotham was a strange paradox—celebratory and bleak all at once. The fireworks painted the night in bright colors, but the streets below remained as grim as ever. Jason glances over at Y/N, their face softening in the glow of the display. He couldn’t help but admire their fire, their passion for things he often brushed off with a laugh.
There was a time when Jason himself had that kind of fire, the belief that something better was possible, even in a place like Gotham. But as they lay there together, watching the fireworks, a small part of him wondered if Y/N was right. Maybe Gotham was more than just a city—it was a trap, a cage, and no matter how hard you fought, you were bound to lose.
But for now, he lets the thought slip away, pushing it down with all the other doubts and fears that plagued him. Tonight was about the fireworks, about the rare moments of peace they found in this chaotic city. He wouldn’t let anything ruin that.
As the final burst of light faded from the sky, Y/N nudged Jason’s shoulder. “Next year’s gonna be better. You’ll see.”
Jason looked at them, his smirk softer now, almost wistful. “Yeah… we’ll see.”
♬⋆.˚
If you don’t ask,
I won’t tell
Just know that,
Just know that
It all hurts,
it all hurts just the same
♬⋆.˚
Y/N sits at the base of the headstone, laughter spilling out in bitter, uneven bursts. The years had worn them down, every laugh wracking their frame with a painful shake.
“You know, it’s comical, really,” they mutter, voice dripping with venom. “You ditch me, go play house with your new family, and now look where you’ve wound up.” They take a deep drag from the cigarette, the smoke curling from their cracked lips into a wry smile. “Look what they fuckin’ did to you,” they say, exhaling slowly. “What a cruel joke.”
Jason’s eyes narrow, his stance tense as he watches them. He expected something—anger, maybe even tears—but this? It cuts deeper than he’d anticipated. “Hey, cut that shit out,” he snaps, his tone edged with irritation. “Not here.”
“What, smoking outside?” Y/N laughs, the sound quickly turning into a hacking cough.
Jason steps closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. “It’s disrespectful, Y/N. Knock it off.”
They grind the cigarette into the concrete, but not before taking one last drag. “You don’t mind, do ya, pal?” they sneer. “I mean, it’s not like you’re even really six feet under.”
Jason’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He crouches down beside them, his voice cold but tinged with something darker—pain, maybe, or regret. “Yeah, I do mind. This place is for people to rest, not for you to play out your bullshit. You used to hate smoking—your old man would blow that crap in your face, and you’d go ballistic. Where’s that Y/N, huh?”
“Don’t tell me how to process my emotions, Todd,” they spit, their voice raw with anger. “What’s it matter now, huh? Why show up after all this time? You’ve been prowling around the streets of Gotham for what, a year? And now you want to make a grand entrance? What’s your angle? You gonna pretend you’re not the same lowlife Mafia bosses we used to mock?”Their eyes bore into him, full of accusation and pain.
Jason’s jaw tightens, his eyes cold and hard. He takes a step forward, his voice a gravelly snarl. “You think I wanted this? To become the monster we used to laugh about? Gotham doesn’t give a damn about redemption. It chews you up and spits you out. I had to adapt, or die trying.”
He leans in, his gaze intense. “You’re pissed off? Good. You’ve got every right to be. But don’t act like you know a damn thing about what I’ve been through. You think you’re the only one who’s lost?”
Jason steps back, his voice unwavering and edged with steel. “Go ahead, hate me. But don’t act like you don’t understand. Gotham changes everyone. Even you.”
Y/N’s eyes flash with defiance. “I changed because I lost you, so don’t get it twisted. Gotham’s not the reason you’re like this. You’re on some vendetta trip. I’ve seen the headlines—throwing the Bat into a brick wall in front of the little bird? Talk about a temper. I thought I had a short fuse.”
They let out a bitter chuckle, the amusement in their voice sharp. “Guess I underestimated you. Always thought you had more control. But now? You’re just another angry soul tearing through Gotham like it’s personal. Maybe it is.”
Jason’s gaze hardens, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “You think you know what this is? You think you’ve got me all figured out? You don’t have a clue what I’ve been through or why I do what I do.”
Y/N’s smile fades, replaced by a look of steely resolve. “Maybe not. But don’t kid yourself into thinking you’re the only one who’s suffered. We all deal with our pain in different ways. You’re just louder about it.”
Jason turns away slightly, the tension palpable. “Maybe so. But at least I’m fighting to make a difference. Even if it means getting my hands dirty.”
♬⋆.˚
something is wrong,
I can’t explain
Everything changed when the birds came,
You’ll never know,
What they might do,
If they catch you too early
♬⋆.˚
“So, what was it like then?” Y/N asks softly, holding a beer bottle, their legs dangling off the edge of the rooftop.
Jason exhales sharply, his gaze fixed on the city below. “Shitty,” he responds with blunt honesty.
Y/N nods, their voice carrying a dry tone. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
Jason’s expression turns somber, his voice carrying the weight of his regret. “For the record, I would’ve come sooner. If I’d known… if I hadn’t been so damn ashamed, I would’ve found you first.”
Y/N looks away, a hard edge to their voice. “But you didn’t.”
Jason’s shoulders slump slightly, a resigned acceptance in his tone. “No, I didn’t.”
A moment of silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken words. The city lights below seem to fade into the background, irrelevant compared to their shared pain.
♬⋆.˚
we need to fly ourselves,
before someone else,
tells us how
something is off,
I feel like prey,
I feel like praying
♬⋆.˚
“You keep a rosary in your car? Since when?” Jason’s disbelief is evident as he looks at the symbol.
Y/N’s voice drops to a softer, almost defensive tone. “Since your funeral service,” they reply, the memory clearly still raw.
Jason’s eyes widen in surprise. “Seriously? You’re not messing with me?”
Y/N shrugs, their expression a mix of resignation and irritation. “Yeah, seriously. The church preys on people when they’re down… and I was down.”
Jason raises an eyebrow. “So you turned to Catholicism?”
Y/N’s gaze is steady but weary. “God doesn’t come looking for you. You go looking for Him.”
Jason’s face shows a mixture of skepticism and cynicism. “Wow, they really did a number on you. You’re all in, huh?”
Y/N’s patience wears thin. “Can we just drop it? I don’t want to get into this with you.”
Jason’s tone turns more challenging. “Oh, come on. You really think if there was a God, He’d let this city of sinners last?”
Y/N’s eyes meet his, a flicker of wry humor in their gaze. “Maybe He’s trying to flood it. That’s why it rains all the time.” They lock eyes, the serious moment breaking into shared laughter. The tension easing ever so slightly.
♬⋆.˚
so, so I’ll probably,
take you aside
And tell you whats on my mind,
But you, you’ll just keep it inside,
probably tell me that you’re alright
♬⋆.˚
“What the hell happened to you!?” Y/N’s voice is filled with shock and concern as they watch Jason stumble through the door, bloodied and barely conscious.
Jason collapses against the wall, gasping for breath. “You remember when we were kids?” he rasps, wincing in pain.
“Yeah, I remember,” Y/N replies tersely, their hands already working to remove his torn and blood-soaked clothes. “I lived through it.”
Jason coughs, cringing as Y/N begins to clean the gash on his side. “Remember how you used to say Gotham was run by some secret cabal?”
“I didn’t say that” Y/N corrects sharply, applying pressure to the wound. “I said the upper echelons were corrupt.”
Jason grimaces, his face contorted with pain. “Well, you were right.”
Y/N’s hands still for a moment, their eyes meeting his with a mix of disbelief and concern. “Yeah?”
Jason nods weakly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah…”
Y/N’s expression shifts from anger to a deep sadness, their gaze lingering on Jason’s battered form. They finish tending to his wounds with a gentler touch, their emotions raw and conflicted. The weight of his admission hangs heavy in the air, the reality of Gotham’s corruption and its toll on Jason becoming painfully clear.
“And?” Y/N prompts, their tone a mix of frustration and curiosity as they continue tending to Jason’s injuries.
Jason winces, his voice strained. “And that’s all.”
Y/N’s eyebrows raise in disbelief. “You givin’ me my ‘I told you so’ moment?”
Jason nods weakly, a small, pained smile playing at his lips. “Mmhm.”
Y/N’s expression shifts to a wry grin, a hint of triumph in their voice despite the grim circumstances. “Ha! Well, I guess that makes me right then. I told you so!��
Jason lets out a strained chuckle, his eyes showing a flicker of reluctant admiration. “Yeah, yeah. You were right. Just… don’t let it go to your head.”
♬⋆.˚
if I run,
If I run away, I’ll never know
What you want
And if you go then I’ll never grow,
I’m undone,
let me slip,
let me slide
♬⋆.˚
“You’re teaming up with the Bat to track down John Wycliffe—who’s at the heart of Gotham’s corruption and causing problems in neighbouring cities—and subsequently the entire court of owls—and you don’t even know if you’re coming back?” Y/N exclaims, their hands gesturing in frustration. “Why? I just got you back—”
“I have to, Y/N,” Jason replies, his tone firm but strained.
“You don’t have to,” Y/N argues, their voice filled with desperation. “You don’t owe Gotham anything. This place is falling apart—it can burn for all I care. We could leave, get out of here. Just come with me. Please.”
Jason’s expression is resolute. “I can’t. This is bigger than me. I have to see it through.”
Y/N’s voice cracks as they struggle to keep their composure. “Don’t do this. Not again. I can’t handle losing you a second time.”
Jason looks at Y/N with a mix of sorrow and determination. “I need to do this. It’s not just about Gotham—it’s about making sure things don’t get worse.” Jason gives a final glance over his shoulder, a grim acknowledgment of their concern, before disappearing into the night.
♬⋆.˚
Something is off, I can’t explain
You know what I mean,
don’t you?
Something I saw,
Or something I did,
It made me like this,
could you help me?
♬⋆.˚
“Bruce,” Y/N says with a formal, measured tone.
“Y/N,” Bruce acknowledges with a slight tilt of his head, his demeanor guarded.
“Are you still banning me from seeing him?” Y/N’s question is direct, their voice carrying a note of frustration barely masked by formality.
Bruce’s gaze remains steady. “Are you going to be calm this time? He needs rest, not another argument.”
Y/N takes a deep breath, their expression composed but tense. “I’m completely calm.”
Bruce studies them for a moment, assessing their sincerity. “Good. He’s in there. You can see him now.”
Bruce steps aside, allowing Y/N to enter the room. The tension between them lingers as Y/N walks past, their shoulders tense with a mix of worry and determination.
“I don’t want to fight,” Y/N says softly as they enter, hands raised in a gesture of peace.
Jason, looking exhausted with an IV drip attached, raises his hands in a similar gesture. “Yeah, I don’t want to fight.”
Y/N gestures to where Bruce had previously been “I heard you took a bullet for him. Quite the change from when you were on the news trying to kill him.”
Jason winces, but his expression remains guarded. “Yeah, well… it wasn’t on purpose.”
Y/N raises an eyebrow. “Not from what I’ve heard. Seems like you’ve grown a soft spot for your messed-up hero family.” Y/N glances at him and the card on the table from Dick—His older adoptive brother.
Jason manages a tired smile. “Maybe just a bit.”
Y/N picks up the card and looks it over. “That makes you part of the team too, you know.”
“A hero? Not quite,” Jason says, shaking his head.
“More like an anti-hero,” Y/N replies with a smirk. “But definitely not a lowlife mafia boss or a villain.”
Jason chuckles, a weary but genuine smile on his face. “Yeah, guess you’re right.”
“Get some sleep,” Y/N says, adjusting the blinds to block out the sunlight. “I’ll be here when you wake up. Though, with your track record, who knows if you’ll be here after you do.”
Jason groans. “Can you cut it out? I nearly died, Y/N.”
“You did die,” Y/N says gently. “But you’re here now.”
They share a brief laugh. Jason pulls a pillow over his head to shield himself from the light as Y/N makes the room more comfortable, tugging on the blinds to hide the rare Gotham sunshine.
“I’m glad you made it out this time, Jay.”
♬⋆.˚
I don’t want to fight,
I don’t want to fight,
I don’t want to fight
♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚
Approx. Word Count: 2,806
J.T. One-Shot (Songfic)
♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚
Status Page: Here
Prompt/Character Requests: Open
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another-lost-mc · 1 year ago
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"Circumstances have forced me to accept a wager that I want no part of. It’s against the owner of The Fall. If he wins, we have to let him stay at the House of Lamentation for a month." – Lucifer (A Roll of the Dice Devilgram) Or, the AU where Lucifer loses a bet and a new resident comes to stay at the House of Lamentation.
Good Fortune | AZRA x gn!Reader 5.7k words | SFW | Canon Divergence | Developing Relationship Content warnings: Demon OC x Reader. Cursing, references to violence/illegal activities, minor threats, awkward flirting and fluff, gossiping, social anxiety. A/N: The Fall and its owner are referenced in a lot of OM events/Devilgram stories so I got a little creative with the details.
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The owner of The Fall, the Devildom’s most popular club, is a powerful demon that represents the best and worst parts of upper class Devildom society. Under the Demon King’s rule, Azra used threats and violence to secure his position and achieve his ambitions. Falling into line with Diavolo’s new vision for the Devildom simply means his methods of dealing with nuisances are less deadly - and he’s more cautious if he does have to resort to bloodshed.
When he visits Devildom’s other prominent establishments, it’s about business as much as it is about pleasure. He spends money and builds connections with other influential business owners, offering gifts or gestures of goodwill to demons of strategic value so he can call on them later to return the favour. 
He’s at the casino one evening and feels especially bored, but Azra spots the Avatar of Greed playing dice at a table nearby. Usually he’s content to simply watch the money-hungry demon, who gambles like it's his last night in hell; his large bets and fast plays are a spectacle to behold whether he wins or loses. Azra approaches Mammon’s table, and when he sees the pile of chips dwindle to nothing, he decides to have a bit of fun. 
Mammon is known for making ludicrous bets when he’s out of grimm, but offering a month-long overnight stay at the House of Lamentation is too intriguing for Azra to pass up. A chance to live with the Avatars of Sin is a rare opportunity. Some of them are frequent guests at his club for special events. However, most of the Devildom only know the brothers on a superficial basis; Lucifer is protective of his siblings and he tries to shelter their personal lives from public view.
Azra accepts Mammon’s wager and he agrees to postpone their bet until another day. When he recognizes Lucifer as one of the dealers at the casino a few days later, he decides to call in Mammon’s wager. Azra watches the dice in anticipation and then he smirks, unfazed by the poorly-masked anger that ripples across Lucifer’s expression when he loses.
Once the details of the arrangement are finalized, Azra arrives at the House of Lamentation with his luggage in tow. Lucifer shows him the choice of rooms available and Azra complains about each one; they’re all grungy from years of disuse and neglect. He hoped the brothers would have at least tried to take care of some of the dust and cobwebs first. Azra almost wonders if it was an intentional oversight when Lucifer reminds him - more than once - that if the rooms aren’t to his liking, he’s welcome to leave. 
They walk down the hallway, past the kitchen and towards your room. You’re not inside but the door is open, and it catches Azra’s interest. He notices the care that’s gone into the furnishings and upkeep - and the lack of dust is appealing, too. This is the best room he’s seen by far and declares to Lucifer that this room will suit his purposes, ignoring its obvious state of occupancy.
Lucifer rejects the idea immediately and they start arguing. He refuses to displace you from your room, and Azra insists that Lucifer and his brothers should’ve thought of that before he arrived. Neither of them notice that you’re walking towards them and catch the tail-end of their heated discussion about your room being off-limits.
You don’t understand Lucifer’s hostility towards their guest. Your presence in the Devildom is still relatively new, and you don’t have many friends. You don’t want to impose on the demon brothers who have tried to help you adjust to your new life here. The last thing you want to do is make a bad first impression to other important or powerful demons in the Devildom. Besides, it’s only for a month, right?
You startle them both when you offer to switch rooms temporarily, if that would make their guest more comfortable. They stop arguing and look at you in surprise. Lucifer’s mouth twists like he’s bitten into something particularly sour, while Azra tilts his head slightly and stares at you in wonder. He forgot that living with the Avatars of Sin also means living with the Devildom’s prized human exchange student. He’s overheard other demons whisper about your lustrous, tempting soul in the dark corners of his club.
Azra changes his mind suddenly and tells a very relieved Lucifer that he won’t make his gracious co-host abandon your room to him. He smirks and takes his luggage to the closest empty guest room - across the hall from yours - instead. Dealing with the cobwebs is worth the satisfaction of seeing Lucifer’s brow crinkle in frustration before he slams the door shut in his face. Azra sets his luggage aside and takes care of the dust himself while he listens to Lucifer and his brothers arguing down the hall. He rolls his eyes when Mammon’s protests grow louder and Satan’s threats toward him become more violent.
Lucifer tries and fails to reassure them that Azra isn’t completely foolish, and even he won’t risk doing anything to harm you. You’re a guest to the Devildom under Diavolo’s protection, after all. But your soul isn’t all the demon brothers are worried about. Who knows what a scumbag demon like him might do if he had the chance to corner you alone? For all the shady, horrible things the club owner has done in the past, Lucifer doesn’t think Azra is that sort of demon to hurt you. However, he keeps those thoughts to himself - his brothers won’t be convinced otherwise.
The arguing down the hall eventually fades to silence, but Azra’s smirk remains as he continues clearing away the thick layers of dust covering the furniture in his room. The air is stale and musty and he coughs. He rips the dingy bedding away from the mattress and tosses it aside for the trash; he’s grateful he brought a new set of sheets.
When the room is slightly more hospitable, he taps the screen of his D.D.D. and sets it on speaker mode. He only has to wait a few rings before his assistant picks up the call.
“How are Lucifer and his brothers treating you?” Zekhan asks. “I told you not to expect a warm welcome.”
Azra hums. “It was what I expected, but I can deal with them,” he says casually, flicking away cobwebs stuck to the headboard of his bed. “I forgot about the human staying here, but they’re not–” Azra starts to say, but he frowns when Zekhan has the nerve to laugh, “–what the hell is so funny?”
Zekhan doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. “You never mentioned them once while we prepared for you to spend the month there. I wondered when you would remember that little detail.” His laughter trails off with a sigh. “What do you think of them so far?”
Azra thinks back to his brief meeting with you in the hallway. “I’m not sure yet.” You were so eager to compromise for his benefit, but he can’t completely dismiss you as being a total pushover either - you wouldn’t have survived this long in the Devildom if you were.
“I have a docket prepared with the information you requested, but most of it is public knowledge already - articles about the exchange program in the RAD newspaper, that sort of thing. I was able to speak to some of the students and get their first impressions too.” Zekhan pauses briefly and adds quietly, “Their confidential information is going to be more difficult to obtain, and it’ll take some time. Do you still want me to pursue it?”
Azra debated it for a moment and decided it wasn’t worth it. Your human world history and details won’t be relevant to him now, he can simply talk to you instead. “No, don’t bother. Keep track of anything else you hear, and send me what you have already, will you?”
“Very well,” his assistant replied before hanging up the call.
Azra’s D.D.D. pinged moments later with an email containing the information about you Zekhan was able to collect. There wasn’t much there - some general information about you and the other exchange students, impressions from some of the RAD faculty and classmates - nothing valuable or noteworthy. If he wants to learn more about you, the real you, he’ll have to figure that out himself - after he finishes cleaning his room.
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Azra is nearly giddy with amusement when the brothers don’t attempt to hide their contempt for his presence in their home. They’re so protective of you and they do a poor job of hiding it. They find countless excuses to invite you to spend time with them anywhere else that’s not your room. When you don’t feel like going with them, they hover around your room instead. They have a bad habit of overstaying their welcome and Azra stifles his laughter when he hears you yell at them to get out so you can do your homework or go to sleep. 
The demon brothers are especially bothered by how close his room is to your own. What exactly do they think he’s going to do to you? He’s not stupid. He might be a little curious about you, sure, but since when was curiosity such a bad thing? 
In reality, Azra doesn’t have that many opportunities to spend time with you alone or with the other demons hovering like mother hens nearby. His odd work hours means he usually sleeps through breakfast and lunch, and he gets up and prepares to leave for work by the time you return home from RAD.
He’s not used to having a bedroom without an ensuite bath, and it’s one of his main complaints when he has to use the washroom at the end of the hall to shower. He enjoys his privacy and he’s not used to covering up.
One afternoon after having a shower, he's still dripping wet with only a towel hung low around his hips when he heads back to his room. He snarls with annoyance when someone bumps into him, but he realizes that someone is you. You stare at him for a moment, and your eyes widen when you glance down at his bare chest before your eyes snap up to his face. You stammer an apology as your cheeks flush, and by the time you rush back into your room and slam the door, Azra can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face.
Interesting.
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It’s a rare occasion when Azra bothers to join you or the demon brothers for dinner. It got tiresome quickly when Satan insisted on reading books of hexes and curses at the table while glancing at him threateningly whenever he turned the page.
How juvenile.
Lucifer doesn’t trust Azra to cook for them - not that Azra is capable of making edible food anyway - so he’s not included in their cooking rotation either. Azra notices that you volunteer to cook more often than the others do. He assumes it’s something you like doing, and since it’s one of the few skills he lacks, he respects you for it.
If you’re on cooking duty for the family, he leaves later for the club than usual so he can spend time with you in the kitchen. Sometimes you’re completely alone with only Beelzebub occasionally trying to sneak snacks before dinner is ready. Azra makes vague offers to help you, but he’s only interested in the opportunity to talk to you. You must sense his apprehension about actually cooking something and you don’t ask him to help, but you try to have friendly conversations with him anyway.
He’s surprised that you use an odd combination of Devildom and human world ingredients, and you’ve customized recipes slightly to make them more palatable for you. It’s an easy way for him to discreetly ask you questions about yourself, and your family and where you come from. You seem happy talking about food and other things that remind you of home.
He’s not used to eating rustic, home-cooked meals. He eats what the chefs at the club prepare for him, or whatever his private chef makes for him at home on his days off. But when you hold out a spoonful of something to try, it’s difficult for him to refuse. The foods you cook aren't heavily spiced, but more often than not, he likes what you cook.
Sometimes he wonders whether you’d like the chance to cook in his kitchen, with his state of the art appliances and using whatever Devildom or human world ingredients you could ever want. 
Sentimental thoughts about you start to creep into his mind, and they grow more frequent as he gets to know you. After nearly two weeks of living together, he decides that you’re a baffling combination of shy deference and impulsive confidence. Your dry, witty sense of humor surprises him at times, and you’re brave enough to speak up when the demon brothers cause trouble or make fools of themselves. You don’t go out of your way to spend time with him, probably out of some misconception that you're a nuisance to him (which you aren't). But when he seeks you out - usually before he goes to The Fall - you don’t reject him, either. 
The whole point of his wager with Mammon was to learn more about the demon princes that might be useful for blackmail later. Hell, the thought of tormenting Lucifer was almost enough of a reward by itself. Azra refuses to admit that spending time with you is slowly becoming his prize in this arrangement.
When he comes home from the club, it’s usually around the same time you’re getting ready for school. Some mornings you offer him a bashful greeting when you step out of your room in your RAD uniform. He catches a whiff of whatever fragrance you wear, and he breathes in your scent as he watches disappear down the hall. There are some mornings when you’re running late - usually one of the brothers knocks on your door, and Azra catches a brief glimpse of your sleepy eyes and messy hair when you answer in a panic.
He loosens his tie and sits on the edge of his bed and listens for the telltale sounds of you and the demon brothers leaving for RAD. When the front door slams shut, he can finally be alone with his thoughts. More often than not these days, he thinks of you more than anything else. It doesn’t matter what you look like each morning when he passes by your room: whether you’re perfectly dressed or sleepy and rushed, he finds you charming - and he wonders how that’s possible.
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There's about ten days left of his month-long visit when Azra prepares to go to the club, but he recalls the demon princes announcing various commitments they have that evening. It’s the first time since he arrived at the House of Lamentation that he is truly alone with you for any significant length of time. He thinks quickly and reaches for his D.D.D. - he might not get this chance again.
Meanwhile, you’re in your room debating whether you should start making dinner for yourself. The brothers are scattered across RAD and you have no idea what time to expect them home. It’s an annoying predicament when you’re not sure whether to cook food for everyone, or just cook for yourself, or maybe you should just order takeout?
Azra knocks on your bedroom door while you deliberate your options, and even though you’re surprised he hasn't left for work yet, you let him inside.
He makes small talk and takes his time browsing the shelves of your room. He notices an interesting mix of Devildom and human world books and movies. He glances at you from the corner of his eye when he feels your eyes on him.
“The demon princes don’t take care of you properly. It’s past dinner time - do they expect you to feed them all when they return?” he asks. He knows it’s not your turn to cook tonight, and he wonders how often they overlook your well-being. Do they make it a habit to inconvenience you with their thoughtlessness? Isn’t that what all of their posturing these past two weeks has been about - doing what they thought was best for their precious human?
He can do better.
He pretends to consider all the options for a moment and then asks, “You haven’t been to The Fall before, have you?”
“No, I’m not really the club-going type. I wasn’t back home, either.” You’ve seen Asmo’s photos of wild dance parties at The Fall; the self-conscious voice in the back of your mind reminds you that you look nothing like any of the demons that attend the famous establishment. You’d stick out like a sore thumb, and you have no interest in making a fool of yourself trying to pretend you belong there.
Azra isn’t easily deterred so he tries to entice you another way. “You might not realize this, but we also have an excellent dining room,” he says. “I would love to treat you to dinner this evening, as a gesture of appreciation for your kindness during my stay here,” he offers. “I can’t leave you alone and unfed in good conscience.”
You're tempted by his generous offer - you imagine their menu is far outside of your usual budget for take-out - and you can’t help but be curious about him and his work. Despite what the others have told her about him, he doesn’t seem that scary. He’s been kind to you, and he doesn’t ask you questions that are rude or too invasive. He seemed genuinely interested in your hobbies and interests, and he tries to inconvenience you as little as possible.
You think it would be rude to reject his offer, but you glance down at your unbuttoned RAD blazer and slightly wrinkled slacks. “I’m not sure I have anything suitable to wear,” you say. It’s a weak excuse and you both know it; you try not to squirm when he chuckles.
He’s not sure where the idea comes from, but he has a brief impulse to escort you to one of his favourite shops and select an outfit for you. He’s curious about what you might pick out for yourself if you didn’t have to worry about the cost. He thinks you would look lovely draped in the dark colours and soft fabrics he prefers, rather than the bland material of your RAD uniform and casual clothes.
He quickly shakes off the impulse and clears his throat. “As my guest, our usual dress code wouldn’t apply to you. Please wear whatever makes you feel most comfortable.” He glances at you over his shoulder before he leaves your room. “My driver is already outside, but take your time. I’ll wait for you in the front hall.”
You’re anxious about going to The Fall, but there was something so warm and genuine about his invitation that you accepted his offer anyway. You put on a simple button-down shirt and change into slightly less-wrinkled pants. You add a spritz of your favourite fragrance and feel refreshed. You examine your reflection in the mirror: you look put-together, but bland and unalluring - you hope he’s not too disappointed by your appearance.
Azra gives you an obvious once-over when you approach him in the foyer, and you smile bashfully when his lips curl into an appreciative smirk. He puts a hand on your back and leads you outside where his car is waiting. You spend most of the drive watching the Devildom pass by in a blur; Azra watches you instead.
When the car pulls up to the club’s entrance, Azra leads you past the bouncer at the door. Instead of turning right where the thrum of heavy bass is loudest, he turns left which leads to the club’s dining area. It feels romantic with its dark wood furniture and candlelight. The large room is filled with semi-private booths and small tables. The linens and dishware look luxurious and expensive; you feel woefully out of place.
He leads you to a private table near the back of the room, but the other patrons notice your arrival with interest. You think you can hear them whispering when you walk past them, and you realize that your boring attire won’t stifle the intrigue of your human heritage or why you’re having dinner with the club’s famous proprietor.
Azra pulls your chair out for you before he takes his seat across from you. He picks up his menu, but he realizes that there’s something wrong. You’re glancing around the room nervously, and he notices that the other guests are doing a poor job hiding their interest in you. He grew so used to your company that he didn’t even consider how other demons would treat you in public. He’s frustrated by his mistake, but he’s determined not to let this ruin your evening together. 
Azra knows Zekhan is probably working in his office upstairs. He sends him quick instructions before he stands from the table and comes to your side. “I’ve prepared a table for us in my private offices, if that would make you more comfortable,” he leans down and murmurs close to your ear. You nearly sigh with relief and take his hand when he helps you out of your chair. 
He leads you to a small lounge connected to his office on the second floor. It’s soundproofed so the loud club music isn't bothersome. The lounge is drastically different from the rest of the club, and you guess that it’s designed to be comfortable, more like his own home than his business. There’s a record player in the corner, and soft classical music fills the silence. There is a small candle-lit table waiting for you, and Azra suppresses the urge to purr with satisfaction when you look more relaxed now than you did downstairs.
When you're both seated, you hear a small pop. A bottle of amber liquid and two crystal goblets materialize on the table. You’re not familiar with different vintages of Demonus, but based on the ornamental bottle and Azra’s expensive taste, you can’t even imagine how rare this bottle of liquor is.
“No, I couldn’t, really–” you protest with a laugh when he offers to pour you a glass. You explain that Demonus of this quality is wasted on you; he didn’t know that humans are mostly unaffected by the demonic beverage, and you can’t tell if it’s the lighting when his cheeks darken slightly.
He clears his throat and accepts your refusal gracefully. “By all means, order whatever you’d like. I only want you to enjoy yourself.”
There’s a comfortable lull in conversation while you both study the provided menus, and you set yours down on the table with an embarrassed look. When Azra raises an eyebrow questioningly, you explain you're not familiar with the fancy names for Devildom cuisine yet. Normally you ask Beel or one of the others to help you choose which foods would best suit your tastes. You’re embarrassed to ask Azra for help doing that, but he doesn’t mock you. His eyes soften like he’s happy that you can be vulnerable with him.
He offers to order something for both of you to share. He thinks about the meals he watched you cook at the House of Lamentation; he remembers the types of dishes you liked to cook, and how you liked them seasoned. He sends a message to the staff in the kitchen with your order.
Azra sips his Demonus and listens to you talk about your experiences in the Devildom and how it compares to your life in the human world. He’s never been interested in listening to his dates - friends - talk about their mundane lives. Usually he has to feign interest, but he wants to listen to more of your stories and memories; he’s captivated by you.
When you ask him questions about his life, he tells you things he’s never told anyone. He never lets people get close to him, and normally he would never answer such personal questions. He wants to blame his loose tongue on the Demonus, but he’s not sure the reason is that simple. Your delighted laughter encourages him to tell you more and more stories about the demon brothers causing mischief and making fools of themselves.
The door opens unexpectedly and it startles you; he nearly growls at the server that interrupts with the dinner tray. 
What the hell is wrong with him?
The entree Azra ordered for you both was served on a single platter, and there’s only one plate and set of cutlery on the tray. He dodges your questioning look, but he picks up a forkful of food and holds it near your mouth expectantly. Azra looks as surprised by the gesture as you feel.
He’s not sure what inspired him suddenly, but he has the urge to feed you. It reminds him of those nights when you offered him samples of your cooking. It seems like you’re both remembering the same thing, because you bite your lip bashfully and accept the food he offers you.
Azra ignores the warmth churning deep in his belly, but his lips curl into a smile when he sees a blush bloom across your face. He’s tried to show off his wealth and power in subtle ways all evening, but he feels most satisfied - and you respond with the most genuine interest - when he does simple things that shows he cares for you.
You’re embarrassed by his rapt attention, but the way he looks at you when he offers you another forkful of food is difficult to refuse. It feels profoundly intimate, and you try not to think too hard about why he’s doing it. Nevertheless, you eat until you start to feel full, and then you protest and wave away the last bit of food he holds out to you.
He looks suspiciously at the amount of food remaining on the plate like he can’t believe you're completely satisfied yet. He hesitates to eat himself until you promise with a laugh that you've eaten enough. His mind swirls with doubtful thoughts: Are human stomachs so small? Do those damn brothers not feed you enough and this is all you're used to eating? Are you trying to be modest for his sake?
He eats a few bites when you stand up and look at some of the art on display in his lounge. He wonders what you think about him and his lavish lifestyle. He assumes you're provided some sort of allowance for necessities, but he wonders how much of that you get to spend on yourself. He recalls your bedroom and the collection of new and used furniture, the borrowed manga and video games on your shelves, and the outdated TV and computer models you use.
He feels impulsive. He imagines filling your closet with Devildom silks and furs, and replacing your scratchy cotton bedspread with something that's silky-soft against your skin. He can fill your shelves with books he thinks you would enjoy, the same Devildom novels he reads on his days off. He realizes he wants to give you things - desperately - and he doesn’t know why.
Time seems to flow differently when he’s with you. He doesn’t know what time it is, but he realizes it must be getting late. His time with you is dwindling, but he feels reluctant to end this evening so soon. He gestures to a small leather sofa where you can both sit more comfortably. Any traces of your anxiety have completely disappeared, and you seem completely relaxed at his side, humming along softly with the soft music coming from the record player.
You’re nearly pressed against his side, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been this close to you before. His hand is resting on the sofa behind you, and you’re almost tucked under his arm. It feels like a victory when you don’t move away. He glances down at the bare skin of your neck, and when he leans down, the faint traces of your fragrance tickles his senses. Something predatory stirs inside him and he can't bring himself to pull away.
His sudden closeness doesn’t scare you exactly, but the growing tension between you makes your skin prickle with nervous anticipation. You can’t help but question his intentions. You doubt someone like him would be genuinely interested in you, so why did he bother doing all this? You remind yourself that you’re so completely different, and there’s no way you can be compatible. He’s so far out of your league: physically, financially, basically every possible way possible. You shouldn't even be friends let alone more than that. 
But why does admitting that bother you so much?
You glance at him the same time he raises his head from where he’s been discreetly scenting your neck. You look into his eyes and they seem to reflect the same confused longing you feel. 
An unspoken question hangs in the air between you: What are we doing?
Instead you say, “It’s probably getting late - we should go back soon.”
You reach into your pocket for something, but you make a frustrated sound in your throat and stand up. You look around on the floor and scan the tabletop nearby. “Have you seen my D.D.D.?” you ask him.
When your back is turned, he pulls your phone out of his pocket. He slides it onto the sofa beside him. “Oh, here it is. Perhaps it fell out of your pocket earlier?”
You sigh in relief and thank him when he hands it to you. Your eyes widen when the screen flickers to life. What in the world…? You don't recall feeling it vibrate all evening, but according to your notifications, you have dozens of missed personal and group chat messages and several missed phone calls. "It seems like the others have been trying to get in touch with me for a while now. I'm still not sure how I didn't notice earlier."
“That’s unfortunate,” he murmurs with fake sincerity, “but I’m sure they’ll understand once you explain we went out and had dinner together.” 
You’re trying to respond to messages as quickly as possible, and you glance at Azra guiltily. “I know you probably have to stay and work tonight, but would it be possible to arrange a ride home for me?” 
He stands from the sofa and smooths down his suit jacket. “I would never dream of sending you home on your own,” he replies more forcefully than he intends. When you frown, he explains, “I’ll escort you home personally and then come back to the club. I'm responsible for your safety tonight, and I'll ensure you make it back safely.”
If he requests his driver take a route that has several unnecessary detours that allows him more time with you, that’s his business.
Your D.D.D. interrupts with a new message:
Lucifer: I’m waiting outside for you.
Azra smothers his annoyance, but he makes sure you have all your belongings before he escorts you from the lounge to the main floor. The club is packed now and it’s shockingly loud compared to the tranquil peace of his soundproofed office. He avoids leading you near the cramped dance floor so that you don’t feel anxious like you did earlier. He takes you through a series of employee-only hallways towards a private exit around back. He opens the door for you, and you both see the Avatar of Pride waiting nearby with a stone-faced expression.
You rush forward and apologize profusely for the inconvenience. “I’m not sure how I didn't hear my phone earlier. I’m so sorry I worried you.” You turn around and face Azra who’s watching you and Lucifer with a strange expression on his face. “Thank you again for inviting me to dinner, I had a really nice time. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”
Lucifer clears his throat and steps closer. You don’t notice that he positions himself in front of you, blocking you from Azra’s sight. The club owner notices though, and he glares at Lucifer.
“In light of recent developments, your month-long stay with us at the House of Lamentation has been concluded prematurely,” Lucifer says smugly. “You understand, of course,” he adds in a tone that will allow no argument.
You’re confused by the announcement and look at Lucifer worriedly. “Won’t it reflect poorly on us if we don’t honour the bet?” You don’t want to admit that you’re disappointed; you’re not sure you’ll ever see Azra again after this.
Azra answers before Lucifer has a chance to answer you. “I’m satisfied the terms of the bet have been fulfilled. It’s difficult to focus on the intricacies of my business when I spend too much time away from home.” You step out from behind Lucifer and meet Azra’s imploring gaze. “I’ll regret not spending more time at the House of Lamentation, but I promise that I found my visit very rewarding.”
Lucifer’s fist clenches behind you, and normally Azra would feel smug about this little power play with the demon he despises. Instead, all he cares about is the way your eyes brighten when you offer him another one of your kind smiles.
Lucifer ushers you away after you bid Azra goodnight one last time. You walk home together, and you tell him about your evening: it was a simple private dinner, and nothing more. Lucifer is suspicious and looks you over for any traces of harm or injury. He’s relieved that you seem perfectly fine, but he wonders what sort of game Azra was playing with you. However, he keeps these thoughts to himself - you seem tired but in good spirits, and he doesn’t want to ruin whatever enjoyment you had this evening.
You manage to avoid interrogation by the other demon brothers when you arrive home, and you head to your room and get ready for bed. After you're tucked in, you sort through your messages, yawning while you delete the endless notifications you missed earlier.
Your D.D.D. pings unexpectedly.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: I hope we can meet again soon.
You hesitate only for a moment before you save Azra’s contact information in your phone. You wish him goodnight and roll onto your side, and you hide your shy smile in your pillow.
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rubberizer92 · 1 year ago
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🌟 Maple Steam: Welcome to the Top 9 Show of #OBEYseason16! 🍁💦
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swallowedbyfandom · 7 months ago
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Watching Penelope grieving James is a special kind of torture. He has never had the strength to watch Pen cry, even as children her tears always sent him into a panic. On the one hand, as her oldest and dearest friend, he wants to shelter her and her babes in his arms until her heart hurts a little less. On the other hand he is so desperately, hopelessly, and devoutly in love with her that any comfort he offers her makes him feel like an opportunistic cad.
His heart is so heavy with guilt because as much as it hurts him to see her suffer, his foolish selfish heart, also cannot help the ember of hope that someday she may learn to love him again. God, what sort of person thinks like that? He cared for James, even considered him a dear respected friend. He always admired how James put Pen first. That he chose her then took on God, Queen and Country to have her. James was a man of remarkable convictions and fierce loyalty. God, Agatha and Thomas will never know how great a man their father was, they will not even have memories of him as a cold comfort. He must look for the letter James sent him with the birth announcement waxing poetic about how extraordinary little Agatha was. He will have set it aside for safe keeping to save it for her.
Penelope is not recovered enough to travel to Scotland and with almost all the Bridgerton ladies pregnant Pen opts to hold the Memorial for James in Kent. Colin sits with the rest of their family with Agatha asleep in his arms in the packed church and watches in awe as Penelope stands unfaltering at the alter a picture of regal devastation. He is reminded once more that Pen is the same girl that held the whole of society in the palm of her tiny hand at 17. The power Lady Whistledown possessed over words as a young girl is even more finely honed as a woman in grief. Standing in the ashes of her happily ever after Penelope captivates once more with the moving eulogy she delivers about her husband. Colin can see that even Cressida Cowper is moved to tears. If that is not a sign of Pen's immense talent, he doesn't know what is. He was unaware that harpy even had tear ducts.
He watches his mother and Fran hold Pen's trembling hands throughout the rest of the service. He has no idea how she remains so stoic as he can see in her eyes how fragile her control is currently. Disgustingly, he knows half the people at the memorial service are there to gawk at Lady Whistledown rather than to pay their respects to James Debling husband, father, and Earl. He hates how these degenerates have turned Jame's memorial into a spectacle. James deserved better, so does his family.
He knows Pen will crumble on the carriage ride back to Aubrey hall. She will never give the Ton the satisfaction of witnessing her tears no matter the circumstances. She is so gloriously strong that way. His family close ranks around Pen and Agatha during the receiving line and the entire morning thereafter.
Watching Portia Featherington shame gawkers who attempt to approach Pen is a welcome surprise. He knows Portia has never forgiven Penelope for the Whistledown enterprise, not even when Pen less graciously pointed out that if not for her income they would have ended up on the streets. A sympathetic nod is exchanged between Portia and Pen then nothing more.
He spends that evening at his father's graveside mourning for James, Pen, Aggie, Thomas, and himself. He promises himself that he will be patient. He will set his desires aside and just be her friend, her support. He will have a lifetime to love her but first he owes it to her to help her find joy again without expectations. He knows mother and Hyacinth are planning to stay down in Scotland for the next year to help Pen and to spend time with Fran and the baby. He will likely join them, he will speak with mother to see what would be best.
He watches Pen's resilience grow as she scratches and craws her way through debilitating grief and exhaustion to play doting mother and aunt for the children during the day only to succumb to her loss at night. She gets better at it, not that the grief lessens but she learns to function around it. She is with mother at Francesca’s side in the delivery room a pillar of bossy support and love. John Penn Stirling is born on 20 February 1818 at Aubrey Hall to the joy of all.
Colin knows once Fran heals and little John hits 3 months the Stirling and Debling families will head back to Scotland. That will allow mother enough time for Kate and Daphne to give birth. He wants nothing more than to keep the Debling family safe and secure on his family’s estate but he knows Pen will be headed back to Scotland to care for James’ mother and aunt.
Watching Pen tearfully part from his siblings, nieces, and nephews is terrible but watching his siblings part from Agatha and Thomas is gut wrenching. Anthony will never admit it but Agatha is his favorite, she can often be found climbing up into his lap to cuddle and nap. It is hilarious to see the fearsome Viscount Bridgerton seated at the head of the family table attempting to be stern with a tiny blond cherub passed out on him. His siblings almost always plop Aggie into his arms when he is getting frustrated with them, because they know her adorable dimples and her lisped attempts to say Anthony's name always turn him into a pile of mush. No matter how often he has heard Pen bemoaning his siblings for weaponizing her daughter he always catches the humor in her eyes at the sight.
8 months after James' passing shorty after settling into Scotland for the year Colin receives a letter via lawyer from James.
01 September 1815
Colin,
You may be the only other person in the world who understands the honor and the privilege it is to love and be loved in return by Penelope Featherington. She is special our Penelope, I knew from the first moment she smiled at me. I looked into her eyes and thought I have been waiting for you all my life.
It took me 27 years to find Penelope, there was not a force on earth that could have kept her from me once I found her. I was prepared to do battle with you for her hand while I was courting her, but you never realized you were in love with her.
It was our astute Penelope, who cleared up the confusion for me. She told me that you both have spent a decade with your lives so intertwined with one another that it was difficult to see where one began and the other ended. That while you had love for her you had not the experience to understand what that love was. She told me she didn't want to spend her life waiting for you to go out and gain experience in the hopes that you would come back to her. She wanted to live her life to the fullest. She said you were her first love but timing was never your strong suit.
She wanted to build a future with me, travel, have half a dozen children and grow old with me. How could I do anything other than fulfill her wishes? I thank God every day that, that extraordinary woman found it in her heart to make room for our love to grow. Everyone believes Penelope's gift is words but I believe it is her empathy and her ability to love that makes her so incredible.
If you have received his letter then I am dead. I hope I got to give Penelope more than a handful of years together.Do not let her heart go to waste, Colin.Protect her, do not let her stop living, help her heal, and then man up and give that remarkable woman we both love all she deserves. If we have children together love them for me, please.
Sincerely,
James Debling
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droughtofapathy · 6 months ago
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"Welcome to the Theatre": Diary of a Broadway Baby
Cabaret
April 24, 2024 | Broadway | August Wilson Theatre | Evening | Musical | Original | 2H 45M + 1H preshow
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I am kicking my feet and twirling my hair as I lovingly, tenderly, reverently carve Bebe Neuwirth's name into the Tony personally.
Bebe Neuwirth Verdict: My Soul Transcended Space and Time
A Note on Ratings
Oh. The rest of the show. Right.
Cabaret is one of the greatest pieces of musical theatre to exist. I have seen four productions of this show on multiple "levels" of production (Broadway, community, regional, etc.) The show being what it is, it seems inconceivable to ever stage a poor production of a show with such rich material. Even if the talent pool came from a small town, the music, the lyrics, the story would be so strong, so moving, so timeless, that nothing coupled possibly ruin it.
I was wrong.
The fifth Broadway revival of this beloved Kander and Ebb musical is a stagnant spectacle whose price tag seems to actively encourage its potential audience to pick up their knitting, their book, and their broom, because the holiday of the Kit Kat Club is only meant for the rich denizens of society. Helmed by a director with no prior experience in musical theatre, the show fundamentally mistrusts its audience's intelligence and the once-masterful subtext is now about as subtle as a brick through a fruit shop window.
It's a bad sign when the security staffer at the entrance line tells you the design is excellent, the visuals are excellent, "the show is...good," with pointed hesitation and eyebrow raising. What would we do without New York honesty?
Under this new "immersive" direction, patrons enter through a seedy back alley door (with too many steps, which granted, they did warn me about before and I should have listened) and into a massive three-story club design with pre-show entertainment and drinks galore. With limited seating and rather underwhelming acts, my disabled ass went to my seat in the theatre instead where the whole auditorium has been gutted and renovated to create a theatre-in-the-round setup that ultimately does not suit the staging. Instead, actors play primarily to the "east" side, leaving the "west" to see a lot of backs throughout.
As characters, the Emcee and Sally are deranged, clownish, and utterly devoid of layers and complexity. They are exactly what their outlandish costumes, garish makeup, and overwrought performances say they are: too much. Eddie Redmayne is going for some kind of demonic muppet clown portrayal. This interpretation fails to do what the character is meant to do. Seduce, entice, enchant, all of which can be done in a morbid or even unsettling way, but Redmayne only ever irritates and repels. Similarly, Sally is an easy character to misunderstand. She's seemingly vapid, ignorant, and concerned with nothing more than having a good time. She's a character on the verge, but only ever on the verge. Too often I have seen performers act out the titular song as a full-blown breakdown. It is not. It is a triumph. It is a discordant celebration as the rest of the show falls into despair. In directing all of Sally's numbers to be as hysterical, unhinged, and off-putting as they are, it's clear the director, the producers, and to an extent, the actress who went along with it, do not understand this character, this story, this world. Less is more. Trust the material. Trust the audience.
Cabaret is a racy show with plenty of lewd and lascivious content. But this production takes the graphic nature to an extreme that ultimately misses the mark. Instead of a seductive coaxing, or even a morbid eroticism, we're granted such overt choreography (a man jerks off a giant black phallus into a woman's mouth, a woman mimes raining her tit milk all over a man's face, a woman graphically masturbates to Mein Kampf) that it becomes a juvenile display. Like children who make sexual jokes to be edgy, but only ever sound immature. It's off-putting, it's annoying, it's dull. There are multiple rewrites to the "Willkommen" introduction schtick, and the new lines are such a downgrade.
There are moments of relief amidst the spectacle that somehow still lacks spectacle. Bebe Neuwirth is a wonder of wonders, and her chemistry with Steven Skybell as Herr Schultz is a miracle of miracles. They are the saving grace of this monstrosity. Age, experience, and deep connection to the writers and the show give their performances a joyous, heartbreaking, beautiful tone. They are real, they are grounded, and they will shatter your heart. These scenes are the only places the director shows she's capable, perhaps because she has only ever done dramatic straight plays. The decision to stage "Married" as a trio with Kost spot-lit and singing in tandem was simple and brilliant and poignant. The way this show is meant to be. "What Would You Do?" is staged perhaps a little oddly, given the director's inability to remember she's doing an in-the-round show, but Bebe's rendition is the best I've ever experienced. I have heard this song sung beautiful by stronger singers, many who still grasp the acting well, but none hold a candle to her. This is a woman who has torn out her own beating heart from her chest as she chooses safety and self-preservation, even if it breaks her. This is a woman who is old and tired and not brave. Who has been given this one moment of happiness in her life and she has no choice but to saw it off like a gangrened limb before it poisons her entire body. Schultz and Schneider are the heart of this show. They deserve better.
It's been said by others, but the issues with this production seems to stem from its creative team's fundamental misunderstanding of Jewish culture. The show was written by three Jewish men who understood what was at stake. They had all lived through WWII. This is a production with a distinctly English tone, directed by gentiles, for gentiles. Broadway and New York, more familiar with Judaism than perhaps the West End, clearly received this revival differently.
Final Verdict: A Long Slog to Curtains
A Note on Ratings
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llunar-wing · 12 days ago
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⚣ Choice 💎
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⚣💎 A/N → New original post on Patreon. This will be a three-part series. Little fun fact, I use a random picker wheel to help me decide what I should write my stories about and where I should set them. The choices for this one were the tropes of a Playboy paired with a Fake Relationship set in a Big City. You'd think something like that would be easy, but I went through so many drafts of this, it was crazy. Anyways, hope you all enjoy! Also a reminder! The full story will be released exclusively on my Patreon first and will remain exclusive until my next story comes out, which means...Karma will officially be released in full publicly! You'll be able to find it on my Wattpad and Patreon! WARNINGS: | Forced Touching & Light Sexual Harassment | Possessive/Jealous Behavior | Class/Economic Disparity | Emotional Angst | Sexual Angst | Sexual Themes |
⚣💎 Summary → An Omega faking romance with an Alpha who’s one part charm, two parts ego, and a dash of possessiveness? What could go wrong? Oh, just everything—including a will that demands a wedding. Cue the drama, awkward slow dancing, and a lot of “I swear this is just for show” moments. Welcome to the chaos, where love might just sneak in—if one doesn’t kill the other first!
⚣💎 Words → 33.3K
⚣ ENJOY 💎
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Tres Bellamonté, one of the world’s most luxurious and exclusive hotels, sat high on a hillside, overlooking the glittering cityscape below. Its castle-like architecture glowed against the evening sky, a beacon of wealth and privilege. The hotel’s secluded location only added to its allure, accessible to those whose wealth placed them in a tax bracket most could only dream of. Tonight, it played host to the illustrious Sinclair family—practically royalty among the upper echelons of society—for their annual charity gala, an event so exclusive it made the Met Gala look like a neighborhood potluck. Even the Kardashians had to pull strings just to snag an invite.
Inside, the ballroom was a spectacle of extravagance. Crystal chandeliers hung from gilded ceilings, casting a warm, radiant light over the polished marble floors. Every surface seemed to glisten, from the delicate gold accents on the walls to the glassware that sparkled beneath the ambient glow. Guests moved about with graceful ease, the soft murmur of refined conversation mingling with the delicate strains of live classical music.
If anything, the funds spent on hosting this evening alone could probably cover donations to every charity they claimed to support—enough to last each one a decade, at least.
Waitstaff glided through the crowd, offering trays of delicately arranged canapés—caviar on blinis, truffled foie gras, and delicate lobster medallions—paired with flutes of the finest champagne. The scent of these gourmet delights mixed with the subtle fragrance of fresh floral arrangements, creating an ambiance that was both decadent and refined.
Guests moved through the space with practiced ease, as if events like these were nothing but a day job to them. They walked around in heels that could pay the rent of ten people, wore earrings that could be classified as weapons, and flashed smiles as real as Jennifer Lopez's humility. Flowing gowns adorned with intricate beadwork and shimmering sequins, and tailored tuxedos that spoke of bespoke craftsmanship would be tucked into garment bags and hidden in closets, never to see the light of day again after tonight.
Everyone's outfits, a spectrum of colors that complemented the event’s white-and-gold theme, came in second only to those of the gala's hosts and guests of honor. Members of the Sinclair family and their partners for the evening were adorned in the striking combination of white and gold. The rest of the attendees, while no less elegant, wore hues that played off the aesthetic of the evening, creating a visual feast that matched the grandeur of the setting.
Standing near the grand entrance, Jethro Thorne shifted uncomfortably, surveying the opulent ballroom through narrowed eyes. Dark curls framed his face, softening the lines of his jaw, while a carefully groomed beard added a hint of ruggedness to his otherwise smooth features. His rich, warm brown skin glowed subtly under the light, accentuating his toned arms and the fullness of his frame—rounded and firm shoulders tapering to a defined waist. Jethro’s lean build leaned more toward athletic than delicate, but tonight’s outfit—a white and gold ensemble chosen by one of the many stylists he had assigned to him—seemed intent on emphasizing his curves over his muscles. 
The fitted vest hugged his torso snugly, the gold accents drawing attention to the cinched waist and the contrasting fabric that wrapped around his hips. His slacks, while sharply tailored, clung almost too tightly around his thighs and backside, accentuating his rounded, shapely figure in a way that felt distinctly revealing. The gold-and-white design, while elegant, seemed to catch the gaze of more than a few guests as they lingered, curiosity barely masked by politeness.
He held a glass of sparkling water, gripping it like a lifeline, though he hated the stuff. But in a place like this, it was the only beverage he could stomach—the kind of event where everything had to bubble or come in a shiny bottle, because, apparently, drinking anything flat might as well have been the equivalent of drinking tap water.
And this was why he wasn’t meant for these kinds of events.
His deep brown eyes scanned the sea of well-dressed Alphas, Betas, and the occasional Omega, all moving effortlessly within a world built on old money and inherited privilege. The kind of privilege that didn’t just open doors—it built new ones, entirely out of reach for most. Compared to the life he’d known, the ease and excess these people exuded was almost grotesque. The more he observed, the harder it was to contain the growing disdain simmering within him.
For someone like Jethro, raised by a father and grandfather who instilled the values of hard work, discipline, and resilience, seeing these people live with lives spoon-fed to them—often on literal silver spoons, probably encrusted with diamonds—was sickening. He remembered every hand-me-down from his older brother Jorge and the way they’d shared everything growing up: the TV, the family computer, even the few video games they could afford as long as the bills were paid. And while he knew his life wasn’t the hardest out there, it made this gilded world feel even more absurd by comparison.
Weekend "outings" were limited to public parks, going to the movies and the local Applebee’s or Chili’s for dinner. Here, though? A weekend for these people meant a last-minute private jet to the coast, reservations at places where a glass of sparkling water could run you $25 and wouldn’t even blink if you ordered a $500 bottle of wine for breakfast, along with childhoods raised on horseback riding lessons and designer nurseries.
He thought back to his grandfather and father doing whatever they could to make sure he and his brother each had at least three gifts for Christmas—most likely from the clearance section, but given with love all the same. Meanwhile, he’d overhear these privileged brats bragging about their endless wardrobes from Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Prada, and whatever other brands they dropped with their veneer-polished smirks. His grandfather had made him and his brother volunteer at shelters every holiday season, where they’d watch parents struggle to explain why there was only one, or sometimes no, gift to unwrap. And here he was, surrounded by spoiled pests whining about how their parents didn’t buy them the exact custom sports car they wanted. Hard life indeed.
It made him bristle, seeing the glistening diamonds and custom-made shoes that these guests wore as effortlessly. And for what? Just another evening of excess, where they could show off to each other and feel a little more special than they had yesterday. The whole scene was a spectacle that felt foreign, like he’d somehow wandered onto the set of someone else’s life.
He adjusted the collar of his tailored suit, feeling the weight of the evening pressing down on him like that five-tier cake that looked ready to tip over with even the slightest nudge. This party, this crowd, this whole world—it all felt foreign to him, like an outsider looking in.
The opulence, the pretension, the constant undercurrent of judgment—it all conflicted with everything he knew. He had to stand a certain way because he slouched too much, and he had to make sure he knew the difference between a salad fork and a dinner fork.
They were both forks! Seriously, what’s the big deal? You pick it up, stab the food, and chew. Either way, it ends in murder committed by teeth. But, of course, that’s not how these prissy snobs saw it.
But, it wasn’t just the champagne that seemed to flow like water to these people, or the sea of tailored suits and glittering gowns. It was the constant undercurrent of judgment, the subtle way people glanced his way—curious, assessing. It was one thing for Jethro to feel like he didn’t belong here, these people seemed to go extra hard out of their way to make sure he knew he didn’t belong here with their subtle but shady comments and questions.
They might call it “intrigue” or “curiosity,” but Jethro’s bullshit detector had been finely tuned since childhood, and he’d lost count of how many times he felt the urge to remind these people what curiosity did to the cat. Yet, as much as these pompous peacocks and their holier-than-thou airs grated on him, they weren’t the biggest sources of his irritation tonight—though that didn’t make the temptation to slap half of them into next week any less appealing. Especially that Greenburg guy who felt the need to comment on his ‘shapely’ figure…
The true recipient of Jethro's simmering ire tonight wasn’t one of these overdressed socialites or self-important moguls—but rather, the man at the center of it all, the name everyone in the room had come to see, the reason for this ostentatious display of wealth and power. No, the honor of being the prime source of Jethro's aggravation belonged to none other than the heir to the Sinclair empire, the man whose presence commanded attention and whispered scandal in the same breath: Sebastian Sinclair.
Epitome of wealth and charm, known to the tabloids and general public as America’s Favorite Playboy, Sebastian Sinclair stood by Jethro’s side with a tall, commanding presence, olive-toned skin, and chiseled features sharp enough to make even a nun murmur a soft and breathy “Holy Jesus.” He watched the crowd with detached amusement, his alluring green eyes flicking to Jethro with a faint smirk, clearly entertained by the Omega’s discomfort.
Every time Jethro shifted, trying to put a few more inches of space between them, Sebastian’s hand found its way to the small of his back, pulling him right back into place, as though he were reeling in a wandering puppy. Every shift, every attempt to create a bit of space between them, Sebastian never failed to force him right back to where he was, if not, closer with a firm grip, guiding him seamlessly through the room as if to say, This one’s with me.
Jethro tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore the growing discomfort as Sebastian’s hand remained firmly on him, an unyielding presence that left him with little choice but to move in sync with the Alpha’s guidance. Each touch felt heavier than it needed to be, lingering just a second longer, drawing him closer in a way that felt far more intimate than necessary. As they navigated the room, Sebastian’s fingers pressed subtly yet deliberately into his back, their warmth almost daring Jethro to pull away—if he even could. Every subtle pull, every guiding nudge, seemed to blur the line between mere performance and something more unsettlingly real.
Leaning in close, his breath warm against Jethro’s ear, he murmured, “Would you relax?” his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the air between them. “You’re acting like you haven’t done this before.”
Jethro raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Right, because I’m totally in my element here, mingling with the high and mighty. But hey, I guess some of us just haven’t mastered the art of the smug smile and firm handshake.” He cast a pointed look at Sebastian. “Then again, this is your world, isn’t it?”
Sebastian’s gaze remained fixed on him, amusement sparking in his glimmering green eyes as his lips curved into that maddening, self-assured smirk. “And tonight, it’s yours too,” he murmured, his hand slipping down to rest at the small of Jethro’s back. The touch was warm and undeniably possessive which was strange and confusing for the Omega, but also a gentle yet unyielding reminder of the part they were both playing—a part Sebastian seemed to relish far too much and that Jethro was getting sick of.
“Would you cut it out?!” Jethro hissed under his breath, slapping the Alpha’s wandering hand that had grazed his backside one too many times tonight.
Sebastian’s smirk only deepened when Jethro slapped his hand away, his full lips curving into a grin that radiated a mixture of mischief and unapologetic confidence. His light, piercing eyes—somewhere between hazel and green—held a glint of amusement, an almost predatory gleam beneath thick, dark brows and long lashes that gave his gaze an intensity impossible to ignore. His curls framed his face, adding to his allure and highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the boldness of his mustache—a feature that, along with his high cheekbones and naturally sun-kissed skin, completed a look that effortlessly commanded any room he walked into.
The Alpha’s hand didn’t stray far; it drifted down again, this time lingering on the smooth lines of Jethro’s fitted vest, his fingers tracing along the structured seams that hugged Jethro's silhouette with a bold elegance. The vest’s gold accents glinted under the chandelier lights, emphasizing the shapely curves it sculpted against Jethro’s frame. Sebastian’s fingers finally settled with a possessive grip at Jethro’s waist, his touch firm and teasing, pressing into the tailored fabric as if staking a tacit mark. Each calculated caress was a reminder of Sebastian's authority—one the Alpha seemed all too pleased to assert, leaving Jethro fighting to keep his frustration in check, even as a confusing warmth blossomed within him.
“Would you stop that?” Jethro hissed, his voice low but tense with irritation. The way Sebastian’s touch lingered, just barely restrained, made his skin prickle with an uneasy thrill he didn’t want to admit. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
Sebastian’s gaze sparkled with quiet authority as he leaned in, his lips hovering so close that Jethro could feel the warmth of his breath. “Relax,” he murmured—a gentle word cloaked in an unmistakable command, the kind of soft-spoken order that left little room for defiance. His fingers pressed a bit more firmly at Jethro's waist, a subtle yet undeniable claim, one that didn’t go unnoticed by the lingering gazes around the room. For their benefit, Sebastian offered a polite, indifferent smile, his expression as effortless as if this display of dominance were the most natural thing in the world.
Jethro’s breath hitched, his immediate impulse to push back clashing with his body’s instinctive urge to submit, a primal response embedded deep within him as an Omega. The unyielding pressure of Sebastian’s touch awakened something unsettling, a strange pull to yield, to soften under the Alpha’s dominance. He didn’t want to acknowledge how his body responded, didn’t want to admit that some maddening part of him craved the firm steadiness of that grip. His jaw clenched as he forced himself to meet Sebastian’s gaze for just a second before looking away, struggling to conceal the simmering frustration—and the faint, unbidden confusion now tangled with it.
As they moved deeper into the crowd, the Alpha’s hand remained at the small of Jethro’s back, exerting a barely-there pressure that nonetheless managed to steer him effortlessly. It was light, almost delicate, but every brush of Sebastian’s fingers sent a ripple of awareness down Jethro’s spine, reminding him of the part they were playing tonight. 
Sebastian was in the midst of entertaining a small crowd of admirers, his deep voice smoothly recounting a story that blended their shared past with exaggerated romanticism. “It all started when we were just kids,” Sebastian said, flashing a charming smile at the group. “Our grandparents were the best of friends—my grandmother adored the jewelry Jethro’s grandfather crafted. We practically grew up together, and years later, we reconnected after my grandmother's unfortunate passing when I had to pick up something she left at his shop, which Jethro now runs. Seeing him again and how tirelessly he works to keep his grandfather's legacy alive resonated deeply with me, and I knew right then that he was the one.”
The admiring crowd hung on to Sebastian’s every word, their eyes flicking between him and Jethro with a mixture of envy and fascination, as though they were witnessing a romance worthy of legends. 
Truthfully, he was surprised he’d managed to keep up this act as long as he had, but he didn’t know how much longer he could hold out—especially with the subtle looks and veiled comments certain guests kept throwing his way, their smiles tight and eyes assessing even as they laughed along to Sebastian’s romantic tale.
“Oh, that’s so like Sebastian, investing in our less fortunate communities.”
“I always knew the day would come when Sebastian would settle down, but I pictured him with someone a bit more…fitting to his lifestyle. This must feel like a fairytale for you, doesn’t it?”
“I’m surprised he didn’t choose someone with a touch more femininity. Don’t take it the wrong way, dear; you’re charming and easy on the eyes, but even for an Omega, I’d have thought Sebastian would want someone a bit more delicate–a proper woman, if you will.”
And this was exactly why he wasn’t meant for these kinds of events.
With every dig and backhanded compliment, Jethro forced himself to swallow his irritation, keep on that polite smile, and nod along as though their words didn’t graze him in the slightest. And, mostly, they didn’t. He couldn’t give one fuck, two fucks, blue fucks, or a yellow fuck about what these Botox-pumped snobs thought of him.
But that didn’t mean he wanted to just stand there and let these people take cheap shots without a word in return. He’d love nothing more than to tell them they looked like the unfortunate love child of Voldemort and the Joker, or that no amount of designer wear could mask the lack of personality—or, more likely, the lack of anything in their pants worth bragging about.
The casual touches, the glances, the carefully crafted words—all of it fell perfectly into place, an intricately woven performance that Sebastian handled with ease. Jethro, on the other hand, felt as though he were merely a prop, his role to nod and smile in all the right places, maintaining the facade that he was truly enamored. It was a strange kind of entrapment, a surreal blend of duty and discomfort, made only more bewildering by the faint thrill of being the object of such attention, even if it was just for show.
He was supposed to be the doting partner, after all—loyal, enamored, content in the grasp of the wealthy heir. The whole thing felt absurd, a scene better suited for a play than real life. And yet here he was, a theatre nerd unwittingly cast in a role he was desperate to escape but found himself slipping into all too easily.
Something in the universe is out to get him.
Sebastian led Jethro seamlessly through the glittering ballroom, pausing here and there to introduce him to various guests. His arm remained snug around Jethro's waist, the warm, muscular hold both guiding and binding him to the Alpha’s side. It was as though Sebastian wanted to make his presence unmistakable, silently declaring to the room that the Omega was his—even if just for show. Jethro could feel the weight of each stare that followed them, every curious and envious gaze making him even more conscious of the Alpha’s touch.
As they stopped to greet another circle of admirers, Jethro took a moment to steal a glance at Sebastian’s suit. Tonight, the Alpha wore a custom-tailored masterpiece that left nothing to subtlety. A lavish gold and cream ensemble, it practically shimmered under the warm light, drawing the eye with intricate baroque patterns woven across the fabric. The high-lapel jacket was a work of art in itself, embroidered with elaborate gold designs that wrapped around his frame like delicate vines. Each swirl and embellishment seemed to be crafted to highlight Sebastian’s broad shoulders and tapered waist, the jacket hugging his powerful build in a way that looked almost painted on. The polished fabric reflected hints of the ballroom's ambient glow, casting a soft sheen as he moved with the grace of someone who owned the space—and probably everyone in it.
The vest beneath the jacket matched the decadence, with gold piping that traced down the sculpted lines of his torso, creating a striking contrast against the crisp white shirt underneath. A champagne-colored bow tie completed the look, adding a touch of playful elegance to an otherwise commanding outfit. Every detail was designed to perfection, from the slight shimmer of his pocket square to the subtle glint of the watch on his wrist. Sebastian’s attire radiated both wealth and authority, reinforcing his position at the pinnacle of this social sphere.
One of the guests, a silver-haired Alpha with a sharply tailored suit and a smile that barely touched his eyes, stepped forward, exuding an air of restrained authority. “Sebastian,” he greeted smoothly, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice, as though he’d been waiting for just the right moment to make his presence known. “It’s been too long. And who is this?”
Sebastian’s arm tightened ever so slightly around Jethro’s waist, a subtle but unmistakable display of possession. With that easy, practiced smile that seemed to put everyone around him at ease—or, more accurately, on edge—he turned his attention fully to the silver-haired Alpha. “Always a pleasure, Charles,” he replied, his voice smooth as velvet. He gestured toward Jethro with a casual elegance, his expression unreadable save for a faint glimmer of amusement in his light, piercing eyes. “This is Jethro Thorne, my partner.”
Sebastian’s arm tightened ever so slightly around Jethro’s waist, a subtle but unmistakable display of possession. With that easy, practiced smile that seemed to put everyone around him at ease—or, more accurately, on edge—he turned his attention fully to the silver-haired Alpha. “Always a pleasure, Charles,” he replied, his voice smooth as velvet. He gestured toward Jethro with a casual elegance, his expression unreadable save for a faint glimmer of amusement in his light, piercing eyes. “This is Jethro Thorne, my partner.”
The word hung in the air with calculated weight, its meaning leaving little room for misinterpretation. Jethro stiffened, his polite smile wavering for a brief second as he felt every gaze shift to him, some with curiosity, others with thinly veiled skepticism. The Omega met Charles’s assessing stare with a practiced calm, hoping it hid the simmering irritation he felt at being so pointedly scrutinized.
Charles inclined his head, the sharp smile never quite reaching his eyes. “A pleasure, Mr. Thorne,” he drawled, though his tone held an edge that made it clear he was evaluating every inch of him. “Sebastian certainly knows how to pick his company.”
Jethro’s polite smile tightened, his fingers subtly digging into the glass he held, resisting the urge to say something that would surely shatter this meticulously cultivated image Sebastian wanted him to maintain. “Likewise,” he replied, his voice even but with a hint of frost that he hoped conveyed his disinterest in this thinly veiled appraisal.
The conversation continued, with Sebastian deftly guiding it away from anything too personal, smoothly deflecting Charles’s intrusive questions with the ease of someone who had long mastered the art of charming deflection. Jethro couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect for the Alpha’s skill; Sebastian was clearly in his element here, navigating the conversation with practiced precision, his responses polished and effortless.
Later in the evening, Jethro found himself standing alone on one of the grand balconies connected to the ballroom, overlooking the sweeping view of the cityscape below. The cool night air brushed against his face, offering a brief reprieve from the stifling opulence inside. Far below, the city lights sparkled like scattered jewels, winding rivers of headlights tracing through the darkened streets, while the towering presence of Tres Bellamonté loomed over the hillside, glowing against the night sky. The hotel’s turrets and castle-like architecture only enhanced the feeling of being high above it all, isolated from the world in a gilded fortress.
Jethro inhaled deeply, savoring the crisp night air as he tried to release the tension coiled tight in his shoulders. It was rare to find a moment alone in this gilded world, where the only thing he could hear was the faint hum of the city below, a world that felt infinitely more real than the one he’d just left inside. But, his moment of quiet didn’t last long as his phone vibrated in his pocket. Frowning, he retrieved it, half expecting to see Sebastian’s name, but instead, his store attendant, Isaac’s contact glowed on the screen.
He hesitated, the surprise quickly giving way to concern. Isaac rarely called him outside of work hours unless something was amiss. Stepping further into the shadows, he answered, his voice low. “ Hey, Isaac. What’s up? Everything okay?”
“Hey Jethro,” Isaac’s deep, warm tone was a comfort in the sterile, opulent setting around him even despite the undercurrent of tension to it. “Sorry to bother you while you’re out. Do you have a second?”
Definitely. Anything that kept him out of that suffocating room filled with over-perfumed, self-important imbeciles was well worth his attention.
"Yeah, of course. Everything alright, Isaac? Did something happen at the store?” Jethro asked, bracing himself for bad news and hoping it wasn’t about a robbery or something worse. “The store’s fine,” Isaac replied, though his tone held a cautious edge. “But…your brother stopped by.” Jethro sighed. Fantastic. He’d take a robbery over Jorge’s tantrums any day.
Jethro took a steadying breath, already bracing himself for whatever headache Jorge had brought with him this time. “Lovely. What did he want?” he asked, keeping his tone as light as he could manage despite the initial sarcasm in it.
Isaac hesitated on the other end, a pause thick with unspoken words. “Well, he was...looking for you. Seemed a bit irritated when he found out you weren’t here. Tried asking questions about the store’s finances. I didn’t give him anything, obviously, but he wasn’t exactly pleased when I told him his access had been cut off.”
Jethro clenched his jaw. “Sounds like Jorge.” He could practically see his brother’s scowl, the way he’d stand too close, trying to intimidate his way into getting what he wanted. “He didn’t break anything, did he?”
Isaac gave a low chuckle, though there was a hint of irritation beneath it. “No, he was smart enough to keep his fists to himself. But, can’t say the same for his language. He had few choice words about for me getting in his way as he described. Called me everything everything you can think of under the sun from a 'nosy pawn' to your little lapdog.” There was a subtle edge to Isaac’s voice, a hint of restrained annoyance as he recounted Jorge’s scathing remarks.
Jethro raised an eyebrow, his tone laced with dry humor. "Surprised he didn’t reserve some of his vocabulary for me."
“Oh, he had plenty for you, don’t worry,” Isaac replied, his voice carrying a trace of tension masked with humor. “But my mother taught me better than to repeat that kind of language. Especially in the presence of of others.” His tone held a touch of dry amusement, though the tension underneath was unmistakable.
Jethro sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He could easily picture the look on Jorge’s face—the narrowed eyes, the tight set of his jaw, his meticulously groomed features twisted into that familiar scowl. With his angular jawline and piercing gaze, Jorge had a striking presence, especially when he turned on that look, the one that said he was used to getting his way. “Please tell me you didn’t say anything back. You know how he gets.”
Ironically, if they’d grown up with a bit more money, Jethro could easily picture his brother fitting right in with these shallow, paper-thin socialites.
Isaac’s voice softened, an almost playful edge slipping in. “Relax, Jethro. I know how to handle a guy like him without stooping to his level. Let’s just say I reminded him that you’re the one who holds the reins now—and that anyone not respecting that should probably reconsider their approach. He didn’t take it well, but he got the message.” Isaac paused, his tone dipping with a hint of warmth. “But, I wouldn’t be surprised if he came back.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Jethro murmured, already hearing the childish insults and tantrums his brother was known for. “Thank you, Isaac. You can lock up the store and head home if you want. I’ll probably be back hopefully within the next couple of hours.”
Isaac’s voice lingered with an easygoing warmth, though there was a trace of reluctance. “I think I’ll stick around a bit longer, just in case your brother decides to make an encore appearance,” he replied, a quiet resolve in his words. After a beat, his tone softened, taking on a note of genuine concern. “How about you, though? Everything alright on your end? Sinclair behaving himself, or do I need to drive up there?”
Jethro let out a huff of amusement, rolling his eyes despite himself. “I can handle him, Isaac… though, if anyone else decides to throw out another backhanded compliment about my outfit, my body, or whatever superficial nonsense they can think of, you might need to bring my bat from behind the counter.”
As he said it, flashes of the evening ran through his mind—Sebastian’s hand lingering at his waist, his fingers drifting down, pressing possessively into his hip or, more brazenly, giving his backside a casual slap and squeeze. Each intimate, uninvited touch felt like it crossed an invisible line, igniting a simmering mix of irritation and embarrassment on the surface. But beneath it, in places he stubbornly refused to acknowledge, was a flicker of excitement, a thrill he wished he could just ignore. Isaac’s voice, warm and steady on the other end, pulled him back to reality—a grounding presence he hadn’t realized he needed tonight.
Of everyone in that room, Sebastian should count himself the luckiest that Jethro hadn’t thought to bring his bat—because, honestly, he wouldn’t have needed even a hint of temptation to start his baseball career right there, with the smug Alpha’s face as his first swing.
Unbeknownst to him, Sebastian had already entered the balcony, the Alpha’s silent steps going unnoticed as he listened to the soft murmur of Jethro’s voice in conversation. He leaned casually against the doorway, his sharp eyes narrowing as he caught snippets of the exchange, his jaw tightening ever so slightly at the warmth in Jethro’s tone—a warmth he had yet to hear be directed at himself.
After another brief exchange of reassurances, Jethro ended the call with a sigh, slipping his phone back into his pocket as he tried to savor just a few more seconds of peace. But the moment didn’t last. The soft sounds of footsteps behind him were almost imperceptible, but the sudden shift in the air sent a chill down his spine. When he turned, Sebastian was already there, standing far closer than he’d expected, his gaze fixed on Jethro with an intensity that made his breath hitch.
Jethro fought to keep his expression steady, masking the flicker of surprise with a carefully measured indifference. But inside, his heart was racing, a conflicted mix of unease and a warmth he stubbornly refused to name, swirling in his chest as he held Sebastian’s gaze. The Alpha’s cool, polished exterior betrayed nothing, but there was something else—a charged intensity in his light eyes, a smoldering watchfulness that lingered a heartbeat too long. The faintest hint of a smirk played at Sebastian’s lips, a playful edge that only deepened the unsettling tension between them, as if he was enjoying whatever unspoken power he knowingly or unknowingly—likely the former—held over Jethro in that moment.
“Important call, was it? Careful, babe,” Sebastian drawled, a hint of a smirk curving his lips. “People might start to think you’re sneaking off to take calls from a secret paramour. Scandalous, don’t you think?”
There was an almost imperceptible edge beneath the playful tone, but Sebastian’s control was ironclad, letting only the faintest suggestion of something darker slip through his lighthearted facade.
“Hmm,” Jethro replied with an eye roll. “Something I imagine you’d be quite used to.”
Without waiting for a response, he continued, “The call was just some business back at the shop. Nothing major.” His tone was dismissive, making it clear he didn’t intend to elaborate. They might be playing the part of a couple, but that was all it was—playing. Sebastian didn’t need, nor was he entitled to, any further details about his personal life.
Sebastian’s smirk didn’t falter, but something subtle shifted in his gaze, a flicker of something unreadable that vanished as quickly as it appeared. He maintained his easy, controlled demeanor, yet the idea that someone else, someone like Isaac, having more of Jethro’s attention and trust than he did wasn’t a pleasant thought for the Alpha—yet he masked it with practiced ease, though it lingered, buried just beneath the surface.
Jethro’s jaw tightened, his gaze shifting to the side in an attempt to ignore the heat radiating from the Alpha, who now seemed closer than ever. The weight of Sebastian’s attention was like an itch under his skin, one he couldn’t scratch without giving away that he felt it at all. But Sebastian was relentless, his tone dripping with playful mischief as he continued.
Sebastian’s smirk deepened, clearly reveling in the way Jethro’s patience frayed at the edges, each comment poking at a nerve he could feel twitching. He leaned in slightly, the casual stance concealing a more deliberate purpose, as though he knew exactly what effect he had on Jethro—and enjoyed every second of it.
“Come on now, babe,” Sebastian murmured, his voice a low, teasing hum. “You’re standing here alone, brooding away from all the excitement. Anyone else might think you’re waiting for someone.”
Jethro rolled his eyes, forcing a dismissive chuckle. “Chill on the pet names, would you? And if I am, they’re taking their sweet time getting here,” he replied, his voice laced with sarcasm.
Sebastian’s smirk didn’t waver, his gaze fixed on Jethro with an almost predatory glint. “Oh, don’t tell me I’m cramping your style,” he teased, tilting his head as if genuinely curious. “I’d hate to think I’m keeping you from… better company.”
Jethro scoffed, crossing his arms. “Trust me, anyone else would be a breath of fresh air right now.”
Sebastian’s smirk deepened as he took a deliberate step forward, his broad frame inching closer. Instinctively, Jethro took a step back, only to feel the solid stone of the balcony’s ledge press against his spine, leaving him effectively pinned in place.
Sebastian took a step closer, invading Jethro’s space in that way only Alphas seemed to know how to do. “It’s not so bad, is it? All of this. I think everyone’s taken a liking to you. Even the skeptics can’t help but be charmed.”
Jethro scoffed. “Charmed. Right. Like a snake is charmed by a flute.”
“You’re not a snake, Jethro. You’re a diamond—beautiful and rare.”
“I’m not a jewel, Sebastian. I’m a person. And I don’t appreciate jewelry metaphors.”
“It’s not a metaphor. You really are one of a kind.”
Jethro rolled his eyes. “And suddenly, I’m wondering if you’re getting a little too into this.”
Sebastian chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent an involuntary shiver down Jethro’s spine. “Maybe I am,” he replied, his gaze sweeping over Jethro’s figure with an intensity that made Jethro’s pulse quicken. “Or maybe it’s just you… looking so innocent and pristine in that outfit. Makes me wonder if the rest of you is as untouched as you look right now.”
Jethro’s eyes narrowed, an incredulous eyebrow lifting as he shot back, “Is that your attempt at subtlety, or did you think that was actually charming?”
Sebastian smirked, unbothered by Jethro’s glare. “Depends. Is it working?” he asked, a glint of teasing mischief in his eyes that bordered on smug satisfaction.
Sebastian’s gaze didn’t waver as he took a slow, deliberate step closer, bridging the space between them on the secluded balcony. Jethro felt his back brush against the cool stone ledge, trapped by the Alpha’s nearness and the simmering, almost possessive glint in Sebastian’s eyes—a look that seemed at odds with his otherwise smooth, controlled demeanor. “Relax, Jethro,” he murmured, his voice infuriatingly casual, as if they were alone and not playing this dangerous game in the middle of a high-society spectacle. “You’re wound tighter than that corset they’ve got you in.”
Jethro’s irritation flared instantly, his jaw tightening as he shot back, “Forgive me if I’m not as comfortable as you in this overpriced parade.” He could feel Sebastian’s gaze sweeping over him, lingering on the way his fitted vest hugged his frame, emphasizing each curve and line he’d rather downplay. The Alpha’s eyes drifted with an almost unrestrained focus, catching on the snug fit of his clothes as if trying to brand the sight into memory.
Sebastian’s smirk deepened, though a subtle tension remained beneath it, something unspoken shadowing the amusement in his gaze. “On the contrary,” he replied, voice dropping to a warm, velvety murmur, “you look right at home in all that gold. In fact, you’re the only thing here worth admiring.” His gaze trailed down slowly, like he was savoring every inch, before he added with a slight edge, “And I intend to enjoy the view.”
Jethro’s cheeks flushed, an uncomfortable blend of anger and an unwelcome warmth stirring in his chest. “Keep talking like that,” he muttered, barely restraining his irritation, “and people might start to think you’re actually serious about this little charade.”
Sebastian’s chuckle was low and unapologetic, his breath brushing Jethro’s ear as he leaned in, closer than necessary. “Oh, I am serious,” he whispered, his tone carrying a note that was both a dare and a challenge, layered with something deeper and harder to define. “The question is…are you?”
Jethro held Sebastian's gaze, refusing to let the Alpha’s words unnerve him. “I think you’re confusing commitment with convenience,” he replied, his voice a low murmur edged with challenge. “Let’s not pretend either of us are doing this for any reason other than appearance and financial gain.”
Sebastian’s smirk remained, but his eyes flickered with something darker, an intensity that made Jethro’s pulse quicken. “I don’t know, Jethro,” he murmured, his tone dropping to an intimate whisper as he leaned in even closer. “From where I’m standing, this doesn’t feel like just appearances.” His gaze traveled over Jethro’s face, lingering on his lips with a heat that was impossible to ignore.
Jethro’s breath caught for a fraction of a second before he forced a scoff, tilting his chin up defiantly. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who flirts with half the city. Spare me the fake sentiment.”
Sebastian chuckled softly, the sound vibrating in the narrow space between them. “Oh, believe me, baby, if I wanted to be fake, I’d be a lot less… explicit.” His gaze turned unabashedly suggestive, trailing down to the tailored vest hugging Jethro’s frame. “You’d be surprised at the things running through my mind right now. For instance…” He leaned in close enough that his breath brushed against Jethro’s ear, his next words a crude, whispered suggestion that left no room for misinterpretation.
Jethro’s eyes widened as the words sank in, his cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and indignation. He shot Sebastian a sharp look, his irritation barely masked by the forced calm in his voice. “You’re really pushing it tonight, you know that?”
Sebastian’s hand moved with a smooth, stealthy confidence, slipping onto Jethro’s waist before his grip tightened, grounding them both in a way that felt more like an unspoken command than a casual touch. His fingers pressed firmly, possessively, as he leaned down, his voice a low murmur with a trace of venom carefully veiled beneath its smoothness.
“Interesting choice, slipping away for that call,” he murmured, his tone deceptively light. “I don’t particularly enjoy competing for your attention—especially not with someone who seems all too eager to imagine himself as anything more than a temporary convenience.” He paused, letting the words settle with just enough weight, his gaze flicking to Jethro’s, unreadable yet quietly, pointedly, unwavering. “But I suppose even the unimportant ones can get ideas… if you indulge them enough.”
Sebastian’s gaze flicked back through the glass doors, where a cluster of guests lingered in muted conversation, though one in particular stood out. Tall, well-dressed, and with an air of effortless charm that drew more than a few glances, Marco Greenburg stood near the doorway, his eyes noticeably fixed on the balcony. Marco was a familiar presence in these circles, an Alpha with a family pedigree that ran close to the Sinclairs. Unlike Sebastian, however, Marco’s ambitions were rooted in outshining others rather than maintaining any real legacy—though lately, it seemed his interest in surpassing Sebastian extended beyond business or social clout.
Sebastian’s lip curled in subtle irritation, his hand tightening just enough at Jethro’s waist to pull him a fraction closer. “Looks like some others have also convinced themselves they stand a chance tonight,” he muttered, his voice holding a casual amusement laced with something sharper. “You haven’e been giving anyone any ideas, have you?” Though his words were light, there was an unmistakable edge beneath them, something cold and unyielding in the way his gaze lingered on Marco, and the way his fingers pressed with unspoken dominance into the smaller male’s waist.
Jethro’s gaze narrowed, catching the barely veiled possessiveness in Sebastian’s tone. “You know, for someone who was clear in the beginning this was all just for show, you’re sounding awfully like you’ve forgotten your own words,” he muttered, unable to mask the bite in his words.
Jethro’s gaze narrowed, his voice laced with a hint of defiance as he caught the underlying possessiveness in Sebastian’s tone. “Funny,” he murmured, a subtle edge sharpening his words. “For someone who was so clear at the start that this is all just an act, you’re starting to sound like you’ve forgotten your own rules.”
Sebastian’s smirk held steady, his tone light and laced with mock amusement. “Oh, don’t worry, I won’t be letting anyone get the wrong idea—especially not your attentive little storekeeper, and certainly not Marco.” The playful edge in his words softened the warning, but his gaze told another story. His green eyes held a glint that was anything but casual, a subtle flash beneath the hooded lids and thick lashes that hinted at something unyielding. His mustache twitched as his lips curved into a lazy, almost smug smile, but there was a sharpness in his expression, a hint of tension around his jaw, betraying the playful tone he wore like a mask. For a heartbeat, the air between them crackled with a silent authority before the practiced charm slipped back into place, polished and impenetrable.
Before Jethro could gather a retort, Sebastian’s arm slid around his waist, drawing him in until their bodies were flush against one another, the closeness blurring lines that had been unspoken in their arrangement. Jethro’s spine stiffened, an involuntary rush of heat prickling along his skin as he registered the Alpha’s hand resting low, fingers splayed just above the curve of his backside—territorial, unwavering. Every nerve seemed to spark with awareness, a subtle thrill mingling with his irritation as Sebastian’s grip held him in place, unyielding and far too intimate for mere pretense.
“What are you—?”
Sebastian cut him off with a low, appreciative hum, his hand tracing the curve of Jethro’s waist as if testing the fit. “Remind me to tip the tailor extra at your next fitting,” he remarked, his tone light but his grip firm. “He certainly knows how to keep a guy’s eyes on the prize.”
Jethro felt his cheeks burn, a confusing blend of embarrassment, irritation, and a warmth he couldn’t quite shake settling over him. He shot a glare up at Sebastian, his own brown eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
Sebastian only smirked, clearly savoring the effect he was having. “I’ve been told.”
With that, Sebastian turned them around, directing them both back to the main event, putting back on his famous smile while keeping that same hand gripping into Jethro’s waist. The Omega looked up at him with an irritated glare, feeling how the hand crept lower, but Sebastian didn’t meet his gaze, keeping his eyes up and ahead of him.
Sebastian’s hand moved with a calculated, possessive ease as he turned them toward the main ballroom, his fingers slipping confidently to rest just above the curve of Jethro’s backside, a touch that sent a ripple of warmth through the snug fabric of his vest. The Alpha’s fingers pressed just below the small of his back, where the tailored slacks hugged Jethro’s rounded shape, their fit intentionally designed to catch the eye.
Sebastian’s grip tightened subtly, an unspoken assertion that felt as much like a warning as it did a reassurance—a mix of dominance and protectiveness that made Jethro’s pulse spike against his will. The Omega could feel each press of Sebastian’s fingers, a possessive warmth grounding him in a way that was both frustrating and oddly comforting. With that confident smile, Sebastian guided them back into the heart of the event, his arm possessively secure around Jethro’s waist, the silent statement to their audience unmistakable: Jethro was his tonight, an alluring prize wrapped in gold and white elegance, and no one was to forget it.
Jethro shot Sebastian a glare, his irritation evident, but Sebastian’s gaze remained fixed ahead, ignoring the heated look from the Omega at his side. “Relax,” Sebastian murmured, low and smooth, his tone somewhere between gentle and commanding. “Just play the part.”
Jethro gritted his teeth, forcing himself to relax beneath the Alpha's commanding touch, even as the firm grip sent an involuntary tingle through his skin, an uneasy thrill he was reluctant to name. Sebastian’s towering frame and powerful shoulders, wrapped in his opulent white suit that drew every eye in the room, exuding both authority and allure. The suit’s golden embellishments caught the light with each movement, emphasizing his broad chest and tapered waist in a way that seemed crafted to perfection.
As they stepped further into the ballroom, Sebastian’s hand shifted lower, his fingers always skimming just inches away from Jethro’s shapely ass but never taking the final stretch—a teasing touch that felt distinctly possessive, even protective. The subtle press of his hand sent an unmistakable message to the onlookers, a blend of dominance and reassurance that had Jethro’s pulse pounding, his mind a flurry of defiant irritation mixed with something inexplicably warmer.
“Care to dance?” Sebastian asked, his tone casual but with a glint of something deeper in his eyes.
Caught off guard, Jethro hesitated but eventually nodded, aware that declining would only raise questions. He allowed Sebastian to lead him onto the dance floor, the Alpha’s hand finding his waist as they moved together in time with the music. For a fleeting moment, Jethro let the room fade away, his focus shifting to the warmth of Sebastian’s hand and the steadiness of his hold.
But as they danced, a series of unwanted thoughts intruded. This was all just an act, wasn’t it? Yet, why did Sebastian’s touch feel so… anchored, as if grounding him in place? And why did the Alpha’s gaze flicker with a spark of something he couldn’t quite identify? Jethro’s mind buzzed with conflicted emotions—resentment, curiosity, and something dangerously close to longing.
Sebastian, however, seemed oblivious to Jethro’s internal turmoil, his gaze locked onto the Omega with an intensity that sent a shiver down Jethro’s spine. As the dance ended, the Alpha didn’t release him right away. Instead, he leaned down, his breath warm against Jethro’s ear as he murmured, “How about we seal the deal?” His voice held a playful lilt, but there was an edge beneath it, something darker glinting in his eyes that hinted this was more than just a casual suggestion.
They stepped off the dance floor, but before Jethro could fully process what was happening, Sebastian turned him slightly, positioning them where every curious gaze could find them. Then, with a boldness that sent a jolt through Jethro, the Alpha leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips—quick but firm, leaving a charged silence in its wake. Sebastian’s hand drifted lower, fully settling on Jethro’s ass in a way that felt deliberate, as if every onlooker needed reminding of exactly who the Omega was leaving with tonight.
Jethro’s mind spun, his heart racing as he registered the weight of Sebastian’s lips against his, the warmth of his hand, the shock from the crowd around them. The kiss was brief, but it left an indelible mark, a mixture of anger and a flutter of something he refused to name roiling within him. His warm brown skin flushed under the gaze of everyone around them, acutely aware of the whispers and speculative glances that spread like wildfire.
Sebastian, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease, a smug pride radiating from him as he straightened and led Jethro through the crowd. He wore that famous smile, looking pleased not only with himself but also with the reaction he’d elicited from the room—and from Jethro. As they moved, Sebastian’s gaze caught Marco’s in the crowd, the other Alpha’s face unreadable but his eyes tracking Jethro with a mix of curiosity and envy.
Without breaking his stride, Sebastian shot Marco a pointed, victorious look, his hand tightening on Jethro’s waist as if to silently reiterate his claim. The thought of Marco—or anyone else, for that matter—thinking they had a chance with Jethro seemed to irk him more than he’d admit. He almost wished that another Alpha who’d been all too attentive to Jethro, someone with a lovestruck, naive air, had witnessed the display as well.
The evening stretched on with Sebastian glued to his side, his hand never straying far from Jethro’s body, a constant reminder of his presence and his unspoken message to anyone who dared look too long at the Omega. By the time Sebastian finally suggested they leave, Jethro’s patience was wearing thin, his emotions a tangled mess of irritation, confusion, and the lingering heat of that kiss.
“I think that’s enough excitement for one night,” Sebastian murmured, his voice low as he leaned in, his breath warm against Jethro’s ear. “Shall we call it a night?”
Jethro barely trusted himself to speak, nodding in agreement, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the ballroom and the endless scrutiny of the crowd. Sebastian took his hand without hesitation, leading him through the sea of onlookers with his head held high, his posture exuding pride and confidence. Jethro could feel the weight of their stares, the whispers that followed them like a trail, while Sebastian appeared unfazed, almost as if he thrived on it.
In that moment, a thought surfaced, one that sent Jethro’s stomach twisting in a strange mix of nerves and exhilaration. For a heartbeat, it didn’t feel like Sebastian was playing a part anymore—and the realization left him both unsettled and unexpectedly drawn in, like a flutter of butterflies he couldn’t ignore.
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thunder-threnodies · 9 months ago
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🌹 I was curious if you could write for Brett, even if he’s very clearly still committed to his missing Half Devil and not interested in anything romantic? Perhaps Brett simply has questions for a case he’s working on, and somehow the Captain gets him to enjoy the evening and it all stays very friendly :D
If so, Detective Brett Heroux is polite, even if he can be blunt when he’s annoyed or overfamiliar with someone. He doesn’t drink any spirits. He enjoys dancing- a lot, even if he’s been told he talks too much during it. He is perfectly content to ramble about the history of the dance *while* you are dancing it! It takes him a while to settle into fun, but when he does- he can easily join the festivities and inadvertently charm most he meets. 
You bumped into the Captain almost by chance. Someone told you to "go and pet a Blemmigan" after... Too much time spent In your office studying the last case's notes.
How many days? Yes.
Anyway, you were mumbling and slightly grumbling when your hand, deeply tucked in the pocket of your coat, finds a small box of matches. It smells like zee water and glass polish and....
Something else. You can see that the borders have been nervously picked on and that several matches are missing and yet none have been lit using the box.
Peculiar.
You also notice that there's some stains on it, droplets perhaps, as if someone had been drinking while this delightfully decorated little box was sitting very close to the person drinking.
You stroke a finger on a stain and sniff it: whiskey but not a regular one. This was brewed with honey and smoked in Dark-dew Cherries barrels. There's only one place, coincidentally located down Ladybone's Road where you're currently strolling, that serves this whiskey, as it's quite pricey.
On the upside of the box, there's a logo and a handwritten inscription:
"We shared a cigarette and a glass of Meadnight at Blue Skye's Palace"
in an elegant, yet slightly nervous, calligraphy. Now in a more curious mood, rather than mopey, you slowly walk towards the indicated address.
As soon as you arrive at the Blue Skye's Palace, you realize that this is a high profile place. Society members and occasionally some Masters aligned individual go in and out regularly untill you notice someone that gives off the wrong vibe: a dark-auburn haired zailor, with a Captain, or Admiral perhaps, coat over a faded blood-red jacket.
You follow them inside and spot them sitting quietly at the bar, while a melancholic and sweet song is playing as background, drinking the very same whiskey you've found on the match box.
And look at the little things spread regularly all across the bar! Many, many of the very same freebies you've found in your pocket.
You sit down right next to the Zailor and order two more: one for you (although probably you're only taking a small sip. You want to keep your head level untill you know more about this fella) and one for them.
They slowly turn their head and shoot you a side glance that make your blood run cold: for a fleeting second you felt like some sort of Zee monster was sitting by your side and not just a Very Tired Captain, with blue rings around their eyes and heavy bags right under. Peligin eyes but they do not look like a Monster Hunter at all.
And Cosmogone Spectacles? A Silverer, then. But why Zail and meddle with Parabola at the same time? So many questions, so little time...
They smile and nod at you and suddenly they look like a completely different person. Warm and welcoming.
"Oh the privilege of having caught the attention of the Dandy Detective Brett Heroux himself, in the flesh! I'm so pleased to finally meet you!" they say as they gulp down the last of their glass and begin the one you paid for.
For a moment you're stunned. But you recover rather quickly. You clear your throat and just tip the glass to your lips letting nothing but a few drops go down your throat. Head level, Brett, keep your head space clear and steady.
"I see you know me...?"
"Captain or Silverer will suffice, Detective. Or if you prefer a less formal approach... Francis Morgan, here on, well--" they smile with a hint of irony in their voice "Terra Firma as they like to call it. Even though, for me, it's not so firma anymore. If you catch my wave." another little, slow sip. "Pun intended, Detective. I am a big fan of yours, by the way. Absolutely brilliant on solving most of the open cases around London! Have you ever thought about writing a book about your adventures?" they empty their glass. Yours is still rather full.
"A.. a book? No. I- I mean all of my attention has been on a very important case and a book would take too much time from me. But please tell me, is this yours? And why did it make home in my pocket, out of all?" You gently put the match box near their hand, the one holding the glass. You notice many fading scars on all the hand and that hand is more suited for holding a quill or a pen rather than a sword or pistol.
They sigh a little and twirl the whiskey in their glass.
"I truly hoped my little sleight of hand would catch your attention because you see, I need your help for a missing treasure."
They drop a few echoes on the bar and gestures for you to go outside, where they join you shortly after.
"Well, Detective Heroux... Brett, if I may call you by first name... Card's on the table. I've been sent a letter. They took a pocket watch from me, one of my most treasured possessions" they pause for a moment "pun not intended, this time."
They give you a piece of paper: letters cut out from various different sources form a rather weird message. The grammar and spelling are all messed up.
There are stains of sweets, soot and reddish dust on it. It doesn't look actually dangerous.
As the two of you walk around, not yet with a destination in mind, you ask them a few questions.
Yes they're a Silverer. It's a personal choice they made long, long ago for the sake of a loved one. No they won't tell you who, although you might have an idea who this beloved is. Yes, they have Peligin eyes but it's more because of an incident happened in their youth at the Gant Pole...
After a while, when you both exchange generally known facts about yourselves, you notice three shadowy figures spying on you from a corner.
"There, Captain!" you discretely point at them. "Don't look directly! Agh, they've seen us! Quick, keep up with me and run!" you say as you spring to action, beginning a chase across Ladybone's, Spite, the Docks.
The three figures are rather quick and agile and do their best to drop obstacles and hazards on your path. The two of you follow the hot trail for the whole afternoon, finding new, weird clues every now and then. A knotted sock but not a Knotted Sock so not Urchins.
A wooden charm. A broken compass. A patch of worn out fur. What the hell is going on here?
The three enter Ms. Plenty's Carnival and disappear amongst the crowd: it seemes that there's some sort of improvised dancing festival or reunion.
You come to a sudden halt and look around. Not a single clue or trace to be found.
You turn and see Morgan smiling at you.
"Well, Brett, we seem to have come to a momentary dead end. What do you say, shall we dance? Perhaps drop some questions, like bait you know, while we change partners. What do you know about this kind of dance and gatherings?"
As you happily instruct Francis Morgan on the matter, a new round of dances begins and quickly the two of you are caught in the vortex of joyous music and swinging melodies.
You're more than happy to guide the Captain through the dance, calling for each step and explaining some fun facts when the sequences they have already memorized come again.
The atmosphere is colorful and happy, your dancing partners more than capable of keeping up with you and you can always see the Captain in the corner of your eye. They've got your back.
When you're partnered with them once again, you lean in slightly closer.
"I've spotted a rather... cranky gentlman walk towards some attractions. I suspect our three rascals ar headed that way. Not Urchins but surely children. They stole a bowler hat somwhere and a trench coat. When the music stops, follow me."
And the Captains nods and does exactly as instructed.
You resume your chase of the Weirdly Tall Man (Definetly Not Three Children in a Trenchcoat) across all the Carnival untill you force them to take cover in the House of Mirrors.
But where are the culprits? THERE! No... no no no just a reflection of... A Master? Surely your eyes must have tricked you... That way! A small shadow runnning and the sound of small feet on the floor!
That Master-like figure again... You're pretty sure it's a Curator but which one...?
As you arrive at the center of the maze, three children, clearly siblings, each dressed up as a Pirate-wannabe, look at you slightly amazed and smiling. What the hell?
In the mirror behind them, the Winged Shadow reappears and two arms, strong and used to hold and constrain, come out of it, grabbing the trio.
No, not grabbing, hugging.
The Captain themselves step out of the mirror and lifts up the trio in their arms.
"YOU LITTLE...! I knew it was you! How the hell did you sneak in my quarters, huh?"
"We missed you! You said you'll come visit but it has been almost two months! Dad and Mom came but you didn't so we did what Pirates do: stole a treasure!" the oldest produces a shining pocket wathc with an inscription on its casing that you cannot clearly read from there and in the dim light.
The Captain laughs and makes a gesture towards the mirror: a big, clawed hand puts a wooden box in their hands, big enough to contain some decently sized objects. A small dagger for the big brother, who appears to be soon a young man rather than a child or boy, a map and a sextants for the middle sister and a fluffy, cute little Rubbery Feline plush for the youngest.
You follow them for a while, as the Captain chit chats with the trio. They politely ask you to tell the three siblings some of your most talked cases of missing jewelry or precious wares and you oblige with a faint smile: it takes a lot to make these stories children-friendly. But they're rather enthusiastic about them and your fame so you don't actually mind.
They insist that you and the captain challenge each other to a shooting contest.
They're good, it's pretty clear they're an excellent pirate, it's pretty clear to you that they're no mere Zailor or regular Captain by now, but they're swaying slightly as if being at Zee and miss a few shots, leading to your victory.
They take the three siblings to a House for Young Children and is welcomed by a joyous chorus of 'hello!' and 'WELCOME BACK CAPTAIN" as they leave the trio in the care of a handmaid and waves happily to the small crowd as they rejoin you, just outside the gates.
"Well, Detective Brett Heroux. Your fame and renown are well earned! I thank you so much for this evening. It's hard to be a Pirate and a good example for those little rascals. And to think they absolutely meant to go to Zee, some time ago! They're almost ready for the real deal, don't you think?"
They shake your hand firmly and bows down in a very elegant way and salutes you, strolling along the Docks and humming a happy melody, leaving you all alone and quite exhausted. Have you been a good example? You sure hope so. A detective and a pirate... What a fun and quirky duo they must have had looked like, that evening, running around London.
The day after you find a copy of "The Hound of the Baskervilles" on your table, signed by Francis Dargor Morgan.
"To the True Greatest Detective and hopefully, a newfound Friend. Yours truly, F.D.M."
As you have breakfast, the idea of a book about some of your cases comes back and playfully torments you for a while, leaving your heart lighter and your spirit happier. At least, for a while.
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lajosbringa · 26 days ago
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Ivan's life story
So, me, the creator of the Sea Knight, Ivan Berilov, came up with this short story that tells his tale. Enjoy:
The Story of My Life
Welcome, readers! I got your messages that I should write my whole life story down for you to enjoy, and as I say, what’s a writer without his audience, so let’s get into it! First of all, to all new readers who found me through this story, my name is Ivan Berilov, your fellow knight, whose biggest contribution to knight society (along with my actions later), are his stories, which knights enjoy all around this world and Gallantia. But now, let the show begin! 
I was born 21 years ago, in the bedroom of my mother. I was instantly put into my own cradle, and that’s where my first memory came from. I felt something paper-like under me. I looked down, and it was a ton of paper money. My parents were quite humorous with that move. But a little about them. They were (and still are) insanely rich spice traders, with a whole fleet of ships, some even armed to the teeth, and a whole estate with a huge mansion, gardens with extremely rare fruits and flowers, and a whole wellness area in the basement. I loved life there, until it suddenly felt boring. My parents weren’t really workaholics, they mostly automated every process through a chain of clerks and even a whole printing house built into the main office, but still, they had to work 8 hours a day, and when that time came, there was no fun to be had for little me, as with most of the maids and servants being old and trusted workers of the household, but they didn’t have the nerves to endure a child breathing down on them. When I was 6, one day, my parents came to me.
-Ivan, we had an idea on how to make you less bored-my father said.
-We’re going to send you to school-my mother chimed in.
-School? I can read and write and count, what is school for? And as long as I know from one of the maids, school is a children’s prison where the teachers are paid to torture kids-I argued.
-School is what you make it to be-my father assured me.
-You will have fun there, take my word for it. So, Ivan, will you be a good boy and go to school?-my mother asked.
-I will, mom and dad, I will-I hugged them both.
I think most of you expect the rich sheltered kid that I was to go to a fancy boarding school, but heck no, I was sent into the public school in the city where I was living. Little fact about the city: most of it was working for my parents, and well, they could cause a lot of economic downturn if they wanted to. But that wasn’t really important for me, as I stepped into the school for the first time on that sunny September day. I met my new classmates, and as some weeks passed, the cliques appeared. The girls, the boys who are good at football, and those who weren’t. And you could understand what happens when this kind of formation makes up a class. The boys declared war on each other after the first P.E class, but it seemed that no one dared to even talk to me. I was dumbfounded back then about the situation, and decided to stay out of it. Until one fateful November day, the 6 jocks who conspired against the 3 nerds decided to use the good and proven method for them to show their dominance: beat them up. The girls just watched as the jocks closed down on the nerds who were running for their lives in the hall, and one even pulled out a bag of candy, and sat down to enjoy the spectacle. I just came out of the toilet when I saw the nerds running into the room, closing the door. And as the jocks got there, they suddenly ran away at my sight.
-You scared them away? Who are you, our savior?-a boy looked out the door.
-Ivan Berilov, your classmate, if you didn’t notice it-I said, a bit disappointed in him.
-Oh, sorry. My name is Peter Wilinsky. But how did you manage to drive them off?-he asked.
-I don’t know. Maybe I’m too scary-I said.
-Or they are just children of your workers. Like most of the school. And I think they were told to not even touch you, like my dad told me not to do it-Peter told me.
-Wait, you’re the son of Joshua Wilinsky? The one who survived Scylla? He taught me how to play chess when I was brought into the office-I said.
-Yeah, I am. But you won’t fire my dad because I talked to you?-Peter asked innocently.
-Do I look like some kind of monster? I won’t fire your dad. I can’t even do it!-I became a bit angry.
-Oh, I didn’t mean to anger you with that!-Peter said.
-Nothing. Now, if they fear me, maybe they’ll fear me enough to make amends with you-I lead the nerds out of the bathroom.
Upon arriving back to the class, the jocks were on their knees.
-We are deeply sorry for what we did! We didn’t know they were under your protection!-their leader pleaded.
-Fine, this will be forgiven. But let’s make up and live in peace-I said.
-Yes, we will! Peace?-the leader reached out for Peter’s hand.
-Peace-Peter shook on it.
-Okay, now everyone can stop licking Ivan’s butt, there is a math class to be held here!-our teacher walked in.
From that day on, no conflict rose up in our class. We had some rivalries with other classes, but those always ended in overwhelming victories, like the football championship of the school, where we even beat the 8th graders as 1st graders 4-1. My presence was basically enough to be used as an instant victory card, and this even applied to the teachers. They were the strictest, but best teachers in the curriculum, as the ones in higher classes told us, but they always went soft on us. Those 8 years were the most fun I ever had. I developed into a fine young man, the perfect heir to the mountains of money and possessions that my parents built. Everything seemed perfect. Until the last class field trip. As the last time this class was together, we went on a ship tour of the nearby sea. But when we arrived at the port, my eyes wouldn’t believe what they were seeing.
-Are we going with this cockleboat? Really?-I looked the principal dead in the eye, who was with us.
-This is no cockleboat, it has been serving our school for 70 years-the principal’s voice was stern.
-Do we really have to go with this piece of crap? It would only cost me a word to get one of our luxury ships from the fleet. There is one right there!-I pointed at the ship right next to the thing that could be hardly called a ship.
-I think your parents wouldn’t be happy if you just used their prized ship to tour your classmates. And don’t worry, it won’t sink-the principal held his ground.
-Fine…-I growled, and got on the ship.
We went out of the port, and started the tour. There were 21 of us on the ship. The teacher, Peter’s dad, who manages these tours, and everyone except Peter, who sadly got sick. I missed him, as he became one of my only true friends. But as we were sailing the high seas, a crack was heard from under the ship.
-We got a leak, everyone! To the lifeboat! Women and children first!-Captain Wilinsky shouted.
-We should’ve got life jackets…-the teacher fumed.
We were put into the lifeboat, but the captain didn’t come in. 
-Why aren’t you coming?-I asked as he started lowering the lifeboat.
-That boat is only for 20 people. And I shall sink with this ship-Captain Wilinsky answered.
But at that moment, I jumped out of the boat, onto the deck, and pushed the captain in. The lifeboat landed with a splash, and a wave instantly pushed it away.
-Warn the principal that my parents are gonna sue the shit out of the school!-shouted towards the lifeboat as it got further away.
I found the first-aid kit which had sleeping pills. I took a dose which was enough to put me to sleep as I sank into the ocean with the ship. But why did I let myself die this young? I don’t know to this day. Maybe I wanted to prove a point, or I wanted to save Peter from losing his dad, I’ll never know. It was an impulse decision. But back to the story. I woke up on the seafloor. My first thought was: How the fuck am I alive? Then, I felt something in my hand. When I lifted it, I saw it was armored. I looked down to my legs and torso. Armored too. And I have a tail grown out of my asshole. I looked at the book which I felt in my hand. It had two waves on it. I opened it, and started reading it. It was about something called knighthood, and people who sacrifice themselves for others can earn this second chance. It also explained that I am now a supernatural being, and I should have a Mortal Wound, where I could pull out my weapon. But I drowned! So, I started grabbing myself, and on my neck, where I felt openings, I grabbed into something metallic. And I pulled a whole trident out of my neck. I tried putting it back, and it worked. I read that I should serve humanity with this power, and I have a human form where I should hide my Mortal Wound. I felt really confused. Am I some kind of ancient hero, or did someone save me and I am in a coma? Suddenly, a whale approached me.
-Oh, I didn’t see around before. What is your name, fishman?-the whale said.
I really thought I was in a coma.
-My name is Ivan, and I am something that is called a “knight”-I said.
-A knight? You are one of those shiny, armored immortal folks? But you look different…-the whale looked me through and through.
-You know about them?-I asked.
-All of the sea knows about them. We helped them one too many times not to know about them. So, when did you become one?-the whale asked.
-Just now. I drowned because I was left on a sinking ship-I answered.
-Well, Ivan. Good to meet you. My name is whale noises. So, do you want to stay with us sea creatures in the sea? A long time ago, the knights protected us, but they all went to help the humans-the whale said.
-You know what? I’ll protect this place. So, what would be my job?-I asked.
-You can start with defeating that anglerfish demon that’s charging right towards us-the whale said, calmly.
I pulled out my trident, but it came with a shield this time. I charged at the demon, and it seems this whole knight thing was kind of powerful, as I impaled the demon just by swimming towards him. It evaporated like hot water, but a helmet was left there. I stuffed it into my neck, and it worked. 
-Congratulations! Now, let’s tackle another problem. The fishermen… They need to go-the whale said.
-No can do. This book said that I am not allowed to harm humans-I said.
-You can try to persuade them to leave. I don’t want to lose any more of my comrades-the whale said.
-Fine, fine, I’ll look into it-I said.
-Excellent! Now, I have to go. Bye!-the whale swam away.
I was left there to my thoughts. I decided on going back to my hometown to check up on everything. I jumped out of the water, and transformed back into myself, with the same sailor clothes I drowned in. I put a cape on my head to hide my face, and went into the city center. I saw that the doors were open to the public court, and the people were trying to get in. I wanted to check it out, so, I wriggled through the folk to the first row. And in the room, there were my parents, against the school.
-What is happening here?-I asked the person next to me.
-The Berilov kid died at sea, and now, his parents are obliterating the school. But be quiet now. The verdict is going to be announced-the person answered.
-I shall declare that the school has to take all responsibility for the accident, and the principal will be fired, with compensation paid to the deceased’s parents!-the judge smashed down the gravel.
The court erupted in cheer as the verdict was reached, but I left the room. Now, I couldn’t return as Ivan. My parents’ and my name would be scrutinized if I were to be alive. So, I jumped back into the sea, and searched for a new home. I found a suitable cave near the beach of my former home. A few days later, after I was introduced to all the residents of the sea, and was declared “protector and ruler of this sea”, I spotted a ship which belonged to Eresen Fishing and Transporting, a rival company to my parents’, and notorious for breaking fishing regulations. So, I swam up to them.
-Hey there, people. Can you please stop fishing here?-I jumped onto the deck, where guns were instantly pointed at me.
-Who do you think you are, that you can tell us what to do, fishman?-a fat man, presumably the captain, laughed.
-Well, if you didn’t go while I was asking, let the weapons speak for themselves-I pulled out my equipment.
Some of the crew shat themselves as I was doing it.
-Attack!-the captain shouted.
Bullets started flying towards me, but they were like pebbles to an iron wall. I started to attack, but they always dodged by an inch or two. In the sea, I am an unbeatable fighter, but on dry surfaces… As I was trying my best to use my still inhuman speed to catch them, something boiled in me with the increasing amount of anger. And when I had enough, I suddenly lost control of myself. Anger took over, and made me much faster, and much stronger, and it even transformed me. My tail got a stinger on the end, my armor glowed, and my hands had claws now, along with my mouth being filled with fangs. And then, the carnage started.
-I said that I won’t be arsing around here. So, one last chance, captain. Will you go?-I spoke.
-No, you monster!-the captain shouted.
-Who are you calling a monster? Cancer should eat your heart out!-I said.
(Little stop here for those who don’t understand, this is a swear from my old language.)
-What did you say?-the captain’s eyes gleamed with anger.
-Well, maybe, what I said should hurt less than what I am going to do-I answered.
The captain was in the water at the next moment. In pieces. Suddenly, my urges told me to reach for the water. I did it. And the water bent to my will, enveloping and pulling down the ship, and drowning the rest of the goons. In the next moment, I calmed down, and I was back in my standard form. What happened to me? I became a force of nature, an unstoppable beast that kills for fun, and nothing human can stop him, an Apex Predator. So, I naturally decided to continue my duty as the guardian, and destroyed more and more ships which wanted to fish here. Only some were spared. Those little barges, where the men fished for their survival. I looted a lot of money from those ships which I destroyed, and decided to sneak the bags on with a letter signed by the Guardian of the Sea. None of them came back ever again. As the days went on, and fishing boats are less and less common, I felt some emptiness in my stomach. I don’t need to eat, but it seems that my stomach didn’t realize it. I asked the fish where to find food, and they showed me a field full of algae. I tried eating it, and it’s quite bland, but it does the job. But I couldn’t just be some sea cow who eats seagrass, I need real food, like meat. So, I hatched a plan. A rather cheeky one, to say the least. I flooded the docks of my hometown, and the mayor instantly evacuated most of the town. And I could just walk in there, take all the good food, and get out, with the sea following me on the way back. But back to the flow of the story. One day, after another fisherman's ship was destroyed by my hands, I decided to take a trip back on shore to check on humanity. Upon arriving at the now rebuilt docks, I spotted a poster about the prohibition of fishing and other activities that would hurt the sea, not to anger its guardian. But as I was reading it, I was knocked out by something. When I woke up, I was strapped to a chair, with five knights surrounding me.
-Where am I?-I asked.
-In Gallantia-one of them said.
-That realm you teleport in and out of?-I asked.
-Yes, that’s it. But enough of your silly questions. You were taken here to be questioned-another one replied.
-About what?-I asked.
-About your crimes against humanity. 56 ships worth of crews, dead. How can you plead?-a third one asked.
-I am under oath to protect the creatures of the sea, and those massacres were necessary-I told them.
-And do you have any remorse for them?-a fourth one asked.
-They deserved what they got-I answered.
-Then, with these circumstances… You’re going to be locked up for 10 human lifetimes, or about 800 years!-the fifth spelled my fate. 
-What? You can’t do this to me!-I shouted as I was taken away. 
But while I was dragged through the lands of Gallantia, suddenly, a message appeared in all our handbooks: Scylla broke out of her cave, and all knights should search for her.
-Can you please stay here until we defeat her again?-the knight escorting me asked.
-Yes, I can-I said, and the knight teleported out.
I could stay there, but that didn’t mean that I would. And yes, I teleported back to my home sea, and started searching for Scylla. It didn’t take long until I met her at the opening of the sea.
-Well, well, well… What a sea creature. Where did you came from, cutie?-Scylla asked.
She was towering over me, as her head was just as big as my whole body. And we didn’t even talk about the six dog heads growing out of her thigh.
-I am a sea creature, yes, but secondly, I am a knight, and I hereby declare that I’ll put you back where you came from!-I put on my equipment.
-A knight… What pathetic creatures you are. And you really think you can defeat me? How laughable-Scylla initiated the fight.
It was a huge stalemate. I could easily dodge her attacks and even counterattack, but she always stopped me. The Apex Predator needs to come out. But I wasn’t angry enough. But when I remembered I had an 800 year prison sentence ahead of me, I transformed.
-You called upon some ancient power to help you? You are more of a loser than any knight I met-Scylla mocked me.
-We’ll see who laughs last, sea god fucker-I attacked.
(Graphic scene incoming!) 
One of the dog heads stopped me. But I sank my fangs into the head, and tore it off the snake-like body.
-What have you done?-Scylla cried out in pain.
-What you deserve, for all those sailors you ate. And maybe, I’ll tear off all the heads before I kill you, monster!-I looked her dead in the eye.
Scylla’s eyes were full of terror, as all her heads were torn off by me. And when I finished, I dug my claws into her neck, and pried it open, killing her. But when I looked at her remains and calmed down, it dawned on me: I am a monster in that form. The unstoppable force that is the Apex Predator form makes me as much of a monster that the captain or Scylla was. So, to honor her, I picked up all her heads and her body, and threw it into a volcano, while praying for her soul to be saved. Suddenly, a knight approached me.
-You killed Scylla?-she asked.
-I did. And maybe, I shouldn’t have-my voice was filled with remorse.
-Aren’t you Ivan Berilov, the one who slain all those fishermen?-the knight asked.
-I am. Now, bring me back into custody, and let me have my punishment-I gave her my hands.
-Why should I put a hero in prison? And even if you technically committed genocide, you had an understandable reason, and it seems you even regretted it-she said.
-It’s your duty to imprison rouge knights. You can’t just give me a royal pardon for my crimes-I countered.
-What if I can?-her voice was dripping with innocent teasing.
-Wait… You’re the queen!-my mouth dropped along with my head and torso.
-Yes, I am. I searched for Scylla, like all the others, and stumbled upon you giving her a proper cremation. You are one heck of a knight, Ivan. And you’re worthy of my pardon. But with two caveats-the queen laid out her offer.
-What are they?-I asked.
-First, if humans attack your domain, you should consult with me about the situation, and second, you have to write down the tale of your fight. You have a week’s time to send it to my handbook. I am interested-the queen gave me her hand.
-You have a deal, ma’am-I shook her hand.
It didn’t even take me a day to finish my epic. And when I wanted to go home, I had an unexpected visitor.
-I read it. It was amazing, more than worthy. Can you write more? Anything. Your adventures, or even some fiction… I can’t get enough!-the queen absolutely geeked out upon seeing me.
-But am I pardoned?-I asked.
-You’re not just pardoned. You’ll be given the title of the Sea Knight-the queen said.
-I’ll gladly take it. Do you have anything else to say?-I asked.
-Nothing! Have a nice day!-the queen teleported. 
So, that’s how my life went. Most of you know that the Scylla accident was years ago, so, what have I done since? I wrote a ton of stories, defeated a lot of sea demons, and found a new way to satisfy my meat craving. So, one day, I was swimming through the algae field, and I spotted an old ship. I swam into it, and found a ton of historical treasure. I decided not to deprive humanity of these wonders, I dropped them off at a valley near my home. Archeologists quickly found it, and left a package to the “mysterious donor”. When I opened it, it was full of food and other things. Seeing the profitability in this venture, I still look out for shipwrecks or underwater ruins to get some stuff to “trade” for food. But I always keep the best for myself, and when an important day for the family comes, I put some on shore at the beach of my former estate, my former home. So, life couldn't be more wonderful. I am right now writing a new story, about two girls fighting for the same crown, and the shenanigans that come with it, with the queen being a huge fan of the idea, so, stay tuned for that! Now, thanks for reading this, Ivan out!
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thrawns-backrest · 1 year ago
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Chapter one is out! Please give it a read if you can, I'm really invested in this fic as of late. Hoping to work on chapter two today and maybe finish three so this fic is pretty much halfway done.
Title: Buried in Ice
Characters: Ronan, Ba'kif and others
Chapters: 1/?
Summary: Ronan adjusts to life with the Chiss when a sudden revelation leads him to realize that his fate is not as firmly in his hands as he'd thought it was.
___
There were times when Eli Vanto prided himself on his diplomatic skills. Not just in the grand scheme of things, where pompous politicians and high ranking officers were involved, but also on a more personal level. These were the skills that had helped him adapt as a total outsider in a society that wasn’t necessarily open to welcoming him.
True, Thrawn had handled being in the same situation with much more grace but most people tended to look bumbling next to Thrawn. In any respect. His former mentor had a way of staying poised even when failing and Eli couldn’t begrudge him for that. Even if he envied him for it sometimes.
At the end of the day, though, the Chiss were ultimately reasonable beings. They had a ways to go when it came to how they treated the unknown and foreign but they weren’t up there with the worst species in that regard.
That said, there were of course exceptions…
Eli winced as the Chiss captain raised his voice, swinging his arm in a cutting motion that made a nearby officer scurry away while the man standing frozen in front of him could only brace himself and endure the onslaught. The Chiss’ face was contorted in fury and Eli doubted Ronan could even understand him at this point, what with the way the words got lost under the vitriol.
(Heck, Eli could barely understand him… Though he did catch the insults. The nasty xenophobic kind, he noted grimly.)
Ronan himself stood completely still under the assault, his lips thin and pressed together to the point of going white. He hadn’t so much as twitched or said a thing since the officer’s tirade began – a state Eli was almost creeped out to see him in; that wasn’t the Ronan he knew – and he seemed to have shut down, his stare fixed somewhere above the captain’s shoulder though the tense puckered wrinkles around his mouth said otherwise.
And all of this over a simple mispronunciation, Eli fumed privately.
Ronan no doubt saw the injustice of it all but he was smart enough to understand that talking back to the captain now wouldn’t lead to anything good down the road. Not with the Chiss this intent on humiliating him.
There was another raise in volume and Eli once again wished he didn’t have to witness this spectacle. More than anything he wished Ar’alani was here to diffuse the situation and talk some sense into the captain but alas, Ar’alani was far away and they were surrounded by unfamiliar faces on this ship – a new post Csilla had assigned them to not too long ago seemingly out of the blue.
Something about the Chiss wanting to see if Ronan and Vanto were truly cut out for the fleet or if their service only showed results under Ar’alani’s command, an admiral loyal to Thrawn and who could be covering their failings to help him save face.
Well, Eli didn’t know about covering. But Ar’alani had certainly been more patient and lenient than he’d initially realized.
After a few more agonizing minutes, they were finally dismissed and allowed to retire to their shared private quarters.
Which brought them to the present moment, with Eli fumbling with his boots and desperately trying to seem casual while Ronan laid on his own bed, as still and as silent as a corpse and with his gaze fixated on the ceiling. They hadn’t said anything on their way here and the silence was beginning to weigh on him, thick and awkward and definitely not something they were used to.
He resisted the urge to chew on his lip.
He and Ronan hadn’t come anywhere near being friends since the latter had been dropped off at Ar’alani’s doorstep but they were still the only humans in this part of space and seeing Ronan like this, so quiet and decidedly not himself, made Eli uncomfortable.
Personal diplomacy, he reminded himself and braced for what he was about to do next.
He took a moment to pick his words and cleared his throat before making his tone into something casual.
“He didn’t have to be that rude you know, that word is especially tricky.”
He risked a glance in Ronan’s direction, pretending to wrestle with his boot’s fastenings. There was no reaction from the other bed save for some unintelligible mumbling.
Eli bit back a sigh.
“I know how you feel. I struggled with the language too at first. I still do.”
This time there was silence and Eli had to close his eyes and count to ten to muster the last of his resolve to go through with this. He’s difficult on the best of days, Eli reminded himself, you can do this. Plus, his pride was just obliterated in front of half the ship’s crew, what can you possibly do that’s worse?
He steeled himself once again.
“It’s actually their vocal cords.”
This one got him a reaction as Ronan’s disheveled head rose from the bed and Eli found himself the object of a scowl.
“What?”
Eli gestured vaguely at his throat.
“Their vocal cords,” he elaborated, ��They’re biologically different. Which makes some sounds really tough for us to pronounce.”
Ronan’s frown deepened for a moment, bordering on a grimace, before he rolled his eyes and flopped back onto his pillow sullenly.
“Of course it does,” he grumbled and Eli felt some of the tension leave his shoulders and be replaced with relief. This was more like the Ronan he knew.
Which wasn’t normally a ‘good thing’ – the Ronan he knew was nothing but a pain in the ass, really – but it did make the air in the room lighter and Eli worked his boots all the way off before bringing his legs up and leaning back against the wall.
“I’m not sure if they know it though,” he said casually, “They’re not very tolerant about it.”
“You don’t say.”
Eli snorted at that. He supposed it was kind of obvious.
With that, the conversation trailed off and he allowed himself to relax somewhat, letting his mind drift and the day’s tension drain away as he traced patterns on the ceiling’s surface. He had just about decided to turn in for the day when a voice drifted up from Ronan’s bed and Eli snapped his head to him, blinking the thought away.
“I’m sorry?”
Ronan frowned again, his glare firmly in place.
“I said, if you would be so gracious to hear this time,” he sniffed. “Why are you here, Vanto?”
The question took a moment to register but when it did, Eli answered it with ease.
“Because Thrawn thought I would be useful here.”
Ronan didn’t seem to like that response and it instantly showed all over his face and the way his shoulders bunched under his uniform. It was a reaction Eli was used to seeing whenever Thrawn was brought up, the Assistant Director’s disposition towards him remaining ever so hostile despite having known him so briefly.
Eli had long given up arguing about it.
But then,
“Why are you being useful to them.”
His nose wrinkled and he glared right back at Ronan as it finally hit him where this exchange was headed. So this is what Ronan was going for? Trying to bait Eli into a conversation condemning the Chiss in general?
Well, he wouldn’t be getting it, he decided as he pointedly shifted his position against the wall.
“Because one day they may be useful to us,” he said, putting more force behind his words. “And I respect them. Why are you here?”
____
“Why are you here?”
Ronan felt his whole face spasm at that and turned back to stare at the ceiling stubbornly. He was not going to discuss this with Vanto.
But Vanto wouldn’t be Vanto if he didn’t decide to be infinitely irritating every five minutes and Ronan’s obvious reluctance to talk didn’t seem to deter him.
“Let me guess,” he began, ever so smug, “you wanted to gather information and pass it on to Krennic. Except that’s not working out very well for you.”
The words sent a jolt of indignation through him and he sent Vanto his best warning glare while the brazen yokel merely smirked back at him.
Curse him and his transient insights.
It was true – Ronan had hoped to expose whatever underhanded deal Thrawn had going on with his people or at least a hidden group of force sensitives that could potentially be a threat to the Empire. Yet all he’d found was a group of children who didn’t even know what the Force was and only used it to guide ships.
It was not merely bad luck but bad judgement. What was worse, he hadn’t reported to Director Krennic in weeks and he was fairly sure the Empire had lobbed him in the same category as Vanto by now: a coward, deserter or traitor or possibly all three, each one more damning than the last.
His lips thinned at the thought of the news reaching Director Krennic. His closest and most loyal subordinate gone after a frolic in deep space with Thrawn. Part of him wondered if the director would refuse to believe it and think Thrawn had been the one to get rid of him after the report that had cost him his funding… but if Ronan believed that, it was only because he wanted to.
A chilling idea suddenly occurred to him and he swallowed heavily.
“They haven’t let us contact the Empire once since I came here,” he said, the ball of dread in his chest growing as his mind took that train of thought and ran with it, taking it to all sorts of horrifying conclusions.
“I’m not even sure there is a way to contact them,” he finished quietly.
“The Chiss are very secretive.” Vanto shrugged, unbothered. “I’m not surprised we don’t have much contact with the rest of the galaxy.”
But Ronan’s sudden realization had already unmasked the obvious truth and he felt the color drain from his face as he shot up in his cot.
“Maker, Vanto… we’re never getting out of here are we?” He said fearfully and watched as Vanto’s brow scrunched up.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re never letting us leave,” Ronan insisted, “The Force navigators alone, they don’t want anyone knowing about that.”
Vanto nodded along in acknowledgment. “And we already do.”
Ronan’s horror mounted at his lackluster response but even more potent was the rage he felt at the fact that he’d essentially been tricked. Thrawn’s promises be damned, the Chiss had lied to him.
Ronan had been promised the opportunity to leave whenever he wanted and even a transport back to the Empire if it came to that. But those promises no longer held any water.
The Chiss had made it clear how adamant they were about not letting any information about their Sky Walkers or battle tactics fall into enemy hands, be it on purpose or by accident, and Ar’alani was nothing if not meticulous. Thrawn knew all that, he must have known all that when he put Ronan under her command.
He’d thought Thrawn above such dishonest tactics… Apparently, he’d been wrong. And now he would never go back to the Empire, never see Stardust finished and never stand at Director Krennic’s side again.
“Maker help us…” he said in a small voice and fell back in his cot as his despair gripped him. Form the corner of his eye he saw Vanto shake his head.
“This is why I keep telling you to drop your reservations,” he sighed, sounding oddly sincere. “The Chiss value loyalty and they’re very good at telling when you’re lying. Being honest with them and serving the Ascendancy earnestly guarantees that they’ll treat you fairly. And probably let you leave one day.”
The suggestion settled uneasy in Ronan’s gut and he once again felt the phantom pull of strings on himself. Platitudes and more false promises, his mind whispered angrily. He poured all of that contempt into his voice.
“Or maybe that was Thrawn’s plan all along,” he spat. “To make sure I wouldn’t leave.”
Vanto snorted.
“Why, because you’re such a big threat to him?”
“Because I’m loyal to Director Krennic. And I would do everything in my power to make sure he succeeds.” Ronan bit out though the words sounded hollow to his own ears. Vanto didn’t seem impressed by them either.
“If you say so.” He shrugged and turned to stare vapidly at the wall.
He didn’t seem to want to press the issue further but Ronan’s mind was already running a thousand light years a minute and he couldn’t stop the doubts from worming their way into his heart.
Back on the Chimaera’s bridge, Thrawn had maintained that Ronan was a dead man if he decided to return to Stardust. A frightening prospect for sure but Ronan had assured himself time and time again that this wasn’t the reason why he chose to leave. It was for the Empire’s good, for the whole galaxy’s good.
However now his conviction was beginning to falter.
If he were so loyal to Krennic he would have fought to stay with Stardust regardless if his life was on the line or not. His usefulness here was a mere possibility while his importance to Stardust’s speedy completion was fact.
Maybe his loyalty was not all he made it out to be after all. Instead of staying by Director Krennic’s side, especially when a troublesome character like Vader threatened to take over, he’d gone on some wild goose chase for force sensitives.
Something the Emperor’s vaunted inquisitors and that rabid lapdog of his should be doing. Ronan was an Assistant Director for Maker’s sake.
No, actually, stupid is what he was. Overthinking to the point of driving himself into a corner.
Curse Thrawn for tricking him into agreeing to this!
“Anyhow,” Vanto’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “Thrawn never said anything about challenging Krennic.”
Ronan felt a fresh surge of zealous rage.
“And yet that’s what he did.” He got up to jab a finger into the mattress. “Even if he doesn’t see Director Krennic as his enemy, he still pushes for more financing for his Defender program. And those funds will end up being detracted from our project. From the true deterrent the galaxy needs.”
The outburst peaked and then simmered for a moment, eating away at the reluctant respect he’d come to have for Thrawn all those months ago, before suddenly ebbing away and leaving him exhausted.
“But anyway none of that matters now,” he said as he lowered himself back to the cot. “Not while we’re stuck here.”
From across the room Vanto sneered and moved to turn his back toward him.
“Maybe you’re stuck,” he scoffed, settling into his own bed. “I’m here of my own volition.”
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dailyanarchistposts · 6 months ago
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Chapter VIII. Of the Responsibility of Man and Of God, Under the Law of Contradiction, Or a Solution of the Problem of Providence.
THE ancients blamed human nature for the presence of evil in the world.
Christian theology has only embroidered this theme in its own fashion; and, as that theology sums up the whole religious period extending from the origin of society to our own time, it may be said that the dogma of original sin, having in its favor the assent of the human race, acquires by that very fact the highest degree of probability.
So, according to all the testimony of ancient wisdom, each people defending its own institutions as excellent and glorifying them, it is not to religions, or to governments, or to traditional customs accredited by the respect of generations, that the cause of evil must be traced, but rather to a primitive perversion, to a sort of congenital malice in the will of man. As to the question how a being could have perverted and corrupted itself originally, the ancients avoided that difficulty by fables: Eve’s apple and Pandora’s box have remained celebrated among their symbolic solutions.
Not only, then, had antiquity posited in its myths the question of the origin of evil; it had solved it by another myth, in unhesitatingly affirming the criminality ab ovo of our race.
Modern philosophers have erected against the Christian dogma a dogma no less obscure, — that of the depravity of society. Man is born good, cries Rousseau, in his peremptory style; but society — that is, the forms and institutions of society — depraves him. In such terms was formulated the paradox, or, better, the protest, of the philosopher of Geneva.
Now, it is evident that this idea is only the ancient hypothesis turned about. The ancients accused the individual man; Rousseau accuses the collective man: at bottom, it is always the same proposition, an absurd proposition.
Nevertheless, in spite of the fundamental identity of the principle, Rousseau’s formula, precisely because it was an opposition, was a step forward; consequently it was welcomed with enthusiasm, and it became the signal of a reaction full of contradictions and absurdities. Singular thing! it is to the anathema launched by the author of “Emile” against society that modern socialism is to be traced.
For the last seventy or eighty years the principle of social perversion has been exploited and popularized by various sectarians, who, while copying Rousseau, reject with all their might the anti-social philosophy of that writer, without perceiving that, by the very fact that they aspire to reform society, they are as unsocial or unsociable as he. It is a curious spectacle to see these pseudo-innovators, condemning after Jean Jacques monarchy, democracy, property, communism, thine and mine, monopoly, wages, police, taxation, luxury, commerce, money, in a word, all that constitutes society and without which society is inconceivable, and then accusing this same Jean Jacques of misanthropy and paralogism, because, after having seen the emptiness of all utopias, at the same time that he pointed out the antagonism of civilization, he sternly concluded against society, though recognizing that without society there is no humanity.
I advise those who, on the strength of what slanderers and plagiarists say, imagine that Rousseau embraced his theory only from a vain love of eccentricity, to read “Emile” and the “Social Contract” once more. That admirable dialectician was led to deny society from the standpoint of justice, although he was forced to admit it as necessary; just as we, who believe in an indefinite progress, do not cease to deny, as normal and definitive, the existing state of society. Only, whereas Rousseau, by a political combination and an educational system of his own, tried to bring man nearer to what he called nature, and what seemed to him the ideal society, we, instructed in a profounder school, say that the task of society is to continually solve its antinomies, — a matter of which Rousseau could have had no idea. Thus, apart from the now abandoned system of the “Social Contract,” and so far as criticism alone is concerned, socialism, whatever it may say, is still in the same position as Rousseau, forced to reform society incessantly, — that is, to perpetually deny it.
Rousseau, in short, simply declared in a summary and definitive manner what the socialists repeat in detail and at every moment of progress, — namely, that social order is imperfect, always lacking something. Rousseau’s error does not, can not lie in this negation of society: it consists, as we shall show, in his failure to follow his argument to the end and deny at once society, man, and God.
However that may be, the theory of man’s innocence, corresponding to that of the depravity of society, has at last got the upper hand. The immense majority of socialists — Saint-Simon, Owen, Fourier, and their disciples; communists, democrats, progressives of all sorts — have solemnly repudiated the Christian myth of the fall to substitute there for the system of an aberration on the part of society. And, as most of these sectarians, in spite of their flagrant impiety, were still too religious, too pious, to finish the work of Jean Jacques and trace back to God the responsibility for evil, they have found a way of deducing from the hypothesis of God the dogma of the native goodness of man, and have begun to fulminate against society in the finest fashion.
The theoretical and practical consequences of this reaction were that, evil — that is, the effect of internal and external struggle — being abnormal and transitory, penal and repressive institutions are likewise transitory; that in man there is no native vice, but that his environment has depraved his inclinations; that civilization has been mistaken as to its own tendencies; that constraint is immoral, that our passions are holy; that enjoyment is holy and should be sought after like virtue itself, because God, who caused us to desire it, is holy. And, the women coming to the aid of the eloquence of the philosophers, a deluge of anti-restrictive protests has fallen, quasi de vulva erumpens, to make use of a comparison from the Holy Scriptures, upon the wonder-stricken public.
The writings of this school are recognizable by their evangelical style, their melancholy theism, and, above all, their enigmatical dialectics.
“They blame human nature,” says M. Louis Blanc, “for almost all our evils; the blame should be laid upon the vicious character of social institutions. Look around you: how many talents misplaced, and CONSEQUENTLY depraved! How many activities have become turbulent for want of having found their legitimate and natural object! They force our passions to traverse an impure medium; is it at all surprising that they become altered? Place a healthy man in a pestilent atmosphere, and he will inhale death.... Civilization has taken a wrong road,... and to say that it could not have been otherwise is to lose the right to talk of equity, of morality, of progress; it is to lose the right to talk of God. Providence disappears to give place to the grossest fatalism.”
The name of God recurs forty times, and always to no purpose, in M. Blanc’s “Organization of Labor,” which I quote from preference, because in my view it represents advanced democratic opinion better than any other work, and because I like to do it honor by refuting it.
Thus, while socialism, aided by extreme democracy, deifies man by denying the dogma of the fall, and consequently dethrones God, henceforth useless to the perfection of his creature, this same socialism, through mental cowardice, falls back upon the affirmation of Providence, and that at the very moment when it denies the providential authority of history.
And as nothing stands such chance of success among men as contradiction, the idea of a religion of pleasure, renewed from Epicurus during an eclipse of public reason, has been taken as an inspiration of the national genius; it is this that distinguishes the new theists from the Catholics, against whom the former have inveighed so loudly during the last two years only out of rivalry in fanaticism. It is the fashion today to speak of God on all occasions and to declaim against the pope; to invoke Providence and to scoff at the Church. Thank God! we are not atheists, said “La Reforme” one day; all the more, it might have added by way of increasing its absurdity, we are not Christians. The word has gone forth to every one who holds a pen to bamboozle the people, and the first article of the new faith is that an infinitely good God has created man as good as himself; which does not prevent man, under the eye of God, from becoming wicked in a detestable society.
Nevertheless it is plain, in spite of these semblances of religion, we might even say these desires for it, that the quarrel between socialism and Christian tradition, between man and society, must end by a denial of Divinity. Social reason is not distinguishable by us from absolute Reason, which is no other than God himself, and to deny society in its past phases is to deny Providence, is to deny God.
Thus, then, we are placed between two negations, two contradictory affirmations: one which, by the voice of entire antiquity, setting aside as out of the question society and God which it represents, finds in man alone the principle of evil; another which, protesting in the name of free, intelligent, and progressive man, throws back upon social infirmity and, by a necessary consequence, upon the creative and inspiring genius of society all the disturbances of the universe.
Now, as the anomalies of social order and the oppression of individual liberties arise principally from the play of economic contradictions, we have to inquire, in view of the data which we have brought to light:
1. Whether fate, whose circle surrounds us, exercises a control over our liberty so imperious and compulsory that infractions of the law, committed under the dominion of antinomies, cease to be imputable to us? And, if not, whence arises this culpability peculiar to man?
2. Whether the hypothetical being, utterly good, omnipotent, omniscient, to whom faith attributes the supreme direction of human agitations, has not himself failed society at the moment of danger? And, if so, to explain this insufficiency of Divinity.
In short, we are to find out whether man is God, whether God himself is God, or whether, to attain the fullness of intelligence and liberty, we must search for a superior cause.
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