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vintage-squid · 4 years ago

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Threading Our Future

Summary: When up-and-coming designer Virgil Psykhe lands an interview with his favourite fashion label, he has no idea that the attention he's drawn to himself is being taken away from someone very important: the Lady of the Summer Court. Scorned and furious, she sends her son to kill the insolent human.

But when Janus lays eyes on Virgil for the first time, his breath is stolen by the fluttering of his heart and he knows he won't be able to follow through with his mother's orders.

A modern fae re-telling of the Eros and Psyche myth!

Pairing: Virgil/Janus (background Logan/Patton) Characters: Virgil, Janus, Roman, Remy, Patton, Logan, Remus Rating: T Warnings: mild violence and blood mention, nonsexual nudity, literal sleeping together Word count: 10 363

-----

Virgil Psykhe groaned as he stood from his chair, bracing both hands against the small of his back and pressing until he felt a satisfying series of pops from his hips and up his spine. He should know better by now than to spend hours on end hunched over his projects without taking proper breaks, but he honestly couldn’t help it. Once he got focused, his whole world narrowed to sketch, cut, sew, trim. It was like he was possessed by some crazy spirit who deemed his sarcastic, introverted ass worthy enough to use as a vessel for creation. At least, that’s how he described the near-frenzy he would fall into when his worried fathers questioned after his health.

Was he getting enough sleep? (No.) When was the last time he’d had something to eat? (Did the granola bar he had earlier count?) Would he be willing to drink more water if Papa cut up some citrus to add? (Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea...)

He knew their fretting came from a place of love. As the youngest of three, he was the baby of the family. Both of his older sisters had married a few years ago, now living with their husbands in a couple of larger, nearby cities. They had told their parents the distant moves were for their husband’s jobs, but Virgil knew better. His sisters had never seemed to fit with the unique … energy of their small hometown.

Virgil, however, had yet to even move out, let alone find anyone who would want to spend the rest of their life with him. Thankfully, while his dads did want him to eventually find love, they were mostly just happy to support his dreams of becoming a famous designer.

Rolling his eyes, Virgil glanced around his cluttered studio. Like he would ever actually be a big name in the fashion industry. Yeah, sure, he wanted more than anything to get his designs out there for models of all backgrounds and appearances to showcase the beauty that was in every body type, but he didn’t want his first name attached to that kind of attention. Nope. No thanks. He would much rather people enjoy his work for what it was, not just because it came from him.

Maybe a pseudonym would work? Eh, he still had time to think about it anyway. It wasn’t like he was going to be traveling far from his studio in his dads’ basement any time soon after all. Picking up his phone, Virgil glanced at the time and cursed under his breath. Shit, he was late to meet up with Remy, and he had forgotten to plug his charger in. He groaned as he shoved his phone in his pocket anyway and grabbed his wallet, headphones, and house key. That drama queen was probably going to bitch and moan about being made to wait until Virgil finally agreed to pay for his drink. Not that Virgil really minded, but he had appearances to keep up.

With one last glance around to make sure he had everything, he dashed up the stairs to head out.

-----

Jogging down the street, Virgil turned past the Spirits’ Temple, where the town’s inhabitants left offerings to the spirits of the forest on the first of every month. Tradition claimed that each month was to be dedicated to one of the twelve local spirits who held dominion over different areas of day-to-day life, and that by honouring them, the town would prosper. At the height of the monthly festivals, there would be candles lining the marble steps, fake vines and string lights wrapped around the temple’s stone columns, and a wide spread of wine and honey-sweetened foods to be served. Some of this would be up for grabs on the buffet table, but a selection was always saved to be placed in one of the twelve bronze braziers, which one depended on the month, lining the sides of the temple. Each brazier was set in front of a stone statue carved with a symbol that denoted which spirit it belonged to.

At some point during the evening, everyone in town would take a moment to approach the massive fireplace along the back wall of the temple and toss in a part of their meal with a quietly murmured prayer for luck in some strange-sounding language. To this day, Virgil wasn’t sure what exactly he was saying, but his dad had taught him the correct pronunciation, and he was too superstitious not to follow through. Besides, it wasn’t like he could look too ridiculous doing it when literally everyone else was doing the same thing.

Approaching one of the two coffee shops in town, and the only one he ever frequented, Virgil shook his head to rid himself of thoughts of weird small-town rituals. Inside, it was easy to spot Remy sitting at their usual table with his sunglasses tucked into the front of his shirt and a drink already in hand. As he slid into his side of the booth, Virgil was surprised to see his favourite order (hot chocolate with whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles, and a slice of banana bread) already waiting for him.

“I was gonna apologize for being late, but clearly I don’t have to,” he said, glancing up and narrowing his eyes. “What did you do?”

Remy threw both hands up in a gesture of innocence. “Hey now, why did I have to do something wrong in order to surprise my best friend with his favourite goodies?”

Virgil snorted and crossed his arms, giving his friend a Look.

“Fine, fine!” Remy blew out a sigh and dropped his hands onto the table. “So, maybe I did do something, and maybe you’re gonna be a little mad at me for it, but I promise it’s okay! It’s gonna pay off and you’re totally going to thank me for this one day!”

Virgil dropped his face into his hands with a groan and dug the heels of his palms against his eyelids. “Just spit it out, Remy. What the fuck did you do?”

“Remember that photoshoot we did a couple weeks back with the latest ‘famous-one-day’ designs you sewed up?” Virgil could hear the familiar sounds of Remy typing on his phone. “Well babe, you’ve been making ‘one days’ for too long! So I decided to make ‘one day’ into ‘today’! Ta-dah!”

Bracing himself, Virgil peeked out from the dark safety of his hands, blinking a few times to clear his blurry vision and focus on the phone screen wavering in front of him. Right there, staring back at him from within Remy’s well-manicured clutch, was an email addressed to Penelope with attached photos from their shoot.

“Please, please tell me you didn’t sen-”

“I sent our pics to your favourite fashion label! The one and only Penelope! Known for their breathtaking lines like ‘Faith’ and ‘Fidelity’ that reimagined what it meant to be fashionable! And the best part!” Remy paused for dramatic effect, all but wiggling in his seat. “They emailed me back! They want to do an interview with you next month on the first!”

There was a loud thud as Virgil’s head met the table. If they hadn’t been sitting in public, he definitely would have started screaming too. Instead, all that came out was a muttered, “I fucking hate you. Why would you do this to me? You know I suck at talking to people; they’re gonna hate me and then tell all of the other companies to never work with me and then I’ll definitely never make it.”

A hand settled on top of his head and began to run through his hair, gently scratching at his scalp at the same time. “Don’t be so dramatic, Virge. This is gonna be great for you, I promise. When have I ever led you astray?”

Virgil glared at his friend and opened his mouth, but Remy cut him off.

“Ahp-ahp! Rhetorical question, babes. You're going to thank me for this, I promise.”

When Virgil remained silent, the hand that had been petting his hair slid down to cup his cheek and lift his chin up.

“Hey,” his best friend murmured softly. “If you really, really don’t want to do this, I can email them back and cancel, but I think you should go for it, Virge. This could be your big break!” Remy’s thumb had begun running a soothingly back and forth over his cheek. Virgil didn’t even try to hide the way he relaxed into the comforting gesture, leaning more weight into his friend’s palm. “I’ll even come with you to the interview, okay? I’ll be right there the entire time - gotta make sure they meet your number one model after all,” he added with a playful wink.

Damn Remy and his extroverted influence. Virgil sighed and sat up fully, reluctantly pulling away from the comforting hold and silently relieved when Remy’s hand dropped to link their fingers instead. “I guess as long as you’re there too, then I won’t be the only one making a fool of myself.”

“That’s the spirit!” Remy cheered, ignoring the looks some of the other patrons shot their way at the noise.

Keeping their hands interlocked, Virgil picked up his hot chocolate and took a sip of the sweet ambrosia as he listened to his best friend ramble about his plans for their future.

-----

Somehow, the word got out. Everyone and their cousin’s dog knew about Virgil’s interview and had seen some of the photos that had been leaked. All of them wanted to get a glimpse of not only the representatives of the big fashion label (who may as well have been celebrities to the small community), but also the unobtrusive young man who had brought the attention onto their town.

Virgil clung to Remy’s hand as they approached the café where the interview was going to be taking place. It wasn’t their usual haunt, something Virgil was grateful for; if things went south, he didn’t want that memory attached to one of his favourite places. People were already gathering outside, gossiping amongst themselves or attempting to peer through the front windows. He longed to pull his hood up and hide his face, but Papa had spent all morning helping him make sure his hair and make-up (and everything else) looked interview ready. Not to mention he wasn’t even wearing his favourite hoodie to tuck himself away into.

At Remy’s insistence, he had donned one of the outfits he made last year. The top was made of a flowy material, tighter at the wrists and loose in the arms, wrapping comfortably around his chest to tie in the front above his navel. It was sewn from a high-quality plum linen with a black lace webbing over top. For the bottom, Virgil had pieced together different shades of grey and black fabrics until he had a pair of loose patchwork pants that sat at the hips and left a strip of his stomach visible. He had completed the look with a fresh pair of high-tops that tied the look together despite the discordant styles. With one last look to his best friend for reassurance, Virgil nodded and they waded through the crowd together, on their way to their future.

-----

Singing to herself, Roman stepped through the woods with all the ethereal grace granted to her by her station. As she made her way to the quaint little human town, Roman was accompanied by a pair of mourning doves. While one had alighted on her shoulder, the other fluttered about, and both were cooing in harmony with her otherworldly song.

Her body was draped in a sheer chiffon number, as blood-red as the wine she drank from each year at the celebration of her power and beauty. It was naught much more than a thin layer of fabric over one shoulder and wrapped about her shapely waist, exposing one breast and leaving little work for the imagination on the rest of her body. The finest embroidery coloured the lower hem with twisting rose vines, as if they had sprung from the ground she walked on and reached up for her attention. Her hair was left to tumble free, as wild and untamed as the waves she had been born from so long ago. The Lady of the Summer Court had arrived.

In no time at all, the temple the humans of the village had built for her and her compatriots so long ago came into view. Roman hurried her steps, eager to feast on the delightful offerings she knew would be awaiting her. She hoped one of them left pomegranate; it was her favourite. The plump fruit so easy to tear open to reveal the juicy flesh inside - and the crunchy seeds! Oh!

Grinning, Roman moved around the side of the temple, stepping between the columns to slip inside and make her way towards her ceremonial statue along the right with the other ruling gentry of the Seelie Court. However, when she got close enough to see into the massive dish, indignation began to boil in her blood. Before her, in her brazier, lay half as many offerings as were given to her in the years passed. She looked around, hoping to find something else had been set aside or misplaced, but there was nothing. Seething, she spun on her heel and stalked towards the front of the temple in search of answers.

Outside, two attendants were working to douse the remaining candles to be collected on the morrow after Roman had departed. Well, they were certainly going to be in for a surprise when they returned to find their pitiful offerings still there in the morning. Even with the great distance between them, as a fae, Roman’s sharp ears did not struggle to overhear the conversation between the two humans.

“-believe something like this could happen in our little town,” the one on the right was saying. “Especially from that quiet kid! What’d you say his name was again?”

“He’s the Psykhe’s youngest boy, Virgil.

“No kidding! Sam was telling me the kid showed up for the interview wearing this wild statement piece, like a full fashion runway. I bet his dads sure are proud. I heard half the town was outside Burnsen’s hoping to get a front-row seat. They certainly weren’t here, that’s for sure.”

“Damn shame,” the second human agreed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a turn out this small for a Spirit’s Night. I just hope it doesn’t come back to bite us in the ass.”

The pair continued their gossip as they finished with the candles and moved onto tidying some of the other nonessential decorations. Roman wasn’t interested in listening any further; she had what she needed. Turning away from the pitiful little temple those putrid humans had so desecrated on her day of honour, the Lady of the Summer Court stormed back into the forest, seething vitriol.

“How dare these humans offer this worthless boy the worship and reverence meant for me! My status is all but set in the very stars and they do nothing more than drag it through the muddy earth!” She screeched, scaring away the doves who had been lingering nearby. “So much for me, the ancient mother of this forest who feeds and fosters the very nature of this place! If nothing lusts, then nothing reproduces! Did they ever consider that before they forced me to associate my status with a mere mortal child?”

As Roman cried out, the very trees parted for her, leaning their trunks away and raising their boughs out of the path of the furious fae. She paid them little heed as she marched down a trail long familiar. “Won’t this boy, whoever he is, be glad to know he has claimed the honours that are due to me by right? Not for much longer, this I swear by my very name! He will regret this beauty to which he has no claim!”

At the climax of her tirade, Roman stopped before the ivy-woven doors of her son’s lofty domain. She would teach this Virgil what happened when you scorned the fae.

-----

Across town, still wearing the outfit and makeup from earlier, though much disheveled, Virgil ran as if his life depended on it. At this point, though, his life may as well have been over, so what was the point in struggling on? Down the street and through the park, he sprinted until he could go no further and crumbled to the ground at the top of the large hill that overlooked the fish ponds. On his hands and knees, he clutched at the damp earth and panted heavily through his heaving sobs.

It was over. Penelope didn’t want to pick him up as a designer. Sure, they liked the selection that Remy had sent them, enough to come talk to him about it, but when the representatives had taken a look through the rest of his portfolio? They hadn’t said they hated it outright, but Virgil was certain his designs were too gothic, too dark, too risky for mainstream fashion. They were going to talk with some of the higher-ups back at the designer studio, but Virgil wasn’t going to be holding his breath. He’d seen their expressions clear as day while they flipped through his work.

Collapsing forward, Virgil buried his face into the crook of his elbow and curled his knees towards his chest, sobbing even harder. He had told Remy after the interview that he needed some space, but now that he was out here alone, he wanted nothing more than a hug from his best friend. Fuck, how was he going to tell his dads about this? It would break their heart!

Virgil shook his head free of the thought; he couldn’t handle any more right now. So he lay on the ground with his cheek pressed against the cool night grass, and cried until he passed out from exhaustion.

-----

In the twilight between wakefulness and sleep, Virgil stirred when he felt a pair of arms slide under his body and hoist him up into a strong hold. His head lolled to the side until his temple dropped against a firm body. Then, a kiss was pressed to his forehead, tickling his skin with...a mustache?

“Go back to sleep, little human,” a high, scratchy-sounding voice said. “Jay doesn’t want you to see anything just yet! We don’t want to ruin the surprise, eh?”

Virgil’s face scrunched in confusion, but before he could crack his eyes open to see who was carrying him, a warm breath blew across his face and carried him off to his dreams like a gentle breeze spiraling high into the air.

-----

When Virgil woke for the second time, it was with far more peace and tranquility than he usually felt when greeting the day. His bed was extra soft and luxurious beneath the swell of his hip and he was comfortably warm, though he couldn’t feel the usual weight of his blanket. Stretching his arms far above his head, Virgil suddenly snapped his eyes open when his fingertips were greeted not with the hard wall behind his headboard, but with a damp, spongy texture instead.

Scrambled to his feet, he looked around to discover he was at the edge of a clearing, carpeted with a thick moss that his feet sank slightly into and surrounded by trees who towered so far above him their canopies seemed lost secrets of the sky. To one side a stream babbled a song, its waters bright as day and clear as glass. Breathless, he turned a slow circle, feasting on the seemingly supernatural wonders with starving eyes. The sight that greeted Virgil as he turned full around, however, could have subsisted him for a lifetime.

At the very heart of the grove, sitting in its focal point, rose what he could only describe as a palace. The trees which made up its supporting columns were an ivory birch, though much wider than any Virgil had ever seen, with leaves seemingly grown from pure gold that glittered in the dappled sunlight they let through. Framed by these otherworldly goliaths, ivy vines had been woven together to form a grand door which opened of its own accord and bid Virgil to enter. Under a spell spun from his own awe and curiosity (and probably some of whatever magic this place had to be made of), Virgil strode forward.

Inside, the palace seemed to emulate its own light, reflecting off the vaulted ceiling and highlighting the polished stone walls decorated with endless silver reliefs of animals real and imagined. Virgil trailed his fingertips along the slithering spine of a snake as he passed, admiring the lifelike detail in each scale, but before he could venture much further, a voice spoke.

“Welcome.”

Virgil jumped, spinning around to search for the source of the voice, but no one was there. When they spoke again, it sounded like they were right over his shoulder.

“You have been invited into the home of the fae as a guest of honour, Virgil.” The man in question felt a strange twinge in his chest hearing his name from the voice. “If you follow the doors to your left, you will find a dining hall in which you may eat your fill; the foods are from your home world and you need not fear consuming them. To your right lay the bathing and bed chambers. Please, make yourself at home. You are safe here, my darling.”

“Who are you? How do you know my name?” Virgil called out into the empty room.

There was a small pause before the voice replied. “You may call me Janus for the time being. It matters not how I know your name, but you need not worry that I will give it to anyone else.”

“Not creepy at all,” Virgil murmured before raising his voice once more. “Where are you? Why can’t I see you?”

“Ahh, my darling, take care with your curiosity before it gets you into trouble. Fret not, I am here with you, though you cannot see me. I know it is hard, but you must trust in me, my love. I shall visit you this evening after the light of day has given way to the dark of night. So long as you promise not to look upon my face and let me remain shrouded in shadows, then I shall answer more of your questions then.”

“What? I’m supposed to trust you, but I’m not allowed to look at your face? What the fuck, dude?”

“I understand this may be a cause for alarm, but you must understand my perspective, dear one. If you were to gaze upon me uninhibited, I fear you would not fall in love with me in a manner which would be best for us both. Promise to me, Virgil.”

“Okay, okay, I promise. Why is this so important to you anyway?”

“Thank you. I wish to form a genuine bond with you, beloved, and I cannot do that if you are influenced by my appearance. That is not how I desire to court my future husband.”

“Husband? What do you mean future husband!?”

Virgil stood in place, waiting for any further response from the invisible person, but it seemed his host had vanished into the very air he spoke from. Blowing out a heavy sigh, Virgil looked from left to right and decided the faint grumbling in his abdomen was something he could ignore for the time being; he probably wouldn’t be able to stomach anything right now anyway. So, he made his way towards the baths, hoping a splash of cool water could wake him from this crazy dream.

Unfortunately, even after dunking his head under the cool water, Virgil was still stuck in the extravagant palace with an invisible host. He braced his hands on the sides of the stone bowl carved from the wall, staring blankly at the trickling waterfall that fed into the dish he had rinsed in. How the fuck did he get into this mess? The voice had mentioned something about this place belonging to the fae? What the fuck? There’s no way any of this could be real. Well, that Janus had said he would answer Virgil’s questions tonight, so there seemed little more he could do than wait.

The bedroom he had been given was grand, far larger than even his entire basement suite back home, and all of its drapings were more luxurious than Virgil had ever seen. He ran his fingers down the curtains that hung from the bedposts, marvelling at the quality and the depth of the colour. What he wouldn’t give to be able to create with fabrics of this pedigree. He fiddled with the tie of his shirt around his middle and settled onto one of the plush armchairs by the window. Now, to wait.

-----

Hours later, Virgil was startled awake from a light doze by the sound of footsteps approaching his door. He scrambled to his feet, keeping one hand braced on a bedpost to orient himself as he squinted through the darkness. It was so dark he couldn’t even make out the vague outlines of the furniture around the room.

The door opened.

Virgil tensed, gripping the bedpost tighter and raising his other arm in front of him defensively. From what he could see, backlit from the hall, the figure entering the room was about his height, maybe a little taller. It was difficult to make out in the dark, but the shadow he cast onto the floor seemed to be larger than his body mass would produce. The door closed, leaving the two of them alone in the dark.

“Janus?” Virgil asked nervously, hoping there wasn’t anyone else in the palace who would be coming into his room this late at night.

“Breathe, Virgil, it is only me.”

It was as if a spell of calm soothed over him, easing the tension from around his neck and within his chest. Virgil took a deep, relieving breath. Janus hadn’t come any further into the room, seemingly content to linger by the door.

“Um… hi?” Virgil winced at how awkward he sounded, but continued on regardless. “You said you would answer more of my questions, right?”

“That is correct, beloved. I will tell you as much as I am able to at this time.” There was the sound of shuffling in the dark. “May I join you on the bed? I think we will both be much more comfortable being seated for this conversation.”

Virgil bit his lip, looking between the bed and Janus despite not being able to see either. Eventually, he nodded, and then blushed when he realized what he’d done.

“Yeah… yeah, you can come sit over here, I guess.”

“Thank you, my darling.”

When the pair had gotten settled, Janus was seated at the foot of the bed, leaning up against the bedpost and seemingly unbothered by the strange situation. Virgil, on the other hand, had his back pressed against the headboard with his knees hugged to his chest. His feet were buried in the blankets and he was absently scrunching the soft material under his toes in a comforting, rhythmic motion. It was Janus who broke the silence first.

“What would you ask of me first, dearest?”

Virgil blew out a sigh. “Why did you bring me here? What are you going to do with me? Am I ever going to be allowed to go home? Will you-”

"Sh sh sh,” Janus crooned, “One at a time, beloved, all will be answered. In short, I do not know when you will be able to return to your home, or if you ever will, but it is for your own good!” Janus hurriedly added before Virgil could panic. “You see, there is someone very powerful who is very angry with you. Intentionally or not, you have caused her a great disrespect, and she will not rest until her dues have been met.”

“How do you know all of this?”

Janus sighed. “Because she is my mother, and she sent me to kill you.”

“What!?” Virgil screeched, throwing himself off the bed and slamming against the nearby wall. His nails scrabbled at the stone, desperate to clutch, claw, escape. No, no, no, he didn’t want to die! He snapped his head back and forth, searching for any sort of way out, but he was blinded by shadows and fear. A sharp cry escaped him when a hand suddenly wrapped around one of his own and he whimpered as it squeezed, expecting pain. Instead, a gentle crooning cut through the ringing in his ears.

“Breathe, Virgil, you are not in danger. You must calm down and listen.”

Janus’ voice was surprisingly tender for how powerfully it could be heard through Virgil’s panic. He was able to focus on it like a tether to pull himself into a more relaxed state of mind. At some point, he had begun to time his breathing with Janus’ as well, steady and even to a count known only to the fae holding him. When Virgil had relaxed enough to come back to himself, he tensed all over again, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“How can you say I’m safe, when you’re gonna kill me?”

“Because I have no intentions of killing you,” Janus replied, now cradling both of Virgil’s hands to his chest. Even this close, the darkness was so impenetrably thick that Virgil had no hope of glimpsing his face. He kept his eyes averted regardless. “I brought you here to remove you from my mother’s gaze and conceal you from her misplaced wrath.”

Virgil was silent, processing, as Janus gently tugged on his hands and guided him back onto the bed. There, the fae leaned against the headboard with his legs stretched out in front of him and carefully pulled Virgil to recline on his chest. Virgil resisted for only a moment before complying. Everything else about this was already way out of his depth to manage, he may as well allow himself to be comfortable wherever he could. Janus was either going to kill him or leave him alive, and there likely wasn’t anything Virgil could do to sway that decision at this point. So, Virgil settled himself against Janus’ chest with his body laying between Janus’ legs and stretching out until their legs tangled together. He was grateful now for the dark that hid a probably searing blush as his cheek pressed flush against the fae’s warm skin; Janus wasn’t wearing a shirt and his nude torso was warm to cuddle against.

“Now,” Janus murmured, shifting Virgil’s focus from his embarrassment to the situation at hand. His fingers ran over Virgil’s scalp and through his hair, carefully brushing out any tangles and soothing in the same motion. “If you will let me continue, I was going to say my mother had ordered for you to be killed, however, I do not agree with her decision. She is acting rashly over a slight you did not directly commit.”

“What did I even do to piss her off so bad?” Virgil murmured from where his face was tucked against Janus’ collar, resting more of his weight closer with each breath.

“I do not know the exact details, only that you were the cause for drawing her worshippers away from the temple on her day of adulation. The fae do not take kindly to being stolen from, especially not my mother.”

“The interview,” Virgil breathed in horror. Pushing himself upright, he clutched at Janus’ arm. “I swear, I didn’t mean for everyone to skip out on the Spirit’s Festival! If it had been up to me, none of them would have even been at the cafe! I didn’t want them there, you have to believe me!”

“Calm yourself, beloved. I believe that you did not intentionally act to anger her. However, you must understand that even a perceived slight is considered very real and serious to the fae. That is why you must remain here under my protection, until my mother’s ire cools or I can convince her to redirect her anger.”

As Janus fell silent, Virgil curled in again and pondered what he had been told, trying to remember anything he could about the fae. It wasn’t like there was one consistent guidebook he could follow, but some of the stories the older people used to tell his grade school classes at the library were starting to make a little more sense now. He had been told the forest couldn’t lie, so maybe that meant the fae were bound by the truth? A stretch, sure, but weren’t all myths rooted somehow in reality? They were also regularly told that the spirits of the forest loved beauty, especially in the form of attractive people, and could bestow gifts on those they enjoyed looking upon. Virgil had always felt so disheartened hearing that. He wasn’t anything special, just a plain-looking boy, so the forest would never favour him.

Why then had Janus?

“So,” Virgil broke into the quiet, “you supposedly brought me here to protect me from your mother, but that doesn’t explain why you called me your future husband earlier.”

Janus hummed. “When I set out to observe the human who had offended my mother, I was prepared to be faced with a disgusting example of your kind. What I found instead was the most beautiful face I had ever laid eyes on.” Virgil gasped when the hand that had been in his hair slipped down to cup his cheek and tilt his chin up. He felt a pair of lips brush so lightly against his forehead that he thought he imagined it. “You were sobbing so hard for a deeply rooted pain. I found myself desiring nothing more than to stop your tears and see how much your already breathtaking countenance would shine when lit by a smile.”

“I - you -”

Virgil was sure that he had been kissed before, because now he felt those lips curl into a smile.

“Is it so hard to believe you are so attractive?”

“Well, yeah,” Virgil huffed, his eyes closed as he leaned into Janus’ palm. “It’s not like I heard it all that often.”

“Mmm, I shall have to change that, then,” Janus whispered, resting his cheek on Virgil’s head, cradling him close once more. “Do you have any more questions, beloved? If not, it is time for you to rest, you’ve had a long day.”

The gentle petting and warm embrace were taking their toll on Virgil’s exhausted mind. He let himself rest heavily on Janus, nuzzling his face into the crook of his neck and wrapping an arm around the fae’s chest. “Jus’ one,” he murmured, voice already dipping into that sleepy slur. “Wanna make sure m’dads know ‘m safe…”

“I’ll see what I can do, my love. Rest now, Virgil.”

Like a spell had been cast over him, Virgil drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

-----

When Virgil had awoken, he was alone in the massive bed. He was surprised to feel a twinge of disappointment in his chest, having hoped Janus would stay despite the fae not wanting to show his face. Sighing, he slid out of bed and got himself ready for the day, slipping into some comfortable clothes he found in a set of drawers. When he came down for breakfast, his host’s invisible voice greeted him and informed him that his dads had been told of the situation and were relieved Virgil was alive and relatively safe.

The next few days played out much the same. Virgil was left to his own devices during the day, waited on by some sort of invisible staff as he explored the palace. He never saw another soul, but whenever he needed something, he learned to simply call out for it and it would be delivered to him by magic.

Each night, Janus would arrive in his bedroom once the sun had disappeared. He never asked for more than Virgil was willing to give, but Virgil found himself cuddled close every night without fail. They would speak for hours - about Virgil’s dreams, his dads, and Remy - nothing was too simple for Janus to inquire about. The fae was fascinated by every aspect of human life, and Virgil enjoyed discovering a sense of romantic joy over the little things he had experienced. There was something about Janus that soothed away the ever-present worries that were always yelling inside Virgil’s head.

There was one worry that couldn’t be silenced, however. No matter how much Virgil was coming to trust his protector, he could not ignore the fact that he had no idea what Janus even looked like. It was eating away at him not to know, and the longer he sat alone, the Janus in his head looked more and more like a monster waiting to prey upon him. This couldn’t go on. He had to know.

-----

During the day before he was going to enact his plan, Virgil spent his time in the massive library he had discovered on the second day, scanning the shelves and making a show of selecting a couple books. He made himself comfortable in one of the oversized cushions piled near the floor-to-ceiling window and pretended to read. Between absently scanning the pages, Virgil looked up and glanced around the room, as if his mind were wandering with the tale he was apparently focused on. In reality, he was scouring the room for ideas.

Countless candles were lit around the library, their wax melting at different stages, some newly pooling while others formed thick layers around the base of the candelabras. They were lit now, but there was no way for him to have an already burning flame in the bedroom when Janus arrived for the night. He would have to find some way to light one on his own. Maybe he could just -

“Excuse me?” He called into the air. “Could I please have more candles, and some matches for them? I want to go read in my room, but, um, the smell is really nice in here.”

Like always, the items he requested popped into existence on a low table nearby: three candles and a pair of matches. Huh, he hadn’t actually thought that was going to work.

“Thank you!”

Hugging both books to his chest, Virgil collected his new tools and jogged up to his room. There, he placed the candles onto the small table between the armchairs and lit them with a match. The second match, he carefully tucked inside the front knot of his shirt, pressing against his breast. Now prepared, he settled in to actually focus on the novel he had picked up. There was nothing but time to kill.

-----

By the time Janus arrived, Virgil had already blown out the candles and crawled into bed. He cuddled in as soon as Janus had laid down, laying his head on the fae’s chest and trying to keep his breathing steady as they fell into their usually nighttime conversation. Janus’ claws delicately traced the bumps of his spine the entire time they spoke.

Once Virgil was sure Janus had fallen asleep, he began the slow process of extracting himself from the fae’s embrace. Janus really was a cuddler, and loved to hold Virgil close while they slept, but thankfully he was also quite a deep sleeper. Virgil was able to carefully pull himself away and tuck a pillow into Janus’ arms. The fae squished it to his chest and curled onto his side, none the wiser.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Virgil went to work. He grabbed one of the candles and fished the match out from under his shirt, striking it against the table to light it. One hand held onto the base of the candle, while the other carefully cupped around the flame, protecting it as Virgil walked around to the other side of the bed where Janus lay. With a deep breath to steady himself, he pulled his hand away and gasped at the sight in front of him.

Janus never wore a shirt, which meant Virgil’s hands had felt the broad expanse of his naked back every night they had slept together. That didn’t explain why there were now a pair of gorgeous, tawny wings sprouting from between Janus’ shoulder blades. The feathers looked softer than anything Virgil could imagine and shined like spun gold in the candlelight. Virgil ached to caress the speckled feathers, to scrunch his fingers in the fluffy down near the wings’ base, but as he reached out, Janus rolled over and Virgil’s breath was punched from his lungs. The face of his protector was carved by the gods. Janus’ skin was a rich, dark brown, reflecting the candle light to accent his strong jaw and sharp cheekbones. Virgil could only imagine what colour his eyes could be behind his lids, framed by perfectly shaped brows and a shapely nose. Oh! Those lips! So plump and full! What would they feel like pressed against his own?

Enraptured, Virgil tried to get a better look, but as he leaned forward, some of the melted wax from the candle spilled over and landed on Janus’ cheek. The fae yelped, startling awake and clutching at his face as he threw himself upright. Virgil jumped back in shock, falling on his ass while somehow keeping the candle lit. The clatter drew Janus’ attention and his head snapped to the side to look at Virgil, who saw the moment Janus’ eyes widened with understanding and heartbreaking betrayal.

“You promised!” Janus hissed. “You promised me you wouldn’t look! Does your word mean so little to you!?”

“N-No - I, I just, I wanted-”

“What!? What was so important that you had to break your promise?”

“I wanted to, to make sure you weren’t some sort of … monster … who had kidnapped me to… to eat me,” Virgil muttered, suddenly feeling incredibly foolish. Why did he have to give in to his anxieties so easily? The next moment, his heart crumpled with Janus’ expression.

“Get out.”

“Wait, what?”

“I said. Get. Out.” Janus growled, spreading his wings high above his head as he leaned over the edge of the bed. “Get out of my sight, and out of my home! If you cannot hold to one simple promise, then I will not protect you! You can deal with my mother’s wrath on your own!”

About to protest, Virgil cried out in fear as Janus slashed out him, narrowly missing his face with those lethal claws. He didn’t waste any more time, dropping the candle and scrambling to his feet to run out of the bedroom. The empty halls echoed with his laboured breathing and the slap of his bare feet against the tiled floor as he sprinted through the palace and out the ivy-woven doors. The moment he was out, the doors slammed shut behind him.

Panting heavily, Virgil bent over with his hands on his knees, his entire body trembling from fear and exertion. He dropped to the ground and clutched his head in both hands, curling smaller and crying as silently as he could muster. It was a long time before his breathing evened out and he was able to drag himself back to his feet.

A glance around the clearing revealed what he had known upon his first arrival: he had no idea where in the forest he was, or which way led back home. So, he did the only thing he could and picked a direction to start walking. Through the night he stumbled over roots and around tangled shrubs, not stopping until he finally tripped over his own exhausted feet and fell into the shockingly cold waters of a stream. He spluttered and gasped, miserably dragging himself back up the bank. The sun was rising overhead, the forest waking up around him; he didn’t have the time to huddle here in a ball feeling sorry for himself.

-----

As the day progressed, Virgil noticed the trees beginning to thin and the gaps between the trunks growing wider. Suddenly, the canopy overhead parted to reveal a mountain, vast and tall, that should have been visible long before this moment. Placed at irregular intervals up the cliffside were six palaces woven of different plants woven together with even more grandeur than Janus’ home. Over the edge of the mountain, the tips and edges of presumably more palaces - these ones sculpted and shaped from various stones - were visible against the pale sky.

Virgil squinted, trying to get a better look at the strangely familiar shapes carved into the rock face near each palace. He gasped. The symbols matched those carved into the statues above the bronze dishes in the Spirit’s Temple, more specifically, the dishes meant for the spirits honoured in the spring and summer. That would mean - there! On the left! Beneath a palace of myrtle trees and rose vines, was the symbol belonging to the seventh spirit. That had to be the home of Janus’ mother, the spirit - or fae, rather - who was supposed to have been honoured at the start of this month.

Biting his lip, Virgil looked back the way he came then up at the palace once more. If what Janus said was true, and he wasn’t going to be offering protection anymore, then Virgil would have to face her on his own. It was either that, or cowering away until she tracked him down and killed him. Also not a desirable option, but Virgil would rather have some form of control over the end of his life. Beginning to climb, he just wished he would have been able to say goodbye to his dads first.

While there were worn deer trails to follow, the journey was not an easy one. Virgil had to cling to the rocks, heaving himself ever upwards, trying not to slice his bare feet or palms on the uneven shale. The summer sun climbed alongside him, growing hotter and hotter, sapping his energy and strength. Still, he pushed on until he stood before the lush gates shaking with exhaustion and dizzy from the heat.

Before he could gather his wits, the thorny vines that sealed the palace from the outside world began to withdraw. Where they parted, massive sanguine roses bloomed, as if to cushion a passerby from the sharp thorns. From within the depths of the palace strode out a figure so radiant and commanding, Virgil immediately felt subservient to her will. He quickly looked away, cheeks hot, as both of her breasts were exposed and only a lightweight wrap covered her lower body. His body recoiled when her piercing laugh broke the silence.

“Finally! The wretched beast comes crawling to its master, the Lady of the Summer Court. Had enough of playing at royalty, have you? Look at me when I’m talking to you, Virgil!”

Virgil immediately snapped his head back towards her, paling when his eyes met with her seething ire, but unable to drop his gaze any lower. He gripped the sides of his pants with white knuckles. “I - I’m so, so sorry! I n-never meant-”

“Look at this!” The fae cut in, causing Virgil to flinch again. “The pathetic mortal trying to inspire pity from me with your anxiety and melancholy! I will not be made a fool and relegated to some cheap handmaiden!”

With a shriek of rage, the Lady of Summer darted forward faster than Virgil’s eyes could track. The next moment, he was sprawled on the ground, ears ringing. He brought a shaky hand up to his stinging cheek and felt his stomach drop when his fingertips came away bloody. Rolling onto his back, he choked. The Lady was looming over him, one of her hands dripping with his blood as she pinned him down with a foot on his chest.

“It seems only fair to me, mortal, that I give you some chance to win back my good graces. Therefore, you shall complete a task for me, or else I will take your life as compensation for your disrespect.” The Lady of Summer announced with a wave of her hand. Virgil looked to the side, wincing as the cuts in his cheek dug into the gravel, and watched in surprise as a pile of mixed grains appeared nearby.

“You will sort this mass and disarray of seeds - wheat, barley, millet, poppy, chickpea, and lentil - into individual piles. I will know if a single grain lays with the wrong group. You have until this evening.” With that, the Lady of Summer kicked off his ribs and spun her skirts, vanishing into thin air with a flourish and leaving only the heady scent of roses as a sign of her presence.

Virgil lay on the ground in silence for a long time after she disappeared, barely daring to breathe. When he was finally able to bring himself to move, he slowly rolled onto his hands and knees, hissing at the pain in his ribs - definitely bruised. Crawling over to the pile of seeds, he reached a hand out but hesitated before he could touch the tiny grains. How the fuck was he supposed to sort these? He could hardly begin to tell them apart! Sitting back on his ass, Virgil dropped his face into his hands and burst into tears.

Then, he heard a high-pitched giggle.

Flitting to-and-fro above him were four - five - eight, no - seven? Seven little pixies were spinning, twirling, dancing through the air above him. Their bright, insect-like wings caught the sunlight and sent out flashes of colour like a rainbow in motion. One-by-one they drifted to the ground, settling in a half circle in front of Virgil and his miserable collection of seeds. They stood only several inches tall and were dressed in leaves and petals. A pair stepped forward in front of the rest; they were holding hands.

“Hello, hello!” The one on the right chirped, waving up with his free hand. He had gorgeous light blue butterfly wings that fluttered when he spoke. “We heard you crying and came to see, to see! What happened here, here?”

Virgil sniffled, wiping away his tears and snot on his sleeve. “Well, um,” he hiccupped and took a deep breath. “It’s the Lady of the Summer Court. She wants me to sort all of these seeds by type before tonight, but I have no idea how I’m going to do that so she’s definitely going to kill me!” He slapped a hand over his mouth to muffle a sob, tears running down his face.

“Easy now,” a new voice murmured as two little hands pressed against his knee. Virgil blinked his eyes open to see the second pixie - this one with veiny wings like a beetle’s - rubbing his leg soothingly. “You need to take slow, deep breaths to calm yourself.”

Virgil nodded and attempted to follow suit, counting to four on each inhale and exhale until the tears had slowed and he was able to relax somewhat to continue the conversation. “Th-thank you, um, what are your names?”

“You can call me Pat, Pat!” The first pixie announced twirling himself up into the air and drifting back down again.

“Ah, so you are quite new around here,” the second pixie mused, keeping his hands on Virgil’s leg. “You may call me Lo. Names have great power to the fae and it is imperative that you do not give yours away lightly, else someone may have complete control over your will.”

“But the Lady of the Summer Court already knows my name, and so did Jan- her son.”

“At any point did you give it to them, though?”

Virgil thought back over the last few weeks. “No… no, they both just, sorta, knew it somehow. Oh, uh, I guess you can call me Vee, then?”

Lo nodded. “Then it is likely they only heard your name somewhere, but they do not own it. Do you understand? They can exert some measure of power over you, but they cannot remove your free will entirely. Now then. Why is it the Lady wants you dead?” The pixie offered a small smile, nodding his head as Virgil explained how he got into this situation, that he knew Janus (though he referred to him as Jay), and why he wasn’t with the other fae anymore. When he finished, it was Pat who puffed up angrily.

“The Lady has gone too far, too far! You didn’t mean to make those people leave, leave! And it sounds like you didn’t actually make a binding promise, so Jay is acting a bit silly, bit silly. So, we’re gonna help you sort these seeds, and get everything cleared up, up!”

Logan nodded in agreement. “Indeed. Pat, you stay here with the others to aid Vee. I am going to go have a word with our feathered friend.” With that, Lo leaned in, kissed Pat’s cheek, and flew off down the mountainside.

Virgil watched the glint of Lo’s wings until he was out of sight, then turned back to the remaining pixies to watch as their quick, tiny hands got to work on the grains. “So… how do you know Jay?

Pat grinned widely up at him. “Jay is one of the Princes of Spring, Spring!” He works with love magic, and helped Lo and I get together decades ago in exchange for our help weaving that pretty gate in front of his palace, his palace!”

While they continued to converse, the pixies worked away at the seeds to form six unique piles, sorted from darkest to lightest. Before long, the entire jumbled mass had been reorganized without a single seed out of place. Once their job was complete, the five other pixies twittered their goodbyes and flew off up the mountain. Only Pat remained, sitting on his knee and chattering away as the sun set. Virgil shivered as a chill breeze licked at his exposed skin.

A sudden snap rent the night air, spooking Virgil, who lurched forward to cradle Pat in his hands protectively. Looking over his shoulder, he felt like vomiting when he saw the Lady of Summer standing over the grain piles with her arms crossed. He internally thanked any of the spirits who may be on his side that her chest was covered this time.

“This is not your work,” she hissed. “These were not organized by your hand, but by his!” She pointed an accusing finger at Pat, who had been peeking around Virgil’s arm but quickly hid back against his chest at the attention. “How dare you attempt to deceive me, you cretin!”

With a wordless shriek, the Lady lashed out with her vicious claws, aiming for the unmarked side of Virgil’s face. He scrambled back on his hands and heels, his ass dragging on the ground while Pat clung to the front of his shirt. Before she could take a second swipe, however, the dust and grit kicked up around them, obscuring their vision.

With his eyes covered, Virgil could only hear the flapping of large wings that cut off before there was the thud of a body dropping in front of him. Opening his eyes, he gasped. There, with his back to Virgil, stood Janus, with his great wings spread wide and his claws flexed at his sides. Lo, who had been holding onto the fae’s shoulder, now zipped down to the pair on the ground, holding Pat close and ensuring he was unharmed while the pixies huddled together on Virgil’s lap.

“You will not lay another hand on him,” Janus hissed, standing over Virgil protectively. Virgil felt Pat grip his thumb, but he couldn’t look away from the pair above them.

“What are you doing? Get out of the way, my son.”

“No. You wanted your revenge on him, and you got it. Look at him; he’s terrified, injured, and exhausted. The original disrespect against you was not even intentionally caused by him; it was the doing of numerous others. I do not fault you for your affront, but you are carrying on like a tantruming toddler!”

The Lady of Summer took a step back and clutched at her bosom. “You dare to speak to me like that?”

“I do, and so does the rest of the Seelie Court.” Virgil watched as Janus rolled his shoulders back and stood straighter. The Prince of Spring then reached into a bag tied at his hip and pulled out some sort of wooden charm dangling from a hemp rope. At the sight of it the Lady of Summer gasped and covered her mouth. “I have spoken before the Queen and her retinue, and she has decreed you will leave this mortal alone. In exchange, he will return to his town and gather a proper celebration for you by the end of this month.”

Virgil held his breath, not daring to twitch a muscle as he awaited his fate. The Lady of Summer let nothing show in her expression, but the hard lines of her face had softened attractively as Janus spoke. She shifted, looking over Janus shoulder and directly at Virgil. “You. You will do as this deal demands?”

Nodding rapidly, Virgil held up his hand in oath. “I will, I promise. I’ll go back home and speak with the curator of the Spirit’s Temple. We’ll host another festival and you’ll get the offerings you were supposed to be given at the start of the month.”

As if a switch had been flipped, the Lady of the Summer Court beamed a smile and grasped her hands over her heart. “Well then! That wasn’t so hard, was it! My dear, smart son, finding a way to set things right. I’m so proud of you, my little songbird.” Looking at her son, she cooed and cupped Janus’ cheek to tilt him up to kiss his forehead, smiling at his grumbling. “I won’t linger much longer, don’t you worry. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of my future son-in-law after all! I’ll see you soon, Virgil, dear,” she called, a cool edge to her voice for a moment before she smiled brightly once more and waggled her fingers. With a dramatic wave of her hands, the Lady of Summer vanished once more.

A quiet settled over the remaining quartet, broken by a tinny clearing of a throat. Lo stood in Virgil’s lap, tugging Pat up next to him. “I believe it is time for us to depart as well. I am relieved we were able to arrive in time to prevent any harm coming to you, Vee.” The pixie looked from Janus to Virgil and smiled. “Let us know when you are in the woods, we would enjoy visiting under more ideal circumstances. Farewell, for now.”

“Goodbye, Vee, Vee!”

In a flash, the pair of pixies flew off into the night, their hands held tight together. They flew loops and circles over the others before darting off in the direction the other pixies had traveled hours ago.

On the ground, Janus helped Virgil to his feet. He cooed in sympathy, tenderly touching the tips of his fingers beneath the angry red cuts on Virgil’s cheek. “I am so sorry for what she has done to you, darling. And I am even more sorry that my own actions drove you from the safety of my side. I was meant to protect you from unearned rage, but instead I subjected you to further punishment and drove you towards your would-be killer. If I hadn’t gotten here in time-” Janus exhaled heavily, his wings sagging behind him. “I am so sorry, Virgil.”

“I mean, I’m not gonna say it’s okay, because none of this has been okay, but, I guess I can understand where you were coming from. If I were as attractive as you, I’d also be worried about people taking advantage of me.” Virgil blushed and dragged his big toe through the dirt. “So, yeah, I forgive you, or whatever.” He looked up with a fire in his eyes and jabbed his finger into the center of Janus’ chest. “But don’t you ever do that again, you hear me?”

Janus hands cupped around his own, cradling it close. “I swear, to the end of my days, I will treat you with the dignity and respect you deserve, my dearest.”

Despite the tenderness of the gesture, Virgil was unmoved. “I mean it, Janus. If you want us to work out, then I can’t be afraid that you’re going to banish me from your home every time you get upset. It’s not a relationship if you’re going to treat me like I’m disposable. I’m worth more than that. If you want more reassurance, or something, on my promises, then we can work something out, but what you put me through was terrifying, and I can’t go through it again. I won’t.”

Janus sighed, holding Virgil’s hands up to his lips and resting there a moment before slowly gathering Virgil into his arms. His embrace was loose enough to break, if Virgil wanted. “I understand, darling, and I will never be able to apologize enough for what I have done. However, it is not my words you want, but my actions, and I will do whatever you desire of me in order to make it up to you.” He cupped Virgil’s uninjured cheek. “I want us to work, too.”

There was a long pause as Virgil searched Janus’ golden eyes for any signs of deception. When he found only an earnest honesty, Virgil allowed himself to be held closer. He wasn’t sure which of them moved next, but they came together as one, lips pressing softly at first before quickly gaining heat. Then he was spun and dipped down, laughing hard as he clung to Janus’ shoulders, the fae’s wings held aloft to keep them balanced.

Maybe ‘future husband’ didn’t sound so bad after all.

#anxceit #healthy anxciet #virgil sanders #janus sanders #sanders sides #fae au #eros and psyche #squid scribbles

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princip1914 · 4 years ago

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A few thoughts on writing longfic

I’ve had this post brewing for a while and I figured since today is a Friday I might as well let it out into the wild.

First off, this is not writing advice. I don’t feel qualified to give writing advice. This is a few observations I’ve made over the course of trying to write something that feels, well, long. Fandom is full of excellent authors writing long chaptered fic, but I don’t see a lot of people talking about how they go about producing such fics. I remember feeling like long fic was really out of reach for me when I started writing again in the summer of 2019 after not writing for years and years and I wanted to talk a bit about how that changed for me. Of course, this post comes with all the caveats that there is no need to ever write long fic if you’re not feeling it. Some of my favorite authors write mostly or only oneshots! But, if you are interested, here’s my lengthy, self indulgent, and entirely personal take on ~the longfic process~ below the cut.

First, to get this out of the way: long fic is anything that feels long or complicated to you, the author. “I’m working on my long fic” can mean that you’re branching out from microfiction to write something that’s 2k long, or it can mean you’ve got a multi-part 800k epic. There’s no objective measure of if something is “long fic,” Your own personal definitions can also change as you grow in confidence or change your focus as a writer (a little over a year ago when I finished Doubt Thou the Stars are Fire topping out at 31k, that felt very very long to me. Now it feels….still long, but not very very long.)

Here are a few specific things that helped me write something long. I don’t know if they will be interesting for anyone else, but at the very least writing these down has been a fun way for me to reflect on my own process.

Practice exercises. Ok, this is going to sound exceedingly obvious, but writing one shots prepares you for writing chaptered fic. Here’s what I mean more specifically: if you know you want to write (as a totally hypothetical example) a chaptered fic set in America in the summer that relies heavily on a nature metaphors, is written out of chronological order, and features a melancholy tone--it helps to write a few one shots like that before you embark on the Big Fic. Just like artists tend to do sketches before starting a big piece, it’s very helpful to write something small that gives you a feel for the ~vibe~ of what you’re trying to do in the long fic. It’s helpful for all the usual reasons--you get to know a specific version of the characters which helps plan out a character driven plot for the long fic--but it’s also helpful because you will learn if the tone and mood of the fic has enough staying power to capture your interest for the long haul. For instance, I have a few unfinished chaptered fics that have a humorous tone. I wish I had done more short humorous fics before starting them, because I would have realized that I don’t currently have the mental stamina to hold up a humorous tone for the length of a chaptered fic (hopefully that will change and I will finish Last Days some time this century!).

Plan it out ahead of time. I used google sheets for The False and the Fair. I do not think God intended google sheets to be used for fiction, but that was not going to stop me. On a more serious note, I think the best tool for planning fiction is the one you’re the most comfortable with--the notes app in your phone, handwriting, word, google drive, sheets, chalk board, summoning circle, the blood of your enemies, etc. The reason I chose to use sheets is that I knew from the very beginning that I wanted certain things to happen at specific places in the story--for instance, I wanted the first kiss to happen at the end of the first third of the story and I wanted the “reveal” about the mine accident to happen at the end of the second third of the story. But, I didn’t know what was supposed to go in between those elements. A traditional outline for a story at this point in development might have looked like:

Meet cute

Kiss

Reveal

Ending

But, what my brain needed was to preserve the blank spaces in between these story elements, and specifically to preserve the right amount of blank space between these story elements so that it didn’t end up, for instance, that the first kiss was halfway through rather than a third of the way through. In this way, I found google sheets an invaluable tool for pacing in the early parts of the planning process. I simply made 30 rows assuming 30 chapters, and started plugging in the elements I knew I wanted in the locations I wanted them. Then I filled in the blank spaces by asking myself “how do we get from X plot element to Y plot element in Z amount of chapters.” I’m not a mountain climber, but I’ve often thought about the first things that go into the spreadsheet in terms of mountain climbing terminology. In climbing, a crux move, which can be anywhere along the route, is the most difficult move of the route: if you can’t do it, you can’t do the route. I think of the first things that go into the planning spreadsheet as the crux moves of the story, the most important pieces around which everything else turns. It was not an accident that those were also all the first scenes of the fic that I wrote; if I couldn’t do those scenes, I couldn’t do the story the way I planned it so I wanted to know early on if I needed to make changes.

Make changes if you have to: even though it helps to have things planned in advance, don’t resist the story if it tries to change on you while you’re writing it. Usually the feeling that you have to make changes stems from having a plot that is not entirely character driven. As you write the story, the characters reveal themselves and sometimes the plot has to change to change with the characters’ motivations. Here’s an area where fanfic writers have a leg up on everyone else: if you write fic, you already know the characters really well. That means, (in my experience anyway) it’s less likely that you’ll have a surprise character development which leads to a rethinking of the whole plot. Less likely, but not completely unlikely, unfortunately.

Lie to yourself: The False and the Fair was supposed to be 90k words. I thought that sounded reasonable, a little less than 3x the longest fic I had ever written. Now it's 161k and will probably top out a little over 170k. Ooops. But I never would have set out to write something that long. I wouldn’t have thought I could do it, even though anyone more experienced looking at my plans for the fic probably would have laughed at the idea I could cover all those plot points in 90k. Ignorance is bliss. Protect your ignorance.

Scrivener: Long fic for me means “fic that is long enough you can’t hold all the parts of it in your head at once.” That’s where Scrivener comes in (or another app if you’d rather, but I really like Scrivener for the ability to see the project either linearly or as condensed notecards). You can put together an organizational scaffold in Scrivener that allows you to move back and forth between the forest and the trees. So, for instance, you might be going for a jog and come up with the perfect line of dialogue for chapter 27 when you’re only up to chapter 5 in terms of writing progress. With Scrivener, you can go home, and put that dialogue in the “bucket”/index card/whatever for chapter 27 without compromising your ability to see chapter 5 clearly or muddying up your google doc. You can then use the fact that you’ve started writing bits and pieces of the later chapters in conjunction with the tool of lying to yourself that, actually, you’ve written a lot more of the fic than you realize and that when you get to chapter 27 it won’t be as hard as chapter 5 because you’ve put in the groundwork already. In my experience, this lie turns out to be true about 50% of the time, which is better than 0% of the time.

Digestible mini arcs: The False and the Fair was originally broken up into thirds. I thought it would be 90k and 30k was the longest I had written, so thirds seemed to make sense. Also, 3 is a nice, time honored storytelling number. I think it’s good to give yourself seemingly achievable milestones along the way to completion. These milestones (for me anyway) lined up well with the “crux moments” I’ve described. If you’re someone who likes to write out of order, writing your way to an already written milestone can feel like sailing to an island where you get to rest for a bit from the stormy seas before setting out for the next island in the archipelago.

“It's all part of the process”: I’m categorically incapable of describing things without resorting to running metaphors, and so I apologize in advance, but I am now going to do the insufferable thing of comparing writing a long fic to running a marathon. Here’s the thing with a marathon. You are not going to feel good every step of the way. We all know this. It’s a marathon, it’s supposed to hurt a little bit, especially at the end. In the same way you literally cannot write something novel length or even novella or long short story length without, at least at some point, feeling bad about yourself and your writing. But you also can’t run a marathon if the whole thing is agony, and for most people, it’s not--your meat sack shuffling along the course is subjected to the slings and arrows of all sorts of weird body chemistry that only happens when you push it to its limits. So, you’ll be in agony and then the endorphins will kick in for a while and you’ll be thinking “this isn’t nearly as bad as everyone said,” and then you’ll drink some water at a rest stop and feel like a God for half a mile before you crash and you’re in agony again until that one perfect song comes up on the playlist...and you get the idea. Writing something long, for me at least, is a bit like that. There are massive ups and downs. The key for me is to just understand it’s all part of the process, a necessary step on the way to the finish line. If the fic is 10 chapters long, at some point you have to write chapter 5. Just like you have to write chapter 5, at some point you also have to go through a bit of despair before reaching the end. It is unfortunately non-optional. In fact, despairing is something you can check off your list each time you’ve done it. Cut dialogue tags, check. Feel awful about my writing for thirty minutes, check. Write ending section, check. Often I feel that the stress and shame and fear that come with bad emotions while writing are worse than the bad emotions themselves. It really helps me to remember these emotions are all part of the process and nothing to worry about. If I didn’t have them, then I would worry!

I certainly have plenty more to say about writing, but this ramble has gone on long enough. If you’re interested in any of this stuff, please feel free to send me an ask.

I would also love to know more about everyone else’s writing processes, so feel free to pop into my ask box to talk about your own approach too! I am very interested in this stuff!

#long post #writing #fic #princip's fic #princip writes #princip's musings #longfic #how make words go

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cassiabaggins · 4 years ago

Text

Wedding

A/N: Part/day six! Thank you all so much for your support! Please leave a comment/reblog if you enjoy this!

Wordcount: 2k

First Next Masterlist

Tags: @anjhope1 @deathlikessodaandpizza @guardianofrivendell @myrin1234 @wettomatodude @lothloriien @annkdarar @artsywaterlily @hmmm-what-am-i-doing @drowingintheempty @estethell @claraofthepen @kilielweek

Warnings: mention of miscarriage

Summary: Kili and Tauriel are finally wed

Kili has been quiet all day. That's unusual. Tauriel carefully combs her fingers through his hair and rests her chin on his shoulder. He's staring into the fire.

"You seem distressed," she says gently.

He grunts wordlessly, so she gives him a kiss on the cheek and strokes his hair. "Kili. Talk to me. What ails you?"

Kili is quiet for a little bit longer, putting his hand over hers, before letting out a long sigh. “They want me to get married,” He says.

“Who is ‘they’?” She asks gently.

“The Council.”

“All of them?"

“No, not all of them, but those that do are quite loud.” He draws his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on them. “They want me to produce an heir.”

“What about your brother? He’s already married!”

“They think his child won’t be ‘pure’ enough.” He puts quotations with his fingers around the word ‘pure’. “First they tried to get him to annul his marriage, then they tried to get him to take a mistress, but he’d rather die than disrespect his wife like that, so they gave up and focused on me.” He clenches his fist. “It makes me so angry! Arranged marriages go against everything I’ve ever been taught about how dwarrow love. All of this does! It goes against our nature!”

Tauriel moves so she’s no longer sitting behind him, but beside him, taking his hand.

“What do you mean by that, meleth nin?”

“I mean dwarrow don’t arrange marriages! We only love once, and only one person. Mahal, most of us don’t even experience sexual desires until we meet our One!”

“What if you don’t find the One? Or what if they don’t feel the same?”

“Then we don’t marry. We dedicate our lives to our crafts!”

“Is that what you would have done if I hadn’t come back?”

“Yes. Of course I would have.” He notices the sadness on her face and squeezes her hand. “Don’t look like that, amrâlimê, it’s not so bad. You don’t need love to be happy.”

She leans forward and kisses him. “There’s something awful romantic about that, loving only one person your entire life.”

“Aye, it is.” Kili frowns. “But now they want me to go against that and marry some lass from Rhun. She’s nice enough, I suppose, her name is Mhaite, but—”

“But you don’t love her.”

“But she’s not you.”

Tauriel smiles gently at him.

“I don’t want to marry anyone but you,” Kili says, flopping down into her lap. She strokes her hand through his hair.

“And I don’t want you to marry anybody but me.”

He sighs melancholically, taking her hand and kissing her wrist. She continues stroking his hair with her free hand when suddenly she is struck by an idea.

“What if we eloped?”

Kili sits right up and stares at her. “What?”

“What if,” she repeats, “we eloped. If we got married, they couldn’t make you marry her, right?”

“They could try to get me to divorce you.”

“But you can refuse them, correct?”

“Well, yes. They cannot force an annulment if both parties refuse. Especially if Fili doesn’t approve, since only a king or queen can annul marriages.”

"So your brother is behind us, who else?"

"I'm sure I could get Dwalin to represent you," Kili says, excitement leaking into his voice and gestures, "he likes you, though he won't admit it. Ori can draft up marriage documents, Dori can make us wedding clothes, and Bombur and Cassia can cook and—"

She stops him with a finger over his lips, laughing softly. "This is becoming less of a secret elopement and more of a wedding the longer you talk," she teases.

Kili shrugs and kisses her fingers. "I can't help that I want to get my friends involved."

"Too many people and the secret will leak," she cautions. "The Council will put a stop to it before it can even begin."

He sighs. "Yes, I suppose you're right."

In the end, they limit it to just Kili's family, Balin, and Dwalin. The sons of Fundin agree to represent Tauriel's family surprisingly easily, and Kili's mother and younger sister will represent him. Fili will officiate and his wife will be a witness. The wedding will take place in the council chamber of Erebor in two months time, long enough that the wedding beads can be made, but soon enough that the council members who are against the union do not have the time to put a stop to it.

King Fili is looking over a trade agreement in King Bard’s office, the end of his quill in his mouth and his face all scrunched up with concentration in a way that makes him look unnervingly like his younger brother. Tauriel sidles up to him and taps him on the shoulder. She really shouldn't be distracting him, but she needs his advice. Fili scratches out some letters and looks up at her, dipping his quill back in ink. "Hullo, Tauriel," he says with a smile. "What can I do for you?"

"I need help," she declares and the smile vanishes for a worried frown.

"Is something wrong?"

"Not in the way you think," she says. Fili gives her a baffled look and Tauriel twiddles her thumbs awkwardly. "Dwalin mentioned I was meant to make beads for when I marry Kili," she explains, "only… I've not the slightest idea how!"

"Is that all?" Fili asks with relief.

"...Yes."

The king slides the paper he's been looking at out of his way. "Well, you came to the right dwarf. Do you have a material you're planning on using?"

She shakes her head.

"Do you have a design?"

Another shake of the head. Fili sighs. "Oh dear."

"I don't even know where to begin! I've no idea how to craft jewelry!"

"Well, don't panic, there's no rule saying you have to make them. You just have to design them. It's common enough for a dwarf to commission a close friend to help create their wedding beads."

Tauriel lets out a relieved sigh. "Oh, good." Then she frowns. “Kili will be making mine, though, won’t he?”

“Aye, most likely. His craft is jeweling after all.”

“Then I want to make his,” She declares.

“It won’t be easy,” Fili cautions.

“I don’t care. I want to try.”

"If you do, then far be it from me to try and stop you. Now, let's talk about materials. The most common are stone or metal, but wood or some sort of gemstone isn't unheard of. Any of those catch your attention?"

Tauriel shakes her head. "I feel as if I need to hold the materials to see what I think."

Fili nods. "Next time I visit Dale, I'll bring you some examples."

She grins. "Oh, good! Oh, thank you!"

"Think nothing of it."

The next day, Fili arrives at her home as promised with the materials. He's brought some silver and gold and jewels, but what really catches Taurile’s eye is a beautiful piece of wood. She picks it up and turns it over in her hands. Fili sees her interest.

“That’s walnut wood,” he says.

“It’s lovely.”

“Is that what you want to use?”

Tauriel turns the wood over in her hands. “Yes.”

“Good choice.”

“Only…” she frowns. “I can see why a material like metal or stone would be used, that can last for centuries, but wood? How do you keep the beads from wearing out?”

“We have charms for that,” Fili says, “to make them last. Don’t worry about that.”

“Oh, good.”

He begins to tie his hair back, pulling out tools from his bag, along with a sketchbook. “All right, let’s get to work.” He flips through his sketchbook to a fresh page and picks up a charcoal stick to draw with. “Any design ideas?”

Tauriel frowns, tapping thoughtfully on the wood. “Well… no.”

“Well, what makes you think about him? When I was designing beads for my wife, I thought of all the things that made me think of her and used those for my design. So, what makes you think of Kili?”

Tauriel thinks. “Uh, stars, and the moon, and mountains, mostly.”

“That’s a good start!” Fili says, passing the sketchbook and drawing stick to Tauriel. “Just… start drawing.”

She frowns and takes them gingerly. “I’m not much of an artist.”

“We can clean up the sketch later, just put down some ideas,” he says reassuringly.

In the end, she decides on an image of the Mountain with the moon rising behind it and a star above the moon. It’s simple and pretty, and Fili gives his stamp of approval. Then, the carving lessons begin. Woodworking is not something Tauriel has ever done and it’s not Fili’s craft, but he's a patient teacher and she’s a quick learner. She doesn’t expect to become such close friends with her future brother in law, but she and Fili end up having much more in common than they initially think, including but not limited to their affections for knives and Kili.

It takes time, and lots of practice, but by the day of the wedding, the final beads are done. They’re wide and flat beads with the pattern she came up with carved on one side and their names on the other.

“Just promise me something?” Fili asks as he looks over the beads one final time.

“What is it?” She queries. He looks up at her.

“Please don’t leave him again. I don’t think he could bear it.”

Tauriel wants to tell him she hasn’t the slightest intention of doing that, that she came back for Kili and only for Kili, that not even wild horses could keep her away from him… but she doesn’t. “I won’t. I promise.”

There’s no fancy decorations or clothes for the wedding, no festive lights or stars or firemoons, just the dim torches illuminating the council chamber, and Kili’s smile illuminating her heart as they walk to stand together before Fili to be wed.

Tauriel takes Kili’s hand and he smiles up at her. “You look like a dream, amrâlimê,” he murmurs.

“A good dream?”

“Yes. A fantastic dream.” He turns her hand over and kisses the inside of her wrist. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Together, they turn towards Fili and the wedding begins.

Their vows are in Khuzdul, the traditional words, so no dwarf can say the wedding is invalid. The words are foreign on her tongue, but she knows them and their meaning even in her sleep.

Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, we are two bodies but one soul and my heart is tied to yours. I vow to walk with you and treasure you like the finest of jewels, through this life and the next.

With those words, they weave the braids and beads into each other’s hair, Tauriel bites her lip as she does so, worried her wooden beads look shabby and silly next to the fine diamond-flecked beads he’s made her. But then, he smiles up at her, and looks at the beads like they’re pure mithril, and she knows he thinks they’re beyond precious. Fili says a few more words in Khuzdul, declaring the marriage complete and valid and handing them each a quill to sign the marriage document. As soon as that is over, Kili swings Tauriel into his arms and kisses her like she's water in the desert and she kisses back just as passionately. She can hear the family, no, her family now, laughing around them. She cups his face in her hands and nuzzles her nose to his. “I love you,” she whispers.

“I love you, too,” he responds, wrapping his arms around her waist. “My wife.”

“My hus—"

Before she can fully respond, the door to the council chamber slams open. Lord Khar is standing in the doorway. "What is the meaning of this?!" He shouts, "why is that elf in the mountain?!"

"This," Fili says, picking up his quill and signing the marriage document, sealing the wedding as complete, "is a wedding."

"A wedding?! What?! Between who?!"

"Between my brother, Prince Kili, and Captain Tauriel of Dale, formerly of Mirkwood."

"No! Never! I will not accept it!"

"You don't have to accept it, you simply have to be quiet," Fili says. "I wear the crown, not you. And I have signed this document and officiated this marriage. It is done."

Khar looks positively apoplectic, his face turning an impressive shade of red. Kili squeezes Tauriel's hand reassuringly and looks up at her. She knows he won't let anything tear them apart, and she feels the same, responding to his look with a soft smile.

Lord Khar lets out a wordless, angry noise at the sight of their joined hands and storms toward them, arms outstretched as if he will try to force them apart with pure physical strength alone. Tauriel acts on instinct, swinging Kili behind her (as if a warrior prince of the Line of Durin would need protection) and halting Khar with a harsh blow to the shoulder. "Do not lay your hands on us," she spits.

The dwarf lord goes purple, holding his shoulder. "You cannot—"

"I suggest you listen to her, Khar," Kili says smugly, "my wife is rather deadly when she is angry." He says the words ‘my wife’ with utter relish, rubbing it in the older dwarf’s face, who snarls angrily and steps away from the two of them. "My Lord King," he turns to Fili, attempting a different tactic, "surely you cannot condone this! This elf has bewitched you, can you not see it?"

"I have bewitched no one!" Tauriel cries indignantly. "I'm no wizard, I wouldn't even know where to begin!"

Cassia, peeking around Fili, lets out a little titter of laughter. Kili laughs as well, but the dwarf is well warned away from him. He turns his blazing eyes on the Hobbit Queen. "Don't think you are any better, halfling! You who would put weak, sickly halfbreeds on the Throne of Erebor, if you could only manage to carry one long enough for it to live."

The uproar is instantaneous. Cassia makes a soft, pained little whimper, placing her hand over her abdomen, Dwalin reaches for a weapon, Balin exclaims condemningly, Dis and the princess cry out in indignation, Kili and Tauriel both step forward, either to protect their friend or hurt the dwarf lord, they don't know. They don't make it far enough to find out.

Fili punches Khar in the nose, knocking him to the ground. Khar howls with pain, holding his face.

"You've said enough," Fili spits, his eyes blazing with something feral and unhinged. It's an expression Tauriel has never seen on any face, especially not kind, gentle Fili. "Shut your mouth before I shut it permanently."

Cassia gently takes his arm and he takes a deep, steadying breath. “Khar, son of Zodar, as King of Erebor, I am relieving you of your position on the council of Erebor!"

"On what grounds?!"

"Disrespect of your queen, constant undermining of your king, and," Fili crouches down and reaches into the dwarf's pocket, pulling out a golden seal, "unlawful possession and use of the council seal."

“You cannot just---!”

“I can, actually.” Fili turns to Kili, "I believe you two have a wedding night to get to. I can handle this here."

“Are you sure?” Kili asks. His brother nods. “All right.” He takes Tauriel’s hand and draws her toward the door. “Yasith, let’s go.”

She looks down at him. “Will they be---”

“Fili can handle it.”

They leave the mountain together, returning to Dale, to Tauriel’s home on the outskirts of the city. No one stops them in Erebor at Kili’s command, and no one stops them in Dale at hers. “I have something to show you,” she says, shutting the door behind them. Kili takes her waist and draws her near him.

“Is it you?” he asks cheekily, standing up on his toes to kiss her. She kisses back, laughing a little.

“No,” she says, and then hums, “well, yes, but not yet, just… come with me.” She gives him one last kiss and draws away, taking his hand. He weaves his fingers through hers and lets her lead him through the house to the very top floor, and from there, up another flight of stairs and through a door into the open air.

“You lead me around all secretly to show me the roof?” Kili asks, “Amrâlimê, I’ve been here before.”

She laughs and pulls him forward. Set up in the center of the open space is a mattress and a huge pile of pillows and blankets, surrounded by many candles and lanterns (as yet unlit), a basket of food, and several bottles of wine. “It’s tradition for the marriage to be consummated under the stars,” she says softly, looking down at him. “We don’t have to, but---”

Kili swings her into his arms for a kiss. “This wedding has been all about my traditions,” he murmurs when they come up for air, “I would be honored to partake in some of yours.” And, hand in hand, he leads her toward the bed.

The next morning as Tauriel awakens to birdsong, wrapped in Kili’s arms beneath the open sky, she knows this is where she is supposed to be, and she will fight for it with everything she has.

#kiliel week #kiliel #kilielweek #kilielweek2021 #kiliel week 2021 #kili #tauriel #my writing #the hobbit #fanfic #the hobbit fanfic #fili #hobbit oc #cassia baggins #fili x oc #fili x cassia #kili x tauriel

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joon-ipersgirl · 4 years ago

Text

“inked heart” - jjk oneshot

genre: friends to lovers!au, fluff, a teensy dash of angst

pairing: tattoo artist!guk x tattoo artist!reader (f)

summary: jeon jungkook, a rising star in the tattoing world, is looking to take home best large black and white piece at the 25th annual milano tattoo convention. already one to watch from his previous wins as a young artist, pressures rise when his model for the competition cancels half an hour before the show.

always there when he needs you, you offer to be his model but jungkook is reluctant, especially when the piece is in a more... intimate place. and the fact that he’s been in love with you for the better part of two years. jungkook isn’t too sure how he’s going to survive the next three hours, not when you ask him if he thinks you’re attractive.

caught between a rock and a hard place, does he lie to you and himself when the prize is on the line? it’s go big or go home...

word count: 5.9k

warnings: some guk pining, cursing, mentions of heartbreaker jimin, the smallest dash of angst about not winning, tattoo artist yoongi

a/n: my first guk piece! thank you guys so much for the love on the preview, especially your comments. they honestly make my day. i hope this lives up to your expectations and you enjoy it just as much. this was a random idea i had and i love tattooed guk so here we are. i tried my best to make sure all the tattoo things were accurate so if they aren’t sorry in advance 😭 this was a lot of fun to write and i’m actually debating on writing some other things for this couple (especially for guk’s birthday), but i’m not sure yet. let me know if y’all are interested though and i’ll see what i can come up with. as always, thank you vi for supporting my shenanigans and reading this like four times lmao. feedback is always welcomed and highly appreciated. enjoy everyone!

full masterlist // drabbles

Jungkook’s body buzzed with excitement as he squeezed past the bustling bodies at the 25th annual Milano Tattoo Convention. His fourth year at the world’s largest tattooing competition with a chance to take home the prize for “Best Large Black & White” piece against four hundred incredible artists had Jungkook amped up and ready to go. Some of his inspirations - legends in the game - were mere feet away from him as he browsed the almost endless stations filled with merchandise, displays of new tattoo designs, and occupied benches with models. There was almost nothing he enjoyed more than being around the sound of buzzing guns and filling sheets of half-filled paper with sketches his brain had no issues conjuring up but sometimes struggled to complete. Well, except food. And video games. And you. Not really the point though.

He’d been tattooing for almost six years now, from the moment he’d been able to convince Yoongi to let him be his apprentice. Jungkook had wasted no time in starting his own personal tattoo collection, quickly filling in a full sleeve on his right arm going across his right pectoral and another upper half sleeve on his left. Now, he was making his own name in the art world, commissioning pieces solely off his ability to execute various styles well with very little practice. Jungkook was a jack of all trades and very nearly a master of all. He was a risk-taker and it had paid off for him during his time at Milano, taking home “Best Small Black & White” his second year at the ripe age of twenty, and then “Best Medium Black & White” the following year. Yoongi could barely believe it when the judges called his name and announced him the winner but Jungkook knew his mentor’s chest was swollen with pride. This time, though, there were bigger fish to fry - “Best Large Black & White” in a style Jungkook had just begun feeling comfortable with: fine line tattoos.

He paused at the Killer Ink booth where Hori Kashi was working on a beautiful traditional koi fish upper half sleeve design as his phone buzzed. An Instagram notification.

_petuniablooms: hey jungkook! im so sorry this is last minute but i won’t be able to make the convention to be your model. I got a bad case of food poisoning from dinner last night. i hope this doesn’t cost you the comp. but when you’re back in the country, maybe i can schedule an appt? sorry again!

Jungkook blinked slowly. She couldn’t make it? This was not part of his plan. She was supposed to be here in the next half an hour so he would have enough time to complete his piece for judging in four hours. As one of the younger artists at the convention and with immense amounts of talent, people wondered how long Jungkook would be able to sustain his efforts, especially after taking home prizes in one of the major categories two years in a row. Most of them thought he would burn out after his second year or third year, but here he was. Competitive by nature, Jungkook wanted to prove them wrong - that he really did have what it took to be one of the best in the game. A legend in his own right. He shoved his phone back into his black cargo pants pocket and tugged on his curling brown locks. What was he going to do now?

“Guk! Hey, Guk!” He could barely make out your petite frame as you shoved and elbowed your way through the throngs of folk gathered around booths. You were set on getting to him though, your smaller form not holding you back from covering the distance, your brow set in determination whenever he did get glimpses of your face in the crowd.

That was something Jungkook admired about you: your no-nonsense-get-it-done attitude. Friends for almost three years now, he’d seen the way you’d taken charge of almost every opportunity that came your way. You didn’t take no as the final answer and if you couldn’t find a way to make it happen, you created your own. Either way, you got it done. As the first lead female tattoo artist at your shop, Sin City, you’d also made a name for yourself in the tattooing world as a specialist in black and white shading. Your signature though was the three-color-combination color style you developed for your color tattoos. That’s how the two of you had met - the year he’d won “Best Small Black & White”, you’d taken home “Best Medium Color” - and the two of you hadn’t looked back since.

“Gosh, there’s so many people here. It was so hard to find you. I knew I should have checked the Kashi booth first,” you said after finding a pocket of space next to him and hugging his torso.

“Y/N, it’s a convention. Of course there’s going to be a lot of people here,” he replied, wrapping his arms around you, subconsciously looking for comfort in your touch.

Though the two of you mostly had conflicting schedules due to the demand for your work, you did your best to make time for one another. Jungkook had grown accustomed to seeing you every few weeks for lunch or on Friday nights with beer and chicken for Marvel movie marathon weekends. He didn’t dwell on it too much - how ridiculously domestic a lot of your traditions were - not wanting to shake the table and send the precariously perched house of cards pyramid the two of you had created crashing to the ground, upsetting the balance of your friendship. No, Jungkook would leave those thoughts right where they were.

He more felt than saw you roll your eyes as you said, “Yes, Guk. Conventions have lots of people. This just seems like a health and safety hazard though.” Jungkook squeezed you as you pressed closer to him, slightly uncomfortable as more people gathered in the area.

“Alright, let’s go,” he replied, reminding himself to search for the finished koi design afterward as the two of you walked away. “How’d your piece go?”

“So fucking good!” you beamed and turned your face towards him. He couldn’t help but smile back. “Though I don’t know if it’ll win this year, the guy seemed to be really pleased and that’s all that matters. Plus, t-shirt sales have gone up. Like way up! Speaking of which, you should buy one. My t-shirt design on your body?” you did the chef’s kiss, “Impeccable!” you exclaimed and grinned.

Your smile was another thing Jungkook admired about you. The faintest dimples appeared when you did and there was almost never a moment when he couldn’t not smile with you. It was a smile that reached your twinkling eyes and illuminated your face with a glow. Like right now, as you’re striking poses and modeling your black and white cityscape background covered with your shop’s name in a candy red color, a tattoo gun positioned to finish the last line of the last letter on the white tee in the middle of the crowded aisle in some of the shortest shorts he’s ever seen you wear in public. When did you get those?

“You know what would look good on my body?” you asked as the pair of you carried on walking. Me, he thought, but knew where this conversation was really going. “One of your tattoo designs!”

Jungkook sighed. “Y/N, we’ve already talked about this -”

“I know, Guk, but you literally have no reason to not tattoo me,” you whined. “You’ve tattooed every single one of your other friends! Hell, even Yoongi has a tattoo by you.”

“Yoongi has what?” the older man asked as he bumped into you two as you passed the registration booth.

“A tattoo by Jungkook,” you pouted, arms crossed.

It wasn’t that Jungkook didn’t want to tattoo you. He just didn’t want to fuck up a design that would be permanently etched into your skin for the rest of your life. He wanted to create something that was beautiful for you, something that really conveyed the importance of your presence in his life, but every time he sat down to do so, nothing seemed good enough. You’d been seriously begging him for the better part of a year to do something - anything - but he’d refused saying that he didn’t have the time. Secretly, he just didn’t want to fail and let you down.

“Ah, that age-old debate. It’ll happen one day, kid,” Yoongi said as he patted your shoulder gently. “What time are you setting up, Jeon? Your model’s supposed to be here soon, right?” Yoongi asked.

“Fuck!” Jungkook shouted, tugging on his hair and startling a few people around him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! I don’t have one. She can’t make it. I have to find someone else,” he yelled as he took off, no destination really in mind.

“Wait! Guk -” you called after him but he didn’t stop.

Sometimes, being around you was dangerous as Jungkook could quite literally forget what it was he needed to be doing. There was just something about you that made him lose focus, just a little bit. He couldn’t have that right now. Jungkook needed to be on his A-game, scouting a model that would give him consent in - he checked his phone - twelve minutes.

The one time Jungkook needed someone to be interested in his work, there wasn’t a single soul around. Where had all the people who were begging him to schedule them in for a quick session disappeared to? None of the people passing by were interested in getting a random, floral design done by Jeon Jungkook today, unfortunately. It was as though the devil of the tattoo underworld had cursed him the one time he could have used some luck for the sole purpose of being entertained. Circling back to the D-Town Tattoos booth, Jungkook was running out of options. Shit.

“There you are!” you wheezed as you came to a halt and rested your hands on the table in front of you. “Fuck, I forgot how fast you are.”

“Y/N, I don’t have time. I have to find a model -”

“Why don’t you just use Y/N?” Yoongi asked as he calmly took a seat next to his bench, a tall young man following behind him.

“I couldn’t -” Jungkook spluttered, eyes wide.

“Like you said, Jeon, you don’t have time,” Yoongi reminded him, setting up his work station for his client.

Jungkook looked over at you, still slightly hunched over and trying to catch your breath. This was not how he’d wanted to do this. “Are you sure, Y/N? I don’t know if -”

“Fuck yeah, dude!” you said interrupting him. “100%. Let’s do this!”

Jungkook watched as you made yourself comfortable on his workbench, waiting for him to get started. The fact that you weren’t nervous only added to his apprehension, the fear of potentially disappointing you resurfacing and rising in his gut. It felt like he was taking a risk with stakes much higher than he was willing to bet on, but the trust you had in him had him saying, “Okay. Fill out the consent forms and I’ll pull up the design.”

“What are we working with?” you asked curiously, handing the clipboard back over to him, not really reading it and only signing your name in the designated spots.

“Thigh piece,” he murmured, concentrating on finding the correct sketch on his iPad.

“Sounds fun. I know it’s going to be amazing, Guk. Don’t worry,” you reassured him. He smiled warily as you gave his shoulder a tender squeeze.

Nodding more to himself than you, he showed you the design. @_petuninablooms, like her name suggested, loved flowers. So much so, she’d wanted a full piece dedicated to that specific flower as well as whatever other floral arrangements she thought Jungkook could make look pretty against her skin. She’d won his Instagram contest to be his model for free at the convention because of her sentimental design and background as a botanist, something that piqued Jungkook’s interest. Though he was proud of the design, it didn’t seem to fit you.

“I don’t know, Y/N. I don’t know if it’ll fit your style,” he said, gesturing to your upper half sleeve. The three faces of Frida Khalo, Nefertiti, and Tomoe Gozen were beautifully designed and organized by you as a symbol of feminine unity - embodying passion, leadership, and grace. A much edgier piece than what currently sat on the screen of his iPad designed for his winner, he wasn’t sure how you’d feel about the softer image.

“I told you, Guk. You could tattoo anything on me and I’d be happy. Maybe even more happy than if you’d let me tattoo you. I just want to have something of yours on me - support your craft, you know? Besides,” you said zooming in on the flowers, your gold rings shining in the light, “I like petunias.” Jungkook wasn’t sure if you were only saying this to make him feel better, but he was grateful for your encouragement anyway.

“Uh, I’m going to need you to take your shorts off,” he said hesitantly. “Yoongi, this isn’t against the rules, right? Like having another artist sit for you?” Jungkook asked, turning to give you some privacy though anyone walking past would be able to see you shimmy out of them as there was no curtain or door to shield you.

“Nope. Not that I’ve read,” Yoongi replied, concentrating on his design. Jungkook nodded, steeling himself to focus and get the job done. What he wasn’t expecting was to see you adjusting the band of some very high-waisted, very skimpy, black panties. He nearly choked.

“Does this need to be further up? If not, I can take them off for you. I don’t -”

“No!” Jungkook cried out as he tore his eyes away from the curve of your ass. “I can just move the stencil. It’ll be fine,” he continued after clearing his throat.

“Okay,” you said awkwardly. Jungkook apologized for his outburst as he wheeled himself over to sit in front of you on his little stool. He was making a much bigger deal of this entire situation that it needed to be. He’d seen you in a bikini before, but something about seeing you in your underwear sitting before him was different.

“Relax, Jeon. It’s only a thigh!” Yoongi teased, his head down but his shit-eating grin very much present as he worked on the shading on his client’s forearm. Though Yoongi would never say anything to you out of respect for Jungkook, Jungkook knew Yoongi enjoyed putting him through the wringer whenever you were around.

“Not just a thigh! It belongs to me. My thigh is prime real estate, Min Yoongi. There’s a lot of artists that have been wanting to get in on this,” you joked. Jungkook laughed as he prepped your skin for placing the stencil with rubbing alcohol, hating the fact that he couldn’t feel your skin through the latex gloves but also grateful for the sensory blocker. He knew you were right though - lots of artists did want to work on you and have you walk around with their work as free endorsement of their skill. Honestly, this was a prime opportunity and he should make the most of it.

“Would you be okay with me changing this larger petunia into a mandala? I know you like those,” Jungkook suggested.

“Guk, this is your piece. I told you, I’m good with whatever,” you said cheerfully.

“Keep talking like that I’ll tattoo my name on your ass,” he quipped as he adjusted the design before placing it.

“Make it your face and we just may have a deal,” you shot back and Yoongi gagged from his corner. Jungkook did not want to think about the potential implication of those words.

He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to survive the next three and a half hours with you making suggestive comments while standing in your barely-there underwear, but he was going to have to. Of course, as friends, you’d always had the occasional flirty banter but the “Best Large Black & White” prize was calling his name and God did he want to win. He double-checked the placement of the design as it stretched from just above your hip bone to finish in the middle of your thigh. His adjustments were so precise, it covered the expanse of your thigh damn near perfectly. Jungkook grinned.

“Ready?” he asked, holding up a mirror as you checked out the placement, twisting from side to side.

“Yeah, looks great. How do you want me?”

Jungkook paused as he set up his rolling tray filled with his ink caps and laid out his sterilized needles. There were more than a few ways he could answer that but he settled on, “However you’re most comfortable. You’re going to be here for a while.”

You laughed and climbed onto the bench, giving Jungkook a perfect view of your ass, before you settled against the leather on your left side. Jungkook adjusted the height of his seat so he could position on your thigh with your bent knee resting against the bench and angled towards him. Confirming you were indeed comfortable, Jungkook gently rubbed the A&D ointment across the first section of the design, taking slightly longer than necessary, and got to work. There was a little over three hours to get it done.

He worked diligently as he traced the fine lines of the flower petals, slipping into his professional mode. A small crowd had gathered around the booth, intrigued to see him work on you. Most of the folks there knew about your friendship from social media and mutual community-work settings, how the two of you had bonded over your shared love of tattoos, but seeing the two of you together like this was a real treat. He didn’t feel any pressure as the cameras fought to get a glimpse of him working though. Jungkook did well under pressure but there was a lot riding on this one piece. For him and for you. He wouldn’t disappoint you though. He couldn’t. Not when you looked so peaceful as he worked on the tattoo. Jungkook would win and make you proud.

“Guk, I have a question.”

“What’s up?”

“Would you fuck me?” Jungkook was thankful he’d removed the needle from your skin to wipe off the extra ointment as there was no doubt in his mind he would have fucked up had it been there.

“What?” he asked, slightly breathless.

“Okay, maybe that was a bit vulgar. I guess what I mean is do you think I’m attractive? Like -” you tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, “- a woman you’d spend the night with. Date long-term. That sort of thing,” you finished. Jungkook swallowed before he spoke.

“Uh, yeah. You’re an attractive person.” Jungkook replied, avoiding eye contact with you as he went back to tracing the lines and tried not to think of you under him, around him, on top of - “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve been in a relationship - since anyone has even asked me on a date. Seokjin never called me back after we went for drinks that one time and Jimin - nevermind actually,” you sighed and Jungkook re-lived the memory of Park Jimin with you - the second man to break your heart in a matter of months. His face soured as he remembered how inconsolable you were the first few months after the breakup and how badly he’d wanted to take a baseball bat to Jimin’s very nice, very expensive car. “Maybe I’m unapproachable. Yoongi, am I unapproachable?” you called over to him.

“Yes,” he said dryly, not bothering to look at you. You scoffed in response.

“You’re never the best person to ask, you old man! People barely talk to you,” you murmured.

“Y/N, you’re great,” Jungkook said in response. “You’re more than great actually, but maybe now isn’t the time to get into a relationship?”

“Why not? I have a stable job, I’m cool -”

“Barely!” Yoongi called over. Jungkook watched you shoot Yoongi the finger before you began speaking again.

“- and I’m charming. It would be nice if someone could appreciate that too, someone that wasn’t only me.”

“Hey! I appreciate you!” Jungkook blurted out, slightly offended.

“Yeah, like a friend. Guk, you know you don’t -”

“Don’t say it. Don’t tell me I don’t count, Y/N.”

“But Jungkook -”

Jungkook paused and set his gun down. “No. No ‘but Guk’, Y/N. I appreciate you, more than you know or understand. I get that we’re friends and I know you value our friendship, but you don’t get to tell me I don’t count because you think you know how I feel about you. Please don’t let your perception of my words and actions let you label them “friendly” when they’re something else.” Jungkook picked his gun back up, avoiding your gaze again, slightly alarmed by his unplanned confession.

“What? What do you mean ‘something different’?” you asked, confused. “Was I supposed to read this any differently after you said -”

“You weren’t supposed to know. You weren’t supposed to find out - not like this at least,” he muttered. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Just don’t count me out okay, Y/N? Not this time. Can we talk about this later though? I just -”

Before he could finish, Jungkook’s alarm went off, signaling only an hour and a half left before he needed to be taking you for judgement. “Okay, Guk. I won’t count you out. Finish,” you said softly as you nodded to your tattoo and chewed your lip in thought.

With time against him, you and Jungkook no longer conversed, though the conversation rattled in his brain like loose change in a tin can. He would need much more than a penny for his thoughts if he wanted to get out of this situation. The hasty confession had Jungkook wondering if he’s said too much too soon. Had he finally sent the house of cards tumbling down? It’s not that he hadn’t wanted to say anything, but the fear of you not meaning what you’d said frightened him. Memories of the two of you curled up on his aging leather sofa flickered across his mind’s eye and he wondered if this fuck up was worse than the time he’d quickly denied having any romantic feelings for you the morning after a drunk confession and you’d reciprocated the feelings. It had taken a few months for things to return back to any type of normal, an uneasy tension having over you both whenever you’d met up. Every few seconds his eyes flitted to your face, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever you were thinking sprawled across your forehead in your big, looping handwriting but your eyes were closed and your face fairly serene as you let him work in silence.

And work he did, shoving the thoughts to the back of his mind, finishing the last lines of the final petunia and filling in the mandala with various degrees of shading. He admired the delicacy of his work against your smooth skin, deciding it did suit you, much more than he could have hoped. Jungkook was actually slightly disappointed he was close to finishing, already missing the intimacy of working on you, but also eager to get you on stage so people could see his work. He’d gotten lost in the act like he usually did, concentration never breaking as the rest of the Milano Convention continued in full effect around him. Why had he waited so long to do this? You were a dream to work on, never flinching even as he finished up the minute shading of your tattoo, the worst part for many people. A true tattoo veteran with a hell of a pain tolerance. Roughly ten minutes left in the session, Jungkook wrapped up the piece.

“All done,” he said softly, wiping away the excess ointment and admiring his work briefly.

He heard you gasp as you propped yourself up to get a better view of it. “Holy fuck, Jungkook! It’s perfect. I love it!” you whispered in amazement and Jungkook smiled, relieved to not have disappointed you.

“Let me get some pictures, yeah?” You nodded and Jungkook snapped a few shots, promising to send them to you after the convention ended.

“Looks good, Jeon. And you got it done in time. You learned well,” Yoongi chuckled as Jungkook weakly punched his shoulder. “Are you happy, Y/N?” Yoongi asked as he packed up his spare equipment while his client waited patiently to be escorted to judging.

“Happy?” you scoffed, checking the tattoo out again in the mirror. “How about fucking ecstatic? I’m absolutely in love. Seriously Guk, thank you,” you beamed and launched yourself at him for a hug. Jungkook made eye contact with Yoongi as he held you tight in his arms, the older man relaying a silent message to his younger apprentice through raised eyebrows and crossed arms.

“Alright, alright. You can stare at it more later. We have to get to the judges and make it through all these people so,” Jungkook trailed off, letting you go while simultaneously ushering you out of their designated little space. Agreeing, you grabbed your teeny shorts and shoved your feet back into your sneakers. Jungkook stayed close behind you in an effort to cover your very visible, very exposed ass from peering eyes as you moved through the crowd. As much as he hated to admit it, he was really protective of you.

The trek to the judging station wasn’t as official as the name made it sound. It was really just a small stage raised a few inches above the ground with a table and enough chairs to seat the three judges as artists and their models were scored based on design, complexity, and overall execution. This year’s judges were Jung Hoseok of J’s Tailored Tattoos, Kim Namjoon of Mono & Moon, and Kim Taehyung of Vintage Vante. The three of them were rightfully deemed the gods of the tattoo world and Jungkook looked up to them immensely, each of them having numerous titles on the world stage in countries like Brasil, the United Kingdom, and Australia. Nerves rolled in Jungkook’s belly as he waited in the crowd with you for the host to call his name. A win with these guys as the judges would really put some of those naysayers in their place and Jungkook shuffled in place behind you, antsy.

“What’s wrong, Guk?’ you whispered to him as another artist and model headed on stage.

“What if they don’t like it?” he murmured anxiously.

“Do you like it?” Jungkook nodded. “Then that’s all that really matters. You’re insanely talented and I know they’re some of your role models, but they’re fucked if they don’t see how incredible you are. You’ve got this, Guk,” you said in a hushed tone as Yoongi took the stage with his model from earlier. Jungkook smiled into the back of your head as you stood in front of him and gave his hand a squeeze. Jungkook could always count on you.

It was now his turn. Standing with one hand tucked into his pocket and the other firmly gripping your shorts, Jungkook watched as the judges made their notes on their scoring sheets. You turned graciously to give all three of them the best view of the tattoo. And while he knows that there are probably a few people who’d be overjoyed at the challenges he faced to get to this moment, Jungkook didn’t care. Not when your uplifting words still wrapped around him, affirming his skill and talents. He was proud of what he’d accomplished today and while winning was the ultimate goal, he was also at ease because he’d succeeded in fulfilling one of your wishes and you were happy. Jungkook could only smile as you showered him with praise and tried to convince him to tattoo you again as the judging continued.

The two of you stood with Yoongi, chatting as the judges tallied up the scores. He tried to stay still as he watched the host organize the names of the winning artists, losing interest in the conversation as the judges confirmed the final results. One by one, the host read the categories and its corresponding champion. “For Best Medium Color,” the host paused for dramatic effect, “Min Yoongi!” Jungkook cheered loudly with you as his mentor took the stage with his model showing off the antique pocket watch and a royal flush poker hand on top of a wispy background.

Jungkook’s heart hammered in his chest, the sensation almost worse than his first year at the convention as Best Large Black & White was read out. Though he wanted to look calm and collected on the outside, Jungkook was sure he looked anything but. The audience created their own drumroll as the anticipation built - “Jeon Jungkook!”

Your squeal kickstarted Jungkook’s brain as he processed his win. He’d really done it? A few people around him clapped him on the shoulders in congratulations as he was pushed towards the stage to collect his prize and take his place beside the host. “Congratulations, Jungkook! One of the few artists to take home all three wins in one category,” the host announced. If only they knew what it took to get there. Jungkook felt like he was on cloud nine as he shook hands with the judges and took his picture with you and them, prize in hand. He knew he was positively glowing with pride.

“Guk, you did it! I told you that you could!” you cheered as you bounced up and down in happiness and excitement as they moved onto Best Large Color. He smiled down at you and unable to help himself any longer, he scooped you up into his arms, burying his face in your neck.

“Thank you, Y/N!” He repeated the phrase earnestly as if saying it over and over again would finally let you understand just how grateful he was but all it really did was make you giggle as his breath tickled your skin. “Seriously, I really couldn’t have done this without you.”

“I know,” you joked and flipped your hair. You both laughed and you pulled him in for another hug as you said, “Of course, Guk. I’m always here for you. Always,” you punctuated with a squeeze and a smile.

“Yeah, yeah,” he agreed. “You are always here for me,” he said vaguely as he stared down at you in his arms.

“Guk?” you queried as he stared off into the distance.

“This isn’t happening because I won. I don’t want you to think that I only do things like this when I’m any sort of intoxicated, okay?” Jungkook clarified as his confidence grew.

“Things like what?”

“Like confess and kiss you,” he stated.

“Kiss me? You’ve never-”

“Yes, I know I’ve never kissed you. But I want to. Is that okay?” Jungkook asked seriously.

“Yes. More than okay,” you whispered.

It was all Jungkook needed to hear. He was finally kissing you. A soft kiss that grew the longer you stood pressed together in the middle of the convention floor. Jungkook had had his fair share of first kisses, but yours was the one he’d remember for the rest of his life. Maybe because it was you. Maybe that’s why it would always be his favorite. He’d always refrained from putting himself in any situation where he’d be even the slightest bit tempted but now, after having you, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to let you go. The overwhelming sensation that it was actually happening was quickly quelled by the insurmountable joy he felt as you kissed because it was actually happening.

Jungkook may have ascended into another plane as your fingers curled into the hair at the base of his neck and you pulled him further into you. Though he really didn’t want you to think he was only doing this because he’d won, the courage it gave him really did help. The feeling of winning nearly paled in comparison from the brief, sweet taste that was you. Even if he’d never won tonight, he would have considered himself a winner regardless from the kiss alone. Jungkook sighed into you as he savored the moment. Through the pounding of blood in his ears, he could vaguely make out the hoots and hollers of passerbyers as he held you close. Lost in you once again, Jungkook forced himself to remember your earlier conversation.

“Did you really mean it though?” he asked, one arm still wrapped tightly around your waist and the other holding onto his golden plaque.

“Mean what?”

“Not counting me out.”

“Did you mean what you said?” you countered. “Even if I wasn’t supposed to find out this way.”

“Yes, and all the times before then,” he answered truthfully. “So, does this mean you’ll have me?”

“Absolutely. Totally. With my entire hea-” He pressed repeated kisses against your mouth, your teeth clashing as you both smiled, neither of you willing to break apart until a familiar voice cleared its throat.

“I leave for five minutes and this is how I find you. Took you long enough though. Be that as it may, are you done?” Yoongi asked, expression wry and his own prize peeking out of his duffle bag. “I could use some food before we head back to the hotel and Y/N is going to need that tattoo bandaged.”

“Right, right,” Jungkook answered and let you go albeit reluctantly. “We’ll meet you at the car?” Yoongi nodded.

“Don’t take forever. I will leave you. Both of you,” Yoongi warned as he headed off to the exit without any further questions.

Back at the booth, Jungkook applied a generous amount of ointment to the piece before securing it with a bandage and double-checking the tape. Helping you step into your shorts, he smiled at the tattoo. Not only would it be a great reminder of a great win, it would also signify the milestone in your friendship - relationship? - was taking. “Told you that you should’ve tattooed me sooner,” you quipped as you gingerly pulled up your shorts.

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” he asked, playing along as he quickly packed up his things.

“You would have won much sooner,” you murmured, standing before him.

“Really? What would have been my prize instead? Because that plaque is pretty great.” Jungkook sat his bag on the ground and rested his hands on your hips.

“Better than me?” you grinned and he pressed his lips to yours again.

“Looks like I’ll have to come up with another design then,” he hummed.

“Or you can let me and I can tattoo you,” you suggested with a devilish grin.

“And what do you propose?”

“My name. Right here,” you pointed to the empty space on the left side of his chest.

“Only if you let me tattoo my face on your ass,” he joked and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Deal,” you laughed.

Jungkook said nothing further, only smiled as he laced his fingers between yours and tugged you in the direction of the exit. “Great. I’ll have everything arranged,” he replied. Laughing with you in these moments meant so much to him and while he wasn’t sure what would happen between you after you left the convention and headed home, he would take pleasure in these moments for as long as you’d let him. As the two of you exited the building and hustled across the busy street to the parking garage so Yoongi wouldn’t have an excuse to leave you, Jungkook wondered if you’d known that your name had been inked over his heart a long, long time ago.

full masterlist // drabbles

#jungkook fic #jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff #jeon jungkook #bts fanfction #jungkook fanfic #jungkook #jjk #bts fanfic #fic: inked heart

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quickspinner · 4 years ago

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Month of Miracles Day 9 - Tradition

Find the prompt list here!

I’m mixing up the prompts a bit here because I had a plan for ‘Moments of Wonder’ that can’t happen until a little bit further on in the Hallmark AU. I was just gonna do the next prompt while I got a little bit ahead on the Hallmark ones since they tend to be longer, but...this one wouldn’t leave me alone and I didn’t have enough time today to do both. Honestly, I might not be able to keep up the one a day through the next week, but whatever I miss, I’ll catch up on Christmas week where we have some planned time off.

Marinette understood why her mother thought this trip would do her good, but the truth was that she felt at loose ends rattling around in Gina’s old-fashioned but large house, all alone. At home, there was always somewhere to pitch in, something that needed doing. Gina kept her life pretty streamlined, and when she was home, she delighted in fixing up anything that might be out of sorts in her home. Gina was just too efficient, so other than keeping her plants alive, which really wasn’t that difficult since Gina kept mostly hardy breeds that could survive being left under the care of a neighbor for weeks at a time, there just wasn’t much for Marinette to do.

Finally Marinette planted herself on the couch, set the TV to a channel covering the most recent fashion shows, and sat down to sketch. She’d have a lot of work to catch up on when she got home, so she might as well take advantage of some of this quiet time to get ahead.

She sketched a few basic silhouettes to warm up and get the juices flowing, but after that...nothing came. Every time she started a line, she quickly rubbed about it again. Stop editing yourself, she scolded. Just get it out, and you can fix it later.

It didn’t work. Everything she did felt wrong. Audrey’s complaints echoed in her mind. Too derivative, too pedestrian, where’s the art, Marinette? That’s why I hired you, and all you ever give me is this trash! Did I make a mistake bringing you on?

Did Audrey make a mistake? Marinette put down her sketchbook and pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around them as she dropped her face against her legs, fighting down the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. She swallowed hard and tried to breathe.

Okay. So she couldn’t draw right now. That was okay. She’d do...something else.

She got up, leaving her sketchbook on the couch and the television on, and went into the kitchen. She started pulling out ingredients without conscious thought, the spiral in her mind continuing until she actually stood in front of the mixer, measuring cups in hand.

Marinette took a deep breath. She began measuring out ingredients, repeating the recipes in her head as she worked. This, at least, was something she could do. Nobody got all twisted up over cookies, after all.

Well. Except Audrey are you trying to destroy my figure you’re FIRED Bourgeois. Marinette pushed that thought aside. Rose would appreciate cookies, she was sure. Gina’s neighbors would too. Maybe even Sally...would it be insulting to take some to Sally? She tried to remember if she’d seen cookies for sale in the café, and finally gave up. She’d just make some, and figure out who could eat them later.

This was something she could do, and nobody could say she didn’t do it well, and that...that mattered to her right now. She could feel herself relaxing into the process, and she began to consider what she could make. Gina’s supplies weren’t as extensive as Tom’s, but there were still plenty of options to choose from…

Her first batch was in the oven, and she was making some simple Russian teacakes for a breather, when Gina’s old-fashioned doorbell rang.

Frowning, Marinette grabbed a towel from the oven and went to the door, wiping at least one hand as clean as she could get it before she opened it.

If she’d expected anything, it was a package delivery, or maybe even a neighbor stopping by with some cookies of their own—this seemed like the kind of place where that stuff happened.

On the doorstep stood a grey-haired woman with a bright smile, glasses that made her blue eyes look huge, feet well apart, and her hands solidly on her hips. Behind her stood Luka Couffaine, his lips pressed together in exasperation, propping up a large Christmas tree. He gave her a tight smile when her eyes flicked over him, but the woman in front of him had a presence that was impossible to ignore.

“Um,” Marinette said, smiling uncertainly. “Can I help you?”

The woman stuck out her hand. “Hello, lass. Marinette, isn’t it? Anarka Couffaine! Yer grandma be a friend of mine. When I heard you were keeping house for her while she’s away I thought we’d best be bringing over her tree!”

“Her tree?” Marinette asked, mystified. She glanced at Luka, and couldn’t help a smile when he mouthed I am so sorry at her over his...mother? Surely she must be his mother. Only a parent could put that look of embarrassed frustration on a grown man.

“Aye, Gina always gets a tree from us,” Anarka was saying. “Thought she wouldn’t be needing one this year since she’s gone. Hated to think of her not having one when she gets back, but it makes sense, no one here to take care of it and all. But since you’re here, all’s well. You can decorate it and have it ready for Gina when she comes home. She’s still planning t’be back for Christmas Day, aye?”

“Uh, yes,” Marinette said, reaching up to tug a pigtail and remembering just in time that she’d pinned up her hair, and that her hands were still dusted with flour despite the wiping. “She and my parents and all were supposed to meet back here for Christmas Eve, so I guess—but I don’t know if—”

“Ah, that’s what I thought,” Anarka burst out cheerfully. “She’ll definitely be wanting her tree, then. No worries, lass, we know where everything is. We won’t be in your way but for a moment.”

She didn’t push past Marinette, but it was clear she intended to move forward, and Marinette backed out of the doorway on instinct.

Luka gave her a kill me now look as he hoisted the tree and followed his mother. Marinette giggled in spite of herself, and closed the door behind them.

True to her word, Anarka knew exactly where to find Gina’s Christmas tree things, and ordered her son around with a brusqueness that left no room for argument or debate. Marinette hovered, a bit at a loss for what to do. She wondered if she should go change into clean clothes, but Anarka said they weren’t staying long, and she still wasn’t done in the kitchen—

The oven timer chimed, and she automatically turned to tend to it. She hesitated in the door to the kitchen for just a moment, but Luka was half under the tree, getting it adjusted in the stand while Anarka barked orders. Neither was paying any attention to her, and even if she wasn’t cooking for anyone in particular, she couldn’t stand to let perfectly good cookies burn for no good reason.

She’d just gotten everything settled when Anarka’s booming voice behind her made her jump. “I’ve got to run, lass, but Luka can finish getting things set up. I’ve already told him what to do and where to put everything. We left the box of decorations out for ye, so ye can get things all nice for when Gina comes home. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again, so, goodbye for now. Don’t forget to check the water in the tree every day!”

Marinette didn’t even have time to answer before Anarka was seeing herself out.

As soon as the door banged closed behind Anarka, Luka made a beeline for the kitchen. Hands against the doorframe, he leaned in. “Hey.”

Marinette turned to look at him from where she stood rolling some kind of round cookie in powdered sugar. “I swear I tried to talk her out of it,” he told her, ears burning. “I’d have had more success wrestling a bear.”

Marinette laughed, blushing, and Luka couldn’t help his grin. She looked adorable, with her hair pinned up and her sleeves pushed up to her elbows, flour streaking the red and green, frilled apron she wore. “I can imagine,” she replied, placing the sugar-coated ball carefully on a pile of others already in a dish on the counter. “She seems like someone it’s hard to say no to.”

Luka shrugged. “That’s my mom.” They looked at each other for a moment, Luka thinking about what a sweet picture she made and her thinking—probably that he was completely weird, standing here staring at her. “Anyway,” he said hastily, pushing himself back upright, “I’ll get this finished up and get out of your hair. I just wanted to say I’m really sorry and I had nothing to do with this...whatever this is.”

Marinette giggled. “It’s fine.” Her shoulders came down a little, and Luka gave her one more grin before he went back to setting up the tree. He was starting, he reflected ruefully, to have some dangerous if only thoughts. If only they’d met sooner, if only she weren’t leaving in a couple of weeks...

If only the people in his life weren’t so damn pushy, so that he wasn’t sure how much of the attraction he felt was sincere or mutual. If only he could be sure he wasn’t seeing things because Rose put the idea in his head.

Luka wasn’t sure what had put his mother on the scent. It was, just barely, possible that her motives were exactly what she said they were. Gina did buy a tree from them every year, and since they were friends it was usually more of a visit than a delivery, and Anarka had more than once hauled Luka out to help set the thing up when he was home.

Luka doubted it though. Either Rose had blabbed, or someone else had. Sally, maybe, who might have seen him holding her hand at the café, or maybe one of the townspeople who had seen them say goodbye outside afterwards, smiling and friendly. Marinette blushed so easily, and he did find her extremely pretty. it might have been easy for someone to get the wrong idea.

The television was on, but Luka hadn’t paid any attention to it until Marinette’s name caught his ear. He looked up, and saw a good-looking blonde man on screen, waving to the crowd before he turned to help a lady out of the limo he’d just exited. There was a smaller picture of Marinette on the arm of the same handsome blond in the corner.

Luka put it together with what Marinette had told him at the café, and pressed his lips together, irrationally angry at the man. Clearly he has a type, Luka thought sourly, looking at the new woman on his arm as the couple proceeded down the red carpet. Luka glanced back at the kitchen, and then walked over and turned the television off. Marinette didn’t seem like she was watching it, and she certainly didn’t need to see something like that by accident.

He finished up, making sure to clean up after himself as best he could, stacking the boxes that had held Gina’s things neatly where his mother had found them. Conveniently there was a broom in the same closet, so he was able to sweep up the needles he’d inevitably tracked all over the house.

He put the broom back, and went back to find Marinette. Whatever she was making smelled amazing. Luka paused in the kitchen doorway. Marinette was concentrating hard, piping icing onto cookies laid out in front of her. Even focused as she was, he couldn’t help but note that she looked more content than he’d ever seen her, smiling and at peace, humming softly to herself. She leaned back to study what she’d done, and the humming turned to singing.

Luka took a quick step back and turned, putting his back to the wall next to the door, one hand going to clutch at his heart as it suddenly decided to gallop away.

She was singing one of his songs.

So she’s a fan, he scolded himself. I knew that. And why should he care? By the end, Luke Stone had been almost an entirely separate entity from himself. An illusion created to sell music, not a real person.

Except Luke Stone still played Luka Couffaine’s music. And it was one thing to know Luke Stone had fans, to see them screaming in a crowd or throwing themselves at the security ropes to get to him, but...it was entirely different to hear sweet, sincere Marinette, thoughtlessly humming Luka’s songs just because she was happy and she enjoyed them. It was what he’d always wanted, wasn’t it? To know that people appreciated the music, and not just the image. It was no wonder his pulse was racing.

Luka sighed and closed his eyes. I’m in trouble, he admitted to himself.

Fiction Master Post | Month of Miracles

#quickspins #monthofmiracles2020 #hallmark au #lukanette #endgame lukanette #lukanette endgame #luka couffaine #marinette dupain-cheng #miraculousladybug #miraculous ladybug #promptfic #quickfic

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morganaseren · 4 years ago

Text

OC Introduction

Tagged by: @illusivesoul Thanks! Sorry this took so long!

Tagging: @this-is-something-idk-what, @noeldressari, @alessandramortt, @theherowarden, @jellydishes As per usual, I can never figure out who has or hasn’t been tagged by this. No pressure if you don’t want to participate though! Below is the template you can use.

My answers will be under the Read More.

---

Fandom:

Role:

BASICS

Full Name:

Nickname(s):

Pronouns:

Sexuality:

Occupation and Titles:

Birthday & Age:

Physical description:

Clothing style:

BACKGROUND

COMBAT & SKILLS

Preferred fighting style:

Special skills:

RELATIONSHIPS

Family:

Love interest:

Best friends:

PERSONALITY

Positive traits:

Negative traits:

Likes:

Dislikes:

Fears:

Guilty Pleasure:

Hobbies:

Fandom: Dragon Age

Role: Inquisitor

BASICS

Full Name: Niamh (pronounced “Neev”) Cousland

Nickname(s): Neevy (from Sera), Brat (from Leliana lolol), Storm Pup (mostly from her late mother’s side of the family)

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Lesbian

Occupation and Titles: Niamh is the leader of the Inquisition forces and is also hailed as the Herald of Andraste. Although all her rights to the Cousland estate along with any titles associated with it were forfeited the moment her magic manifested, her ties to her family name are still recognized and vice versa--perhaps especially so now with her being Inquisitor. Thus, in accordance to an older tradition from her late mother’s family, she is also titled the Storm Wolf of Highever per her brother Teyrn Fergus Cousland.

Birthday & Age: Niamh was born on the 3rd of Cloudreach in 9:08 Dragon, so she’s 33 as of Inquisition and 36 as of the Trespasser DLC.

Physical description: She’s a woman of middling height (5′6″ or 168cm). Niamh’s hair is pitch-black, which settles asymmetrically around her face with a longer fringe covering one of her eyes--a pale, misty-grey hue. Physique-wise, she’s full of wiry muscle, especially along her arms, shoulders, and back--testament to years of heavy staffwork.

Clothing style: This is more dependent on what setting she finds herself in. Around Skyhold or in more official circumstances, she tends to garb herself in formal wear such as the one seen below.

When she’s out and about on missions, her attire consists more of cloth and leather as depicted in the screenshot above. As a native Fereldan, she has a tendency to favor fur in her overall field outfit, which is evident in the black Great Bear fur seen along the spaulders atop her shoulders. Then, as an occasional artist, her sketchbook is ever present, constantly hanging from her belt as she draws flora, fauna, and anything of interest in her travels to properly document later. Littered amongst the sketches are also occasional plans for whatever project she’d like to work on back at Skyhold.

Art and crafting is ever her way of relaxing.

Despite being an artist, her color palette in terms of clothing remains relatively simple even if the cut of them are always finely-tailored. She favors darker colors overall with white and varying shades of grey. Occasionally, a splash of color is thrown in every now and again for visual emphasis.

For instance, the red scarf you see on her is a gift from Bethany Hawke. ;3

BACKGROUND

Niamh is the youngest child of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland.

She was born beneath a violent storm that only settled as her newborn cries filled the world--a telltale sign perhaps of the destiny that would later be laid out before her.

She was taken away to Ferelden’s Circle when her magic manifested at the age of four. Niamh was the youngest to enter Kinloch Hold that year, and she was inconsolable for several months as she struggled to adapt to her new surroundings and the many strangers that were meant to be her new family of sorts.

Of all the mages present, she was closest to Jowan since he was only a year or two older than her, and the then young boy was responsible for drawing her out of her sullen shell--enough to where she could finally be comfortable with interacting with others after months of frightened silence. The two children did everything together and were otherwise inseparable. Unfortunately, their relationship would later become strained as they entered into adolescence, especially as Niamh grew into her magical abilities and surpassed him entirely in power, astounding the likes of First Enchanter Irving and Wynne--both whom became her respective mentors--with her command over the elements.

Niamh was able to successfully undertake the Harrowing at the age of seventeen, earning the right to be recognized as a full-fledged mage. She was never designated an Enchanter throughout her time in the Circle, for she had no personal apprentices of her own. The few new ones to arrive at the Tower were assigned to those who had passed the Harrowing before her, but she was content to help them and the Senior Enchanters however she could. Her kindness, patience, and calm diligence earned her easy friendships.

...or at least she thought so until some of her colleagues turned on her with Uldred’s coup following the onset of the Blight.

Caught between blood mages and Templars who believed she had a hand in Uldred’s machinations, she likely would have succumbed to either party eventually had her sister Saoirse--now a Grey Warden--not arrived to help cleanse the Tower of abominations and save First Enchanter Irving and the remaining Senior Enchanters.

For her efforts in saving them, Niamh was allowed to accompany her sister on her travels across Ferelden along with Wynne. She formed a fast friendship with Leliana early on, and it eventually led to heavy infatuation on Niamh’s end, but it stuttered to an abrupt halt when she realized her sister was also in love with the bard. Believing that she had nothing of worth to offer to Leliana as a mere mage, Niamh buried her feelings for the other woman, watching from afar as she fell for Saoirse.

Saoirse was as bold as all great heroes could ever hope to be, and so she was well-suited for Leliana, but it was Niamh who tempered much of her sister’s impulsiveness, especially when it came to matters of diplomacy.

---

"Can't we just--"

"No." Niamh just kept her gaze forward as they walked out of the Deep Roads, refusing to look at her sister.

"But it's a good idea!" Saoirse insisted earnestly.

"Saoirse, in no world where you throw the crown at the two candidates for Orzammar's throne and expect the least most concussed to be King can ever be considered a 'good idea,'" Niamh deadpanned.

---

Yet, for all her brilliance with tactics and matters of negotiation, Niamh was unable to convince Saoirse to allow Morrigan to use her Dark Ritual despite knowing it would have saved any of the Grey Wardens from being sacrificed. Worse, her sister made her promise not to tell Leliana of Saoirse’s own plans to slay the Archdemon in the final battle.

As expected, it resulted in Saoirse’s death.

Racked with guilt over never telling Leliana the truth of the matter, and believing she had been left the last of the Couslands--a mage that Thedas would have never recognized--she disappeared following the end of the Fifth Blight. Niamh placed herself in a self-imposed exile abroad for over a decade until news of a Conclave by Divine Justinia was brought to her attention. The Divine had hoped to bring together both sides of the Mage-Templar War and negotiate its end.

For Niamh, this led her to return to Ferelden. It was her last hope to see if the world could finally begin to change for the better.

Instead, she was given a far different destiny...

COMBAT & SKILLS

Preferred fighting style: She prefers keeping herself at range on the battlefield, for it allows her to better survey it. She sees everything like an intricate chess game, and she always tries to place herself and her team at the best advantage to overcome their opponents.

As a mage, Niamh incorporates a lot of staffwork in her fighting, especially when it comes to casting magic. However, when she was living abroad, she had to learn to adjust her fighting style altogether so that she would never be suspected of being a mage. As such, she taught herself to fight with spears and polearms, as they were still similar enough to normal staff-fighting that it wouldn’t require a completely new foundation with which to work from.

Because the new style of fighting required her to be within relatively close quarters of her enemies, she learned to try and limit the time of the engagement with them as much as possible with quick, brutal strikes. That methodology happens regardless of how many opponents there are. A quick takedown means a much quicker escape after all. As a runaway apostate, she couldn’t risk leaving a trail of bodies behind her wherever she went.

Special skills: Niamh is specialized in all the elemental houses of magic although she favors lightning the most. During her time with the Inquisition, she also specialized in necromancy--much to the surprise of many.

RELATIONSHIPS

Family: Of the renowned Couslands, only she and her older brother Fergus remain, but despite their years apart(she honestly didn’t know that he survived the Battle of Ostagar until she returned to Ferelden in 9:41), they remain loving and supportive as always toward one another. Of her late mother’s family, the Mac Eanraigs, she gets along well with them, especially her Aunt Eithne (who will be making her first official appearance in chapter 24 of OtSttCA).

Love interest: Leliana (although they won’t be an official couple until close to chapter 30 or so)

Best friends: Dorian, Sera, and Cole. She views the three of them like younger siblings, which was an admittedly odd feeling for her at first, given that she’s the youngest of her own siblings.

Of her other companions, she is also closest to Vivienne although Niamh sees her more like a fond, maternal figure than a best friend. She greatly respects how the older woman was able to take her status as a mage and turn it into a position of power within the Orlesian Imperial Court, especially when so very little of it was ever afforded to their people. When it comes to the mage allies she gathered from Redcliffe, she trusts Vivienne’s judgment in overseeing them along with the Knight-Enchanters Niamh requested of her back in chapter 13, especially since Niamh travels so much between missions. Then, when it comes to just about anything regarding Orlais, she goes to Vivienne as much as Leliana or Josephine, mostly wanting the insight of a mage in regards to the culture and politics seen there.

Then, of her War Council, Leliana and Josephine are her absolute favorites. Niamh and Leliana have so much history between them that it’s impossible to separate themselves from one another, and she appreciates Josephine’s sweet nature as well as her diplomatic acumen.

PERSONALITY

Positive traits: Her adaptability. There’s an almost... chameleon-like nature to Niamh at times. As such, she can acclimate herself to whatever her environment asks of her and find a way to thrive in spite of it all. She’s also quite intelligent. Ever the eternal student, she constantly looks to expand her wealth of knowledge. Had she not been born a mage, she likely would have done well as a scholar in the world of Thedas. Niamh is also benevolent, always seeking to place more kindness into the world rather than contributing to the bad already within it.

Negative traits: After years of being taught rather toxic, religious doctrine from the Chantry in regards to mages, Niamh has rather low self-esteem, especially when it comes to the subject of love. She doesn’t believe herself worthy of Leliana for instance. As brilliant as she is, her mind can be rather restless at times. This can lead to overthinking outside of any tactical or official setting, which tends to feed back on her latent anxiety as a leader. Then, having spent a decade constantly on the move, she’s not used to staying still for long periods of time, which lends itself to some trouble, especially if she’s injured. She is quite literally the worst patient ever. :P

Likes: Storms, the ocean, mabari, tea, strategy games, sweets, books, art

Dislikes: The Chantry, Templars, discriminatory behavior, incivility,

Fears: The Rite of Tranquility, outright failure as a leader

Guilty Pleasure: Niamh has the most terrible sweet tooth. If given half the chance, she’d get her entire day’s sustenance through sweets alone. She actually does like fashion; she just couldn’t allow herself to indulge in it since her nomadic lifestyle before joining the Inquisition didn’t permit such luxury. She’d happily window-shop the entire day away if given the opportunity.

Hobbies: Sketching, painting, crafting, reading, chess

#OC introduction #Niamh Cousland #...i really do ramble a lot don't i? lol #Niamh FAQ

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thiswasinevitableid · 4 years ago

Note

11. Centaur Indruck (maybe specifically Duck) rating up to you

Here you go! I went with SFW, and a western theme just for fun.

It’s only May, but the desert air is hot and dry, will only get more so as the summer spreads across the mountains. The sun drives Duck to the stream running down the hill, it’s banks shaded by cottonwoods. Pa Newton sent him in search of flowers for the table; it’s Ma Newton’s birthday, and her husband is determined to make it perfect.

“I only get so much time away from the mines, best make the most of it.”

Duck knows just what to pick. Lupines and Daisies will make the perfect bouquet. He spies a clump of daisies, lowers himself to the ground, taking care not to crush too many as he sits. There’s a scuff of rock as grey-brown dust lands on his shoulder. He looks up, expecting a jackrabbit or maybe even a deer, and finds a human staring down at him.

The boy must be about his age, his pale hair falling about a face that’s as skinny as the rest of him. His clothes look fancy, which is at odds with the tear in the knee and smudges on his cheeks. Brown eyes are watery as they stare back at Duck, and he suspects his hands are over his mouth because he was crying and didn’t want Duck to hear him.

“Uh, howdy.” He waves. Instead of waving back, the boy seems more alarmed.

Maybe he’s never seen a centaur before?

Duck tries again, “You lost? I’m goin back up to town real soon, and if I can’t help you, my folks can.”

The boy sniffs, “I’m not lost. I’m hiding.”

“From what?” Duck gathers up his daisies, spots lupine near the rock where the boy is perching.

“Other boys in town. I hate it here, hate how hard it is to breathe, hate the dust, hate how there’s odd things like centaurs and cactus cats out here-”

“Hey!”

The boy winces so intensely Duck regrets yelling, “Apologies. I just, I wish we’d never left the city.”

That explains the clothes. Duck, at eleven years old, knows very little about the town economy. But he knows that while the silver is found in the mines around his home, the money runs down hill to Carson City.

“How come you did?”

“Father got a new job at the bank. Why are you here?” He cocks his head.

“‘Cause my family’s lived in these parts for six generations.”

“No, I meant by the water.”

“Oh. Uh, pickin flowers for my mama.”

“Don’t let the other boys see you. If they broke my glasses for drawing flowers, I don’t think they’ll be too kind to you.”

Duck shrugs, “I ain’t scared of them. And there ain’t nothin wrong with drawin flowers.” Bouquet finished, he stands, the boy’s eyes widening as he registers the differences in their shapes.

“You wanna walk up the hill with me?”

“Yes, please.”

As the trek back to the dusty streets of Virginia City, he learns the human is called Indrid, and that he’s much more talkative than his initial reticence implied. They’re mid discussion of the caterpillars Indrid is raising when they reach a fine, three story house. Indrid bids Duck good afternoon. Duck asks him to wait, takes a lupine from the bouquet, and tucks it safely into the buttonhole on his jacket.

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

“Want some?” Duck holds out a biscuit from his lunch pail. Indrid takes it, scarfing it down in one go.

“Hungry?” Duck teases, sipping from his canteen.

“Enough to eat a horse.” Indrid grins as his friend clutches his sides, laughing. He’d used the turn of phrase accidentally two weeks ago, then tried to cover it with a joke about only if the horse was willing, which only made his friend guffaw and wheeze harder. Now, whenever one of them needs to crack the other up, they mention eating horses.

They’re fourteen, and have spent the better part of the summer working on the Newton Ranch. Duck’s father, after a very close call in the silver mines, decided to extend his time above ground by running an egg and dairy supply for the town. Indrid convinced his father that it was good for a young man to earn a living with his hands during his youth, as it would make him strong and healthy. Mr. Cold, with a little assurance from Mrs. Newton that she would make sure the boys didn’t loaf about, agreed.Mrs. Newton is a woman of her word. Here he is wind-burnt and tan, sweat running down his back and callouses forming on his hands.

He’d do double the work if it meant staying near Duck. Duck’s parents seem to suspect this, and some combination of them wanting their son to be happy and wanting to earn the good graces of a wealthy family leads them to give the boys time to rest or wander about the farm after dinner before sending Indrid on his way.

It’s during one such evening circuit, on the far edge of the property, that Indrid finds a chipmunk burrow with his foot. The pain in his ankle sends him to the ground.

“Ow.”

“Shit. Can you stand at all?”

Indrid tries it and sits right back down, “No. I guess we’ll have to go very, very slow on the way back so I can hobble, and pray another hole doesn’t take out my left foot as well.”

Duck flicks his tail, “I mean, if you wanna take all night, sure. But, uh, what if I give you a ride?”

Indrid blinks at him in the twilight. Riding a centaur is Not Done; the centaurs find it insulting, and humans view it as scandalous.

“You won’t get in trouble, I promise, and I’ll go slow.”

He nods and the centaur kneels, the human clambering awkwardly onto his back.

“Duck? Where do I put my hands?”

“Huh. Around my shoulders, maybe? Yeah, that don’t mess up my balance none.”

Indrid presses himself to Duck’s back, marveling at the strength in the muscles moving beneath him.

“You know” he murmurs into Duck’s hair, “I’m awfully tempted to say giddyup or some such nonsense.”

“You do and I’ll buck you off and leave you for the coyotes.”

“You can buck me anytime.”

Duck calls his bluff by giving the world’s smallest buck. Indrid yelps, then cackles into his shoulders as Duck trots forward, the two of them laughing into the desert night.

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

“Blasted mosquitos” Indrid waves his sketchbook in the summer air. At sixteen, he’s taken to wearing red spectacles and black clothing. This style, combined with the sharp angles of his face, leads more than a few people in town to say he looks sinister.

Duck thinks he’s dashing. Not that he spends much time looking, not at all. Indrid is such a constant in his life that he hardly notices the changes as they age. Except when Indrid smiles at him in a secretive way or when, as he did yesterday, he strips down to nothing for a swim in the river.

“Maybe they’re mad you ain’t drawin them.” Duck reaches into the cool water, picking up several stones just right for skipping.

“But I have. I used my magnifying glass to make a detailed sketch of one last week.”

“Jesus, ‘Drid, is there anythin you ain’t drawn at this point?” The stone skips five times

“Well….I haven’t drawn you.”

“You’ve drawn me plenty.” Six skips this time, not bad.

“I mean in the, ah, traditional sense.”

Ker-plunk

The stone sinks in one as Duck looks over at his friend.

“You already have your shirt off. Even with the wrap gone, I, ah, I couldn’t see, that is, only if you want to.” He sighs, “I’m not expressing this well. What I mean is that you have the finest form of any human or centaur I know. I would like to capture it, try to do it justice. If, if you’ll let me?”

Duck stands, grabs the strap of the wrap covering his lower, “You’re hard to say no to, ‘Drid.”

“You can if you...need...to.” Indrid follows the fabrics path to the ground, then fixes his eyes on Duck as he lowers himself into a comfortable position.

“This good?”

“Extremely.” The human’s gaze fights to stay clinical as it scans him, rough outlines of his body forming on the paper. Soon, Indrid is engrossed in the illustration, though whenever they lock eyes or he glances at Duck’s chest or hindquarters, he goes pink.

Duck whistles, tracks the songbirds hopping from tree to tree. His friend doffs his jacket, rolls the sleeves of his white shirt up as sunbeams scatter through the trees.

“You really are handsome.” Indrid murmurs, “you know that, right?”

“Heard as much from folks now and then. But you sayin’ it is a, uh, interestin development. Almost like you’re tryin to tell me somethin.” His voice catches between teasing and earnest, afraid moving too far one way or the other will scare his friend away.

“I...I need to get closer, to capture some details.” He slides off the rock to sit on his knees near Duck’s chest. The half-finished drawing peeks out from the paper, it’s perspective too far away for Indrid’s current examination to be of any use to it.

“What details are you hopin’ to capture?” Duck pushes pale hair out of Indrid’s eyes.

“I, ah, the dapples just here, and this line, oh to hell with it.” He lunges into a kiss, so eager he nearly knocks Duck sideways. The centaur snickers, cups his face as ink-stained fingers thread into his hair. Indrid licks into his mouth, messy and unpracticed. Duck holds him there tames the frantic exploration down to something more refined but no less hungry. By the time they separate, Indrid’s face is bright red and Duck’s lips are sore.

“‘Drid?” He brushes their noses together, runs his palms soothingly up and down a rumpled white shirt.

“I’ve wanted that for so long.” Indrid sighs, curling closer in spite of the heat. Holding him like this, able to inhale his sweat and aftershave and feel his heartbeat, Duck understands there’s no going back. There is no pretending not to know, not to see the way Indrid looks at him. Which is fine by Duck; he loves Indrid Cold, and he doesn’t plan on stopping any time soon.

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

Duck is twenty years old when he learns that joy and heartbreak can exist in one body without ripping it apart. This is a pity, since he’d prefer bifurcation to the sorrow on Indrid’s face.

“I’m sorry, Duck. I have to stay here and take over the bank, even though following you west is all I want to do.”

Two months ago, a friendly man stopped while Duck was tending the garden outside city hall and chatted with him for the better part of an hour as the centaur worked. The man turned out to be a millionaire with a massive estate mid-way up the California coast, including parts of a forest he wished to maintain but keep wild. He offered Duck the role of head gardener and arborist, and the contract was signed a week ago. The centaur assumed, from his active encouragement and celebration, that Indrid was coming with him on this once-in-a-lifetime chance.

“I’ll send a wire, tell ‘em I gotta back out.”

“You will do no such thing.”

“Seems to me you don’t get a say in that.”

“Duck, please” Indrid sets his left hand on his shoulder, right clenched at his side, “please do not cast your future aside on my account. Just because I have to stay here doesn’t mean you do.”

“Why do you have to stay at all?”

“I’ve been groomed to take my fathers’ place for years. I’m not sure there’s a way out of that, not one that I can see. Sometimes, fate is not in our favor.”

“Fuck fate.” He stops his front hoof.

“Here, you might need this out in California” Indrid lifts his fist, intending to give what it contains back to Duck, as the centaur placed the item there not even five minutes ago.

Duck stops his hand, wraps his own around it, “No. I know the man for me is right here.”

“As do I” Indrids voice is tight. When his face drops against Duck’s chest, it’s damp with tears.

“Then he better write to me to let me know how he’s gettin on. And if he” Duck swallows around the painful possibility in his throat, “if he ever changes his mind, all he’s gotta do is send it back to me in a letter.”

Indrid slips his hand into his pants pocket, “Understood.”

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

“Duck!” Leo, one of Mr. Greenbanks two bodyguards, hails Duck from the mansions’ patio, “come on in a second, someone Mr. G wants you to meet.”

The centaur wipes his hands and trots briskly up the path to the house, droplets of fog strung through his hair. Most days he likes the peace and quiet of his work, but today he’s not in a contemplative mood; Indrid’s last letter was two weeks ago, when they usually come once a week if not more. Illness doesn’t stop him, he simply asks a friend in town to take down and post the letters.

Once he’s certain he won’t track mud into the house, Duck makes his way towards the voices in the parlor. He must be more heartsick than usual today, because that voice sounds like-

“Ah, Duck, here you are. This is Mr. Indrid Cold, a talented young artist who will be illustrating my various scientific writings. And,” Mr. Greenbank winks, “will have the honor of being in charge of any artistic endeavors at the Academy of Sciences.”

Indrid extends his hand. Duck kisses it out of habit, notes his employers' perplexed expression an instant too late.

“It’s a, uh, an old, uh, centaur custom--no, fuck, it’s-”

“We are well known to each other.” Indrid smiles his most genteel smile.

“Splendid! I’m hoping to draw up extensive records of my arboretum, so it’s good you two get along.”

“Indeed.” Indrid tips his head, then turns his attention away from Duck, “where would you like me to unpack my things?”

Duck leaves them to their logistics, stunned. Indrid not only being here, but acting distant after six months apart raises so many questions that he wants to lay down in the flowerbeds and holler until someone answers them.

He busies himself among forest wildflowers instead, wondering why Indrid never mentioned he was applying for that position.

“I hope this explains the gap in my communication.” Indrid, shivering near a tree-trunk, pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his glasses, “I didn’t want to tell you my plans for fear they’d fall through and make you all the more disappointed. Also, the journey here was rather chaotic due to an attempted train robbery. All that is to say I’m sorry if I caused you any distress.”

“Yeah, you did” Duck sets down his tools, “but it was so fuckin worth it.” He yanks the human into an embrace, kisses him until his glasses are all askew. Indrid moans, slipping his fingers under the hem of his work shirt to stroke the band where skin meets fur.

“What happened to fate?” Duck nips his jaw.

“As someone I know so eloquently put it: fuck fate.”

“Smart fella.”

“He is.” Indrid pulls back, mapping Ducks’ body with his hands, “And I also have something for him.” The human tucks a sprig of Lupines-- weighed down with a silver engagement ring--into Duck’s shirt pocket.

“You said sending it with a letter meant the end of things. By that same token, delivering it in person signals their beginning, yes?”

“Yeah.” Duck kisses him, soft as the lifting fog, “guess we better tell Mr. Greenbank he can just let you stay in my cottage.”

“Indeed. May I, ah, see this lovely abode?”

“Right this way. You want me to give you a ride.”

Indrid shakes his head, simply takes Duck’s hand and falls into step beside him, “No. I suspect there will be plenty of opportunities for, ah, riding later. After all, I’m here to stay.

#Indruck #indrid cold/duck newton #monster march #centaur boyfriend #reader request

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carewyncromwell · 4 years ago

Photo

The next Cinderella AU part is here...and I am so thrilled about this part, because not only do we get a new character (who I’m quite sure you can identify from the sketch above -- only my second time drawing him ever, and I’m actually pretty happy with it!), but we’ll also get a nice serving of drama! Goodie!!

Robin Hood as a legendary figure first originated through the oral tradition, so its history is a little hard to plot out, but his first reference in writing is a ballad from the 15th century. Although our modern image of Robin Hood is that of a chaotic good heroic figure, his original incarnation was decidedly less saintly -- he was a bandit, and although he did refrain from stealing from women, he was rather violent, reckless, and hot-tempered, as well as flagrantly against both clerics and all nobility. Robin Hood’s backstory of being a disgraced nobleman who turned outlaw after losing his title and land and who remains loyal to the “good king” Richard while opposing the unlawful regent Prince John was added later, presumably to make him a bit more “approachable” to an Elizabethan audience who was more accustomed to hearing tales about nobility (just look at a lot of Shakespeare’s plays from that period -- many of them center around royalty or the upper class). Plays about or referencing Robin Hood then increased in popularity on the British Isles throughout the 16th and early 17th century, until the rise of Puritanism in the 1640′s put a halt to theatrical productions. (Bloody kill-joys.) For more information on the history of Robin Hood’s development, I strongly recommend this analysis done by Overly Sarcastic Productions (...actually, just watch everything on their channel, it’s all great XD).

Previous part is here -- whole tag is here -- Katriona “KC” Cassiopeia belongs to @kc-needs-coffee -- and I hope you enjoy!

x~x~x~x

Carewyn had a lot of trouble returning to her daily routine at the palace the following morning. Getting so close to the border with Orion and hearing about how much scarier it was likely to get on the battlefield made her all the more worried for Jacob’s well-being. Even if the spell Charles Cromwell had paid for nine years ago made it so that Jacob would stay alive as long as he willed it, Carewyn dreaded the thought of what harm, physical and emotional, that Jacob might face. If she only had some idea which battalion he was a part of and where on the front he’d be, then she could always just try to send a letter his way...maybe even ask Orion to drop it off to the camp for her, since his father was an officer. But Carewyn had combed every military roster she could get her hands on, but hadn’t been able to find a single record of Jacob anywhere.

‘He must be under another name,’ Carewyn told herself.

It wouldn’t be too unreasonable that Charles wouldn’t want Jacob to advance in the ranks on the back of their family name. And really, Carewyn knew full well how displeased her grandfather would be if he found out she was trying to reach out to her brother without his approval -- he could’ve even forced Jacob to take on another name, just to try to make it that bit harder for Carewyn to contact him without his approval...

Carewyn’s friends noticed a rather abrupt shift in her mood. She was singing as always, but her choices were a bit less upbeat and her voice sounded oddly distracted and nostalgic. At one point, Andre mentioned offhandedly that he’d been designing themed outfits for his friends to wear to his mother’s New Year Eve’s Masque Ball, but Carewyn had trouble putting much attention on it.

“I’ve already finished some ‘owl wings’ on a cape for KC and a fur-trimmed wolf mask and gown for Erika...I was thinking perhaps a stag for Bill, a dragon for Charlie, and a lioness for Ginny? I considered a horse at first, but I think a pale gold would make her just glow, don’t you think? Yours I’m most excited for, though...I’m hoping to actually make your newest pair of shoes with fabric on the inside for comfort and diamond on the outside for sturdiness, if I can manage it!”

“Mm...that sounds great,” said Carewyn absently.

Her gaze was drawn out the nearest window, as far out as she could.

“...Andre,” she said slowly, “I realize this is very last minute, but...may I have this afternoon off, to go see my family?”

Andre blinked. “Is something the matter?”

“Oh no, no,” Carewyn lied with as pretty and reassuring of a smile as she could. “It’s just...well, it’s nearly Tristan’s birthday. My uncle keeps him very close to home, compared to my other cousins...I merely thought I might stop by and bake him a little something, as a surprise.”

Andre frowned slightly. “You...get along better with your uncle and his son than with Iris, then?”

“No, but Tristan is only a boy. It’s hard to hold any bad behavior against him. And well, maybe if he and the others don’t know I made it, he’ll enjoy it better.”

Carewyn could see Andre still looked confused and a little dismayed, so she quickly added, “I’ll be back by tomorrow morning, in time for my rounds. I won’t allow it to interrupt my duties.”

Andre offered a hesitant smile. “Well, all right...if it really means that much to you.”

Carewyn’s eyes softened. “Thank you, Andre -- I really appreciate it.”

Fortunately for Carewyn, Andre wasn’t the best at picking up on other people’s pretenses. Unfortunately for Carewyn, two of his most regular confidantes were his cousin KC and fencing instructor Erika, and they did pick up on Carewyn’s odd behavior.

“She said she wanted to surprise her cousin with something for his birthday?” asked KC, frowning deeply.

“Well, yeah,” said Andre. “I admit, it seemed a little weird to do something so nice without even wanting credit, but Carewyn is an awfully selfless sort. From the way she made it sound, she just wanted to do something nice for him.”

“And you believed her?” said Erika rather coldly.

She whacked Andre’s practice sword out of his hand with her own, making the Crown Prince hiss in pain.

“I’ve told you before, Prince Henri -- you all may think Carewyn Cromwell’s nothing like her family, but that’s absolute bunk. She might be more pleasant than them, but she’s not stupid and she’s not honest. Or did you not notice that that weird guy she hangs out with keeps calling her ‘his lady,’ as if she weren’t the penniless orphan of a deadbeat merchant?”

Erika picked up Andre’s sword and tossed it back to him with ease.

“Then of course that guy himself is shady as all get out.”

Andre frowned. “You mean Orion? Come on, Erika, he isn’t that bad -- I thought he seemed quite amiable, myself. Don’t you agree, KC?”

“He is,” said KC fairly. “But Erika isn’t completely off-base. There is a lot about Orion that we don’t know -- that even Carewyn herself doesn’t know. She admitted as much to me, after I first met him. That being said,” she raised her own sword and got into position to attack Andre, “I don’t think Orion’s a threat. You would think anyone with the ability to sneak over the palace walls not once but twice would’ve tried to make some move to attack you by now, but he’s only ever come looking for Carewyn. And although I don’t completely understand the reason behind why she’s acting like a lady around him,” she shot Erika a faintly reproachful look as she and Andre traded blows, “I’m pretty sure it has more to do with her own insecurities than because she’s a terrible person -- ow! Damn it!”

Andre had successfully disarmed KC.

“Insecurities?” he said, his eyebrows furrowing in concern. “What is there for her to be insecure about? I mean, yes, she has no dowry, and taking Orion’s wardrobe into account, I’d suppose he has to come from a family with modest wealth -- but Orion seemed to enjoy the Weasleys’ company quite well, and their family is poor. I think they’d make a lovely match, really,” he added with a rather smug grin. “They even matched at the Festival, without realizing it.”

KC massaged her wrist, frowning a bit sourly. “Yes...but Carewyn is solely under Lord Cromwell’s charge. He’s the one who sent her here. He’s the only guardian she really has. And I think it’s quite clear how much influence he has over his family -- even his daughters who married into other esteemed families still live at his estate with their husbands and children, rather than moving out onto their own estates. And in Carewyn’s case, she doesn’t even have a parent to help shield her from Lord Cromwell’s will. She doesn’t have a penny to her name. So that means, in effect, she’s chained to him, and in those circumstances...well...”

She hesitated.

"Well what?” Andre prompted her.

KC looked incredibly uncomfortable.

“I didn’t want to say anything before without knowing for sure...but I think someone’s been looking at our military ledgers, documenting troop placements. Everything’s neatly put away the way they should be, but there are more fingerprints on them than before. And usually I’m the only one who has much use to look those up, whenever I’m ready to suggest a new war strategy...”

Erika’s eyes narrowed very sharply and she got right up into KC’s space. “And you’re only just saying this now?! That information could be critical to Royaume’s enemies! What if that guy Orion sneaked in not just to see Cromwell, but to get his hands on those? Or what if it was Cromwell herself, working in collusion with him?”

“Impossible,” Andre said forcefully. “Carewyn would never be a spy for the enemy -- it’s not in her character.”

“And I don’t think Orion would know where those documents would be, even if he did sneak in,” said KC.

Erika, however, looked unconvinced as she made for the door. “You can coddle those two all you want, but I plan to tell the King and Queen -- they’ll want to interrogate Cromwell and this ‘Orion Freeman’...”

“Erika, belay that!” Andre said in a suddenly much sharper and more authoritative voice. “That’s an order.”

Once Erika had stopped walking and turned back around, the Crown Prince exhaled heavily and crossed his arms in a business-like manner.

“I’ll get to the bottom of this,” he said firmly. “If Carewyn is heading to the Cromwell estate, she’ll have to take the road through town, correct? I’ll simply take a horse and follow the road after her.”

Erika and KC looked startled.

“Uh, Andre,” said KC, “you haven’t forgotten that you’re not allowed to leave the palace, have you?”

Andre smirked. “No. I’m just sneaking out.”

Before Erika and KC could articulate an argument, he added in a much sassier voice, “Look, I’m doing it whether you come with me or not. I’d appreciate the company if you want to come along -- all I expect is that you’ll dress appropriately. I hear linens and cottons are fashionable for those who don’t wish to attract attention.”

And so Andre, KC, and Erika made preparations to follow Carewyn...completely unaware that a half-hour earlier, Bill and Charlie Weasley had -- after having a similar, but much more concerned conversation with Badeea Ali about Carewyn clearly lying to Andre’s face -- decided to take their horses and tail their friend themselves. And sure enough, the two eldest Weasleys soon enough found themselves following Carewyn on the road heading northeast, avoiding the Cromwell estate all together.

At the very same time, in Florence, Orion had finalized his plan. Today was the day he was going to request a formal audience with Prince Henri, as Prince Cosimo VII. As Carewyn had said, he’d need to act fast if he was going to stop his father from finding a way to complete his own ruthless strategy -- the battlefield itself would be a difficult place for Orion to make his case, with so many distractions, but he knew a more balanced, peaceful setting wouldn’t be. And so he wrote a long letter to the King, explaining everything that he had learned from Royaume and its people as well as Florence’s own, so as to make a case for peace. He then had the court magician Severus Snape deliver it to the Florentine camp in his stead, while he dressed in his finest and prepared to leave for Royaume.

When he made as if to take his own horse, however, Orion found Skye and McNully waiting for him, a black coach already prepared.

“If you’re planning on going to meet Prince Henri, you really should arrive in style,” said McNully with a wry smile. “A good first impression to the King and Queen would help your case by a good 45%.”

“And you have to know there’s no way in Hell we’re going to let you go out and expose your true identity to the enemy without back-up,” Skye added, her arms crossed over her chest. “

Orion’s black eyes softened. “...Thank you.”

As he climbed into the carriage, both McNully and Skye’s faces nonetheless betrayed some hesitation.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” McNully asked. “There’s a 74% chance they’ll respond badly to it -- I reckon there’s a 39.5% chance they’ll try to arrest you on the spot and hold you as a prisoner of war...”

“I carry no weapons with me, and I come with the explicit purpose of diplomacy,” said Orion levelly. “Therefore I’m not an enemy combatant. As long as I follow their direction while under their roof, then any harm they might do me would be violating the conventions of war...and the Royaumanians, for all of their flaws, do have honor.”

“One could make a case for you having been involved in espionage, though,” McNully pointed out, but Orion ignored him and settled down in the carriage, crossing his legs offhandedly.

“What about Lady Cromwell?” said Skye, her voice a bit lower and more concerned. “She’ll find out you’re a Florentine. And not just any Florentine, the Prince of Florence.”

Something sad flickered through Orion’s confident, unflappable expression.

“She was going to learn the truth sooner or later,” he murmured. “If our time together has come to an end...then at least I may have the memories to hold onto...and the knowledge that by ending this War peacefully, I may have spared her of more heartache.”

He closed his eyes and began to meditate, clearly having said his piece on the matter. Skye and McNully, however, couldn’t help but exchange a look that was both anxious and very sad.

As long as they’d known Orion, he’d always been a little reckless, but he was also passive and avoided direct confrontation. This plan to directly appeal to Royaume’s royal family, however, required a lot of guts -- far more than either of them had thought Orion possessed. And they knew such courage could only have been encouraged by one person...the very same person who Orion loved so much that he would choose to follow her example and protect what she loved, even if it meant destroying their relationship forever.

Orion meditated during most of the journey to the Royaumanian palace. It was merely fortunate that, as they approached, McNully broke him out of his trance by tapping him on the shoulder and pointing out the window. If he hadn’t, then Orion would not have seen a rather familiar trio of riders on horseback, riding through town past them -- a short, stocky lady with dark red hair and freckles; a very tall blonde with a square jaw and sharp eyes; and a very handsome dark-skinned man dressed in a purple tunic, emerald green pants, and gold-buckled black boots.

“Stop the carriage!” said Orion, his soft, level voice nonetheless very firm despite not rising in volume.

He barely waited for the carriage to completely stop before slamming the door open and jumping out.

“Andre! KC!”

Andre, KC, and Erika all stopped their horses in an abrupt halt and turned around as Orion dashed up to them.

“Orion?” said Andre, startled.

KC looked from the rather finely dressed Orion to the expensive-looking black coach behind him and back. Erika’s eyes narrowed critically upon Orion as he came to a stop in front of them, his hands clasping in front of him.

“I...had not expected to see you out and about,” said Orion, trying to put on his most pleasant, calm expression.

Andre glanced over his shoulder up the road, frowning deeply. “Yes, well...some business has come up.”

“Orion, have you seen Carewyn?” KC asked him, her face very serious.

Orion blinked.

“Not since last night,” he said. He could feel his heart starting to beat faster. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“Never you mind,” barked Erika, as she turned back to the road. “Come on, we don’t want to lose the trail -- ”

“Erika,” reproached Andre, before he turned back to Orion, his face visibly concerned. “...Carewyn asked for the afternoon off to go see her family, but it was very last minute, which isn’t like her. And according to what we’ve heard in town, there’s been no traffic down the road toward the Cromwell estate in the last four hours...”

“So Carewyn had to have been lying about where she was going,” finished KC, her face much more stoic but her voice no less tense. “We need to find her and figure out why.”

Orion’s eyebrows had furrowed over his widening black eyes. His heartbeat was slamming in his ears as the memory of Carewyn in the woods returned to him -- looking northward, toward the army camps, as if longing to run toward them --

“I know where she’s gone,” he said at once.

He rushed back to the coach, grabbing onto the window frame and standing on the boot of the carriage.

“To the northern border,” he urged Skye, who sat in the driver’s seat. “Quickly!”

“The border?” repeated Skye as a sharp whisper. “But Orion, your meeting with the Prince -- ”

“Can come later,” Orion told her very firmly under his breath. “Both he and I must get to the war front.”

He shot a significant look over his shoulder in Andre’s direction. McNully, putting two-and-two together, nodded and inched himself up to the window of the carriage.

“If you tie one or more of your horses to the carriage, we should decrease our travel time by a good 21% per horse,” he told Erika, KC, and Andre. “If Carewyn left an hour ago, then with one horse, we should be able to overtake her within an half-hour -- two, within twenty minutes, and three, within ten. Though with Orion on the boot, there’s a 12% chance he’ll fall off if we ride at full speed, so we might have to go at 95% instead -- ”

KC fixed the blond-haired man with an incredulous look as she leapt off her horse.

“Are you really calculating all that on the fly,” she asked, looking as if she wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or amused, “or are you just pulling those numbers out of fat air?”

McNully couldn’t help but grin. “Excellent! Now I can officially say that I’ve been asked that question over a hundred times before.”

Still looking faintly bewildered, KC moved to help Andre, who’d quickly started attaching his, Erika’s, and her horse’s to the front of the carriage with the two black ones already pulling it, ignoring Erika’s incredibly sour and distrustful expression. There was no time to lose.

From the boot of the carriage, Orion directed Skye down the same road he’d taken with Carewyn the previous night, Andre, Erika, and KC riding with McNully inside the coach. Once they’d reached the forest, Orion caught sight of a familiar-looking golden eagle with a bandaged wing -- at the sight of the Florentine prince, the eagle gave a loud shriek and flew down into the trees, and Orion urged Skye to pursue him into the woods. The road took them deep into the trees, until at last the eagle landed on a branch over the heads of two familiar-looking ginger-haired men, who were bound with thick rope to a tree.

Bill and Charlie were stunned at the sight of such an elegant coach, but were absolutely beside themselves with relief at the sight of Andre, KC, and Erika. Erika immediately yanked a knife out of her ankle boot and set about sawing off their bindings -- once she’d cut Charlie free, he immediately rushed forward and grabbed Andre’s shoulders.

“We’ve got to hurry!” he said anxiously. “They’ve got Carey!”

“‘They?’” said Andre, very startled. “They who?”

“This band of Florentine bandits,” said Bill, his voice very low and urgent. He kept maneuvering his bindings as Erika cut them to try to sever them faster. “They cornered us so they could try to rob us -- they were willing to let Carey go since she was a lady, but she bartered with the leader, saying that they could take her so long as they left us alone. Claimed that they could probably get more money from holding her hostage than us, given her family...”

Both Skye and McNully glanced at Orion. The Prince’s face had lost most of its color -- he’d turned his face away and closed his eyes, breathing in and out slowly as he tried to stabilize his emotions.

“The bandits in these woods are Florentines, so I doubt they will harm you,” Baroness McGonagall’s words returned to his mind, “but I cannot be sure how they would respond to a Royaumanian, especially one related to one of their wealthiest noblemen.”

“They took all three of our horses and tied us to the tree so that we wouldn’t follow them,” growled Charlie. “They left us a knife so that we’d be able to cut ourselves free, but it’s so dull I reckon it would’ve taken us hours to do it ourselves...”

Bill succeeded in snapping the weakened ropes in half and leapt back to his feet, massaging his wrists.

“They must have taken her to a camp of theirs,” said KC, her dark blue eyes narrowing. “Even bandits need some base of operation.”

McNully nodded, resting his arms on the edge of the coach’s window. “The lady is right. Given where we are, I’d say the odds are fairer that it’s southeast of here.”

“Closer to the Florentine side of the border, you mean,” presumed KC, and McNully nodded again.

“They were heading south through the woods,” said Bill. “But we won’t want to bring the coach. They stopped us because they wanted money -- if they have any reason to think any of you have it, they’ll no doubt want to imprison you too...”

“On the contrary,” said Orion in a very low voice, “this carriage may be just the thing we need, to ensure that they don’t imprison us.”

Everyone looked at Orion, their faces all a mixture of incredulity and revulsion, but he seemed disinterested in explaining himself.

“We must be quick, McNully,” said Orion, and although his voice and face were as level and unreadable as ever, they both betrayed a slight edge. “Time is not on our side.”

With Bill now sitting with the driver’s seat next to Skye and Charlie hanging off the boot with Orion, the black coach set off again. Overhead Orion caught sight of the wounded eagle again, which shrieked at them warningly -- the Prince thought it must mean they were close, but did not respond fast enough to the trap set out in front of them.

The coach rode right through a certain cluster of vines, and within seconds, they had magically sprung to life, lashing themselves around the limbs of the five horses pulling the coach. The steeds reared back, panicked -- Skye immediately yanked out a sword from her belt and began hacking away at them, and Erika and Andre both leapt from the carriage with their own swords to help, but it was no use. The vines only lashed onto them, binding all three of them fast and making it impossible for them to move. And when things seemed like they couldn’t be any worse, without warning, a group of green-dressed men and women had swung down from more vines attached to the nearby trees, surrounding them in a tight noose-like circle and pointing their arrow-decked bows at them.

They were trapped.

“Well, well,” said a voice from the trees above, “we don’t often see coaches that ritzy out here.”

The voice’s owner leapt down to the ground. Unlike his companions, his hooded tunic was yellow instead of green. When he lifted his head enough that they could see his face, it was the host of a mischievous smirk.

“Especially ones crafted in Florence,” the dark-haired and eyed bandit said breezily.

Andre, KC, Erika, and the Weasleys all stiffened.

“Florence?” breathed Bill.

They all as a unit whirled on Orion. His face was remarkably calm and solemn as he stepped off the coach and in front of the others and faced the bandits’ leader, his hands clasped in front of him.

“We do not come seeking trouble,” he said. “We merely come to retrieve a lady who surrendered herself to you. Frame like a robin’s. Hair the color of a red sunset. Eyes the color of the sky.”

The bandit’s leader raised his eyebrows curiously. “The maid called Cromwell?”

“That is her.”

“And what reason would you desire her in your custody?” challenged one of the green-dressed bandits with a cocked eyebrow, a dashing man with tanned skin and dark brown hair.

“Wants to ransom her off himself, no doubt,” sneered another woman with messy brown hair and cold magenta eyes. “He probably works for Lord Malfoy -- we all know he’s the sort to make money off illicit enterprises and keep it all to himself, rather than give it to anyone who actually needs it...”

Two of the other bandits -- a pair of women with long red and short pink hair, respectively -- exchanged a sour look.

“We have nothing to do with Lord Malfoy,” spat Skye, vainly tugging against the vines binding her. “We wouldn’t collaborate with that rat if you paid us -- !”

“Skye,” said Orion in a quelling voice.

The last bandit, a very strong-looking man with dark red hair and emerald green eyes, frowned deeply at the leader, who considered Orion carefully.

“I know your face,” he murmured.

Orion inclined his head, his black eyes boring into the other man’s face. “I’m sure you do.”

The leader’s thin-lidded eyes narrowed critically -- then they widened, realizing.

“Bring out Lady Cromwell at once,” he said abruptly.

The others all whirled on him.

“What?!” cried all three women and the dashing man.

“Jae, are you mad?!” said the woman with the magenta eyes.

“Do it,” said the leader called Jae firmly, without flinching.

The strong bandit -- the only one who hadn’t questioned the leader’s direction -- grabbed a vine, which immediately retracted back up above them.

Jae glanced at the magenta-eyed woman. “Merula, have the vines set them loose.”

Merula looked rather scandalized. “What? Oh come on, you know how much of a pain it is, to have to recast a spell after it’s broken -- ”

“Better that we do it now than wait around for the spell to expire on its own,” Jae said dryly.

Still looking very reluctant, Merula nonetheless did as she was told, holding up her hand, which glowed with light green.

“The terms are now invalid,” she muttered sourly at the plants.

The plants sparkled with a similar green flare before falling limply off of the horses, Andre, Erika, and Skye. KC and Bill moved to detangle the now harmless plants from their companions and around the horses’ legs, and Charlie moved to soothe the frightened steeds.

Within a minute, the strong bandit was back, holding onto the vine easily with one hand and holding Carewyn under his opposite arm. She had her ginger hair tied back in a loose bun and was dressed in the green peasant dress she’d worn to the Festival and her slightly oversized brown shoes -- no doubt because it was the most comfortable dress for travel she had. Orion was also beyond relieved to see that she was perfectly unharmed -- not a single cut or bruise.

“CAREWYN!” cried KC, Andre, Bill and Charlie in relief.

All three of the men immediately dashed right over to her and threw their arms around her in a group hug.

“It’s all right,” Carewyn reassured them with a small smile. “I’m all right.”

“They didn’t hurt you?” Bill interrogated her.

“You must have been terrified -- ” said Andre.

“Where are the horses?” asked Charlie.

“Tied up in a makeshift stable over there,” said the pink-haired bandit with a wry grin and a vague hand gesture.

“A bit tricky to lug them up into treehouses,” added the red-haired one cheekily. “And no, for the record, we did not hurt Carewyn Cromwell. She may be a stick in the mud, but she’s a decent sort.”

“And brave too!” said the muscled man, beaming. “She wasn’t scared at all, not even when Merula stuck a knife in her face!”

“I was only getting fed up with her smart remarks,” huffed the magenta-eyed bandit called Merula. “You’d think she was the Queen of Sheba, with how she acts...”

“She is a proper lady, to be sure,” said the dashing bandit, shooting Carewyn a rather Casanova-like smile.

Carewyn tried to stifle a snort of laughter behind her hand as Jae approached her.

“Seems you’ll have an escort after all, Carewyn,” he said, lowering his bow with a slightly more serious look. “I don’t think I can convince you to reconsider, but under the circumstances...well, just make sure you’re careful. I’d hate to hear of Royaume losing one of its only honorable citizens due to their own stupidity.”

Carewyn inclined her head to him, her blue eyes very solemn. “I’m far from Royaume’s most honorable citizen, Jae, nor from any other country, I daresay. But thank you.”

Jae nodded. He then looked up at Orion.

“By your leave then, your Highness,” he said with an abbreviated bow.

He then nodded to the other bandits, and one by one, they all disappeared back up into the trees.

None of the people on the ground, however, gave them much mind. All of them had turned back around to face Orion -- Carewyn felt like her heart had stopped still as she stared, taking in his neat ponytail and finely tailored black doublet and hose and boots.

“...‘Your Highness?’ ” repeated Charlie, shocked.

Andre’s eyes widened. “Then...then you’re...?”

Orion swallowed, but somehow managed to keep his composure as he nodded. His eyes were locked on Carewyn’s face, never shifting and as turbulent as a black ocean.

“King Cosimo’s new heir,” KC breathed, her face flooding with fresh understanding around her amazement. “Cosimo VII.”

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