#But ooo cross stitch sounds fun!

[see-ceci]

I'll make sure to let them know, don't worry.

But try not to be TOO entertaining, he might not let you go!

:))

If anyone asks, I'm definitely making rational 😉 and calm 😉 decisions and am perfectly safe.

[harmoni-me]

Hello! I’m not sure if your requests are still open but, if they are here you go! I wanted to ask if you could write me a request of Nagito Komaeda x a reader who is the ultimate Chess Master? I kinda wanted to imagine him falling in love or already dating his S/O who plays chess as a professional and is more on the kinder side when it comes to him. Good luck! 💖

Ooo! This is such a unique concept, and I absolutely love it! Writing it was an absolute joy! Thank you so much for the amazing request <3

Nagito Komaeda x Ultimate Chess Master Reader!

The ultimate nurse, the ultimate swords-woman, the ultimate photographer…everyone in this class seemed to posses such interesting talents. It made you feel quite jealous, in some sort of way.

Now, of course you never thought of your talent as boring, useless, or unnecessary in the slightest! After all, you were the Ultimate Chess Master. You believed that everyone should try chess at least once before inflicting their nasty opinions on the strategic game. Unfortunately, that was already too late when it came to…basically your entire school life.

In Elementary, you would ask the kids on the playground to play a quick game of speed chess, because you thought it was a fun way to spend time with friends! But all you got in return were child-built insults, saying that chess was stupid and boring. It’s quite ridiculous to admit, but those comments still float around your mind sometimes. Kids were harsh, still are…

In Middle School, you had a few close friends, and when you asked one of them to try playing a game of chess with you, all they did was look at you weirdly, a look that only seemed to scream “uh, are you serious?”. This was when you started to question your liking for chess. Was it that weird? Am I the only one my age that thinks that chess is actually a fun game?

Now, you were sitting in class at Hope’s Peak Academy, a school full of the elite, yet…

This was the first time you felt truly, whole-heartily ashamed about your love for the game of chess.

“Are you kidding me? Chess? You got into this school for an old-people game like CHESS!? Pfft-!” A girl in twin blonde pony tails and an orange kimono let out a shrill of laughter.

“An…old people game….?” You muttered to yourself, steadily becoming a little closed off from the rest of the class.

You’re love for chess was parallel to how you played, which was almost unbeatable on a professional level, yet…

Why were these comments crushing your heart? Why did it make your love for the game waver?

Class continued like normal, just a little lecture to start off the rest of our high school lives. You honestly weren’t paying attention, your focus more attentive to your little chess notebook, filing it with strategies you wanted to try against high-level computer AI.

Though, it would be nice to have even a complete beginner to play with every once and awhile, though, you might be asking for too much.

Thump

Great, more harassment.

You turned around slightly in your seat, and looked down at the ground it see a crumpled piece of notebook paper that had hit you in the back. You picked it up, and looked around to try and figure out a potential culprit, but it seemed as if everyone was acting normal. No dice, then.

Unfolding the messy ball of paper as quietly as possible, you read what seemed to be words written on the inside.

Meet me in the library today after school, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to be seen with trash like me

The wording on the letter was…strange, but that didn’t stop you from feeling a tiny firework of joy in your heart. Yet, you couldn’t help but feel more nervous than joyous due to how the letter was written. It was surely vague, but it really seemed like the writer as quite the low self esteem.

You were suspicious, but honestly, what could go wrong? It had to be someone from the class that you were just introduced to, so at least it’s not like a blind date sort of thing…

The more you thought about it, the more it actually seemed like a blind date. Nice.

Time seemed to move incredibly slow for the whole rest of the school day, but eventually, the bell had rung, and you were out the door in a heartbeat.

After a little while of asking for directions to the school library, you finally reached your desired location: An absolutely humongous cavern of probably any book one could think of.

Only a couple of students were residing in this literal book mansion, and none of which you recognized.

“I guess they’re not here yet…” You mumbled, sitting yourself by a large, lit fireplace. As the warmth from the flames licked your skin, steadily causing you to naturally relax all of the tensed muscles that were stuck to your bones.

You pulled out your phone, and automatically started a game of online chess with a random opponent. The game was done in a mere ten minutes. The other player was no doubt new to the game, but that’s ok, you were there once too.

You suddenly heard a subtle clunk next to you, making your gaze wander to that direction. It was that boy from your class, the lucky boy. You remember him clearly because you thought his hair resembled a fluffy cloud. The two of you made eye contact, his foggy green eyes squinting a bit when he smiled at you, warming your heart a smidge.

“Y/N L/N, correct? I hope you don’t mind my presence, though it’s ok if you do, I would never blame you on something that’s not your fault.” The thin male crouched down to take a seat on the floor with you, sitting cross-legged.

“Yep, that’s me…and I actually kind of appreciate the meeting, honestly. Even if you just came for simple company, I think that’s very nice of you, especially since everyone in the class already thinks my talent is boring and all…Nagito Komaeda, right? I’m happy to meet you.” You shot a warm smile to the boy, causing him to reciprocate.

“You’re too kind to such untalented scum like myself, all I have is the Devil’s luck, after all! I can’t even control any of it! So I’m glad someone like me can be used as a stepping stone for you to be a beacon of hope!” Nagito chuckled, humored by his own self loathing.

You flipped your whole body to face the living incarnate of a four-leaf clover, “Well, um, on a personal note, I don’t think you’re scum. At all. I think your talent is anything but boring…I also think you’re…quite kind, for hanging out with someone like myself.” Fiddling with your uniform sleeves in nervousness. You just want him to feel better about himself.

The boy went quiet, his smile dwindling from your comment. Was he not used to compliments?

After a few moments in silence, Nagito gazed into your eyes, a new type of smile prettily stitched onto his features. It was almost like this expression was more…vulnerable, uncovering itself under layers upon layers of facades. His face almost made you breath out a sigh of relief at how comforting and relieving his genuine expression was.

“I would like to play with you. I-If you would let me, of course.” Nagito gestured his hands downwards to the chess set he had placed onto the ground since the very beginning. And how did you not notice that? It may or may not be the fact that the boy in front of you seemed to be way more intriguing.

You’re eyes widened as sudden happiness started to flow through every vein within your body. The excitement washed over your soul, rejuvenating it’s prior state of melancholy dreariness. Was…he was serious, right?

“Really…?” Was all that you managed to squeak, causing the lucky student to tilt his head in wonder.

“Hm? Well, of course…I don’t really know who else I would be aski-“

“C-Can we please play speed chess!?” You sputtered, the passion and the fireplace flames reflecting off of your eyes to reveal in an enticing glow.

“Speed Chess?” Questioned the frizzy-haired boy, though he did seem quite interested at your sudden burst of energy.

“Yeah! It’s also commonly referred to as Blitz Chess, and it’s like chess, but you have a very short amount of time to make your moves! It’s super duper fun, and if you want even more fun, then we could also play Bullet Chess! It’s even faster, and a game only takes roughly three minutes if you…keep up…the…pace…” Your words started to get quieter and more mumbled. God, you totally forgot the two of you were in a library, how embarrassing….

A hearty laugh spilled out of Nagito’s mouth, the corners of his lips turning upward to the ceiling. You looked down in pathetic nature. That was totally something to laugh at…

“Though I would consider myself a newbie when it come to chess, speed chess sounds lovely.” Nagito smiled, his pointer finger playing and twirling around the queen piece’s crown.

“Ah, a-alright, well, lets get started, shall we?” You stuttered, with joy obviously evident within your voice.

                                       .   .   .

Unsurprising to you, you had won all three games of speed chess against Nagito, though, it was surprising how close each game was. the more you thought about it, the more you realized his luck most likely aids him whenever he plays. Definitely one of the most interesting opponents you’ve been up against, whether it would be for casual online play, or in-person tournaments.

“Ah, bummer, I guess someone as useless as me shouldn’t even try to come close to beating you!” The boy ruffled his cloud-like locks, laughing at his loss.

“Hey! You had me worried for a few turns there, you were no pushover at all, Nagito!” You proclaimed, frustrated on why he would still think that, even thought the game results were all obviously pretty close.

“Also, please don’t say that your useless…it makes me really sad, because it’s not true at all.” You looked up at him with eyes that reflected something that had never burned so brightly before, and Nagito noticed.

Those eyes, previously clouded from the despair given from others, were now shining with a glimmering hope…and he drew that out from you…by simply playing a mere few games of chess.

For a moment, and only for a moment, he believed your words. Maybe he wasn’t so useless, he helped you find your smile and joy, right? Maybe…maybe…

“Oh yeah!” You shot up, causing Nagito to snap out of his thoughtful daze. You stuck your hand out to him, waiting for reciprocation.

“A handshake, to wish a good game among equals.” You encouraged the boy, wanting for him to fully indulge into what it was like to play the game in a professional, yet somewhat casual setting.

The boy looked at your hand, observing everything. Your nails, your fingertips, your knuckles, all the way down to your wrist. Equals, huh…

Nagito then slowly reached out to your hand, grasping onto it gently, yet it felt like it was the most comfortable fit he could’ve imagined. He wanted the warmth from your soft skin to seep into his cold hands, wanting that heat to slowly fill the rest of his frozen body, all the way up to his thawing heart. Though he didn’t linger any more on the handshake than he needed to, not wanting to make it uncomfortable for you.

But god, did he want to hold on forever.

[author-morgan]

Misthios!Alexios Prompt: “Don’t get sassy with me!” “Do i regret it? Yes. Would i do it again? Probably.” “One more sound and i swear to-” “Ooo, i sense attitude in your tone.” And a VERY sassy frustrated S/O and a cheeky little shit Alexios.

sorry this took so long i got distracted by Eivor! i hope you enjoy it, nonny! one sassy, bratty boy coming right up. 

Alexios x fem!Reader

HE JERKS AWAY when you pour the cider vinegar over the gaping wound on his side. Diluted blood runs over the deck of the Adrestia. “Hold still!” You hiss, pressing down on Alexios’ shoulder. Stentor had challenged him to wrestle a wild boar with his bare hands and the Eagle Bearer wouldn’t let his masculinity be tarnished by backing down. The boar was dead, and Alexios would’ve been waiting for Charon on the Styx if the boar’s tusk had gone a hair deeper. 

“Maybe I would if you weren’t trying to finish me off!” He remarks, still trying to move out of your reach. He’s convinced that he’d suffered worse wounds than this, but you’ve known him since he was a boy and this was bad. A flap of skin hangs near his ribs. If his stubbornness didn’t kill him, an infection just might —especially if he won’t let you tend to him properly. 

You gnash your teeth and scoot closer to him again —wadding up his grey chiton and pressing it against his side, blood seeps through quickly. “Do not get sassy with me right now, Alexios,” you censure, “I might just let you bleed out.” (You’d never do such a thing —you’re far too fond of this misthios, but the threat is enough to make him a slightly more affable patient.)

Alexios glances away, half-pouting and indignant, resisting the urge to cross his arms. Shifting, you reach for the needle and silk thread. “Do I regret it? Yes,” he remarks, still unable to meet your stern gaze. If you’d known he was going to do that you would’ve stopped him. Alexios lets Stentor get under his skin too easily sometimes. “Would I do it again?” He turns his attention back to you, golden-brown eyes filled with warmth and mirth. “Probably.” You both say in unison. You’ve known Alexios long enough to know what goes on in that head of his. Barnabas brings a skin of strong white wine, and you uncork it, offering the drink to Alexios. He’ll be grateful for the wine once you start stitching him back up. You douse the needle in vinegar, then pass it through flames before threading it. 

“Maláka!” Alexios exclaims, grimacing as you make the first pass with the needle. “That hurts!” You fight the urge to roll your eyes. He’d been gored and there was nary a complaint, but gods help him against tiny pricks. 

He groans again and drapes his arm over his eyes. Dramatic little brat. You know Alexios is doing this on purpose. “One more sound and I swear to-” you start, cheeks red —you still have half the wound left to close and the noises he’s making now do not sound like a person in pain. He has the audacity to laugh, and it causes fresh pulses of blood to surface and run down his side. 

“I sense attitude in your tone,” Alexios smiles, cutting his eyes over to you. He jolts away from you when the needle pierces his skin again, tearing it from your hand and almost giving him another fresh wound to scar. 

Sweat beads up on your brow working under the hot midday sun. “Alexios,” you chide, “for the love of the gods, please stay still and quiet.” His fun and games come to a close. Alexios always enjoys getting a rise out of you, but maybe this time his wound was pretty bad. The Eagle Bearer listens without complaint as you finish up the line of sutures. 

Alexios sits up —a soft groan leaving his lips. You wrap several strips of linen around his torso, covering the fresh sutures and the honey salve you’d rubbed over the broken skin. He’s watching every move you make, memorizing the gentle brush of your fingers against his flesh. “You’re the most stubborn man I’ve ever met,” you tell him, tying a knot in the dressings. 

He shrugs. “Must be the Spartan blood,” Alexios says, in turn, lips kinking into a charming smile. 

You roll your eyes. “Instead of almost getting yourself killed next time, why don’t you just push Stentor overboard?” Alexios’ head snaps to you, aghast and delighted by the suggestion —his smile widens, eyes sparkling with anticipation. Stentor was a bit of a headache, and you wouldn’t mind a good laugh from time-to-time. 

Alexios leans forward to steal a kiss, but you offer one to him freely. He caresses your cheek, thumb running over your jaw. “I love you,” he breathes, still smiling. You reply with another quick kiss. The poets would say you’re his better half, but to Alexios, you’re his equal and partner-in-crime. Stentor doesn’t stand a chance against us both he thinks with a grin, watching as you gather up the soiled and unused supplies. 

[tagging my fellow Alexios lovers @nemo-my-name-forevermore @levikra @wallsarecrumbling @nonelleke]

[snowdice]

Illusions of Grandeur... Or Perhaps Just Illusions (Part 1) [A part of the Illusory Records Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Remus & Janus

Characters: Remus, Janus

Summary: Remus is training to be an undercover super-agent, but training is boring. So, being Remus he... finds some “fun” (read trouble) with the city’s resident vigilante.

This story is set in the Labeled Universe and takes place about 4 years after Sometimes Labels Fail, but runs pretty adjacent to Virgil, Logan, and Patton’s story.

Notes: Superhero AU, mind manipulation

Remus didn’t like the superhero suit they’d put him in. It felt all weird and wrong (not to mention it was ugly), and he hoped eventually he’d get to design his own costumes. Mama had taught him and Ro how to sew when they’d been five and despite the fact that he usually just used that skill to make butt shaped pillows, he was still sure he could have stitched together something better than this orange monstrosity. He could feel the seams of it on his skin and it was driving him bananas. Maybe he could have ignored it if he really tried, but he didn’t want to really try. It also didn’t help that he was bored.

Training had been nothing but boring. Honestly, if they were trying to test him, they were doing a very bad job at it. Unless it was about seeing if he’d snap under the pressure of having nothing to do. Then they were doing swimmingly.

He knew he was only one month into the first phase of his training and that it would definitely get harder… but seriously? He’d thought being a superhero for a year would be about going out and taking down villains left and right not…

“Want another donut?” Officer Brigs asked.

Remus resisted rolling his eyes only because the man was nice if a bit boring. “No thanks.”

“Suit yourself kid,” he said with a shrug. Remus wondered if the man knew who he was or if The Coalition had kept that a secret from the man he was partnered with for this first year. Brigs was a cop that had missed working with Remus’s grandfather by three months. In other words, he was as old as dirt, but he’d seen a lot and worked with a lot of superheroes. They probably picked him because of his involvement with The Onslaught since that event was the entire reason The Coalition existed. The goal was probably for him to impart the necessity of the job Remus was training for. They wanted him to get a firsthand account of how horrible that event was so he could understand why his job was needed. Of course. Remus was already very well aware of that.

“Are we ever going to do anything?” Remus finally asked.

“When there is something to do, we’ll do it.”

“…Can’t we make something to do?”

“No.”

“Just a little bit of something to do,” Remus begged.

“I think I have my grandson’s steering wheel toy in the backseat. I can drive around the block and you can pretend you’re driving.”

“You know for such a boring bastard you’re quite the dick.”

“Thanks.”

Remus slumped against the passenger seat with a groan. The next second his world got a whole lot more interesting when there was a knock on Brigs’ window from someone in a beat cop uniform.

Brigs took one look at him and sighed. He rolled down the window. “I have a message from Antarctica,” the guy said looking dazed. “The penguins have taken over the Mars Rover.”

“I told you not to go after him David.”

The man blinked at him slowly. “Hi.”

Brigs shook his head while opening his door and ‘David’ stumbled back a step to let him out. Remus scrambled to get out of the car and round it because he absolutely needed to know what this was.

He quickly noticed that Brigs was looking at a man leaning against the building next to where they were parked. He wore a long cape and had a bowler hat on his head. Remus recognized him, of course, having grown up in this city. He was a vigilante that been in the city since mom was just a kid who went by the pseudonym Deceit.

“I think that,” he pointed at David, “belongs to you.”

Brigs sighed. “Unfortunately, he does. Get in the car David.” David looked at him and then slowly moved to do as he asked. “Penguins?” Brigs asked Deceit once David closed the backseat door.

“Oh, his mind chose that,” Deceit said, sounding just a touch amused. “I had to rip him away from a small tree he thought was one to get him here. I think he shed a few tears when he had to say goodbye.”

“Sounds like fun,” Remus interjected.

Deceit glanced briefly at him before dismissing him. “Well,” he said peeling himself away from the wall, “have a nice evening officer and,” he looked up and down Remus, “traffic cone.” Then he seemed to disappear, but Remus felt just the softest fluttering sensation in his head that told him Deceit likely hadn’t disappeared but gave them a gentle nudge into not seeing him. Ooo. He was fun.

“I didn’t choose the costume!” he informed thin air before turning back to Brigs. “Isn’t he a vigilante?” Remus asked Brigs. “Aren’t you supposed to at least try to arrest him.”

“Unlike David, I’m not an idiot,” Brigs said. “His powers are strong enough that he could easily down almost anyone in the city if he wanted to. We’re just lucky he doesn’t want to. The old folks already know not to mess with him, but some of the rookies get ideas of grander in their head. Let David be a warning to you.”

Remus hummed and got back into the car. Yet, despite the warning about Deceit’s powers, when he glanced back at David, he didn’t seem very worse for wear. He was a little confused and sometimes reached for objects that weren’t there, seemingly surprised when his hands closed around air, but he did not seem to be in any particular distress.

Remus, of course, already knew Deceit could be dangerous. He’d heard about the three different fights in the city during The Onslaught as they’d happened and had studied them during his college courses a decade later. One of the three battles had been waged at the Lial bridge, the major bridge that crossed the river that cut through the city. The perpetrator had been a compulsionist and had taken control of the citizens that had been driving on the bridge as well as a large chunk of the police force, included Officer Brigs as it so happened. The threat was that he’d make them all jump off the bridge if his demands were not met.

Yet, Deceit had stepped in. He’d somehow managed to rip away the villain’s control over the people on the bridge without killing them all and then, by all accounts, just absolutely ripped the compulsionist to mental pieces before shooting him in the head.

So, yes, Remus knew Deceit was definitely very powerful and could hurt someone if he wanted. Yet, his influence on David seemed quite gentle. He’d twisted him up in knots for sure, but ultimately, he seemed fine.

The effects of Deceit’s powers on David’s mind had faded completely by the time they made it back to the station leaving him with nothing but what he described as a “really weird hangover.” Brigs told him to go home and sleep it off, seeming to not even be worried enough to suggest he see a doctor. It sounded like this sort of thing had happened before.

When Brigs took him back out on the town after that, Remus had a lot of time to think. So he did. He thought and thought and thought. He thought so much that he was absolutely sure what he had in mind was a bad idea.

But, oh, it was going to be fun.

Want to read more? Click below!

Part 2

[dontgotothenetherworld]

Hi i love your blog!! I was wondering if you were taking requests because I’d love to see more Barbara x Delia !!💜

this is a date, right?

ok so i’m basically just going to turn a few hcs i have into a fic, changing a few of the surrounding hcs, but the barb x delia ones remain largely unchanged. if you have any more specific plot things you want to see of these two lovies, feel free to ask :)

this is such an underrated ship thank you for requesting them omfg

1529 words

”delia, do you want anna or olaf?” lydia asked.

”why not elsa?”

”because i’m elsa, duh.” 

”anna, then.”

”and i suppose that makes me olaf?” asked barbara, putting an air of offence on.

lydia handed the women their respective face masks. delia was the one who suggested the three of them have a “girls night out” as she put it. unfortunately, none of them wanted to go out in the freezing rain, so it turned into a night in. face masks were the first order of business. 

lydia started laughing hysterically. “what?” asked barbara.

lydia pointed at barbara’s reflection in the mirror. barbara turned and saw olaf’s face on hers, and started laughing too. lydia saw her reflection, and began laughing harder, which made barbara start laughing harder too, and the cycle kept repeating itself until they both felt stitches in their sides.

delia looked at her reflection, with anna’s face plastered across hers. “i personally think i look fabulous.” she pronounced fabulous like fab-you-loose. which in turn made barbara and delia laugh even harder than before.

”i can’t breathe.” lydia gasped for air. delia began giggling too.

it took them a solid three minutes to finally stop laughing.

”so i’m assuming you want to repaint your nails black?” asked delia. lydia nodded cheerfully,examining her chipped nail polish. “what about you?” delia asked barbara.

”what color are you doing?” barbara asked.

delia held up a deep shade, “purple!”

”i’ll go with that too, then.” barbara smiled.

”me first! me first!” said lydia, rushing to remove the current polish.

the two women chuckled at the young girl. an alarm rung out. they each took their face mask off.

delia started on her right hand, and barbara the left.

all of a sudden a loud banging, and some, uh, screams were heard from the attic.

barbara and delia were quick to cover lydia’s ears. they exchanged a glance. barbara felt her cheeks flush as she realized she was holding delia’s hands.

lydia glanced between the two women and rolled her eyes, then went back to examining her not yet dry nails.

”i’ll go tell them…” delia said. she quickly stood up and ran to the attic.

lydia, with barbara’s hands still around her ears, said, “you know, the only  real question is whether it’s all three of them up there or just beej and adam.”

barbara blushed again. she wasn’t very comfortable with how okay lydia was with talking about sex. she felt like the teen should at least be embarrassed by it.

after a moment, barbara heard delia’s heels click down the stairs again. “they should be quiet now.” barbara brought her hands back into her lap. “they thought we would be out.”

”can you put a sparkly polish on this finger?” lydia held up her middle finger.

”lydia!” exclaimed delia.

lydia looked down at her hand and realized she was flicking off her step mom. “oops. didn’t mean to do that. but still, can you make it all glittery?”

barbara spent the rest of the evening overthinking every interaction she had with delia, as well as every thought she had about delia. she felt like a teenager, struggling to figure out if she liked the gorgeous woman across from her, and attempting to decipher if delia possibly liked her too. maybe this would’ve been her high school experience, if she hadn’t met adam, and never felt the need to figure out her orientation.

the next day, after a many scary movies and bowls of popcorn, barbara woke lydia up with pancakes.

”morning, sweetheart.” barbara sat at the end of lydia’s bed.

lydia looked suspiciously at the pancakes. “what do you want?”

”what? can’t a mom just want to do something nice for her kid?” lydia had recently referred to barbara as ‘mom’, but barbara was still hesitant to use those words.

”she can, but in the, like, half year that you’ve been my mom, you have not once brought me breakfast in bed!” lydia triumphantly crossed her arms. then she eyed the sweet syrup soaking into the fluffy cake, and gave in, shoveling it into her mouth.

”okay, fair enough. i wanted to ask you something.”

”never a good thing for a daughter to hear.” she said with a full mouth.

barbara chuckled, then hesitated before saying, “how did you know you liked girls?”

lydia sat up straight. “why do you ask? nevermind, i know why, it’s delia, right?”

barbara blushed.

”let me tell you, if you think you’re attracted to her, and it’s causing you to rethink your entire identity, you’re probably attracted to her.”

”probably?” 

”there’s an exception to every rule. except the exception to that rule, the exception to there’s always an exception does not have an exception, which i can’t figure out if that enforces or disproves the rule…” lydia talked herself in circles.

”so what do you think i should do?” barbara rung her hands together.

”ask her out, obviously! do you have any more of these downstairs?” lydia pointed at her now empty plate.

”uh, yeah… don’t eat too much or you’ll feel sick!” she called out in vain. lydia had already zoomed down to the kitchen, destined for a stomach ache in half an hour. “i guess i can ask you for specific advice later…” barbara muttered.

”advice? on what?” delia stuck her head into lydia’s room.

barbara frantically thought up an explanation, “i, uh, wanted to maybe switch up my style, and i…”

”ooo! sounds like fun! do you want to go shopping with me later today?”

”that sounds perfect!” barbara faltered. she was actually perfectly happy with the way she dressed. but she supposed it couldn’t hurt to have the woman she was “probably attracted to” give compliments on her appearance.

”so, what kind of style do you want to go for?” asked delia as she circled the parking lot, trying to find an open space.

”um i don’t know. maybe, like, darker? not lydia dark or anything, that’d be a bit too much, but just a little bit darker than what i wear now.” said barbara.

”do you mean like darker color or darker style.” delia honked her horn. the person in front of her wasn’t paying attention, and was just sat there on their phone, blocking an open space.

”color, definitely.” barbara looked down at her plain dress. it was kind of boring, maybe she did want to try some edgier pieces.

”there’s no harm in trying some other kinds of stuff on, though.” delia pulled into the parking space.

the two women hopped out of the car. “well, there can be, delia.” delia turned, with a face of confusion, to barbara. “i mean like, people with really bad body issues, or even normally bad body issues, it can like hurt their mind or whatever to see their body in an unflattering piece of clothing.” barbara hugged her chest.

everything about this felt highschool.

”i suppose you’re right.” they walked in silence for a moment. “let me know if anything makes you feel bad, okay?” delia gave barbara a quick side hug, which unsettled a dozen butterflies inside barbara.

”thanks, delia.” barbara smiled.

after going through nearly every store at the mall, barbara had found six new dresses, two pairs of pants, and three shirts that she liked. they were still in barbara’s style, but they were much more neutral, rather than barbara’s current jewel tones. and of course, delia managed to find herself in the crystal store.

the two settled down, with all their bags, at a local coffee shop, both having ordered tea.

”again, thank you so much, delia.” said barbara contently.

”i told you. it’s no problem.” delia smiled. she gazed lovingly on barbara’s face.

”uhh delia.” called the twenty something behind the counter.

”i’ll go get it.” barbara quickly hopped up.

”oh, thank you!” delia called after her.

barbara mostly got up so she could hide her face. she felt she was blushing a lot, and just needed a moment to not worry about delia’s eyes. her beautiful eyes.

barbara waited for her tea to be finished.

”here you go.” barbara handed delia her tea and sat down. “don’t you want something warm? what with this chilly weather we’ve been having recently.”

”you’re right. do you mind if i try a sip?” she gestured at barbara’s steaming beverage.

”oh, yeah. sure.” she handed over the cup, “do you mind?” she picked up delia’s cup. delia nodded.

the two each took the first sip of the other’s drink. “that is delicious.” said delia, handing the drink back to barbara.

”i have to say i agree.” barbara took a sip of her own drink and laughed. “yours is good too, of course.”

they fell into a comfortable, ordinary conversation about lydia. she had recently gotten a girlfriend, her first in fact, and they were excited for her.

”young love…” commented delia. she lay her hand over barbara’s.

barbara stared at the overlapping hands as if it were a foreign image. her brain snapped back to reality, and she blurted out “uh, this is a date. right?” 

delia dropped her eyes, “i was hoping it is.”

@meangirlsx @meangirlmurphy @eliza-is-confused @boredomimi

[summerb4jc]

Sickness/injury prompt #2?

Hello Anon! Sorry this took me a few days, ya girl had a crazy busy weekend. But we’re here! The fic is written! Let’s Get Into Some Deep Angst:

It was foolishness, really, that brought him to the boy’s door.

Or window, rather.

Foolishness and pride.

Look where it had gotten him.

Oh, he had enjoyed the moment immensely, watching the boy squirm under the glow of his yellow eyes. Was it The Ghost? Was it a cat? Was it two bright stars?

It was fun.

Just a harmless bit of fun, a way to scare the boy, scare him away, scare him onto his ship and onto the ice so he could freeze and die and leave Christine alone.

He winced at the pain in his abdomen as he maneuvered through back streets and alleyways toward the Opera house.

In all his planning, he’d forgotten the boy was a soldier, and soldiers carried guns, and now the yellow-eyed cat was bleeding. 

Stupid, foolish.

Erik knew he was better for her in all the ways that mattered. He was smarter. He was more talented. He knew music, and Christine was music.

Yes, the boy was handsome and wealthy and could walk in the sun, but Erik had his own wealth, Erik had his own ways, Erik had his voice.

The ground seemed to tilt for a moment and he collided with a wall. Not much further now. He could do this, he could make it.

The streets blurred and twisted and only some innate call to find shelter kept him moving. He felt his way through his tunnels blind, and crawled the last few feet to his bathroom.

Gripping the edge of the sink, he pulled himself up. His shirt was soaked, sticky, and he hissed through his teeth as he peeled the cloth from his body. Vials and lotions and pretty bottles of scent he’d purchased for her use clattered around him as he swept his hand through the cabinet. He pulled down a roll of bandages, a suture kit, and a bottle of alcohol. 

He tried to light a match, and another, and another. They kept slipping. He couldn’t quite grasp...again, and again, until finally the match took, and he waved the flame over the needle’s point.

He took a few quick, bracing breaths, bit down on a washcloth and poured a healthy splash of the liquor onto his open wounds.

The pain was immediate, and he almost choked on the rag in his mouth as he gasped involuntarily. Fingers shaking, body shaking, he started the slow, arduous process of stitching up the two gunshot wounds as best he could. His eyes were watering and it was hard to see and he ripped his mask from his face, sparse strands of hair tickling his cheeks as felt his way through the final stitches.

The needle fell into the sink with a clatter, and he took the washcloth out of his mouth. Wetting a clean cloth, he gently sponged the area around the sutures as best he could, but knew he couldn’t delay the inevitable for long. Slowly, slowly, with the trepidation of a boy on his way to be punished, he pulled a large, square mirror from its hiding place beneath the sink and placed it on the counter. 

He observed the suture, making sure that every stitch was tight and straight before splashing the area again with the alcohol and wrapping the area with clean bandages. The tears from the pain refused to subside, coming instead from somewhere deep inside himself as he took in the angry red of the blood against the tired yellow of his skin, puckered old scars and bones too close to the surface. His breathing labored as he tilted, tilted, tilted the mirror. Skinny arms, scrawny neck, and always, always the papery, tired yellow of old leather, of used and discarded things. He met his own, shadowed eyes in the mirror for a long moment, watched the muscles of his jaw move as he clenched his teeth, ran his eyes over the streak of blood that he had managed to smear on his forehead, stared into the crowing glory that was the great, black hole in the middle of his face.

He was a dead man, covered in blood.

That was all he had to offer her.

His chest began to heave as his breathing came fast and ragged, spittle forming at the edges of his thin lips as he gripped the sides of the mirror. This was what he was offering her. A dead man covered in blood. A dead man covered in blood. A dead man who stank of decay and rot and old things and the dark and she, she, she was sunflowers and the air and that butterfly he saw that day mama forgot to close the window all the way, gold and red and flying across blue, and he was Don Juan on the edge of triumph and the mirror’s decorative frame was biting into his hands and he was still, he was still, HE WAS STILL–

He heaved the mirror above his head, poised to send it crashing to the ground.

It was her mirror.

His arms stayed above his head. He had bought it for her, thought she might like the pretty, gilded flowers scrolling around the edges. She would need it when she was his wife. He stood panting, gasping, his arms trembling from the loss of blood and the weight of the mirror, and with a scream that tore at the back of his throat he swung the mirror down, clutching it to his chest with a final, broken cry.  

He slid the mirror back into its hiding spot with a controlled calm he did not feel. The room was growing dark around him. He stumbled out of the bathroom and into the sitting room before the darkness overtook him.

o...oOo...o

The carpet was rough against his unmasked face when he finally came to, and the clock was ringing in the hour. He counted the gongs. Four...five...six...seven…eight...

Eight?

He scrambled to his feet too quickly, and a wave of dizziness washed over him. He leaned against the arm of the couch and pushed toward the kitchen. 

Eight in the morning or eight at night?

The cupboards were fully stocked in preparation for his bride’s arrival, and he pulled a chunk of bread from a loaf, and sliced a small wedge of cheese from a larger wheel. The food was hard to get down, it always was, but he needed his strength this evening.

He sat at the table for a few moments in silence until he felt his equilibrium return. The question remained...eight in the morning? Or eight at night?

He grabbed a clean mask and the little bag of Life and Death from it’s hook and crossed through the Louis-Phillippe room. Her room now.  It once carried the stench of memories best left forgotten, of his mother crying, crying in that bed when she saw him come, young and trembling, to her room for comfort after a nightmare, but the scent had dissipated, lifted, been replaced by a sweet scent, her scent, lilacs and the lotion she loved and the air outside.

He pulled a key from the little leather bag and opened the door to the torture chamber. He settled the mask on his face before he walked into the room of mirrors, ignoring his lanky reflection as he crossed to the iron tree. After a complicated series of gentle taps and tugs on various metal twigs, there was a cracking sound. A gap had formed between the trunk of the tree and one of the branches, and he turned the branch like a crank until panel opened in the ceiling. A ladder slid from the panel and he climbed up into the darkness. Using his fingertips, he lifted the trap door just enough to break the seal and let in sound. Violins and drums and cellos and trumpets, and floating over all of it, like a butterfly, was her sweet voice. 

Eight at night, then, and that at least half an hour ago.

There wasn’t much time at all.

Stupid, foolish. The Vicomte would have been plenty scared when Christine never arrived for their assignation. He should have left well enough alone.

His plan had many facets, many moving parts, smoke, mirrors, things to turn the attention away from him and away from her.  Her disappearance from the world above was meant to be nothing more than a quiet ripple. But now there wasn’t time for that. Now the plan would have to change.

He scrambled down the ladder and raced through the house, hastily wiping up the bloody sink and discarding the bandages, grabbing a case of doctored bottles, and slipping necessary tools into his pockets.

He rowed quickly across the lake. He was still reforming the plan, still examining what pieces were necessary and which could be discarded, and it wouldn’t do to be found at the opposite edge of the lake without the boat. The rowing motion pulled at his stitches, and his breaths came out in tiny hisses through his teeth. 

He slipped up through the tunnels, past the mirror looking into her dressing room, through the walls and down to the gas organ that controlled the lighting. 

The walls around the organ were peppered with panels he had installed long ago, panels he could reach through to fiddle with valves and turn certain knobs should the lighting need an immediate adjustment. He took a few, precious minutes to peer through these panels, locate the bottles of ale that the men in the room were drinking, and switch them with the doctored bottles he had brought with him. 

Intermission. He could hear the sound of the audience rising and falling like the swell of the sea above and around him as he prepared a soft place for Christine to land. He made his way to a discreet corner of the stage, hidden in the folds of the curtains, and watched an act of the opera. Let the boy gaze on her, let him plan their future from his lofty box seat. The boy would not have her after tonight. The world would not have her after tonight. 

He savored the sound of her voice ringing out into the theater. Her pure, crystalline voice filling his opera house for the last time. After tonight, her voice would belong only to him.

He slipped away from the safety of the curtains and made his way back down to the gas organ. Perfect timing. He pushed open one of the larger panels and climbed into the room, stepping over the bodies of the unconscious men as he made his way to the master switch. The switch was spring-loaded to prevent losing light during a show, an invention of his own design. If flipped by mistake, the switch would spring back up automatically, ensuring that the gas stayed running until someone latched it into the off position each night. 

Or held it down long enough.

He pulled a long cord from his pocket and tied one end to the switch. Threading the cord under one of the low bars screwed into the floor at the base of the organ, he left a bit of slack as he wrapped the other end into the gears of one of the pumps. The slack in the cord grew tighter with each pump of the machine, and he watched with satisfaction as the switch shifted down an inch. If all went according to plan, the cord would hold the switch down long enough to cut off the gas before snapping and releasing the switch, turning the gas back on.

He made his way back to the cushion he had positioned beneath the stage. Earlier in the show, Mephistopheles made his entrance into Faust’s chambers through this trapdoor, but the stagehands had all flitted to the flies, leaving the space beneath stage quite deserted.

He reached for the latch of the trapdoor and held it. Waiting, waiting, waiting…

The stage creaked above him as the actors moved across it, and he could hear her beautiful voice swelling into a crescendo. She stepped onto the trapdoor, and he caught a glimpse of her golden hair through the seams above him.

“Holy angel, in Heaven blessed, My spirit longs with thee to rest!” She sang out, glorious, resplendent, incandescent. His heart swelled inside him at the sound, at the words, and in that moment, the lights went out.

The screams from the audience drowned out the sound of her fall and the trapdoor re-latching. Drowned out the sound of her terrified gasp of “Erik?” before the chloroformed cloth came down. Drowned out the sounds of her struggling.

She went limp just as the gaslights slowly seeped back to life. He flung the cushion into a dark corner and pain ripped across his stomach at the sudden movement. He gasped but pushed pass the feeling, letting the adrenaline of the moment cancel out everything else. He heaved Christine over his shoulder with another slice of pain and hurried down the stairs to the third cellar, to the flats from Le roi de Lahore. He had left the trapdoor to the torture room unlatched, and he kicked it open before carefully descending with his precious cargo. He noticed a slick of blood on the cellar floor as he latched the trapdoor, and he went down the ladder as fast as he was able. Was it Christine? Was she hurt? Had the fall done her harm? She was growing heavier and heavier the longer he carried her, and he staggered under her dead weight as he reached the bottom. He laid her gently on the floor as he cranked the ladder back into place and locked the branch back in place.

It took more effort than it should have to lift her off the floor, and he caught a glimpse of the two of them, cracked and fractured where Joseph Buquet’s boots had ruined his perfect illusion, her hair, long and loose, cutting a soft, pale swath across his dark reflection. He looped an arm about her waist and rested her head on his shoulder as he half-carried, half dragged her across the room, reaching up with his free hand to press the small indentation that sprung the door open. He pulled her through the opening and into her room before the door closed behind him with a soft click. He made it to the sitting room, sweat dripping beneath his mask and struggling for breath as he laid her gently on the sofa. 

She was covered in blood.

“No. No. No no no no no no no no,” he muttered in a whispered chant and he searched for the wound. He head was fine, her arms, her hands, there weren’t even any holes in her dress. 

An idea, murky and dim, surfaced, and he put his hand to his own stomach. His long fingers came away red. Dark, angry red against the tired, tired yellow. He had to fix this. He needed to-

He crashed back to the floor as his legs gave out from beneath him.

Christine began to stir.

He pulled himself into a sitting position and rested his head on the couch near hers. He watched her eyes move beneath closed lids, watched her lashes twitch on her freckled cheeks, watched her brows furrow as she fought her way into consciousness. Her eyes fluttered open gently, and she gasped at the sight of the masked face so close to her own. She scrambled into a sitting position, kicking him accidentally as she pulled her knees to her chest. She wore the long, white, sleeveless tunic of Marguerite’s prison scene, stained in places with that angry red, and she bundled the end of her skirts about her bare feet in an attempt at modesty. They stared at each other for a long, tense moment. Her blue eyes never left his, and he watched as tears began to pool at her lashes.

“Erik, let me go.” Her voice was a timid whisper.

“You were going to leave me,” he said, his tongue thick and heavy.

“Erik.” Her voice was harder now. “Let me go.”

 “You were going to leave me.” He matched her tone, pushing himself  himself to his knees and grabbing fistfuls of her dress. “You were going to leave.”

She shoved him off of her and leapt from the couch, putting distance between them until she backed into the piano with a discordant twang.

“Yes. Yes, I was going to leave you. I am going to leave you.” She was shaking, and tears slipped quietly down her cheeks. “You’ve lied to me.”

He pushed himself up. Up again to his knees, up again to his feet, leaning heavily against the couch.

“You’ve manipulated me.”

He straightened to his full height. She leaned back further against the piano, eyes wide, knuckles white, trying so hard to be brave.

“You’ve frightened me.”

Her simple words hit him like shrapnel.

“It’s because I’m not handsome, isn’t it?” He pushes the word through gritted teeth. “It’s my face? You’re terrified of Erik’s face? If I was good-looking, if I looked like that boy-”

“It’s not your face!” She pushed off the piano and moved toward him, a fire burning, a living flame, voice low and dangerous. “I stopped caring about your face a long time ago. You threatened the man I love. You treated me like some sort of pawn in your power-play for the opera.”

Her stained white tunic and golden hair blazed in the light, and he squinted against the glare. She stalked toward him, a vision, missing only a flaming sword to completely the picture in his mind. A few scattered notes played somewhere in the back of his head, he itched for a pen, a piano, but there wasn’t time for that.

“You used my pain against me. You used my sorrow to sew us together. You used my father-” her voice broke, and she shifted back into Christine as she stopped in front of him. Her voice grew higher and louder as she strove to maintain control. “You twisted my father’s promise into something dark and frightening and I am leaving because I don’t have to stay! I am leaving because I owe you nothing! I am leaving because I am afraid of you, and I don’t want to be afraid anymore!”

Her words ended on a ragged sob, and he collapsed under the weight of what he had done to her. He only ever wanted to be outside, to touch the wings of the red gold butterfly as it cut a path across the blue blue sky. But butterfly’s wings aren’t meant for touching, and their tiny feathers come off their cut glass wings like so much dust. He never meant to take the sky from her.

He felt her arms around him, slowing his descent to the floor. She crumpled beneath his weight and they both fell. 

“Erik? Erik?” Her voice was high, panicked. She pulled at him as best she could, shifting him in her lap until she saw his blood-stained waistcoat. She touched the dark stain and looks at her reddened fingertips. “How did this happen?”

“Stupid, foolish, pride.” He whispered. Her face floated above him, haloed by the lamp behind her. He did not want to tell her it was the boy. “My own fault.”

“Let me see,” she said, pulling at the buttons of his shirt, “let me see it, I can help.”

“No, no!” He pushed gently at her hands, not wanting her to see the puckered, gnarled, tired yellow leather of his skin. “No, it is too late for that.”

“No…no…it can’t be.” The words were like a plea. She clung to his hands. “Not like this. You can’t go like this.”

She dissolved into wordless sobs, and he could feel her tears on his hairline, his chin.

“You have to stay alive!” She said through clenched teeth, shaking him gently. “You have to stay alive so I can stay mad at you! I’m the one leaving! I’m the one leaving, not you!”

He pulled the mask off to catch the precious droplets, to feel them on his skin. She did not flinch, did not pull back from the sight of him.

“Are you crying for Erik?” His words came out stilted and harsh, and his chest rattled as he struggled to breathe. Her hair was a golden curtain. All he could see was her. He reached a trembling hand and cupped her face, brushing away a tear with his thumb. She put her hand over his, trapping it against her cheek.

“Don’t go, I’m sorry, I’ll stay with you, just...not you too, you can’t leave me too...” Her words were hard to understand, but struck a chord inside of him as very wrong. 

“No, Christine. Don’t apologize. Not too me. I-” He turned his head away as a wet cough racked his body, and he felt her arms grow tighter around him. He could feel a trickle of something run from the corner of his mouth as he turned to face her. “I am...sorry, Christine. All I wanted was...a measure of happiness...for you to be happy...with me…but that was selfish.”

“Erik-”

“Selfish. You are...too good...too kind...to be chained in the dark with something like me”

“Don’t say that-”

“It is better this way, Christine...and I am sorry...for all of it…” With every ounce of strength he had, he pulled her hand towards his lips and pressed a kiss to it. A slash of red glistened against her skin, and he dragged his eyes toward her face, her beautiful, crying, living face. Alive alive alive! His breathing was rapid and ragged. “You did not die! Erik kissed you and you did not die!”

His breaths grew faster, shallower, and she smiled at him, a small, sad thing. She leaned down towards him, the tendrils of her silken hair brushing his cheeks, lips, throat like a benediction. She pressed a soft kiss to his brow and rested her forehead against his.

“I forgive you, Erik.” She breathed, and her sweet scent lingered about him as he drifted off to sleep.

o...oOo...o

Christine pushed her way through the mirror before stumbling a few steps back toward the dark tunnel. She hadn’t expected anyone to be in her room.

“Christine?” Raoul rushed towards her and scooped her into his arms. He held her for a long moment, but she couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t lift her arms. He pulled back and looked at her, saw the blood on her gown. He ran his hands over her arms, her face, trying to find the wound. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Christine looked at the gleaming gun in Raoul’s cummerbund, and it’s twin held by the other man in the room. That strange man...the Persian? She looked between the two in confusion.“This is the Daroga,” Raoul said gently, “he was going to help me find you. He knows...he knows about him.”

Christine felt the heat of tears in her eyes as she looked at the man. His face seemed to fall, just a fraction, as understanding hit him. There was a rough knock on her door. The Daroga opened it.

“Mademoiselle Daae is here, she is well. She fell through a trap-door in the stage and hit her head. Got lost on her way back to her room. She is fine now.”

The older gentleman closed the door on the inquiring voices beyond, and she saw sorrow matching her own in his kind face. She turned back to Raoul and leaned against his chest. His arms went around her, and slowly, slowly, she slipped her arms around him, clinging tighter and tighter as if he was driftwood and she was alone in the middle of the sea. Her eyes found the the Daroga’s as she whispered:

“Erik is dead.”

[darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts]

Princess Lessons

Thank you to the wonderful @mikamiw who draws some adorable and beautiful artwork. (Mikamiw Commission Price list).  Here is a little short that goes with this wonderful little drawing of the OC for Aerion Kitsune and Mitsuhide. Hope you enjoy it ^^. 

Warning: A little strong language, Two Kitsunes, Hideyoshi being strict... fluff.

Masterlist 

---

Princess lessons

Ever since she arrived in the past, she had been dogged night and day by a certain someone who was determined that she should be a “Perfect young lady.” Nobunaga might have given her the title of Oda Princess but honestly, it was never something that interested her one tiny bit. Even 500 years in the future she was not what anyone would have called hung up on trying to be really feminine. She was a tomboy. That was what made her happiest, not all this fussing dressing up and playing with hair and make-up.

Aerion sat in her room uncomfortably as Hideyoshi dipped the comb into a bowl of hot water and tugged her pale hair back into god only knew what style he deemed to be suitable for a lady. It hurt and each time she gave a small grimace at the stylist she was reprimanded and told: “Princesses don’t frown and pull faces.” She didn’t think Hideyoshi was a bad guy. Actually, after he decided she wasn’t a threat he was just like an overbearing parent. It took time but after all that tugging, twisting, and being poked Aerion looked into the mirror and sighed at the reflection of someone she didn’t recognise.

“Kill me.” She muttered as looked between the happy expression of Hideyoshi and herself in the mirror.

It was pretty, it was cute, it was girly it was… so not her. How was it so difficult to get people to understand she hated to play dress up? She hated pink with a passion and dresses and skirts were… well, they never made it into her shopping cart let alone her wardrobe in the future. But here that freedom was gone. Knowing that and then looking at her own reflection in the mirror made her feel as though the bottom had fallen out of her stomach.

“There now. Doesn’t that feel better?” Hideyoshi smiled happily, she was picture perfect. The mud had been scrubbed from her skin, her hair was detangled and not just tied back into a single ponytail at the lower side of her neck. He had also managed to find the cutest fabric in town and commissioned a kimono that was a cream to pink colouration. Aerion looked every bit the Princess he thought she should.

“You like this so much you wear it.” Aerion huffed and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Now, now you’ll get used to it. I’ll go and fetch the tea set and we can have a lesson so you can prepare it later for Lord Nobunaga.” Hideyoshi patted her head before exiting the room. He really did love to treat her like a child. That was something else that was irritating her today.

After she was sure of his departure Aerion moved from her floor cushion and slid the door to her room open slightly. Poking her head out just enough to check the coast was clear before making a dash for the main entrance. If she could get there without being stopped, she could get to the training hall and find a change of clothes.

---

“Made it!” Aerion cried out in celebration. A pair of arms wrapped around her from behind which made her freeze on the spot. “Eep!”

“It seems I caught a rather interesting little creature.”

She didn’t have to turn around to know who that voice and arms belonged too. Instead, she relaxed and then easily slipped his grasp turning to look him in the eye.

“Mitsuhide. You scared me.” She faked being upset. A wide grin on her face at the sight of her favourite partner in crime.

“Apologies my dear. I actually didn’t realise it was you at first.”

“Oh? In the habit of randomly grabbing girls in the street, are you?” Aerion met his tease with one of her own. Going toe to toe with Azuchi’s resident Kitsune was not something easy to do or maintain but she seemed to give as good as she got from day one. It was something that earned his respect and curiosity.

“Not at all. That is a pursuit best left to others. I just saw a rare sight and couldn’t help myself.”

“You probably say that to all the girls.” Aerion muttered as she began looking through some baskets set aside in the entryway of the training hall. They were full of soldier’s clothes that needed fixing.

“Believe what you will.” Mitsuhide shrugged and moved closer to her side as she bent over the side of a basket. He felt sure she would topple in head first if she wasn’t careful. “What are you doing out here Princess? And dressed…. Like that?” He looked over the outfit with interest. It was a polar opposite of her usual simpler style of clothing. It didn’t look bad it just looked a little unusual on her.

“You can blame Hideyoshi and his bloody Princess lessons for all this. It was not my choice.” Aerion’s explanation along with her flapping her arms out at her sides to make a show of the fabric covering her caused Mitsuhide to let out a laugh.

“Indeed, you are much more suited to your usual carefree self.”

“Well carefree me is looking for a change of attire. That is what I am doing here.” Aerion gave up on her current basket and moved to another.

“What happened to the other clothes you had in your room?” Mitsuhide was aware of her sewing her own clothes. Her creations had gained a lot of recognition from the castle seamstresses.

“Guess.”

“Hideyoshi appears to be very thorough.” Mitsuhide shook his head.

“Painfully.” Aerion shifted some fabric that was pretty much only fit as rags and then plunged her hand deep down into the pile. “Ooo this could work!”

“You intend to wear castoffs?” Mitsuhide inclined his head. He had seen her wearing some very strange attire when she first arrived. Something she called a hoodie and jeans.

He had even witnessed the times when Hideyoshi had been returning to the castle with the Princess tossed over his shoulder cursing him for spoiling her fun. Her simple kimono was a little dirty on its hem and her sleeves tied back revealing small scrapes to her arms from her adventures outside. She was not what you could call predictable by ordinary standards and that always made for diverting viewing.

“Well I don’t have the ability to find replacements right now and this kimono is hellish to move in.” Aerion lifted her hem giving Mitsuhide enough of a view underneath to also realise she had left the castle without any sandals; her socks were filthy.

“You cannot wear that my dear.” He gently placed his hand on hers and took the outfit for her grasp returning it to the basket from whence it came. He didn’t wish to sound in any way similar to the castle’s mother hen but be also didn’t wish her to wear something that ruined.

“Unless you can offer an alternative Mitsuhide we are at an impasse and I shall continue to do as I originally planned.” Aerion’s flash of familiar indignation made him chuckle in amusement.

“You usually do my dear it’s part of what makes you so charming.” Mitsuhide took her hand again in his and laced his fingers with hers. “I have some cleaned and mended Hakama back at my residence.”

“You want to take me to your place?” Her eyebrow rose. She hadn’t flinched at his touch like everyone else did.

“Yes.”

“Without buying me dinner or so much as offer me a drink? How bold of you.” Her showy act of playing a helpless damsel deepened his smirk.

“You really are the most entertaining woman. But a word of warning my dear.” He leaned in as if to share a secret in her ear. “Teasing so naturally as you do might land you with more than you can handle in return.”

“I could offer you the same warning.” She tossed back her reply without so much as a flinch. He liked that.

“Shall we go, my dear? Of course, you could hang around here some more and risk capture from Hideyoshi and his Prefect Princess lessons.” He gave a light tug on her hand and was rewarded with her coming to heel at his side walking happily next to him. Mitsuhide found himself wondering how many would do such a thing with someone like him?

---

Mitsuhide was as good as his word and then some. Not only had he located some of his clothes for her but he had also called one of the maids to bring a sewing kit so Aerion could put some stitches in place to make it more her size. After changing behind the screen and using the bowl of fresh water provided, she managed to remove the makeup from her face. Aerion was finally feeling a whole lot more like herself.

“What do you think?” Aerion asked after emerging from the changing screen, spinning on the spot like a child.

“I think it suits you.” Mitsuhide was sitting near his writing desk, busying himself with papers so as to not be too distracted by the slightly illuminated shadow performance he could see faintly playing out behind the screen in the room.

The couple were close and had been described in the castle gossip rumour mill as an item but he had not actually asked her to be his yet. They were happy together without a definition in the nature of their relationship. But he knew in his heart there was not a safe place in Heaven or Hell for someone to hide from him should they hurt her.

“Really?”

“Yes… you looked like a common palace girl before. Now? Well, you more like yourself.” Mitsuhide put down the papers in his hand giving his full attention to the slip of a girl standing in his room.

“You’re weird Mitsuhide.” Aerion giggled at his supportiveness.

“So I have been told. Now come here and I’ll correct your hair for you.” Mitsuhide patted the space in front of him on the floor. Aerion didn’t skip a beat in placing herself as she was told with her back to him. Slowly one by one Mitsuhide removed the ornate pins from her hair. Silently chastising Hideyoshi for attempting to tame something so naturally wild and beautiful.

The long blonde hair was so pale as it slipped through his fingers he sometimes questioned if it was transparent. It was ice white, it was a little like his own except for the traces of purple and blue that played out on its tips.

“Mmm… you’re kinda good at this.” Aerion murmured as the feeling of him teasing her hair back to normal relaxed her.

“I am only as good as the materials provided my dear. And you really do have beautiful hair.” Mitsuhide wasn’t lying there was no need. When she first arrived, she said that the colours would fade eventually and then she would be left with just a single boring shade. To him, her hair of trapped and spun moonlight was anything but boring, and he smiled as she leaned back a little into his touch.

“Do I?”

“Yes, it's soft as silk and the colour of moonlight. I always thought it to be a breath-taking irregularity.” Mitsuhide softly reassured her as he pulled out the last pin and the rest of her hair tumbled onto his hand.

“Guess that’s a fancy way of calling it weird. But I’ll take the compliment, thank you.” Aerion said with a smile.

– Knock, Knock –

“I think you might have a need to slip into here little one.” Mitsuhide lowered his voice and indicated the small room off of his study.

“Your bedroom? Why would you?” Aerion questioned, imagining that the visitor was probably just a maid come to see if anything else was required

“Mitsuhide! I need to talk to you.”

“Oh god!” Her blue eyes snapped open and the tension she had started to lose was creeping back. He was here, he found her.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about him I’ll see him on his way.” Mitsuhide didn’t wait to see if she was going to protest and just softly bundled her into his room and slid the screen from the corner over the gap to mask it from view before answering the door.

“Hideyoshi. What do I owe the pleasure?”

“What took you so long to answer the door?” Hideyoshi instantly queried.

“I was resting. I had rather a long night in the dungeons and was composing myself.” Mitsuhide gave his trademark smile as he replied with a simple enough excuse. He made a show to adjust his kimono that looked a little crumpled. “But you didn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”

“The Princess has run away.” Hideyoshi blurted out as he walked further into the room. He was twitching and clearly anxious.

“Again? My, my. You really do have a talent for causing our sweet girl to wish to disappear.” Mitsuhide noticed the hairpins near his desk and moved towards them quickly covering them with some missives so that Hideyoshi didn’t notice them

“I did nothing I was just helping her…” Hideyoshi looked out of the window worried and lost in thought.

“Helping her? To do what pray tell? To imitate every other palace courtesan? She is not a china doll for you to play dress up with.” Mitsuhide gave a small biting retort to Hideyoshi and his overbearing ideas for the girl. He had watched and been amused but he had also become a little pissed off at the repeated attempt to change her.

“You seem to be very passionate about this.” Hideyoshi looked very curiously at Mitsuhide and his seemingly uncharacteristic outburst. He had come across the castle gossip as well but he knew it to be nothing but bored musings. However, there were times like this that even he had to wonder if the rumours were true.

“Of course, I am. Since she arrived you systematically seemed to suck all the joy out of that poor girl. She was not born to this life why force it? What’s more, I still fail to see what her running off has to do with me.” Mitsuhide averted that curious prying stare by deflecting the original question back at Hideyoshi.  

“You observed her the most. I wanted to know if you had any ideas as to where she would have gone.” Hideyoshi was speaking honestly and Mitsuhide cursed in his mind how observant the other warlord could be at times. He had been watching from a distance mostly out of curiosity but then out of concern that Aerion might get hurt. She could be surprisingly reckless.

“You could try the woods, she may be up a tree.”

“Up a tree!?” Hideyoshi looked worried. The thought she would be in the woods where the potential for meeting robbers and bandits was bad enough but climbing trees?

“Yes… Oh! unless she decided to go to the lake and strip off to take a swim.” Mitsuhide kept his voice as controlled as possible whilst relishing the shocked expressions Hideyoshi was having at his suggestions.

“WHAT!?” The colour drained from Hideyoshi as he nearly flew out of the room, ignoring his own rules on running in the hall.

“Be sure to check the bank thoroughly for her. She is such a delicate thing she might have drifted in the current.” Mitsuhide shouted after him before closing the main door again chuckling.

“You are terrible.” Aerion’s voice came from by his side. She was out of his bedchamber but contrary to her words there was a broad grin etched on her face that mirrored his own.

“Takes a Kitsune to know one, my dear. I told you I would send him on his way.”

“Yes, well now when I do see him, he’s going to give me twenty million questions as to where I was.” Aerion heaved a deep sigh and sunk to the cushion on the floor once more.

“Don’t worry by the time that happens I’m sure we can come up with some story as to what you were doing that will keep him happy.” Mitsuhide put his hand on her head softly to reassure her. “Tea?”

“Yes please.” He whisked up his usual brew and handed Aerion her cup. She took it, enjoying the scent a little before sipping. “Mm… you make the best tea.”

“You flatter me.” Mitsuhide smiled into his cup at her compliment.

“Mitsuhide?”

“Mhm?”

“Thank you.” Aerion’s face had a deadly serious expression on it as she thanked him. He couldn’t let that go without a small tease on his part. Allow me at least this.

“Anytime my dear. I am at your service” He leant in and kissed her on her temple savouring the wide-eyed expression that followed as she registered his kiss.

---

This was a commissioned piece please do not take and repost anywhere without permission. Artist rights go to @mikamiw , OC creation is mine (AK)

[jetgirl1832]

103. 45. 8

I may have written these as three separate drabbles.... So triple the fun?

HFA

103: “I don’t know anyone else who can make me feel this way.”

“So what did it take to get Liam out of the apartment?” Lizzie asked as she settled on the couch two glasses of wine in hand.

“Not much,” Sidney grinned taking one of the glasses from her hand, “one of my coworkers had a crush on him-”“Stacey or Lionel?” Lizzie cut him off, “I bet it was Lionel-”

“How do you do that?” Sidney chuckled, “but yes it was Lionel, so the two of them are out tonight which means we have the place all to ourselves.” Sidney wrapped his arms around Lizzie and kissed her cheek.

“This will be fun,” Lizzie grinned sipping her wine and began flipping through movie selections on Netflix, “Ooo how about Edward Scissorhands?”

“And let you want me to recreate one of your crazy fantasies of having your hair cut by a man with scissors for hands?” Sidney raised his brow, “no thank you.”

“You’re no fun,” Lizzie pouted, “what about Sweeney Todd?”

“Liz,” Sidney rolled his eyes.

“Uhhg fine, no more hair jokes,” Lizzie pouted.

“I do hope that me moving in with you wasn’t only so you’d have a personal hairdresser,” Sidney laughed.

“Not entirely,” Lizzie began to blush.

“Well good,” Sidney grinned clearly oblivious, “we could watch Fivel Goes West, that’s a Don Bluth classic-”

“I don’t know anyone else who can make me feel this way,” Lizzie blurted out.

“What?” Sidney blinked.

Lizzie let out a deep sigh, “I don’t know anyone else who can make me feel this way,” she repeated a little slower.

“Oh,” Now it was Sidney’s turn to blush, “Liz, I don’t know what to say-”

Lizzie jumped to her feet, “Okay, and I’m gonna go hide in the bathroom until I die-”

Sidney grabbed her hand, “No don’t do that.”

Lizzie’s face was bright red, “And why not? I’m a horribly awkward human, who lacks a filter and I just screwed up big time so it only makes sense.”

“Well because I love you,” Sidney smiled squeezing her hand gently, “and it’s hard to love someone holed up in a bathroom.”

Lizzie let out a laugh, “You’re such a dork.”

“And so are you,” Sidney smirked, “but that’s why I love you.”

Lizzie smiled and sat back down with Sidney, “Say that again.”

“I love you,” Sidney leaned in to kiss her, “I love you so much.”

Canon-Era

45: “Please don’t shut me out.”

The silence that now existed between Alexander and has wife these past few weeks was practically deafening. The whole house seemed considerably with the absence of their beloved eldest son Philip. Poor Angelica had taken it the hardest, following days of secluding herself from everyone else in the house Alexander had been pleased to see her playing the piano again. After playing a few pieces she stopped, she muttered a few things and laughed a little. When he asked her what was so funny she’d say Philip had just told her a rather funny joke.

Alexander had to do his best to hold back is tears as he gently reminded his eldest daughter that Philip was not with them anymore, and he never would be again.

It had been barely a month since his passing and now December was upon them, this was usually a time of love and joy for their family. Not only was Christmas fast approaching but it was their wedding anniversary, to celebrate nineteen years. But this year Alexander felt too broken to celebrate, he didn’t think Eliza would want to either.

Upon his wife discovering that Alexander had counseled their son in regards to the duel the night before she’d scarcely spoken to him. It made Alexander fret terribly, his Betsey was pregnant and the last thing he wanted to see was her to miscarry and have her suffer through that pain as well.

When Eliza wasn’t occupying herself with keeping their house up and running, she’d been working on a delicate lace frame to surround a miniature of their son’s portrait, as she was doing now. The sun shining in from the large window in their parlor.

Alexander had apologized profusely and tried to comfort her to no avail, he had begun to feel utterly useless. He idled in the doorway for a bit with his hands behind his back as he watched his wife for a moment, thinking about all the pain he’d  put her through.

“Betsey?” Alexander spoke in a quiet tone, desperately wanting to end this silence between them, “Betsey please..”

Eliza did not budge from her needlework, and Alexander was certain he could see tears in her eyes as she continued with her stitching.

Alexander took a few steps toward here, “If you’re not careful you’ll stain the lace,” he all but whispered.

On other days a comment like that would have stopped her tears, and perhaps brought a small smile to her face. Instead, she turned away from him, placed her work in her lap and a hand to her face.

Alexander’s shoulders slumped and he went to her side gently putting his arms around her, half expecting her to push him away and was surprised when she didn’t. Instead, she made a move t pull him closer to her.

“Please don’t shut me out,” Alexander whispered into her ear, “please.”

Canon-Era

8: “This isn’t what I wanted.”

Immediately following the duel Aaron Burr regretted what he’d done, he had even prayed that Hamilton would survive his wounds. But directly after as all of New York waited on news of the General it was clear that socially Burr’s own life was over.Not even a week since that early morning in Weehawken and he felt incredibly alone. His dearest Theodosia away from him in South Carolina had been bad enough, but now it felt as if he had no friends, thinking about what he’d done… It was deserved.

Burr desperately wished to apologize to Eliza and her family, but in better times he knew that despite her usually sweet nature she was not a woman to be crossed. If he was to ever do that he’d need to let them grieve. After all he’d single-handedly taken her husband and their father. It made him sick to look back on it now, and how their youngest was only three years old, he’d likely never remember Alexander as he grew up.

He played those last moments in Weehawken over again and again in his head, remembering it exactly as it happened. The anger he’d felt at Hamilton, how at the time it seemed that a duel was the only way to uphold his honor. As they’d turned fire they’re first shots his anger had gotten the best of him, ready to shoot before he even noticed that Hamilton was not aiming for him. Burr could still hear the deafening sound of the shot ringing out on that early morning and Hamilton falling to the ground. The deed was done, and all Burr could do was stand there.

Two days later he’d found out that Hamilton had died, this was news he now dreaded because it was all on him. Today was his funeral, the procession starting at the home of John Church, and the city of New York seemed to have come to a standstill in Hamilton’s honor.

Dressed all in black and traveling on foot Burr followed far behind at the end, while the hats of the day did not do much to obscure his face he tried. It was likely that even in an attempt at an apology that his presence would not be welcome.

It was a long procession and as Burr weaved his way through the side streets to follow them all to Trinity Church he noted all who was present and saw the casket that contained the body of a man who he’d at least considered a colleague.

What had hurt the most was seeing Eliza, surrounded by her eight children as they solemnly followed the hearse. Burr did not dare enter the churchyard, instead, he stood across the street as he watched them through the wrought iron gates.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” Burr whispered quietly.

For a moment Eliza looked up from where she stood clutching a black lace handkerchief, Burr’s heart stopped because it seemed as if she was looking directly at him but he couldn’t be sure. Instead, he did his best to slip away before anyone else might see him.