#I should learn to draw different flowers than roses but I just love this pearl rose combination I need to sprinkle it on every drawing

[kyuhu]

oh he's dramatic

[viktor-noctis]

Servitude (One-Shot)

I have. No. Excuses.

So, I was watching The Three Musketeers (1973), where Sir Lee plays the sexiest Rochefort to ever grace the screen, and got to enjoy his tender relationship with the Lady de Winter (you see like only a few instances of it, but I enjoy it immensely).

Then, of course, I watched The Four Musketeers (1974) in which their relationship has quite a bit more screen time, and Lee even has a kiss! I love it!

Of course, after this I had to watch The Return of the Musketeers (1989) where it's revealed Rochefort and the Lady de Winter had a bastard daughter named Justine. Now, obviously, she wants revenge on the men who killed her mother, but her overall character was just... quite interesting. Not only that, her getting revenge on the main four musketeers wouldn't feel complete without a bit of eerie, weird revenge on her father, whom she also seems to blame for the death of her mother, which inspired this one-shot...

Warning for... uhm... incest. Nothing explicit (for now), but there's implication.

He should have known when he made the offer. She possessed too much of her mother, too much of the same ruthless cruelty that had seen nobility fall, men more powerful, and far more wealthy than himself. Perhaps it was that, just that, the fact that she could have any and every man that had allowed him to convince himself that she cared for him at all. He, the Comte de Rochefort, the one she returned to, the one she asked for, the one she made room in her bed for, whenever she entertained the Parisian court with her majesty. A woman that could level empires, yes... it made sense, why the Cardinal had always regarded her as a threat, a sharp-fanged serpent he allowed to dine at his table, waiting for the opportune moment to orchestrate her downfall. If only he had been faster, had made himself wiser, he might have avoided their combined plummet. Vengeful, beastly woman... It was her own greed for vindication that had done her in, the crushing spite that not even he was capable of assuaging without the blood of those she coveted. There was only one way she could be satiated, his darling, winter moon, bright and golden as the sun in mid-summer. He, along with half the fools in Europe, burned for her, but it was her own splendor that put everything to the torch, and found him submerged in the tortures of the Bastille. "Father," her voice - that voice - entreated him from the half closed door behind him. Rochefort's jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he inhaled, his brow set and hung as he glared at the far wall. She had already made her demands known, her great plans... she would kill the King in the morning, with her own hands. He swallowed as he turned, forcing the drink, acrid and burning, to slide down the tight, hot expanse of his throat. "What is -" His hand gripped the door handle, pushing against the oak with his other, only to find himself confronted with the pale, naked back of - "Come, help me with this." Her golden hair was swept away, revealing the ivory expense of her shoulders, down, the smooth lines of her shoulder blades, the subtle curves of her vertebrae. The curls he had held, tangled between his calloused knuckles, coiled on the tips of his fingers, were twisted over one shoulder, a ribbon clinging to a few of the strands. Her dress was half peeled off of her, azure petals to compliment her razor blue orbs, narrowed upon him, still standing in the door. "Well?" Justine's voice splintered the illusion, making his heels hiss over the stone beneath them. Rochefort tore his gaze away, his interest growing keen and enraptured by a rather hideous painting on the far wall, obviously made by some simpleton with a brush. "Justine, forgive me, I thought I heard you call and -" He never bumbled like this. Not in front of the Cardinal, long since deposed, or her mother, not even with a grave to mark her... "And so I did." Rochefort's eye widened, ripped from the travesty of oil and pigment on the wall, back to the cut and curve of that face. Yes, they were so alike, in more ways than one, but he had long ago learned to distinguish the bow of the lips, the rise of a cheek and brow, the tip of the nose... But those differences, at once so apparent to his eye, had been obscured in the firelight, the shadows, and the moon. "Why?" He couldn't restrain his rasp, the touch of shock no doubt present in his risen brows, the slope of his mouth, and the slack of his jaw. "To help me dress, of course." She raised a blonde brow at him, lips pinching into a line, though there was no disguising the fullness that awaited within them. "Surely you're capable of that?" Rochefort's teeth clicked, resounding in his ears. His hand felt... hot, knuckles turned to ice around the handle, which dug, unforgiving and harsh into the crests of his palm. "Do you really believe that proper?" The position of a lover, of a husband, not the aging father he had become. He was no handsome rogue anymore, no devilish creature, and though his sinew had not wavered, his hair had faded into steel and sulfur. And there was always the

matter of -

Cyclops. He swallowed, lingering still by the door, held askew only by his lean frame. No, even if those weren't reason enough, the fact it was his daughter kept him bound to the spot. "And since when have you known me to care for what was proper?" His gaze, having slowly fallen to the floor, snapped to hers... that damned sky, bright and dazzling, promising not a shred of rain. But it was that same blue, that same endless expanse that would swallow a man's conscience, make him feel as if he were falling, slamming through the clouds into the maw of the ethereal blackness. "Or you, yourself cared?" That cutting smile should have been his retreat, the glint of pearls to match those around her neck, shining instead, within her full, rose colored mouth. He should chastise her, for once in her twenty years upon the earth, behaving like a whore in front of her own father, but they both knew he had no right, especially when she, like her mother, would only laugh in his face. He should retort, give into that temptation to tease, if only to remember, for she had placed the agony of sentiment upon him, what it was like to hold her attention, that bright, glorious, scorching woman's affection. He should flee, find refuge within a bottle of port or scotch or even English whiskey, to drown out the sight and sound of her, damned to wonder if she smelled and tasted the same as the hellcat that had birthed her from his own loins. Under her gaze, the weight of her expectation, he came forward, swallowing down the lingering burn of the wine on the back of his tongue. Rochefort watched his hands rise. He knew they were his. That knot of scar above his right knuckle, the puncture in the left palm, the slash of white across the back to his wrist, a series of memories lacerated into his skin of battle and victory and defeat. She had tended a few of them, washed and bandaged them, seen and kissed many others. Sometimes, he convinced himself he had forgotten which was which, but - Such lies never lasted long. "Come now, father, I don't have all night." Whispered, breathy, a mixture of exasperation and... anticipation. Rochefort's fingers twitched, reaching forward just to hear her giggle - "Come now, darling, what are you waiting for?" A playful question, the quick dart of her tongue over her teeth, as if to lessen the sting of her bite. "I'm afraid I simply prefer to do the reverse." His reply was easy, even as his fingers pulled with a gentleness that seemed foreign, encasing her body in silk and satin. "This part is far too tedious." Rochefort noted that the strings were lighter, yet didn't fray, a hidden strength to conceal a dignity that she was said to have lost. The proof lay there, disguised under a sleeve or slip of black cloth, the mark of a traitor in one regard or another. "And far less enjoyable. "Is this chore too boring for you, father?" Rochefort's hands paused, knuckles twined with the fabric, grazing the intricate fold of white lace and blue silk. He inhaled, the realization that he had denied himself breath until that point found in the color that speckled his vision, the scent of jasmine invading his lungs, slamming into the chambers of his heart. His chest tightened, expelling that scent, that damned flower back into the evening air with a low rasp. "You said you would come as my servant." Her voice was still too low, too patient for the vixen she had exposed him to back in Paris. "Did you think I would not make use of your services, father?" Rochefort could see the fingers twitching, the palms wavering, the whole of his hands shaking against her gown. He dare not reach out, breach the remaining gap of inches, the tension of the indecency already so close to breaking. "What would they think, if I did not make you earn your keep?"

Have I not done that already? He had given her what she wanted: the names of the men who judged her mother, finding her guilty, and by extension himself. But his own plight, the brush with death, the fall from grace, his imprisonment and now virtual banishment, meant nothing to her. No, he had to accompany her, act as her accomplice in the killing of four men he wanted nothing more than to be as far from as physically possible. And now, now this. What did she gain from it all? What satisfaction was it all worth? Rochefort remained silent, the shift and hiss of her dress as she turned away from him filling the gloom. He pulled to close the space, hiding the smooth arch of her lower back, all the way up to her shoulders, taking the laces in his still quivering palms. Over, under, drawing them taut till they knotted, the twin loops forming a charming bow at the base of her spine. He stepped back, refusing to open his mouth, and she turned to observe his handiwork. "Marvelous work, father." Still that gentle, tormenting tone, the underlying promise of a woman. "I should like you to help me dress from now on." She stepped around him, pausing only when she reached the door. "And tonight as well, when I change..."

×××

For those of you who are wondering, it was quite common in ye-old days, for men - husbands - to help their wives by knotting their dresses (this is also how some adulterers were discovered) or helping them undress, hence Rochefort's apprehension about the situation. Not to mention, knowing her parents were lovers, this is obviously intruding upon the intimacy they must have shared.

There's a lot of psychological stuff to this, some very twisted mind game madness, but yeah... this was an exercise, one I enjoyed. You can actually watch The Return of the Musketeers of YouTube right now (one of those lovely, random fan uploads). It's not as good as the first two (Rochefort doesn't have a single sword fight and they turned him into something of a coward), but still quite enjoyable.

[evoedbd]

Artistic Reflection

Summery:   Both Silvana and her art can inspire Vivienne to reflect on their past. Essentially, a small ramble of events up to season 3.  This was written with the idea of a less clear cut relationship.  It can be viewed as platonic or romantic. **************** There was something captivating about watching Silvana work. Unburdened by the demands of the Poppy, her entire demeanour melted into something... different. The quiet intensity dissolved; a bath bomb in a luxurious tub. Bubbles and colour that floated up to greet rose petals. The bubbliness echoed in relaxed shoulders; sun kissed freckles against Cuban skin. The movements flowed through lithe biceps, rippling through the bristles of the artist’s brush with each stroke. Purpose lingered yet the path danced through rose petals. Gentle, carefree, yet filled with conviction. Each stroke was dedication; the bride walking across the petals thrown by the flower girl. There was a wedding of colours, a union beautiful enough to draw tears, yet a veil concealing the Groom. A destination that was undefined. No expectations. Dark eyes appeared glazed, torn between worlds. They spared only a glance for the real world. Instead, they appeared to gaze into the future. The reality the artist continued to forge with gentle strokes. Gentle. Soft. Beautiful. Was that the world Silvana sought, even after the reality of Crime? Was it that peaceful place that drew such smiles from her? Was it the touch of a fantasy prince that guides the corners of her mouth upwards? That parted her full lips? Or, was it something darker? Was it the viper in the shadows? The effect of poisons leaving the artist completely dazed? Vivienne knew she was poison. She had learned early in life that the world would devour a naive girl. It was a lesson her own father drove home. The nail holding her tragic artwork aloft in the gallery of life. She had learned to play the parts of life that would get her close to her targets. Again, and again. Adopt an illusion. Become the illusion. Shatter the illusion and the hearts bound to it. Vivienne had learned early that the promise of poison was not enough to defend, thus she had taken the next logical step. Metaphor became reality. Whilst one might say a woman’s lips were toxic, Vivienne wove poison into her lipstick. Her serpentine ring bore fangs; fangs which Vivienne also poisoned. Illusion and deception had become the gorgeous red shawl she wrapped around her fine shoulders. Her tight-fitting black dress formed her scales, a seductive pattern to draw her prey closer. Silvana was no exception. Silvana was a little field mouse, a girl with big dreams and romantic ideas. It had been easy to let Nikolai know how desperately Silvana wanted adventure, to guide him to the Cuban girl’s works in that park. The little mouse for Vivienne’s games was perfect. The clay which could be moulded into something far greater than a Viper could ever be. Something who would not poison those she loved. Someone who was worthy of the Gilded Poppy. The loyalty of Vivienne’s chosen family. Truly, Silvana could become the bandage after Vivienne shattered her current illusion. Silvana had dreams. Daydreams, perhaps, but dreams which betrayed desires. Silvana had wanted the beautiful, worldly woman to whisk her away into a life of adventure. Handsome men, priceless jewels and heists. This was an easy role for Vivienne to adopt. Her art was flesh. It was her voice. When to touch, when to resist. How to form every word to draw one’s gaze to her venomous lipstick. Her gallery was opened to Silvana with the cold touch of pearls. Oh, how easily Silvana had been able to spot the fakery of gems, to feel what was brittle in hand. Forgeries which had fooled some of the pickiest buyers did not truly deceive the artist. Even with the distraction of purred seduction, Silvana’s instincts were sharp. The clay was there to be sculptured. Imperfections could be carved away or smoothed down to protect the heart. Silvana was, in essence, perfection. Vivienne’s first masterpiece that would remain when she was long gone. The sculpture had all but formed within the Viper’s coils. An encouraging smile, a friendly hug. Distraction for the hand raiding from her pockets. A wallet. A phone. Anything loose. All returned with the deadly smirk. Luscious lips curled in poisonous invitation. Let her close, then push her away. Keep her stumbling. Heat her to molten, then form. Vivienne needed to hammer away at the girl’s heart. After all, the strongest steel was beaten again and again until the perfection of the blade was sharpened to cut. If Vivienne were to slice her heart out, she wanted the dagger to be dazzling. Yet, her sculpture, the little mouse she was twisting seemed immune to her poison. Even as the mouse leapt into trap after trap, Vivienne neglected to strike time and time again. Dry bite after dry bite. Pain without purpose; or rather, pain that sculptured a line Vivienne had not intended. Silvana may have been clay, yet she stuck beneath Vivienne’s scales. Dark eyes still offered refuge from the harsh world, gleaming with the mirage of paradise. Her smile still held genuine joy, the comfort of a hug or hot coca on a winter’s night. What many began to wonder was how such a smile might taste. Would it be as sweet as chocolate? Would it possess her mentor’s poison? Could the crispness of her white teeth against caramel skin ever grow into the fangs of a Viper? No. Not even the Viper could will herself to completely destroy the mouse. Silvana was something otherworldly. Someone who danced between worlds in a way Vivienne had never seen before. The creator of worlds of colour was not bound to the world of men; not entirely. Somehow, she existed where others could not. The rules did not apply to her, not in any way Vivienne could structure before Silvana was inside the walls. As Silvana’s strokes painted the newest history for the Poppy, she too began to paint Vivienne. That had to be it. What else could have shown Vivienne everything she despised of herself? Could turn those tricks and calculation into stumbling outrage every time a mark threatened the mouse? What else could explain the near obsession to protect? Silvana worked with the physical. She created pieces that lingered in one’s heart. Something that could be touched. Brushstrokes against the canvas which could be followed. A forest to become lost in. Vivienne was the elements. The wind whispering. Seducing. Playing the mind until the body followed every suggestion. Together, they created heists that left the world reeling. They created chemistry so intoxicating that even the knowing scientist added too much heat. For the beauty of the moment, even the scientist would allow himself to be consumed within the flames. It was only amidst the ashes one could see the only flame was the one the scientist lit. That the Viper and Mouse had created something so tangible that science could not define reality. Slowly, Silvana’s gentle innocence became needle sharp. A seductive line or touch was not enough to distract. Their game was theft, yet the artist began to explore further. For once, the mouse Vivienne hunted was a match for her. Or perhaps mouse knew it was no match and did not attempt to win. Suggestion was communication. Vivienne used the only suggestion she knew; the offer of love. Of romance. Of fantasy. Silvana countered with reality. Friendship. Family. Love. Four letters combined to disarm the Viper entirely. As she violently fought those four letters, the other fifteen slid beneath her scales. It wasn’t enough for Silvana to merely know she was family. She wanted the keys. To know everything about her family. Including Vivienne. Stroke after stroke began to define the blurred shadows of Vivienne’s identity, from her heartache to her cowardice. As the layers of colour were built, Vivienne’s schemes were laid bare. No longer was she family, the mentor. She was the one to be replaced. She hadn’t looked to Silvana as a new piece, rather the piece to replace her. Never had Vivienne ever truly considered what that would mean to the artist. Not until confronted. Gifted with colour Silvana may be, but her words held no such gentle weaving. The Cuban girl pushed, pushed and pushed. Just as she could gently create a reality, she could take a hammer to destroy an illusion. Doe eyed she may be, but Silvana was destruction incarnate to an indifferent heart. Implosion. Their perfect harmony shattered. Vivienne, a creature of habit, fled. Yet, even fleeing, she longed for one more taste of chocolate... enough to abandon her rules once more. To parlay. “Lately, every time I try to tell you something important it feels like you beat me to the emotional punch.” Vivienne’s first confession. How could she have spoken when every word was met with another test? Another push? Another accusation? None undeserved, naturally, but why did the mouse seem so shocked when poison finally rushed through her veins? “You’re enough to give me an aneurysm!” Silvana’s assessment of Vivienne’s games. Delivered so lightly. Something that should have broken a heart somehow embraced it, earning the gentle chuckle and response. “It’s what I do best.” It was true. Vivienne had forged herself in layers. A katana. Steel folded so many times it became sharp and fine. A work of art to destroy as much as entice. If she kept people on the edge of her blade, then she would never again be the one cut. She was silk between one’s fingers. Soft and smooth, yet so very slippery. So many had tried to hold her, so many had failed. Silvana did not hold with fingers. She drove her claws in deep. For that silk to be freed, it had to be torn by Silvana’s claws. For Vivienne to flee her family, she had to accept pain beyond measure. She had to destroy herself, not an illusion. Silvana knew this and acted without even a trace of remorse. That was precisely the passion which had been drawn to the surface. The ferocity Vivienne had craved to enhance. Within those claws, Vivienne finally found herself the mouse. The master finally outplayed by the student. “I’m running. But I don’t want to. Every self-preservation instinct tells me I HAVE to. But I don’t want to, no more than I wish to slice out my own heart. Please tell me I don’t have to.” The confession had been torn from Vivienne within Silvana’s claws. Layers unfolded so the heart laid bare, if only for a second. Art was something that spoke to the heart. It inspired emotion. It tore layers aside to capture a perfect moment of vulnerability. An artist understood this better than any. She treasured it, embracing that moment and turning it into something full of power. Silvana was nothing if not an artist. Vulnerability became the next masterpiece, staining the high society of Italy as the Poppy left with more than merely priceless artifacts. Silvana was one of them. Another petal. She was inexplicably different from the others, yet still connected at the roots. Her claws kept Vivienne from slipping away, kept her grounded. The Poppy not only remained whole; it grew.

[artemuerto]

Selfish— or Part 2 of another Mob Boss with another moodboard.

original moodboard here

Part 1: On a Whimp—

Read on AO3

Selfish—

He rose up still drunk on sleep. Peter wasn’t used to yet but enjoyed it anyway. Whether was dark and warm past midnight or the early cold mornings, he found peace in it.

Shoeless feet brushed gingerly on the soft rug while the small click of oxfords were heard in the room. The door opened to the spacey bathroom and Peter was soon surrounded by floral essences of Lavender and Lillies.

A smooth and caring touch was left in his hair and Peter couldn’t help but sigh lovingly, not in all his short time living this live he could get used to the alluring promises of forever.

Mister Stark was still on his working clothes. The only clear difference of his appearance was the lack of a tie and the golden twins at his sleeves, in fact, the white of his sleeves were now slightly pink and splashed over, rolled up so Peter had a view of his bare forearms and the pulsing veins flooding with rage.

He wanted to comfort while the other man had other plans. Striping Peter from his nightgown in sweet touches. First the silky pristine top, the spaghetti stripes rolled down his shoulders bringing tickles and making the boy chuckle loud enough to be heard in the room. Stark leaned over to smell the scent of apples from Peter’s hair and a tint of his own shampoo; Peter started to crave his smell the nights Tony spend too long out from the state.

“Mister Stark—“ Peter tried again to gain his attention but the man shushed him sweety with a kiss on his forehead, a silent order to let him be. Both would find peace afterward. Peter nodded wordlessly and took a step forward. Stepping on Stark’s shoes, Peter went up to his fingertips by the time Stark sank his fingers on the hem of his frilly shorts and pushed them down.

Peter hid his face in the man’s neck feeling shy.

“You’re Perfecto, Bambino.” Stark praised him and reassured him. To him Peter was an angel.

His underwear for the night were simple white panties that hugged his cheeks to roundness and was soft to his fingertips, he almost felt disappointed at the lack of sweet patterns, feeling accustomed to the tiny details the made the clothing purely Peter.

“Grazie.” Stark felt his heart soared in a sense of pride as Peter talked, the boy had taken a liking for learning Italian so he could understand Tony at random times when the words would escape him.

The undergarments went down and promptly Peter was moved to the bathtub.

The water was warm but he still felt the change in his skin giving him goosebumps, Tony had him siting at his chest so Peter couldn’t see his face. Mr. Stark’s hands went to his hair, getting it wet and ready enough for shampoo. Peter melted under his touch trusting him with his soul, the man would never hurt him.

He lashes became sparkly with water as Stark cleaned him and only then Peter notice the different coloring he was sitting on. Long lost was the clear and bubbly seam of water, left only a not so strange but still not familiar pink hue. Mister Stark had his hands dirty.

The man was kneeled in front of Peter, his gaze was still dark and controlling and now the Peter knew what to look for, he could see the lonely drops of blood under his nails.

Peter turned to face him and taking his rough hand in his, the boy cleaned Stark earnestly and was rewarded with a slow smile.

No. Peter wasn’t used to be awaken at odd hours, hours where mr. Stark would have been working. And that meant, screaming, threatening, hurting and punishing other people, people who deserved it.

The hours where the man was drained to exhaustion and one of his ways to coping with the murder thoughts was to touch him, to bath him and clean him as if that way the man stripped down his own sins.

And Peter would gladly drink them all only to see the man smile again.

Tony wrapped him in a fluffy towel and carried him to his room. Out were expose three different pajamas Peter could choose from before going back to sleep. Tony was going to dressed him careful and thoughtfully, spread him in his sheets and let him take as much space as the boy wanted, which usually meant staying nested near his body even when the bed was big enough to fit four to five people.

Peter let the Mafia Lord rest between his legs and hugged him to his chest, he would never say it aloud but he worried for the older man. An older man carrying the weight of the world in his shoulders ready to do the impossible for his family and the people he cared about. Peter was lucky to be one of those now.

Tony could drown in his need for revenge, pride and lust for blood anytime, but one look at Peter and everything else would ease into background. Tony wanted only to see Peter.

Tony wanted to give him the world.

And of that meant tearing the world down. So be it.

—

‘Jasmine’ was still the same but also different. Soon the place had become a safe space now that they knew they could trust each other.

Stephen was always glad to see Peter once again even by the hand of Stark, but soon any dark thoughts were forgotten with one of Peter’s smiles.

Bucky saved him a place next to the bar, Peter no longer was a simple ornament, a pretty bird to fawn over. Now, he mixed and served next to mr. Barnes with the only unusual outcome of having pats on his head by the people who knew him.

Natasha was delighted to see him again. Gushing how much ‘Jasmine’ wasn’t the same without his lithe flower. The woman was there for business, someone had required her services and she had to touch point. Get to know her client even before considering the offer.

It was a really good fucking offer.

Peter giggled attracting some attention. Some expected, some unwanted; he had grown up accustomed to the demeaning stare and bland comments about his mere existence. How much he was nothing but dirt underneath their shoes not even worth cleaning.

He never really paid attention. Peter knew he was in safe hands, Dr. Strange —as he liked to refer himself— never left him out of his sight, Bucky was near him all times and misses Romanov tucked him under her wing before he was even conscious.

He was in safe hands.

Now, to those hands, he could add some more. A pair of hands that he could love, caress and admire.

Tony’s hands were made of iron. With a clenching fist and a deadly grasp, everybody feared for his life pending within those hands. Anyone but Peter.

Bucky let him know it was time for him to serve drinks at the upper state. The hidden floor used only in special occasion.

His shiny shoes squeaked against the floor forgotten to the soft lullaby of music, a tray rested on his hand, careful walk and timid steps leaded him behind a heavy curtain and wood double doors.

Knocking smoothly he waited for instructions.

Mr. Rogers opened the door for him, nodding in silence Peter greeted the man and gazed over the room to know their occupants. Dr. Strange was sitting far from the window, legs crossed in a comfortable sofa, mr. Rogers kept his place close to the door. There was a man sitting on the other sofa next to Strange, a man he didn’t know.

The unknown face was serious. Short and well-kept hair, the beard wasn’t long but thick, Peter question if it would feel as smooth as Mr. Stark thrim one underneath his hands however any second thought was soon forgotten as Mr. Stark himself caught his attention.

“Please, come in.” Peter held his need to smile feeling pleased and after a second or so, left the tray in the table by the man.

“I gotta say, this was not what i expected.” Said the man as Peter served four cups of tea in pearl white cups decorated with hand painted drawing of living flowers. Peter kneeled fully in the soft rug and for moments his movement was in doubt, had he understood wrongly? Those were not his orders?

Strange came forward and patted his head to ease his worries.

“I know it’s unconventional although I personally taught Peter the art of Japanese tea parties and is as important as the discussion we’re having.” Peter nodded along the doctor’s words and continued to serve each cup with care and love.

Peter felt the weight of a stare, so curious as always, he looked up thinking he was going to find Mr. Stark eyes but instead he took in a pair of interested piercing blue eyes.

“How silly of me—“ Mr. Stark roamed shortly as Peter walked to give Steve his cup. The smiled grateful, they had been drinking most part of the evening and his stomach was glad of a changed. “Please, let me introduce the new member of the Stark Industries.” Tony circles his desk and stayed on top of it with a loose grin between his lips. “Quentin, meet Peter.” The boy stopped his actions to stand and come closer to the man whose eyes sparkled with an upsetting glamour.

“It’s nice to meet you, sir.” Quentin smiled with a short nod and repressed a twitching eyebrow from going up in interest. So this was the mysterious boy he had heard before.

A well-hidden boy who had stolen Stark’s heart. Some say the man let the boy rule on top of his shoulders.

Well, at least the boy was easy on the eye so he could sympathize with the older one.

“Peter, this is mister Quentin Beck.” Peter grinned looking pleased like a cat who almost got the cream and went back to attending the men around him. Now going step by step on what he was doing and why. Strange looked proud.

“Usually the head of the family would be the last person to be serve.” Stealing a amuse smirk to Mr. Stark, Peter went up to the man and left his cup untouched on the desk. “But today we are here to celebrate you Mr. Beck.” Quentin wasn’t going to lie, he felt a tingle of arousing glee at being addressed in such ways by the little beauty.

The sound of pouring tea was heard with such clarity that Quentin should have been more worried about it rather than staring at Peter as the boy opened the kettle’s lid to extract fresh petals of flowers and served them gingerly.

Steve look at his empty cup, did he just—?

“Tonight we honor you with a special infusion to make you feel comfortable.” Peter placed the cup in the man’s hands and waited for him to drink bits. The soft and sweet floral scent had a taste of honey. “We have to treat you like you are...” Quentin finished his drink in short soundless sips. “The man who’s trying to steal from the Stark Family.”

Beck’s eyes went wide and his hands trembled slightly, short after his heart started beating fast and his breath was unable to even out. One of his bands rose to his neck useless. The cup rolled down the carpet.

Peter caught Tony’s eyes almost guilty.

“I’m sorry.” Cleaning the rug was going to be a pain.

“It’s alright, sweetheart. Steve will take care of it.” Speaking of Steve—

The poor man was petrified in his place, his eyes never leaving the lifeless corpse of Beck laying in the sofa, from outside nobody would have thought the man was dead, only comfortably sleeping if you didn’t notice the lack of movement in his chest. Steve has also finished his drink and sure was waiting his turn.

Peter moved closer to Steve and took both of his hands into his own.

“You’re okey, Cap. Nothing is going to happened to you.” The man released a heavy breath he didn’t know was keeping in and his legs failed him for seconds, leaving him kneeling in front of the boy with his forehead against the soft clothed tummy. “I would never hurt you, Cap.” Steve laughed in guffaw and finally relaxed his shoulders.

“Please, don’t ever do that again, Boss.” He was talking to Tony but gazed up to find Peter. “It’s not good for my health.” Peter giggled in content and caressed the man’s hair as an apology.

Mr. Stark moved from his seat and thought what to do now.

They had work ahead.

By the time Jasmine was close and the body was being moved Peter came close asking for time to see the man better and touched his beard. With a displeased disappointment he realized it was not even close to the feeling he had when closer to Mr. Stark.

Tony lifted a brow questioning and Peter shrugged.

“It doesn’t feel the same.”

“To what?” Peter hugged himself to Tony’s waist and hide a shy smile.

“To you.”

Peter watched as the body disappeared in Bucky’s hands.

“They should know better than to touch what’s mine.” He breathed easily as all trail of Quentin Beck began to erase there in the middle of nowhere, hidden in open landscapes.

Back at the manor Peter stood half naked, only a robe covering his body as Tony applied lotion to his legs.

“And tell me master Peter. What’s yours?” The tint of amused sarcasm was not invisible to Peter and for moments he had the decency to look embarrassed, his cheeks lighting up in color. “The money? Or is it the gun? Are they yours baby?” Tony left the robe on the floor and started to slowly dress the boy in delicate silk shorts.

Peter rose up to his tippy toes and hugged Tony by his shoulders.

“The money is yours. You made it. You earned it. You bled it out.” Peter wanted nothing more than kiss the man in his arms. “Your guns are yours, your designes, your ideas.” Tony held the boy closer and kissed his neck. Peter standing on the bed while he stayed with his feet on the ground, the boy seem taller. “You wanted to know what’s mine...”

Peter could have said so many different things. Jasmine, the club. The house Strange had given him, the car Natasha gifted him for his birthday, so many other material things he had over the years. Yes, Peter had other things but worth killing for was only one.

“You. You are mine. And I won’t let anyone take you from my side.” Good answer.

If Peter was selfish for wanting to hurt anything or anyone who could take Tony away.

He was a madman willing to destroy the world only to see him happy.

“Don’t touch what’s mine.” Said the clever boy once pointing a pristine gun to a man’s forehead once and pulled the trigger the second Tony was to his side.

[typinggently]

5) a heavy perfume, rose petals, golden chains for Napollya please?? :3

Thank you so much for this lovely prompt! The answer comes rather late, but I hope you enjoy the drabble nonetheless!  🥰♥️

-

Victorian AU - Napoleon as a Gentleman Thief, Illya as an illustrious Decadent

(at least that’s what people assume)

-

The night-fresh scent of the park lingers in the folds of Napoleon’s coat as he pushes the glass door of the veranda shut behind himself. As his eyes get used to the darkness, excitement thrums through him. He’s been waiting for this for weeks. It’s a grand estate, very fashionable, large windows, the promise of gold and crackling bills. If that hadn’t been enough, the tall hedges surrounding it alone make it incredibly tempting. Napoleon has always been rather interested in forbidden treasures, in secrets. Now that he’s finally inside, he looks around greedily, fingers twitching. 

-

People call it the lion’s den and that’s not per se a bad way to describe it. Not that it stinks, but the air is heavy with a flowery, sweet scent, laced heavily with hashish. 

There are no bones strewn around, either, but there’s a mess of other things. Books laying in heaps on the carpet - leather bound, gold-cut, illustrated. Clothes pile over the furniture- silk and velvet and cotton and lace. Greek marble busts, Chinese vases, Russian objects of gold and painted wood and amber that Napoleon can’t really place, but is itching to touch. Some of it is ripped apart, torn, cracked.

Slowly, Napoleon moves over to the doorway, slipping out of the drawing room and into the corridor. Here, the scent is stronger still, and at the end, one door is open, a golden rectangle against the dark. Some of the light filters through and catches in the gold of the icons on the walls, long-fingered and stern Holy Mary’s. Next to those, the golden frames of contemporary French painters, some Japanese woodcuts.��Napoleon can only gauge the worth of those, but it’s not quite what he’s looking for yet.

He’s lost himself, hasn’t he? It’s a lion’s den, is the point, deserving of that title almost solely because of its inhabitant. 

Napoleon runs his fingertips along the wallpaper, the frame of a door-tall mirror. Its surface is shattered, spiderweb-cracks glittering and reflecting a multitude of him as he walks past. 

The lion, of course, is Illya Kuryakin. Napoleon has never met him, but he’s heard the tales. Kuryakin can’t be very old, but he must be incredibly rich. That much is obvious by the lace, the marble, the gold. His excellent taste is just as obvious, as is his temper. Reckless violence, fits of rage. He’s an eccentric loner, shunned by high society for his lion-self, and Napoleon would do best to avoid him.

Lions and magpies don’t mix.

-

However, see, Napoleon isn’t in the habit of making smart decisions. He’s too stupid, his friends would say, but he himself prefers the term curious.

Judging by the scent, the herbal-thickness of it, the lion should be pacified to a certain degree. Napoleon hasn’t heard of a case where hashish has made someone violent, so, he argues, it wouldn’t hurt to take a peek. In the end, it’s most likely that Kuryakin will take him for a dream. Hell, if Napoleon does it well, he might even give him his riches out of his own account. Wouldn’t that be fun?

So he smiles his little magpie smile and slips into the golden rectangle, steps through the doorway into the room at the end of the corridor.

-

It’s the heart of the place, undoubtedly. The walls are covered in red fabric, shimmering in the flickering light of the fireplace. Shimmering like the heavy golden bowls with rose petals that stand on various surfaces of the room, shimmering like the wine in a shallow goblet made out of delicate glass. Caravaggio’s Bacchus, but with the adequate Russian touch – a samovar on a tall table made of gleaming black wood. The floor is covered in carpets, three or four layers, writhing patterns of flowers and animals and abstract ornaments. There are paintings, busts, fabrics. And, of course, there’s the lion.

“Who are you?” Kuryakin is spread out on a divan, golden lashes heavy over blue eyes. He’s a tall man, that much is obvious although he’s reclining like this. And his body, although lax and softened by the hashish, is powerful. He’s also breathtakingly handsome.

 For a moment, Napoleon is frightened, almost more so by his beautiful face than by his strong limbs. His heart fluttering painfully in his throat and he thinks of torn silk and smashed marble. But then he catches on to the way Kuryakin lifts his head, with effort and strain, and how heavy his tongue is, how thick his accent. “I don’t know you. Who sent you?”

He remembers the plan and steps into the room, feet sinking into layers of carpets. “My name is Napoleon Solo. I didn’t meet any of your staff at the door, so I let myself in.”

Kuryakin is wearing a Japanese gown, black silk with golden and red flowers, and it slips a little as he sits, with effort. It takes him a while, Napoleon has enough time to look at him. Where the silk has slipped a little, a crisp white shirt peeks through, pearly buttons. On the table in front of him, smoke is still rising from a delicate, long pipe, and an untouched mountain of Turkish delight waits patiently, pink and dusted in sugar. “No staff. Are you new? What do you want?”

 It’s an odd question. Not only that. There’s something in Kuryakin’s eyes, something even the hashish can’t quite drown in its fog.

 And that’s when Napoleon starts to think. That’s when he looks around, and sees the torn fabric and broken marble, the scattered chess pieces and ripped books, and takes them in. That’s when he considers the rumours and compares them with what he sees. He steps closer, Kuryakin’s eyes on him. At the head of the divan, he sinks down onto his knees to properly look at him. “I wanted to see the lion for myself, I suppose. I didn’t think I’d find him chained in gold.”

At that, Kuryakin shakes his heavy head, then lets it fall back, watching Napoleon from underneath his long lashes. “You’re not with them.”

“I’m not,” Napoleon agrees, then adds, “Who are they?”

Kuryakin, unhelpfully, replies in Russian.

“See, I always wanted to learn that language.” Napoleon looks around for a glass, a carafe of water. There’s only wine. The heavy perfume mixed with the hashish is starting to hurt his head. “What is that scent?”

“Incense,” Kuryakin replies.

“Oh. Expensive?”

“Very.”

“I see.”

“Are you a thief?”

Here, Napoleon hesitates. This is, all in all, not going according to his plan at all, so he figures he might as well. “Yes.”

Kuryakin nods solemnly and a strand of his golden hair falls into his face. “You call it a bird, right?”

For a moment, Napoleon isn’t quite sure what he means, feels a little trapped in a fairy-tale conversation, matching the fairy-tale scenery. Then – “Oh, yes. Magpies.”

When Kuryakin hums, it vibrates through his chest, almost a purr. “We call them cats.”

“Cats?”

Kuryakin nods.

Well, Napoleon thinks, cats and lions aren’t all that different.

“What did you came here to steal? There’s nothing here. Just objects.” Kuryakin makes a vague gesture, indicating all the riches surrounding him. “No meaning to any of it.”

“Well,” Napoleon says and thinks of gold, ivory, sapphires. “I think I changed my mind about that. You see, my friends call me stupid. I prefer the term curious.”

At that, Kuryakin laughs, pearls for teeth. And he was right, Napoleon realises, in comparison, the treasures heaped around them really are nothing but objects.

-

-

…this was very experimental. I love the atmosphere and I had SUCH fun writing it, but at the same time it’s probably one of the more vague drabbles. It certainly has the potential for a great mystery adventure story – who is keeping poor Illya all locked up in this treasure chest? Why are they telling such awful rumours about him? Are they rumours at all? Why is he so heavily drugged? Who are “they”? How will Napoleon save him? Will there be gold at the end of the tunnel after all? And of course – Will he return Napoleon’s feelings once he’s sobered up??? (the answers might not surprise you at ALL)

Again - thank you so much for your ask!!! ♥️♥️

-

The prompts

[katedrakeohd]

A Stolen Moment 4

The Royal Masquerade Fanfiction

Part One / Part Two / Part Three

..............................

Pairing: Kaydan Vescovi x Julia Aster(MC)

Synopsis: Kaydan and Julia's detour to the town market comes to an end.

Rated: PG, for romantic fluff

Word count: ?? (Because I wrote it all here in the app)

Wacky drabbles #22 prompt:

It’s no surprise that things have turned out this way.

..

Kaydan and I stood amongst the crowd to watch and listen to the band. As townsfolk began to pair off and dance, Kaydan leaned over to whisper. "Would the Lady like to join in?"

"It's a very lively sort of music, I don't think I could keep up. I'd rather watch."

"As you wish," he murmured softly. His lips close to my ear. As he leaned back I could hear him draw a deep breath, "Did you pick something fragrant up at the market?"

Looking up at him I smile, "Yes, a new perfume. Do you like it?"

Kaydan is quiet for a moment, and then he leans in close and sniffs the spicy floral scent on my neck again, "It's..it's quite different. I find it.. pleasant."

Standing so close to him I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, and his breath on my cheek. Reaching up to place my hand on his shoulder, I feel his muscles tense as he straightens up and looks at me. "So that means you like it?"

"If you bought it just for my benefit I'm afraid you've wasted your money," Kaydan said, his brow furrowed with concern.

"I bought it because I like the way it smells. But if it entices you to be closer to me then it was definitely worth the price."

Kaydan blushes, "You shouldn't say such things. You're promised to someone else."

"Right now, there is nobody else I would rather spend my time with than you."

Kaydan's mouth opened as if to say something, but then his gaze shifted to something over my shoulder. "We need to go."

Glancing around to see what he's looking at, I spot Teapot making his way through the market. "Oh no, he's going to see us," I gasped.

Kaydan grabbed my arm and led me around the gathering of revelers, putting them between us and Teapot, "Come with me, he hasn't spotted us yet."

I pulled up my skirts in an effort to keep up with Kaydan's long strides, dropping the wrapped journal I had picked up for him. As he tried to lead me down an alley, I pulled back. "Wait, I dropped something!"

"Just leave it," he said gruffly, but upon seeing the hurt look on my face, he quickly apologised. "Sorry, what did you drop?"

I rushed over and picked up the book, then returned to Kaydan's side. "Actually it's something for you."

"For me? Julia..."

"Hush, now weren't you leading me somewhere?"

Kaydan takes another look back toward the market, and then points to a passageway leading into what looked like a private garden, "That way."

Grabbing me by the hand, Kaydan led me down the side of a stone wall, then we sidestepped through a flower covered arch. The idyllic scene before us was a stark contrast to the chaos of the busy marketplace not so far away.

We had come upon a narrow canal filled with water lilies and a flagstone path with a garden of beautiful flowering shrubs. Kayden led me over to a stone bench and we sat down.

My heart was pounding with fear of us soon getting caught, so I wasted no time and pressed the book into his hands, "Please, take this. As a momento of our trip to the market today. "

A smile tugged at the corners of Kaydan's mouth as he unwrapped the journal, "Another book? Are you trying to send me a message?"

I shrugged as he thumbed through the pages, "As a humble scribe, books are what I know best. Many of the pages are blank, so you can write in it whatever you like. The former owner used it as a journal. Perhaps the Mariner poet might have a pleasant memory to record?"

Kaydan tucked the book inside of his jacket, "I'll cherish it always, thank you."

Bringing his hand back out of his pocket, Kaydan blushes as he holds out his gift to me. "I got you something too. Here."

The antique pin with pearl accents sparkled in the sunshine as I turned it over in my fingers.

"It's beautiful Kaydan. I can imagine wearing it with my finest gowns. And it's sharpness could always come in handy if I need to defend myself in your absence."

Kaydan chuckled quietly, "The fact that you see my gift as a defensive weapon can only mean you've been spending too much time with me."

"Maybe it's your protective nature that keeps drawing me back to your company."

Kaydan's expression is serious as he studies my face for a moment. "Do you feel you need my protection Julia? Because if you do, please know I would do anything to keep you safe."

"Anything?"

"I'm the Crown Shield it's my job to keep people safe, especially those I feel need me the most."

Turning toward Kaydan I reach up to touch his cheek, "But what about you Kaydan, and your own safety. Who watches over you and keeps you safe?"

"My fellow guards look out for me just as much as I look out for them, but as their leader I've learned to take care of myself when needed."

"But at the end of the day, when your watch has ended. Who takes care of Kaydan, the man?"

Reaching up he takes my hand in his. "I believe we forge our own paths in life, and we should be the person we need to be. But since you came into my life I've been questioning what my chosen path should be. Do you ever wish you could live a different life? Let someone else shape your destiny?"

"As an orphan adopted into the Aster family my destiny has always been determined by someone else. I accepted my place and learned to adapt to what life gave me. But all that changed the night of the Masquerade. I was introduced to a life I had only dreamt of or read about in books. When you asked me to dance, you were the fantasy becoming real. We connected that night Kaydan, and I can't see my future without you in it."

"Julia.. I feel the same. I couldn't imagine my life without you being a part of it."

I can't hide my smile as Kaydan leans in closer to me. There's an expression of wonder on his face as his gaze drops to my lips, and I feel his warm breath touch my cheek. As I close my eyes I can hear his breath catch as I tilt my chin up to invite him in for a kiss. When our lips meet it's like nothing I've felt before.

All those glances, moments together, every touch when we danced, have led us to this point and I lean into Kaydan and kiss him back. Before I knew what was happening my hand was on the back of his neck, my fingers sliding into his hair. As a result of my touch Kaydan's kiss became more desperate, and I felt his strong arms wrap around me. At that moment, pressed up against his hard chest, nothing else mattered. We poured all of our feelings into the other's lips and relished the joy of being together. It was magical and terrifying all at once because we knew it couldn't last. We're both out of breath as the kiss ends, but we stay holding eachother.

"Julia..I.." he began as his eyes searched my face for the words he wanted to say.

"Ssh," I whispered, moving my hand to his cheek and resting my thumb on his swollen lower lip. "Don't spoil the moment with apologies or by grasping for words to explain what must happen next."

"But.." his eyes looked so sad, as we both hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Sssh," I whispered again as I leaned in to place a gentle kiss to his lips.

The sound of a gruff, but familiar, voice turned the fluttering warm feeling in my stomach to ice and Kaydan abruptly sat back and let me go.

"Hey, there you are!" Teapot said, walking up with our two horses in tow.

As Kaydan jumps up off the bench to face him, I bring my hand up to my lips and savour the warm feeling his touch has left behind.

"I've been looking all over this cursed place for you - ..."

As Teapot got closer Kaydan moved to block me from his view. But not before he caught a glimpse of the flush of rose on my cheeks.

His usual stern expression is quickly replaced by one of amusement as a wide grin crosses his face.

"Am I...interrupting SOMETHING?" he asked, looking from Kaydan's angry face to my own bemused expression.

Kaydan's frown deepened as he answered, "No, but as usual you have a horrible sense of timing."

I got up from the bench to stand next to Kaydan, and then gave Teapot a smile and a wave. "Hello, Teapot. Lovely weather today for a trip to the seaside."

Teapot nods, "Yes, lovely indeed. Uh Chief, we need to leave now if we're to join the carriage procession without being missed."

Beside me I saw Kaydan's posture straighten as he shifted back into work mode. He replied to Teapot with a terse, "Fine, let's go."

Kaydan turned and looked at me as I tuck my hand under his arm, "It's quite alright Kaydan, we both knew this afternoon detour couldn't last forever."

Teapot took another look at the way Kaydan and I are standing together and barked out a laugh. We weren't fooling him at all.

Kaydan scowled at him as he escorted me to my horse. "Something funny?"

Teapot smirked at him, "Oh not at all Chief, NOT AT ALL."

Kaydan helped me back onto my horse, his warm hand lingering on mine for a moment before letting go. After getting on his horse, Kaydan led the three of us back onto the main road.

As I tucked the pin Kaydan gave me away in my saddle bag, I glanced over to him. His hair is slightly mussed from where my fingers have been, and it makes me smile. He catches me watching him and for the briefest moment a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth and then it's gone. He's Kaydan the Crown Shield again, and all business as usual. Our stolen moment is now over, and it’s no surprise that things have turned out this way. But I can't help but wonder what will come next for our Mariner and Maiden.

:::

Tagging:

@gardeningourmet @samihatuli @jovialyouthmusic @sirbeepsalot @dcbbw @mfackenthal @bobasheebaby @pedudley @be-still-my-aching-heart @krishu213 @ibldw-main @chaotichuman0090 @emceesynonymroll @addictedtodrakefanfic

[bisithehummingbird-blog]

Psssst. 

                Can you hear it? 

                                            This rhythm?

                                                                   It’s so faint. Yet trying so hard to be heard.

-------------------------------------------------------- Egg

Netflix Trip - AJR

“ Now the finale's done and I'm alone. I'm on a Netflix Trip here on my phone but who I am is in these episodes, so don't you tell me that it's just a show. “

Dreamer - Adna

“ I’ll be painting black and white, that’s how you see our lives and the reality I hate. I have complied with your thoughts because you’re all I see. “

-------------------------------------------------------- Nest

Les Etoiles Filantes - Les Cowboys Fringants

“ Working, doing your best, fucking up, fixing it, and hoping to be at least a little happy before death. But int the end, what’s left of it all? Does it make us more than just shooting stars? “

Still Breathing - Green Day

“ My head above the rain and roses, I’m making my way away. 'Cause I'm still breathing. “

If I Die Young - The Band Perry

“ So put on your best boys and I'll wear my pearls. What I never did is done. “

As-tu déjà aimer? - Les Chansons d’Amours

“ Fleeting romances live off futile fevers, and their immature kisses can but scarr our lips. ”

-------------------------------------------------------- Push

Love At First Sight - The Brobecks

“ I need a place for the night, happy to sleep on the floor. But don't go out of your way and I won't talk anymore. ”

You Don’t Know What Love Is - White Stripes

“  You just keep on repeating all those empty "I love you’s. Until you see you deserve better, I'm gonna lay right in to you: Yeah, you don't know what love is, you just do as you're told.  ”

You’re Enough - Sleeping At Last

“  This brilliant light is brighter than we've known, without our darkness to prove it so. Still, we can't help but to examine it, to add our question marks to periods. At the foot of our bed, we found an envelope. It read: You’re enough.  ”

Cinematic Lifestyle - Hudson Taylor

“  Facing forwards on the aristocratic roulette wheel. Spin the bottle, put your money on the most exotic number. Tastin’ candy coloured dreams, and I know it’s alright. Nothing here is as it seems, and I know it’s alright.  “

-------------------------------------------------------- Flight

Turning Out - AJR

“  Am I ready for love? Or maybe just a best friend? Should there be a difference do you have instructions? Maybe I'm stuck on what I see on tv? I grew up on Disney, but this don't feel like Disney! “

The Others - Miyavi

“  We are the others. The dreamers and the lovers. We are every color, we are the others. In the air I'm free, that's where I'm born to be. Take off your disguise. You can spread your wings and fly!  ”

Pizza, New York Catcher - Belle and Sebastian

“  I wish that you were here with me to pass the dull weekend. I know it wouldn't come to love, my heroine pretend. The sun upon the roof in winter will draw you out like a flower. Meet you at the statue in an hour? “

Surprise Song                                                                (pls click and enjoy)

-------------------------------------------------------- Fall?

Call My Dad - AJR

"  Met so many faces that will probably forget me. Boy, I bet I look so grown up, shirt tucked in my jeans. And now after it all, I just really wanna call my dad.  “

Happiness Is A Warm Gun - The Beatles

“  I need a fix 'cause I'm going down, down to the bits that I left uptown. Happiness is a warm gun.  “

The Green And The Town - AJR

“  A year from now, we won't be pretty. A year from now, we won't be young. But we will live among the giants before the giants learn to run. “

[outofcertainty-blog]

With the Heart of May

[Someone in the malec tag couldn’t sleep and was asking for flower crown pics. I can’t do manips but I can write and I’m feeling very stressed out so I attempted to write some flowery fluff... this came out instead. Enjoy?]

There was a rose where the doorknob used to be.

Alec stared at it for a moment, brow furrowed first in confusion, then in worry. It could just be the latest in Magnus’ redecoration efforts, but those were usually restricted to the inside of the loft. Nothing else seemed amiss: the hallway was the same as always, there were no signs of forced entry, there weren’t even any suspicious noises coming from Magnus’ place.

Although there was something.

He strained a little to hear it, the sound hazy and muted. It sounded like... a whistle, maybe, or- no, the sound of a stream- no, not that, either, vibrating glass? Alec shook his head and grabbed his bow. It didn’t sound dangerous but when you dealt with visitors from the Shadow World on a regular basis, you learned how to be cautious of seemingly innocuous things. Especially, he thought, eyeing the rose, when it came to the Fair Folk.

His fingers skimmed the petals - not soft at all, but hard, as if made of crystal. The door itself gave no resistance, opening when he pushed it, allowing Alec to swiftly step inside, bowstring drawn tight.

“Magnus?”

“Alec?”

He turned swiftly to face the voice, wary still of some sort of Seelie trickery, but the question on the tip of his tongue died as soon as Magnus came into view. The warlock was always a sight, regardless of whether he was dressed to the nines or wearing nothing but the fogginess of sleep in the mornings, but like this-

Hair perfectly styled, reminiscent of the first time they met, with gold and purple leaves blending seamlessly with his dark strands; sharp, cat-like eyes surrounded by dark power and actual, tiny glittering crystals like morning dew rather than the usual glitter; top lip painted dark purple and light blue, dipping down onto the centre of his lower lip.

The necklace wrapped tightly around his neck like a choker had several threads hanging down, past his shoulders and his arms, brushing against his chest and the widest point of his hips - like golden weeping willow leaves, his brain provided - and the waist of some sort of skirt with patterns that seemed to shift and sway like the wind, parted on the side. There was nothing on his feet, but several of his toes and fingers had colorful vines and small, tiny flowers wrapped around them.

Alec stared, watching Magnus come closer, heartbeat hammering in his ears and a deep-seated hunger burning in his sternum.  Something must have shown on his face - Magnus stared back, one hand raised to touch the side of Alec’s face, tongue flickering across his bottom lip and immediately drawing his attention to the painted dip there.

“Why are you...”

“A Seelie affair. It is May and thus, a time for celebration. A long, drawn out celebration, lasting many days - in their realm, you understand. Here, it will take barely an hour.”

Alec nodded, putting away his bow with more carelessness than usual to hook one finger in Magnus’ skirt and tug him gently forward, free hand wrapping around one of the many dangling threads. 

“You look... perfect.”

“Why thank you, Alexander,” the warmth in those words didn’t compare to the way Magnus was looking at him, all love and affection and gratitude and vulnerability and a hunger that must be close to his own. “You know, you could come with me, my dear.”

“I don’t think I’m dressed for it, Magnus,” it was an amusing thought and very, very tempting. Alec was never one to shirk his duties but he did have the next hour free. Time passed differently in the Seelie Realms, where days could translate to mere minutes or hours. And they had been so busy lately, with barely enough time for themselves...

“Come with me?”

Releasing a breath, Alec nodded and let himself be led by the hand into Magnus’ room, and then gently pushed into sitting on the bed. The warlock looked over him with a critical, appraising eye, and then sighed.

“I do wish I had the time to do this properly, by hand. Perhaps another time.”

A snap of his fingers and Alec felt something wash over him, something cool and flowing. Another snap and there was a mirror in front of him and it took him a second to even recognize himself.

His hair was wilder than usual, and it swayed very gently, giving him the sudden impression of waves washing on a shore. A subtle touch of dark around his eyes made their color pop, even more with the shimmering stones dangling down his left year - topaz and smoky quartz and moonstone, like crystallized raindrops and Alec didn’t even have his ears pierced. 

He looked odd, a little strange, but after a few seconds, the feeling passed. Still he stared, no longer uncomfortable but wondering if perhaps he should be. If thinking it looked okay - good - was cause for concern.

Glancing down revealed a simple tunic and a pair of pants, both black but glimmering silver whenever the light caught them just so, like moonlight reflecting off a slow moving tide.

“If you had an affinity for an element, it would be water,” the mirror disappear and Magnus leaned closer, bracing one knee on the bed, cupping Alec’s face in warm hands, a teasing smile gracing his lips. “Such is the depth of you. You can be unstoppable, such a force to be reckoned with, Alexander... but so gentle, when you choose to be.”

“So can you,” a smile tugged at his mouth, lopsided, honest. “You’re the High Warlock of Brooklyn.”

“That I am.”

Magnus tilted Alec’s head back a little further and leaned down, so close that their breaths mingled, so close that he could almost taste him - and then pulled back, a mischievous glint in his eyes that made Alec instantly wary.

“What?” “Well, this is a May celebration. You must be seen wearing flowers somewhere, my dear.”

“Wh-” 

One more snap of his fingers and Magnus held it in his hands: reddish brown and black and pearl white mingling together in full bloom. Alec barely had enough time to stare at it before it was gently being placed on his head.

“A flower crown, Magnus? Really?”

The warlock leaned back so they could look at each other and sighed dramatically, waving his flower-adorned fingers.

“I know, I know. My first idea was much more creative, but I thought that would be taking the deflowering metaphor a little too far. Unless you disagree?”

For a moment Alec didn’t answer, staring at his boyfriend with furrowed brows - and then it dawned on him, making his cheeks flush red even as laughter bubbled out of him.

“Magnus! No, not- the crown is fine.”

“Are you absolutely certain-” “Magnus!”

[mizufae]

@brinnanza here is a list of CR shows that I think you might enjoy, as listed when I scroll by it on their shows by popularity page:

Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood - I suspect you’ve already seen this, or maybe the previous non-brotherhood anime. IMO it is a large improvement on the first anime although not by as much as some people say, though the finale is a thousand times better and much more integrated into the show as a whole, and there is so much less filler thank goodness. Anyway it has a lot of blood and violence and death and existential scary shit so YMMV but if you are up to that you will likely enjoy.

Fairy Tail - look it’s a hugely long running ridiculous shonen show with entire episodes where people just power up BUT it has a huge cast of colorful characters with some good humor and some interesting fantasy concepts and if you are looking for some Background Anime then by gum you’ve got it. Also has talking, flying cats and dragons who are also your mom

Log Horizon - an actually good show that investigates the question “what if real people got sucked into a MMORPG and had to live actual lives there” and there’s some good stuff about personhood and self determination and some really geeky stuff and also friendship!!!!

Toriko - an even more inexplicable shonen show all about bizarre food and hunting for rare ingredients in insane fantasy lands and the freaky society that has developed around this strange priority system. It is like, if you took that phase when kids draw impossible made up animals and plants and animated it and wrote a whole world around them taking them very very seriously, plus a large dash of EXTREME FRIENDSHIP between the very muscly blue haired protagonist and his best friend the teeny tiny skinny chef and their adventures, all while getting reeeeeaaaaaaaaallllllyyyyyyyyy high

Cowboy Bebop - I’m gonna assume you’ve watched bebop, if not, what’s the matter with you go do that

Grimgar of Fantasy and Ash - super solid high fantasy show with great character writing, sadly too short, based on a series of light novels so maybe there will be more

Uta no Prince Sama - I LOVE THIS STUPID SHOW ABOUT A GIRL WHO GOES TO MUSIC SCHOOL AND CAN GET IT WITH ANY OF A WHOLE CAST OF BEAUTIFUL BOYS WHO ARE IN AN IDOL GROUP FIGHT ME

Sound! Euphonium - Band Camp The Anime but more extra than that, delightful girls being awesome and playing large brass instruments

Monthly Girls’ Nozaki-kun - wonderfully funny show about an obviously autistic manga-ka and the girl who is into him and the dorks he bases his characters on and it’s just so funny and defies summaries and is one of those rare instances of humor that is entirely good hearted

Gurren Lagann - there was a whole year where i was OBSESSED with this sketchy giant robot show

Digimon Adventure - do you want to cry about your late 90s childhood? Well do I have the throwback for you

SKET Dance - if iCarly were an anime. no but srsly it is a cute comedy show about teens who have to do a club activity so they make a club whose purpose is “to hang out and help other clubs with their issues” which leads to Shenanigans. Large cast of cute characters and silliness but also genuine Feels about growing up and friendship and stuff.

Cardcaptor Sakura - if you havent watched CCS then what are you doing even talking to me

Tegami Bachi Letter Bee - a weird little show with some very interesting concepts about love and metaphors and stuff, also monster girls who are actual girls and a disabled character who refuses to be woobified

Bodacious Space Pirates - this is a show for queer girls, don’t let the title fool you. it is hella funny and also strange and the space pirates are indeed pretty bodacious

Symphogear - badass magical girl show about fighting monsters with the power of POUNDING BEATS AND PURE POP SOUNDS, also some v. v. compelling baby gay girls being like I LOVE YOU no I LOVE YOU and also like wonky world building secret not so secret organization stuff and it’s all neon bright and girlfriends, idk, i love symphogear and feel it is highly underappreciated

Gargantia on the Verdurous Planet - Gorgeous giant robot show about what happens if you took transcendental humanism and fucking ran with it and also mixed with waterworld only good and also AI vs AI and also a show where everyone doesnt conveniently just speak japanese and it’s pretty great! and also there’s a moral about treating disabled people like people and also some great female characters with power. CAVEAT there is some really shitty stuff about trans people but it’s only a couple minutes in the whole show and I TRIED to get the translator to mitigate it in english but if anything it’s worse than the original ugh ugh ugh. But seriously other than that it’s a really good show :/

RIN-NE - an adorable show about dead people, but don’t worry it’s so cute you wont even notice! But seriously it is charming and beautiful in a cartoonish way and the characters are so funny and it has some stuff about crappy parents being crappy and also love and friendship and ghosts who do funny stuff and demons who are sooooo extra and it’s just great fun, why didnt this show get more traction, what is wrong with everyone

Silver Spoon - An anime about learning about farming! It’s great, no, seriously, it’s SO GREAT

Time of Eve - DO YOU WANT TO CRY ABOUT ROBOTS? CRYING ABOUT ROBOTS ALREADY AND NEED TO BE HEALED? WATCH TIME OF EVE. NO, SERIOUSLY, DO IT. Time of Eve should be considered one of the finest pieces of contemporary science fiction out there today and i dont understand how or why everyone isn’t talking about it and including it in college courses and shit. it’s so good, like solidly fantastically good, and the creator of it is such a huge nerd, wow, it really shows it’s SO GOOD.

Kids on the Slope - a beautiful period piece about jazz and Japan as a nation recovering from war and it’s incredible, Required Viewing imo

Library War - when this show came out it was a bizarre concept: what if librarians had to become soldiers to defend knowledge? like with guns and stuff? NOWADAYS it’s almost too scary and on-point. Fuck fuck fuck. Anyway it’s good though, I should rewatch it. Y’know, like how everyone is reading 1984 these days.

Galaxy Express 999 - Do you like trains? Do you like space? Do you like trains in space?? No but seriously Galaxy Express 999 is in my top ten favorite shows of all time. Not favorite animes. Favorite shows. It’s got EVERYTHING I love all in one thing and every episode is different and beautiful and it’s just... siiiigh. Retro classic, if you watch it you will see examples of so many things that became tropes because of it. And the leading lady is one of the best characters ever. God, I love Galaxy Express 999

Rose of Versailles - A classic shoujo show about a girl who was raised as a boy. It’s just... pearls and flowers and French “history” and fashion and dueling and y’alllllll classic gay girl stuff

OKAY THAT’S ALL I GOT FOR CRUNCHYROLL i have Mixed Feelings about Funi so idk if i am up to doing a rundown of their offerings even though they host a lot of good shows because, well. Reasons I can’t and won’t get into that also cause me to have anxiety flashbacks SO you know how it is. But like, yeah. Some Shows For You To Enjoy