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the-scarlet-witch-22 · 9 months ago

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The Lark Ascending (A Chaconne Story): Chapter 3 (Agatha Harkness x Reader)

Summary: Being a rising soloist isn't all it's cracked up to be as you face new challenges, all while encountering Agatha Harkness at every turn.

Word Count: 6.4k

A/N: Helloooo welcome to chapter 3! This chapter briefly deals with/mentions imposter syndrome & performance anxiety, so if either of those topics make you uncomfortable you have been warned. The piece mentioned in this chapter is Gluck's Melodie, from Orfeo ed Eurdice :) As always, thank you for reading & I hope you enjoy! Feel free to let me know what you think, my asks are always open!

Previous Chapter

There were few things in life that brought you as much peace as playing your violin. Taking a few hours to tune out the rest of the world and solely focus on your instrument was the fastest relief to whatever stressors were occurring. Unfortunately, that tranquility had all but vanished as of late- much to your dismay. But you tried to put it out of your mind- your week had been a blur of rehearsals, interviews, and press engagements to kick off the summer concert season, and this morning was no different. Before this evening’s big Donor’s Gala you would be leading a Master Class with promising young musicians in the area.

Getting out of the car, you took off your sunglasses, squinting as your eyes adjusted to the glaring sunlight. This morning’s temperature was significantly warmer than you anticipated, and you found yourself melting by the time you made it inside the symphony building. Setting your violin case on the ground, you allowed the AC to wash over you, while making a mental note to remember to bring a water bottle in the future as you had been forgetting all week. It was early enough the building was nearly deserted, or at least you thought so as you relaxed in the air conditioning.

“Still getting used to the LA heat, dear?”

Your heart nearly stopped in your chest as you dropped your keys. Whipping your head around, you were unsurprised to find Agatha staring back at you, amusement coloring her features. The conductor appeared to have entered the building right after you did, black sunglasses in one hand and her bag hanging off her shoulder.

While you looked like you were about to fall over, Agatha looked as put together as she always did, seemingly unaffected from the scorching temperatures.

“Agatha,” you breathed out, slowly regaining your composure as you gave the conductor a quick once over, the gears turning in your head. Symphony rehearsal wasn’t until the early afternoon, she was awfully early. “What are you doing here?”

“I’d assume the same reason as you; the Master Class,” Agatha pointed out before motioning to your keys that were still on the ground. “You might want to pick those up, it would be a shame if you lost them.”

Letting out an exasperated sigh, you reached down to pick them up, feeling Agatha’s gaze remain on you. “Last time I checked, I was running this class alone.”

“Clerical error.” Agatha insisted, carefully putting her sunglasses in her bag, before adding, “I’m sure someone was supposed to tell you I’d be joining you.”

“I’m sure.” You mused, thinking about how often this had been occurring as of late.

At first you didn’t think too much of Agatha’s unannounced appearances, because her explanations seemed logical enough at the time. When she dropped in on your interviews for your Artist in Residence with the LA Symphony, she claimed getting her interview done at the same time would be more efficient. During a meeting for PR, she rationalized needing to give her final approval as the orchestra’s music director. Even your late night practice sessions weren’t safe, as they almost always ended with the conductor sneaking up on you, her cackle echoing through the empty hall as you wondered if she was trying to kill you.

But the more she popped up, the more you wondered if her actions were as altruistic as she claimed them to be.

“Shall we?” Agatha prompted before taking off down the hallway, leaving you no choice but to follow her.

Walking in silence through the deserted building, you thought of possible conversation starters, and were stumped. As comfortable as you still felt around Agatha, it had been a long time since you’d been around her this frequently.

As if she could sense your hesitation, she gave you an inquisitive stare. “Stark tells me you’ll be gracing us with a performance this evening.”

“It’s just a little something,” you replied nonchalantly, ignoring the sinking feeling in your chest at the reminder, opening the stage door for the conductor. “Anything to help the orchestra.”

Agatha smirked, her hand grazing your shoulder as she brushed past you. “How chivalrous.”

Clearing your throat, ignoring the rush of butterflies from her brief touch, you changed the subject, as this was one of the few times you had been alone with Agatha all week. “So how have things been with the MSO?”

“Oh you know,” Agatha hummed, switching on the stage lights, “I’ve overseen a few personnel changes, but nothing else, really.”

“Personnel changes?” You questioned, wondering why she was being so vague while trying to recall if Monica had mentioned anything to you.

Agatha raised her eyebrows, appearing genuinely curious. “You haven’t heard?”

Before you could ask what she meant, one of the staff members came backstage, informing you the class would be starting in ten minutes.

Agatha started to walk out, but when she noticed you hadn’t moved she cocked her head to the side. “You’re not going to make me endure this on my own, are you?”

A small smile graced your lips at her jest. “Promise me you’ll be nice, they’re just kids.”

“I have no issues with the children,” Agatha insisted. “Their parents, on the other hand…”

“Not a fan of the hovering parent?” You joked, joining her onstage, the bright lights shining down on you.

Agatha frowned, a dark look in her eyes as she mulled over your words. “Not quite, no.”

The conductor set off down the stairs without another word, taking a seat in the front row, carelessly setting her bag down with a loud thump.

During your time together Agatha never mentioned much about her childhood, and you were never brave enough to ask. You knew from a few Google searches that her mother had been a rather well known concert pianist, but that was about it. Agatha had always been guarded, and as much as you tried to peel back the many layers that she used as self defense, you hadn’t managed to get through them all.

Taking a seat next to her, you checked the time to find there were a few minutes until you began. The sound of Agatha rustling through her bag was mere background noise as you scrolled through your phone. It wasn’t until you felt something cold against your arm did you notice a reusable water bottle was now resting on the armrest of your seat.

“What’s this?”

“You’re going to end up passing out on stage from dehydration.” Agatha said disapprovingly, her thick black frame glasses hanging low on the bridge of her nose as her head was tilted down, reading an updated copy of the Master Class schedule.

“I could have brought my own water,” you insisted, trying to ignore how touched you were by the thoughtful gesture.

The conductor folded the piece of paper she had been reading, adjusting her glasses as she gave you a pointed look. “I’ve watched you prance around like a parched baby deer all week, the last thing I need is for you to fall and break your violin.”

“Just my violin?”

Agatha pursed her lips, blue eyes twinkling as she evaded your question. “A simple thank you would suffice, dear.”

The weight of her gaze was nearly too much for you to bear, for you found it to be far more exposing than the brightest of stage lights, but you were unable to look away. Agatha’s fingers grasped the bottle, extending her arm until it was hovering over your legs.

The conductor looked at you expectantly, and you had never been one to deny her anything.

Lifting your hand, you accepted the bottle, fingers crossing hers as you held it in your palm.

“Thank you, Maestra,” you said, watching Agatha’s eyes drift to your intertwined fingers, neither of you moving from the contact.

Agatha lowly hummed, untangling her fingers from yours as her hand came to rest on your upper thigh. Neither of you spoke, but for once the silence felt less suffocating, allowing you to reminisce on a time where this had been normal. Closing your eyes, you wished you could stay this way forever.

The sound of voices outside the hall grew in volume, zapping you back to reality. Clearing her throat, Agatha gave your leg a gentle squeeze before letting go, and you poorly tried to hide your disappointment.

“Try to remember to drink that,” Agatha murmured as she stood up, and after a moment added, “I don’t want you to get hurt before the concert season begins.”

You weren’t sure why the confirmation that she still cared hit you as hard as it did, but you couldn’t keep the smile off your face for the entire Master Class. Agatha kept true to her word, and was on her best behavior. You only remembered halfway through the class how good she was with children, as the faint memory of the school concert day she once planned rang through clear as day.

She was still Agatha, of course. Her sarcasm and quick witted sense of humor could never be diminished, but she softened ever so slightly when offering advice after each musician performed. Her constructive criticism actually was constructive, and you were reminded how gifted of a teacher she was.

You did have to reign her in when a few overzealous parents insisted on voicing their own opinions, but overall you were pleased with the turnout.

It was surreal in a way, being in this new position. When you were younger your dream was to be a professional violinist, and it often felt as if that was the only thing you had ever been fully certain of. But you had been having a hard time finding your own way; to be able to fully accept that you had earned this. To believe that you were worthy. Looking at someone as astonishingly accomplished as Agatha Harkness, you couldn’t help but feel like a fraud.

It felt like a facade the majority of the time, your violin acting as your mask on stage, effectively shielding all of your doubts to the outside world. But it was difficult to present that version of yourself when you were standing next to Agatha, for you found yourself falling back in time to when you were nothing more than her assistant. Naturally leading you to wonder if the conductor still saw you in that imbalanced light, or if she could ever view you as her equal.

Once the last of the students left you lingered onstage, discreetly watching Agatha. The conductor was leaning against the grand piano, one hand perched on the edge while she scrolled through her phone.

“I can feel you staring,” Agatha called out, not looking up from whatever she was doing.

“I’m not staring,” you lied, clearing your throat as you took a step towards her. “Is everything alright?”

“Hm?” Agatha asked, finally glancing up at you. When you motioned to her phone, she arched an eyebrow. “Jealous I’m not giving you all of my attention?”

Spluttering, you shot her an indignant glare. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Placing her phone on the piano, the conductor crossed her arms across her chest, smirking as she took a small step forward, invading all of your senses. “If you must know, I was going over tonight’s performance with the concertmaster, she had a few questions.”

It was then that you recalled last week’s symphony rehearsal, where you witnessed what you felt had been rather visible tension between Agatha and the concertmaster, Hela. Your stomach began twisting in uncomfortable knots at the memory, while you were forced to consider why the thought of Agatha being with someone else made you feel sick.

“Hela, right?” You asked, careful to keep any trace of the growing pit of anxiety from your tone.

“That’s right,” Agatha confirmed, an inscrutable expression on her face as she regarded you. “I’ve known her for quite some time. Her brother is the new CFO of the symphony.”

All thoughts of Hela were pushed to the back of your mind. Your eyes widened, unable to contain your surprise. “What? Where’s Hayward?”

“In prison,” Agatha replied casually. “Well, I'll take that back. He’s supposed to be in prison, but I’m sure he was able to get a reduced sentence. The woes of the wealthy white man.”

“Prison?”

“For fraud and embezzlement of all things,” Agatha shared conspiratorially, leaning in closer as she whispered, “I must say, it was quite a scandal. Still a bit of a mystery as to who tipped off the feds.”

The smug expression on her face was a dead giveaway, as Agatha had never been subtle.

The sigh left your mouth before you could stop it, lips curling downwards to form a frown. “Tell me you didn’t…”

“That I didn’t do what, dear? Uphold my duty to rid my orchestra of a bloodsucking leech?” Agatha countered, pacing around as she clasped her hands behind her back.

“But prison, Agatha? Really?”

The stage creaked with every step the conductor took, finally stopping when she stood directly behind you.

“If I remember correctly you were never fond of him either,” Agatha pointed out, her breath hot against your ear as you let out an involuntary shiver from the pleasurable sensation.

“I wasn’t,” you admitted truthfully, as Hayward had been a major thorn in both your and Agatha’s sides throughout the entirety of your time with the MSO.

“Besides, I didn’t make him do anything. He was guilty,” Agatha said honestly, and although you weren’t looking at her you knew she was telling you the truth. Embellishments and dramatics aside, she had never lied to you. “I merely sped up the process of justice being served.”

Allowing the conductor’s words to wash over you, there was a pause as you decided to change the subject. “So, Hela’s brother?”

“He’s business oriented like Hayward, but far more cunning. A lot more clever, as well. He’s also not actively attempting to sabotage me, so I’ve had more free time,” Agatha explained, and you then remembered what Monica had mentioned of Agatha being absent a lot this past season.

“I’m sure you’ve been awfully bored,” you replied, your brain fixating on Hela and if there was any correlation between her absences and a potential relationship with the concertmaster.

“I’ve found…ways to keep myself busy,” Agatha delicately responded, taking a small step back.

Turning around, you gave her a curious glance. “Really? Have you been doing anything interesting?”

“This and that,” Agatha vaguely offered, folding her hands across her chest.

Deciding to test your luck, you took a step towards her. “I’m sure you’ve been doing something worth mentioning. Any traveling?”

Narrowing her eyes, Agatha scanned yours, deep blue orbs searching for something unknown as she appeared to contemplate your question. “Can't say I’ve had time for any vacations while I’m running an orchestra.”

“Of course,” you agreed, pondering over Agatha’s words while coming to the realization that either Monica misspoke or Agatha, for the first time, had potentially lied to you. But why?

Taking your silence as an opportunity to strike, Agatha raised her right hand, index finger contemplatively tapping against her cheek as she observed you. “Quite nosey today, aren’t we?”

“I think a good musician should always try to be curious,” you weakly said, wondering why Agatha was being so secretive.

The conductor snorted, “I almost forgot how meddlesome violinists are as a species.”

Ignoring the dig, you approached her for a final time. There was so much you wanted to say, to ask, but you weren’t sure where to begin as the words kept getting caught in your throat.

“I know it’s been a long time,” you started to say, as this was the first time you had addressed the elephant in the room. “But I’d like to believe that after everything we’re friends, right?”

The words burned your tongue, but you ignored the unpleasant feeling. You and Agatha were friends, sort of, right?

Agatha stiffened at your words, and for a moment you allowed yourself to believe you saw a flicker of displeasure cross her features. But, as quickly as it appeared, it vanished. An uneasy silence fell between you, and even though Agatha was mere steps away it felt as though an ocean separated you.

“Yes, dear,” Agatha finally answered, voice uncharacteristically soft. “We’re friends.”

The sound of your phone dinging caught your attention, as you gave Agatha an apologetic smile. “I should probably check that. I’ll see you tonight?”

“Seven o’clock sharp,” Agatha reminded you as she traipsed across the stage, pulling her phone back out. “Don’t be late.”

The best way to prepare the day of a performance was to get plenty of rest and stay hydrated. There typically wasn’t enough time to make any major changes to whatever piece you were performing, so hours of practicing was both unnecessary and a waste of energy. Lacking something to do with your hands, you instead spent the hours leading up to the gala in a fretful state. This had been occurring more frequently with each new performance you took on. It didn’t matter the size of nature of the event, the self-doubt you normally could keep at bay had fully taken over.

While your violin had once been your safe haven, an escape from reality, it was now slowly turning into an anxiety fueled nightmare. Lately nothing you did felt right. Every bow change was jerky, each shift of your fingers ending flat. Your vibrato was too fast, but then too slow. Nothing was good enough, and the more you attempted to fix it the worse it became.

Burdened as you were, how you ended up at the gala on time was a mystery, but you skillfully avoided the majority of the orchestra’s donors as you slipped backstage. Tony had managed to deliver everything he promised; a beautifully decorated ballroom with a room full of wealthy donors who had come to be entertained for an evening.

Part of that entertainment including you, your brain reminded you, as you watched the ending of the orchestra’s performance of Danzón No, 2, Agatha’s hands cutting them off with a dramatic flourish of her baton. The room erupted in thunderous applause, and you forced yourself to look away as Agatha shook Hela’s hand before she exited the stage.

Greeting a few members of the orchestra who passed you, a cold sweat dripped down your back as you listened to Tony ramble on stage about reaching record high donations and how the night wasn’t over yet. You had to physically stop yourself from hearing his speech on the “treat” the audience was in for with the last performance; your performance. It didn’t feel right, receiving this praise, not when you could barely make it through the relatively easy piece of music you had selected for this evening.

“You’re on as soon as Tony is done,” Pepper reminded you as she walked past with her tablet, most likely tracking the incoming donations.

The rushing sound of blood filled your ears as you stiffened, hands feeling clammy as you struggled to hold onto your violin. While you were no stranger to pre-performance jitters, this was one of the worst experiences you had with it yet, the room beginning to spin as you closed your eyes.

You couldn’t do this, you couldn’t go on with the way you had been sounding all day.

Maybe you could pretend to faint, or be ill. The latter wouldn’t be too much of a lie with the way your stomach was churning at the mere thought of walking out on that stage.

There was a light touch on your shoulder, and you thought you heard someone saying something but it was hard to hear anything over your heart pounding in your chest.

“Darling?”

Agatha’s voice managed to cut through, and you felt her hand on your shoulder rub circles as you managed to take a shaky breath, slowly opening your eyes.

The conductor was hovering over you, concern etched on her face. You hadn’t felt her grab your violin and bow, but both were safely stashed on a table to your right. The room was far too bright, and your body far too hot as you squirmed.

“Are you alright?” Agatha asked quietly. “Do you need me to get you anything?”

You briefly noticed the backstage area was mostly cleared, a stark contrast to the crowded flow of musicians that were there mere seconds ago, but you paid that no mind.

“I know I need to go out there, but I don’t think I can,” you said, trying your best to breathe but the rapid tightening of your chest making it difficult to form complete sentences.

Narrowing her eyes, Agatha stepped away for a moment, grabbing a nervous looking stagehand and saying something incoherent to them before they hurried off. The conductor was back at your side, now holding a bottle of water as she opened it, handing it to you.

“Drink,” she gently urged you, and upon noticing your reluctance she sighed. “I know you don’t want to, but drink.”

Taking a small sip, you struggled to swallow, the cold liquid acting as a shock to your system.

“Good girl,” Agatha murmured, rubbing your back for a moment before pulling away. “Now, I need you to listen to me. Do you trust me?”

Your heart felt like it was about to give out, and the room was moving at such a rapid pace you had difficulty standing. There was almost nothing you were certain of, but the one thing that you had never truly doubted was your faith in Agatha.

You barely recognized the sound of your voice as you let out a meek yes.

“Stark is out there stalling,” Agatha explained, and it appeared she was actively refraining from rolling her eyes. “But he can’t stay out there forever, otherwise we might start to lose the money we’ve already raised.”

The tightness in your chest was gradually relenting, and you were able to breathe with more ease. “I’ll be fine to perform, I just need a minute.”

The conductor rolled her eyes at your comment. “A heroic offer, dear, but you’re not going out there alone. I’m going to perform with you. That little stagehand ran off to grab the sheet music. I’ve performed Gluck before, but it’s been a while.”

That managed to get your attention, and you stared at her in shock. Agatha almost always refused to perform the piano, and had only played for you once. Despite being considered one of the most gifted pianists of her generation, the conductor had not performed publicly in decades.

“You’re going to perform with me?”

Rolling her eyes again, the conductor gave you shoulder another squeeze. “You have heard of a duet before, haven’t you?”

The room stopped spinning, and you were able to open your mouth without feeling the need to vomit. Managing to give her a weak smile, the conductor nodded, handing you back your violin. The nerves were still there, but now Agatha was standing beside you as she instructed the same stagehand on how she wanted the piano positioned and you no longer felt like you were drowning.

Tony must have received the okay from Pepper to wrap up as he transitioned out of his long speech.

“Now, I know I’ve promised all of you a performance from our current Artist in Residence, but this is a special evening, isn’t it? I’m thrilled to announce she will be joined by the incredible, incomparable, Agatha Harkness. The Maestra will be putting down her baton to give all of you her first public piano performance in years.”

Agatha’s jaw clenched at that, but when she found you staring she gave you a reassuring nod.

There was more applause, and Tony jubilantly exited the stage, wishing you both good luck as he went to converse with Pepper.

“Just focus on me,” Agatha whispered in your ear before you walked out together, the applause deafening as she strolled over to the piano, taking a seat as she stretched her fingers out over the keys.

Positioning yourself to where you could see her in your line of vision, you planted your feet firmly on the ground. Raising your violin, you set your bow on the string, trying to ignore the unsteady feeling threatening to rise yet again.

Agatha’s finger pressed down on one of the keys, playing an A to allow you to tune your violin. Rolling your bow, you checked each string until you were satisfied, giving Agatha a discreet nod that you were ready to begin.

Locking eyes with Agatha, you raised your violin on an upbeat to cue her in. The second her fingers hit the keys, you were able to pretend there was no one else there, only the two of you. Moving through each measure, you focused on the notes you had memorized, and for the first time today it didn’t feel overwhelming. Your vibrato rang through with every note, and the sound didn’t make you want to throw your violin in a woodchipper.

Agatha was a sight to behold, hair carelessly thrown over her shoulders, sitting on the edge of the bench as she slightly slouched over, fingers dancing across the keys. Although she claimed she needed the music, you couldn’t help but notice she had barely glanced at it once, her focus on you. There was something so magical about watching her at the piano, even the simplest chord she played produced the most exquisite sound.

Melodie was a piece originally from the opera Orfeo ed Euridice. It had later been transcribed by Fritz Kreisler for piano and violin. It was a dance between the two instruments, with the violin line singing over the piano accompaniment. It was both beautiful and heartbreaking, and was a rather accurate representation of your emotional state as of late.

The hesitation you had been feeling now gone as you allowed yourself to relax, focusing on growing every phrase as you and Agatha played off each other. It was funny, you had never rehearsed this with the conductor, but you played perfectly in sync. Every breath you let out Agatha inhaled as you watched her lithe fingers stretch across the instrument to form various chord progressions.

As you entered the final phrase, your fingers delicately shifted down the fingerboard as you hit your last note, slowing the speed of your bow, and extending your vibrato as Agatha leisurely played her final chords until the noise died away.

Holding still, you finally released, and as you lowered your violin there was tumultuous applause from the crowd, but all you noticed was Agatha looking at you in a way you had never seen before.

The moment was over all too soon as Tony came back on stage, insisting you and Agatha receive a standing ovation as he gleefully announced that tonight’s gala produced an all time high number of donations. Agatha rolled her eyes discreetly at you, but you noticed how pleased she appeared.

You were swarmed by enthusiastic donors, and Agatha wasn’t faring much better. The conductor made sure you were able to put your violin away before Pepper had swooped in, insisting you take pictures.

Agatha sought you out long after the crowd dwindled, a glass of wine in each of her hands.

“Penny for your thoughts?” The conductor asked, offering you one of the glasses.

Quietly thanking her, you accepted the wine, taking a small sip, the alcohol swirling around your tongue and you turned to her in surprise as you swallowed. “Pinot Noir?”

“Your favorite, if I recall correctly,” Agatha politely remarked.

“That’s right,” you confirmed, taking another small sip before lowering your glass. “Thank you, for earlier. I’m sure you’re tired of saving me.”

Agatha’s lips curled downwards, her eyebrows creasing as she gave you an unreadable expression, as if she hadn’t witnessed your earlier anxiety attack. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“I don’t think I could have gone out there on my own,” you admitted, the truth a bitter embarrassment. “I’ve been having trouble with my confidence lately.” You motioned to the now empty space and stage. “With all of this, it's just getting worse.”

Nervously biting your lip, you half expected for Agatha to crack an off-hand, witty comment on how obvious that was given your backstage freak out, but the conductor set her wine glass down, giving you her full attention.

“Go on.”

“I…”

Pausing, you came to the stark realization you had never shared this with anyone out of fear of being judged. But then you looked at Agatha, her piercing blue eyes boring into yours, and your fears melted away.

“I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time,” you confessed, fidgeting with your hands as you stared at your feet. “This is all I ever wanted, but now that I’ve made it, I don’t know if I’m cut out for all of this…I don’t…”

“You feel like you don’t belong?” Agatha guessed, and upon your small nod she added, “You obsess over every miniscule detail of each performance, and it doesn’t matter how many people say it was good, it feels like it wasn’t great. Right?”

You felt your blood run cold, as the conductor managed to hit the bullseye of your recent anxieties. Blinking back the tears that had been threatening to escape, you took a deep breath before looking back up to find her pointedly staring at the ground.

“How do you know that?” You asked softly, surprise evident in your tone, because Agatha was the most confident person you had ever met.

“Perfectionism is practically conditioned into us from the day we begin learning music,” Agatha reflected, still not meeting your gaze. “You know, my mother was a rather successful pianist.”

When you refrained from commenting, because you did know that, Agatha continued. “She’s the reason I started playing the piano. Sometimes I think she only had a daughter not because she wanted a child, but because she wanted to mold another version of herself. Nothing that I wanted ever mattered, it was always about her.”

“I’m sorry,” you said sincerely, because you couldn’t imagine having a parent like that, but the conductor waved off your apology, clearing her throat.

“Don’t be. My mother was a fool, and she remained one for the rest of her life,” Agatha said, without a trace of sorrow in her voice. “My introduction to music was one filled with fear. I had been taught to never be satisfied with myself, because I could have been better. I wasted a large portion of my childhood seeking her approval, wanting for her to be proud of me. But I eventually learned that it’s impossible to win when you’re being set up for failure.”

This was the most vulnerable Agatha had ever allowed herself to be with you, and you nervously folded your hands across your chest.

“So what did you do?”

“Well, I moved across the country when I turned eighteen, and never saw her again until she was being put in the ground,” Agatha reminisced, finally daring to look up at you. “I’ve made my fair share of mistakes over the course of my career, but one thing I’ll never regret is embracing fear.”

“Embracing fear?” You repeated, unsure of where she was going.

“Those thoughts you’ve been having,” Agatha prompted, her attention focused solely on you, “they don’t go away. They’ll most likely just get worse. So, you can either succumb to it, and let the fear of failure win, or you can embrace it and allow yourself the ability to recognize that greatness doesn’t come from perfection; it comes from having the courage to try at all.”

You had unconsciously shifted closer to the conductor as she spoke, until your shoulders were nearly touching as you both leaned against the edge of the stage.

“Has that helped you?”

“As much as it can. Music is unique, as is every musician,” Agatha thoughtfully replied.

The gears in your brain turned, thinking back on the multiple instances where Agatha had made a member of the MSO cry.

“And do you use that advice when working with your own orchestra?”

“Funny,” Agatha deadpanned, grabbing her wine glass by the stem to take a sip before setting it back down. “There’s a difference between pushing yourself too hard versus settling for mediocrity.”

“I think that’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” You pointed out. “They’re all world class musicians. I think sometimes you’re too hard on them.”

“They are,” Agatha confirmed, running a hand through her hair as you fixated in on her messy dark brown curls. “But some of them have become lazy. They don’t feel the need to improve at all, and that’s an insult to the craft. It’s my job as their conductor to make them want to perform at their very best.”

You knew Agatha meant well, and deep down you were sure the orchestra did as well.

“That makes sense, thank you.”

“For what it’s worth, I thought you were extraordinary this evening,” Agatha praised you, her hand coming to rest on top of yours. “You’ve always been extraordinary.”

The physical contact was a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. Relaxing under her touch, you felt your cheeks grow warm from the compliment. “Thank you, Agatha.”

Your glass of wine abandoned on the stage behind you, you allowed yourself the opportunity to enjoy this intimate exchange with the woman who had been haunting your memory for the past five years. Agatha, for her part, appeared to be comfortable as well, as her hand remained atop yours, unmoving from where she stood next to you.

“And for the record, Hela and I are friends,” Agatha murmured, grabbing your attention once more. Sensing your surprise that she picked up on what you had been hinting around, she rolled her eyes. “You’re a lot of things, darling, but you’ve never been subtle.”

Her words sounded eerily similar to what you had asked her earlier, but you had made it this far and after years of what if’s and errors of miscommunication, you had grown weary of the unknown.

“Friends….like how you and I are friends?” You quietly questioned, the implications of what you meant appeared to be obvious enough from the way Agatha gave you an amused smirk.

“No, dear,” Agatha murmured, raising her hand to gently stroke your cheek, looking at you in ways you had only been able to dream of. “Not like how you and I are friends.”

Tangling her fingers in your hair, Agatha chuckled at the involuntary shiver you let out as she leaned in, resting her forehead against yours. She was so close, and any self control you had mustered was slowly slipping. Your breathing turned shallow, eyes locked on her perfectly plump red lips.

There were so many things you wanted to say, but your brain short circuited as the conductor parted her lips, slowly moving towards yours. You could smell the wine on her breath, as you vividly pictured tasting it off her tongue. Using her free hand, Agatha tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at her, and you were lost gazing into her hazy blue eyes.

Before you could fully rationalize what you were doing, you leaned in, closing your eyes as your lips were about to meet. From the back of your mind, you thought you heard Agatha’s breath hitch as your heart raced from the anticipation.

A loud slam of a door caused you to break apart. Agatha ran a hand through her messy locks, breathing heavily and you felt your cheeks grow hot as she gave your hand a brief squeeze before stepping away from the stage, straightening her suit jacket.

A man came stumbling into the room before you could ask what almost just happened, holding what appeared to be a small cage. He looked familiar, did you know him from somewhere?

The man, who seemed to be oblivious to what he just walked into, spotted Agatha and began to nervously ramble.

“Maestra, I’m so sorry. The flight got delayed, and apparently you can’t only buy a first class ticket for an animal, so I was able to get myself one too. I tried to use my card to pay for it, but it didn’t go through, so I put it on yours. Then I tried to call you, but my phone stopped working. I tried to check into the hotel, but I realized I left my wallet at the airport. I remember you said you’d be here so I thought I’d come and-”

Holding up a hand to silence him, Agatha pinched the bridge of her nose in irritation. “It’s fine, Lang. Please stop, your voice is giving me a migraine.”

The man kept going, shuffling around uncomfortably. “Well I can pay you back for the ticket but with my current salary it will probably take me around…a year, maybe?”

Agatha waved her hand dismissively, shaking her head. “I said it’s fine, Lang. Consider that your holiday bonus.”

The conductor sauntered over to the man, reaching her hands out to grab the cage from him. Gently setting it down on a nearby table, she opened it, pulling out a rabbit. She scratched his ears as held him, annoyance gone as she gave you a small smile.

“Do you remember Scratchy, dear?”

Of course you did, you thought to yourself as Agatha brought Scratchy over to you, the hardened look in her eyes softening as you gave him a few pets. You discreetly nodded towards the man who was pacing the room, hands in his pockets, and Agatha sighed, her irritation appearing to return as she glanced back over at the man.

“Oh yes, I almost forgot. This is my assistant, Scott. He’ll be joining me for the rest of the summer.”

Scott gave you a quick wave and you couldn’t hide your surprise. This was Agatha’s assistant? He certainly wasn’t what you had pictured.

“Great,” you said, feigning enthusiasm, trying to pay attention to the conversation between Agatha and Scott, as the man told a rather strange story of his travel day.

The more he talked the more confused you were as to how Agatha hadn’t managed to fire him yet.

But, all you could really do was wonder what would have happened if Scott hadn’t interrupted, and what this meant for the rest of the summer; as opening night was quickly approaching. Your heart fluttered, as you realized the more time you spent with Agatha, the more you secretly wished you had never said goodbye to her all those years ago.

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness #agatha all along #agatha harkness fanfiction

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lilith0fthevalley · 2 months ago

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The Duality of A Man {S.T.A.R.S. Era!Wesker x Reader}

Content Warning: This piece contains themes of manipulation and deception under the guise of charm and flirtation. Readers sensitive to manipulative dynamics or morally ambiguous behavior may wish to proceed with caution.

As always, Reader discretion is advised.

The task given was simple. Assemble a team of specially chosen characters, train and cultivate their skills, ignore the rest of the details that followed… So how did Wesker get here… On a date with a sweet little civilian in a safer corner of Raccoon City. Let’s rewind…

2 Days Prior…

There were two sharp knocks on Wesker’s office door before it swings open and Rebecca pops her head in.

“Cap? Got a sec?” She asks, tone warm and sweet.

Wesker puts his pen down and pulls his rectangular reading glasses off his face. “Rebecca. Come on in. What’s on your mind?” He posits and leans back in the maroon coloured leather chair. The end of his glasses hangs between his lips.

The young S.T.A.R.S. member bounds in and grins. “We’re doing happy hour tonight after shift…. You missed last week and said you’d make it up…” She teases. He lets out a faux irritated huff.

“Is that what I said, Miss Chambers?” He teases and flashes a perfect white smile.

Rebecca pouts playfully back. “You make me sound old as hell when you call me that…” He just laughs and shakes his head.

“It’s all meant in jest, Rebecca.” He pauses for a beat and looks up from his desk. “... Where are we going this time around?” The blonde man muses and taps his lip with the glasses.

“Startin’ at S.T.A.G.L.A., ending at Krimson.” Jill’s voice carries from the door. It makes Wesker and Rebecca look up.

Wesker gives a resigned sigh. “As long as we can stop for a round at Bloodhound, I’ll go.”

Rebecca throws her arms up and lets out an excited “yippeee!!” before rushing past Jill to inform the others of the attendance of their captain.

Jill lingers in the doorway for a moment, a knowing smile plastered on her face. “Bloodhound… I thought you hated that place. Owner’s a prick, if I recall correctly…” She muses and taps her chin. He scoffs at her.

“I do, I just-” “Just have the hots for the new bartender. It’s ok. You can say it.” Jill jabbers out quickly and grins wolfishly. Wesker glares at her, but there’s no heat behind it. “I am not infatuated with Miss L/N-”

“YOU ALREADY KNOW HER NAME!” Jill howls out and her grin widens as she turns and rushes off. Wesker blinks, sighs and shakes his head.

This was going to be a long night…

In the low lights of Bloodhound, a gritty, no-nonsense bar known for its cheap whiskey and a jukebox that only plays rock and blues, Wesker forced himself to continue sipping the vile amber coloured liquid. It wasn’t up to his tastes. To his high standards, but it would do. As long as he got to see her… It would do.

Y/N was behind the bar, taking orders and mixing drinks with the grace and fluidity only accomplished after years of bartending. Her hair lightly tousled out of its low ponytail, bangs flying about, but that smile still on her face. It just barely crinkled the edges of her eyes, Wesker noticed in his buzzed haze. She flits her gaze to him and her eyes… those damn eyes, seem to sparkle at him. He raises his glass in acknowledgement and takes a sip.

‘Calm the hell down, Albert. She’s no one. Just a bartender.’ He rationalizes as his phone buzzes. Front left pocket of his jeans. Umbrella. He subtly glances around before checking the message from his alternative employer…

‘Hireups have requested you find another way to blend in. The little lark behind the bar seems to have your attention. Figure something out.’

The message is short. No nonsense. Straight to the point. Just how Wesker-the real Wesker-likes it. None of the floundering back and forth bullshit of the S.T.A.R.S. teams or the other imbeciles at the RPD. He pockets his phone and meets the leering eyes of a man in a once pristine button up shirt. Another man like him, tasked with blending in. He gives a curt nod and looks away, Back into the cheap whisky in his glass and the reflection of his crystalline blue eyes staring back at him.

As the activity of the bar slows, the sounds of billiard balls clicking, raucous chatter and souring arguments that occur in the background lessen and lessen.

Y/N looks a bit more at ease. Her smile was much less forced this time around as she tidied up the bar and took away empty glasses.

She made her way over to him and leaned against the sticky wooden surface with her forearms. “Welcome back. Good to see ya again.” She quips with a lopsided grin and tilt of her head.

Wesker puts on his charms, smirking at her and doing that low chuckle that he overheard Rebecca and Jill talking about a few weeks ago. “Good to be back. Great to see you, too.” He muses back at the bartender. He catches how the tips of her ears turn red.

Hook. Line. And Sinker. This is too easy.

He leans back in the stool, tapping a hand on the bartop. “You know… I’ve been meaning to ask,” he drawls, voice low and smooth, “How is it someone like you ended up in a place like this?”

Y/N huffs a laugh, grabbing an empty glass to wipe down. “What, a place like Bloodhound?”

Wesker nods, lifting his drink. “Exactly. You seem… too bright for this.”

She tilts her head slightly, an amused smile curving her lips. “You calling me a lightweight?”

The chuckle that rumbles from his chest is soft, warm. “Not at all. Just saying… you stand out. In a good way.”

Her smile falters slightly — not from discomfort, but surprise. He notices the way her fingers pause briefly over the glass, as if trying to figure out how to respond.

“Well… bills don’t pay themselves.” She shrugs, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes. Maybe pride. Maybe something more guarded. “Besides, I like it here. Good people. Good company.”

He hums, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “I’m glad to hear that.” His gaze flicks up to meet hers. Steady. Intentional. “I was starting to wonder if I’d have to give you a reason to stay.”

She blinks — and then laughs. A soft, genuine laugh that she covers quickly with her hand. “Wow… that’s smooth.”

He shrugs with mock humility. “Just honest.”

Y/N shakes her head, still smiling. “Well… you’ve got good timing. I’m off at midnight.”

He raises an eyebrow, feigning mild surprise. “Is that an invitation?”

“Maybe.” She wipes her hands on a bar towel, tossing it over her shoulder. “Guess you’ll have to stick around to find out.”

Wesker leans back in his seat, the corners of his lips curving upward in satisfaction.

Hook line and sinker indeed…

~~~

Masterlist

#fem!reader #lilith writes #lilithofthevalley #resident evil #resident evil x reader #albert wesker x y/n #albert wesker x reader #s.t.a.r.s. wesker #albert wesker #resident evil fanfiction

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vampcubus · 2 years ago

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I wanna randomly slap muzan's ass and watch him tense up, on tippy toes, back arched, and a loud squeak to come from him

Muzan is seemingly always on high alert, but he relaxes around you, and after a while he subconsciously stops perceiving you as a threat at all. Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t pick up on your approach as he fiddles with alchemical formulas, a pinch in his brow that tells you his experiments have been unsuccessful.

You continue with your plan, lips curled into a devilish grin as you sneak up behind him, hand twitching with anticipation.

He seems to sense your presence behind him and goes to turn, only for the startling feeling of your hand clapping down so hard onto his ass that a choked yelp is forced from his pale lips. His back arches away from the contact instinctively and he’s forced onto his tippy toes. The sight is even better than you hoped, and you only grin wolfishly as his head slowly turns to glare at you over your shoulder, slitted eyes swimming with malice despite the red tinge painting his pallid cheeks.

“If you were anyone else I’d have you drawn and quartered for such an offense,” he spits, turning away from you again to hide the persistent warmth in his cheeks. “Consider yourself lucky i am feeling merciful today.”

“So you admit that you give me special treatment?” you giggled, pressing your front to his back and winding your arms around his middle to press a placating kiss to his neck. His lark lashes flutter at the contact.

“Don’t test your luck.”

#‧₊🦇˚⊹ ashi writes #muzan is so hard to characterize agshsjsj #muzan kibutsuji x reader

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howlingday · 8 months ago

Text

Jaune's Shampoo

Teryx

"DAMMIT, NORA!" Jaune opened his shower door. As he exited, he noticed his body had drastically changed. Using a mixture of his shampoo and experimental goo found at the fiendish Dr. Merlot's laboratory, Nora had unwittingly created a mutagen just to prank her team leader.

Jaune shuddered a bit as everything suddenly felt very warm. The steam surrounding him didn't fog his vision as he stepped out of the shower. The only thing he couldn't see was his reflection in the mirror. As he walked to the sink, however, he noticed there was a distinct clack on the tiled floor with every step. Did Nora somehow tape something to his foot, too?

Nope. Looking down, he saw that his feet, along with his legs and everything else from his chest down had completely changed! His toes and fingers had extended and ended in claws and talons, the latter of which curved from his big toe! Up his arms and legs, black scales coated him to his torso, where white scale plating trailed down to his-

"WHAT?! WHERE DID IT-?!" Jaune scrambled for the mirror, trying his best not to freak out.

Reaching with his claws, he'd accidentally knocked it off the wall and shattered it all over the floor. He crouched down to scoop the mess into one big pile, suddenly feeling a sharp pain from his back... against the ceiling. He looked behind him to his wings. Oh, right... Wings.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!"

Suddenly, there was a banging at the door. "Open up! This is Specialist Winter Schnee of the Atlas Military! Surrender any weapons you may have and come out peacefully!"

Jaune looked to his claws. "Uh... That's going to be a problem, officer!"

"I am counting to three, at which point I will break down this door if it has not been opened! One! Two!"

"WAITWAITWAITWAITWAIT!" Jaune smashed through the door, knocking the huntress over and pinning her to the floor. She glared at him with icy blue eyes of rage and disgust. "Uh... I'm indecent?"

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

The strange beast flew high above Beacon Academy, but it would not escape the right hand of General Ironwood so easily. Using her glyphs, Winter Schnee had made her way to the top of Beacon Tower. Through the tactical use of her summons, she managed to chase the monster to the top with her, the forcing it to the ground to fight on the ground. Still, the creature was larger than her and equipped with claws that would likely shred through her aura. Haste would not equate to victory.

"Please, stop!" It yelled over the chirping pecks of the ice birds. "Stop it!" With a flick of her wrist, the summons fell away. "Oh, thank y-" Her saber was pressed against his head. Jaune clenched his jaw shut.

"Talk." Winter growled. "What are you?"

"I'm..." He gulped. He kept his voice below a frantic yell. "My name is Jaune Arc. I'm a student at Beacon Academy."

"Is this supposed to be a joke?" She looked him up and down.

"Uh, actually..." He tried to inch away, only to find her bald would not leave his delicate skin. "I-I think this is supposed to be a prank."

A cold wind blew into her face, though she did nothing to indicate it bothered her. Atlas was much colder, though the air was not this sweet. It had an almost candy-like scent, like cherry and lavender. She kept her sword drawn, though she did inch away by some small margin.

"A prank?" She repeated. "Pranks don't transform students into Grimm." There was only one being on Remnant who had that kind of power. Could this boy's existence be proof of her infiltration? She needed to learn more. "You will come with me to speak to Headmaster Ozpin. Make any sudden moves and I will end you, Grimm or no Grimm. Am I understood?"

Jaune gulped. "Y-Yes'm."

"Good." Winter stepped back, sheathing her sword. "And for heaven's sakes, put some clothes on."

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

"And that's how Jaune got a girlfriend twice his age~!"

"Man, that is so cool~!" Russel cooed as he and Lark leaned into Nora's story.

"What happened next?" Dove eagerly asked, on the edge of his seat.

"Well, you know those stories about dragon-riders? Well-"

"MISS VALKYRIE!" Nora flinched as Professor Goodwitch cracked her riding crop on her desk. "You are in detention to be punished for mutilating your classmate, teammate, and team leader, Jaune Arc! This is not a place for your to expound your mischief as a legendary epic of the mothran age!"

"Y-Yes, Professor Goodwitch..." Nora sheepishly retreated into herself.

"And Mr. Winchester, please control your teammates! Their encouragement will only worsen Miss Valkyrie's behavior!"

"Y-Yes, Professor Goodwitch..." Cardin also shrank, but not before giving a menacing glare to his team. They all shrank in unison.

Meanwhile, outside, Jaune and Winter were getting practice in for their new role as Remnant's first "Dragon-Rider Huntress". It was an idea for a joint occupation which Professor Ozpin and General Ironwood agreed upon to both bolster their offense capabilities while also inspiring future generations of huntsmen and huntresses and, maybe, find a cure for Jaune's mutation. Maybe. Probably.

#rwby #jaune arc #jaune's shampoo #winter schnee #winter's knight #russel thrush #sky lark #dove bronzewing #cardin winchester #glynda goodwitch #winter knight

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fashionablyenigmatic · 8 months ago

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"I was messing around with some old hat-making equipment, thinking I still had the knack for it. But then, one of the steam hat forms burned my finger. I panicked, flailed around, and ended up hitting a light bulb, which shattered all over me. Got a few cuts from the glass. I just finished patching myself up from the first-aid closet when you dropped by."

He led him over to the first-aid closet, pulled open a box, and took out an arm sling. "Here, this should help with your arm. By the way, do you prefer tea or coffee? Or maybe, given our injuries, we need something stronger—how about wine or whiskey?"

@sweetandsoursaws

The Monroe Manor wasn’t a sentient building, but for certain people, it might as well have been. It had an eerie way of seeming to welcome those it favored. As Lark approached, the wrought-iron gate opened with supernatural ease, and the garden greeted him with the earthy scent of damp soil and the crisp sweetness of dying leaves. The late afternoon air carried a subtle message: fall is near, and it will be wonderful.

Lark’s boots crunched softly against the gravel path as he made his way to the grand front door, which swung open just as he reached it. Alphonse stood there, his sharp features softened by the golden light. The first thing Lark noticed was the white bandage wrapped around Al’s hand, slightly stained at the edges.

“Hat-making disaster,” Al said with a rueful grin, raising his injured hand for emphasis. “What about you? What catastrophe’s got you today?”

@sweetandsoursaws

#Lark #Alphonse Monroe #just ignore my husband glaring from the second story he is mostly harmless

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arzen9 · 2 months ago

Text

Can I Be Good? Chapter 9: Mist and Teeth - Lark

pairing: Astarion/f!Tav | Astarion/f!OC 18+ MDNI word count: 6.6k tags/warnings: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Not Canon Compliant, Vampire Ascendant Astarion, Redemption, Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Mystery, Romance, Drama, Angst, Fluff, Smut, Original Female Character, Mentions of Trauma, Mentions of Past Trauma, Mentions of Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Masturbation, Blood, Blood Drinking, Alcohol summary: Centuries of pain, a ritual, (not) hunger, (not) desire, a lost soul, a search, a yearning, bodies, bodies... And a heart that changes everything.

"Something in me wants more. I can't rest." -Sylvia Plath

Thanks for reading, and as always, if you want to chat, my ask box & dm's are always open<3 Thank you @nerdallwritey for reading these over, always helping out, and being an amazing friend, ILY!!!

Can I Be Good? spotify playlist

Read on AO3

When Lark arrives at the Crimson Palace the next morning, everyone is already at the bar, chatting and hanging out. Upon seeing her all of their gazes fall upon Lark, as if she interrupted something important.

“Good morning,” she says, a little intimidated.

Astarion is the one to greet her first, with a toothy grin. “We were just talking, darling, about my confession to you yesterday—”

“You told her about the—” Shadowheart jumps, but Astarion is quick to continue.

“—the fact that I am a vampire, yes.”

Shadowheart eyes him suspiciously, and Lark catches it, but in a second the white-haired woman’s expression is replaced with a hesitant smile.

“Finally!” Karlach laughs. “Can I go back to calling you Fangs now?”

“No,” Astarion says with a pout. Karlach pulls him, rather violently, into a side-hug.

“I’m going to do it anyway.”

Lark laughs. In the tiefling’s embrace, Astarion looks… Small. Innocent.

Once she lets him go, he huffs and runs a hand through his hair to fix his perfect curls. Then, he clears his throat. The sort of appearance he holds is, as Lark has come to learn, of utmost importance to him.

“You are now truly part of our team,” Gale says with a wink. Astarion gives him a side-eyed glance, but doesn’t say anything more.

“Thank you,” Lark says. She means it. Astarion’s gaze falls upon her once again, something indecipherable in his expression. The intensity of it makes her blush and look away, thinking back to her dream from last night.

“Wait! Now that she knows,” Karlach says, almost jumping up and down in her place with excitement, “We have to take her to Mist and Teeth!”

Astarion pinches the bridge of his nose. “Really? Must we?”

“It would be fun,” Shadowheart says, earning a glare from the vampire himself.

“What’s Mist and Teeth?” Lark asks.

“An underground bar for vampires,” Gale says with a mischievous smile.

“A shoddy excuse of a bar for those who think a vampire is the most desirable thing, you mean,” Astarion says with a particular venom in his voice.

Lark eyes him with concern and intrigue in equal measure. “We don’t have to, if it really bothers you.”

His crimson eyes search her, and the momentary softness of his gaze makes her heart ache.

Karlach gives a light punch on Astarion’s shoulder, making him lose that gentle expression Lark was so fond of. “Oh, he’s a big boy, I’m sure he can handle it. It’ll be fun!”

“Fine,” Astarion says, nostrils flaring. “You might want to wear that dreadful perfume of yours,” he turns to Lark. “Not all who go to Mist and Teeth are as civilized as I am.”

----

It might have been a joke. It probably is. Because why would Lark’s scent, or rather the scent of her blood, specifically be more alluring than anyone else’s? In a bar where vampires mix with all the other residents of the city, no less?

Lark still douses her with the same perfume she wore the night Astarion took her to the Blushing Mermaid.

The rest of the workday went by pretty fast, consisting of helping Shadowheart again with the cocktail selections for the masquerade, talking to Karlach about the playlist she’s putting together (she also asked Lark about Wyll’s favorite songs, which she found cute) and going through lists of things that need to be purchased with Astarion.

Now, as Lark stands outside the subway station near the Upper City, waiting for the others, she can’t help but wonder why Astarion looked so taken aback by her concern for him. That softness in his eyes… It’s not something she gets to see often. She’d like to cause it more.

Lark’s phone vibrates, and she looks down at the bright screen, shining in the darkness of the night. It’s a text from Wyll.

Do you think Karlach will like sunflowers? Or should I get her a mixed bouquet?

She takes a deep breath before someone approaches her from behind, almost causing her to drop her phone with a yelp.

“Flowers already? Ravengard’s son is truly a hopeless romantic, hmm?”

“Astarion,” Lark says, relieved, but puts a hand over her heart to calm herself down still. “You scared me.”

“The others went ahead,” he says, ignoring her.

“Why didn’t you go with them? I could have found the place on my own.”

“Trust me, darling,” he says. “You could not.”

As Astarion starts walking towards the street on the left, she watches him— dressed in a black shirt and dark burgundy tailored pants that hug his features like a glove, hands in his pockets, gait slow and confident. Lark suppresses a sigh, and before following him down the dark street, she texts Wyll back.

Mixed bouquet. Something bright and colorful.

----

Astarion was right— Lark could not have found Mist and Teeth on her own.

The bar is concealed behind two alleyways, accessible by walking down a set of stairs that are so narrow, they almost look lethal— with no visible sign or marker to suggest that there is a bar anywhere nearby.

But of course, Lark would rather risk a fall down these very stairs than admit to Astarion’s face that he was right. So she strolls down slowly and deliberately, following Astarion like his shadow.

Once they reach the bottom, Astarion holds open the inconspicuous black door in front of them so that Lark can go ahead, all the while looking her up and down with one eyebrow raised.

“I see you took my advice with the perfume.”

“Wouldn’t want to distract you from all the fun that this place is supposed to offer.”

He looks at her with amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes, something akin to approval on his expression. “You’re full of surprises, darling, aren’t you?”

She sneers at him while she walks inside, undoing the tie to her oversized puffer. After work, she had gone back to her apartment to change, and standing in the chilly entryway now, she curses her boldness in choosing the particular outfit she did— a distant part of her mind knows she picked it out because Astarion might like it. But Lark would never willingly admit to that.

She removes her jacket and folds it as Astarion comes to stand in front of her. He extends his hand to take the jacket from her— not without taking her form in.

After twenty-five minutes of deliberation in front of her mirror, Lark has chosen to wear a dark tangerine bodysuit with a deep neckline that reaches her belly button, paired with skinny black jeans and chocolate brown knee-high boots. She also put on a long silver locket in the shape of a heart to accentuate her décolleté.

Judging by the way Astarion’s eyes wander around her body, she picked well— although she’d be lying if she said his gaze doesn’t make her feel way more exposed than she is.

“Aren’t you going to get cold in that?” he asks. Lark tries to decipher the sharp edge to his voice— would he have preferred more modesty from her?

“Not while I’m indoors,” she says, ignoring his irritation. “Why?”

“We wouldn’t want you to get sick and miss work, would we?”

With that, Astarion turns for a moment to hand both their jackets to the coat check. Beyond the entrance, Lark can see another flight of stairs that, she assumes, lead to the actual bar area.

“Ready?” Astarion asks, and when she shifts her gaze back to him, she realizes he has changed into a different outfit too— the first three buttons of his smooth, black shirt are left unbuttoned, revealing the pale, broad and muscular plane of his chest ever so slightly. She tries to focus on the shirt’s fabric instead. Is it linen? It’s hard to tell in the dark— and Lark thinks it would hardly be appropriate to reach out and touch it.

“I could ask you the same question,” she says, peeling her gaze away from his midsection with difficulty.

“What, darling?”

“Aren’t you going to get cold in that?”

Astarion reaches out to tuck a strand of Lark’s hair behind her hair, possibly slow on purpose so that she can feel the coolness of his skin.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, and Lark hopes he won’t be able to detect the uptick of her heartbeat over the sound of music coming from downstairs.

She sure can hope.

With that, he offers her his arm, and after a second of hesitation, Lark takes it— sliding her hand on his wrist. They descend the stairs together, and even without looking, Lark can immediately feel the turning of eyes on them. It’s even darker downstairs, but the place is not too big, or too crowded— out of a total of ten tables, only four of them are occupied, one of them being where Karlach, Gale and Shadowheart are sitting down. The tiefling waves both of her arms in the air at them with a wide, enthusiastic grin on her face. Lark can’t help but join her smile.

“So? How does it compare to the Crimson Palace?” Astarion asks as they walk together to their table.

“Well, this is a bar, for one.”

“Can’t you see I’m fishing for compliments here?”

Lark laughs, and that makes Astarion laugh, too. “Oh, great Astarion Ancunín, your club is simply the best,” she intonates dramatically.

“That’s better.”

“Do you always fish for compliments?”

“Usually I don’t need to,” he says with a frown, and Lark can’t be sure if he actually enjoys all the compliments he must get— he almost sounds conflicted that he is rarely, if ever, perceived as anything beyond the beautiful façade. Almost.

“You made it,” Shadowheart says as they approach the table. In her light blue sweater dress, she looks like a fairy, especially in the dark atmosphere of the bar.

“I’m so thirsty I could go for twenty pitchers,” Karlach says, rubbing her hands together. “Please, let’s order already!”

Astarion pulls out one of the chairs for Lark to sit, and she catches Shadowheart raising her perfectly arched eyebrows at the gesture. It makes Lark want to fold into herself.

“How do you like Mist and Teeth?” Gale asks her, hands clasped over his lap. Lark turns her attention to him, glad to avoid Shadowheart’s judging gaze.

“Fine so far,” she says.

“Give it a few hours,” Astarion says. Then he walks over to a nearby server to order their drinks.

“How does alcohol affect your condition?” Gale continues. Lark bites her lip, wishing he wouldn’t call it that.

“My magic? I’ve never had an adverse enough reaction that made me suspect a connection.”

“Do you think it could be serving as a numbing agent? If your magic is prone to show itself in moments of distress like we talked about, it would make sense for substances that numb the senses— such as alcohol— to easily become solutions for you.”

“Numb the senses?” Karlach chimes in with a high-pitched voice that suggests disbelief. “I’d say it can absolutely heighten some, if you know what I mean! What are you two talking about anyway?”

“You can think of Lark’s magic akin to your infernal engine when it comes to senses, Karlach,” Gale says, and the tiefling gives him a pensive look.

“Does she even know about that?”

The table goes silent, and Gale looks clearly distraught with his own slip.

“I apologize,” he says. “That was not my secret to share.”

Lark turns to Karlach, who eyes her and Gale with a smile that crinkles her face. It’s adorable.

“I trust Lark. I would have told her about it sometime, even if you didn’t.” When she sees Astarion come back, she adds, “If only Fangs didn’t keep her all to himself most of the time.”

He sits down with such elegance that Lark’s chest tightens at the sight. Looking at his nails, he says, “First of all, that’s a lie. Shadowheart uses her as a guinea pig for her cocktails far more than I take her time for anything else. And second,” he pauses to shift his gaze at the tiefling. “I really don’t like that nickname, darling.”

As the conversation shifts, Lark makes a mental note of asking about Karlach’s infernal engine when she has the chance.

“You love it,” Karlach booms with laughter. “Listen to yourself. Darling this, darling that, and Fangs is crossing the line?”

Shadowheart laughs. “Centuries later, still the same argument.”

Lark wonders— Astarion is a vampire, but the others are decidedly not. How have they been beside him for centuries without any physical traits to suggest ageing?

Gale seems to catch her puzzled expression, but even if he understands exactly what she’s thinking, he doesn’t say anything. He only gives her a somber smile, and before Lark can jump in, a server approaches their table with a tray filled with different drinks. A beer pitcher for Karlach, as usual. Astarion and Shadowheart are sharing a bottle of red wine. Gale has his own glass of white. And, last but not least, a Bloody Mary for Lark.

She looks at Astarion over the table, to where he’s sitting between Karlach and Shadowheart. He smiles and raises his glass of wine to her. She has to look away to control her heartbeat.

“I’ll go wash my hands,” she says. She doesn’t feel as panicked as she did when Astarion danced with her (for approximately forty seconds)— but she would feel better safe than sorry. A few moments away from Astarion to calm her thoughts will do wonders to keep her magic at bay for the rest of the night.

Standing up, she spots the restroom sign at the back of the bar, not far from the stairs they took down. As she walks among the tables in the almost-too-dark place, the people sitting at a booth in the corner catch her eye. There are four people in total— two elven men, one with short strawberry blond hair, the other’s deep brown locks gathered in a ponytail, whisper in each other’s ears suggestively. The other two seem to be far past the point of seductive whispers— a pale man with bright red eyes is holding a greyish skinned drow woman’s wrist to his mouth, and she seems to be in pure bliss, a wide grin plastered on her plush lips, her head tilted back. Then Lark sees the blood on the man’s mouth.

She has never met a vampire before Astarion, and growing up with an entirely different set of concerns than looking out for stray bats in the dark, Lark hadn’t questioned until just now how being bitten by one might feel like.

As if noticing Lark’s unwanted gaze, the drow woman opens her eyes and looks straight at her as the man holds her wrist even closer. They look at each other for a moment that feels like eternity— Lark, unsure how to look away, and the woman with an odd interest.

Finally, Lark peels off her gaze from the group and continues her journey to the restroom. It’s a single stall, and it’s occupied, so she leans her back on the opposite wall, and waits.

When the others said Mist and Teeth was a vampire bar, Lark hadn’t exactly known what to expect. What she just saw definitely fits the description, and yet, she feels surprised regardless. She remembers Astarion telling her about the people of the city feeling rather lukewarm towards his kind— it definitely makes sense why this place would be so hard to find. And she thinks back to his words— a bar for those who think a vampire is the most desirable thing.

Is it the bite itself? Is the act inherently sexual because it resembles the act of penetration, or is it just the people who make it so? Lark has never been one to associate bleeding with anything other than bleeding. Blood is pain, and she has seen a lot of it over the years— some self-inflicted, some not. If there is one thing for sure, she has never worn a euphoric smile on her face like that drow woman, when she bled with a boxcutter in hand, trembling on the tiled floor of her old bathroom. Her mother’s bathroom, rather.

But Lark can’t help but imagine Astarion’s lips over her wrist. Or her neck. Is it the act itself, or the person doing it?

“So, you’re his new toy?”

The raspy, low voice startles Lark. When she turns her head sharply, the same drow with greyish skin and light blonde hair is standing in front of her. Her dark red eye makeup is glossy, almost greasy looking. The smile on her full lips doesn’t offer any sort of friendship.

“Excuse me?”

“He usually goes for the more striking ones.”

“Do you mean Astarion?” Lark asks, a flush coloring her already warm cheeks. “I think you’re mistaken. I work for him.”

The drow’s smile turns into a deep scowl, if only for a moment. It’s almost like hearing his name disturbs her. But, just as quickly— the sinister curve of her lips return.

“It’s not your physical appearance he chose you for. I can tell,” she says, looking Lark up and down. “Your blood—”

“Little love, is something the matter?”

Both women turn at the same time to see Astarion standing a few steps away, surveying them with a darkness in his eyes— or, surveying Lark exclusively. His eyes, darkened so much that his crimson irises are lost in a sea of black, are focused on her, ignoring the drow completely.

Lark is frozen in place not because of the other woman’s proximity, or her odd comments about her appearance or her blood— but because of Astarion’s behavior. The pet name. Little love. The way he’s looking at her right now. His hand outstretched at her, as if to—

Realizing Lark is too stunned to notice his little play, Astarion closes the distance between them to wrap an arm around her waist, the touch sending pure electric through the skin under his fingertips.

Clearly, his sham is working— the drow looks absolutely flabbergasted, her brows raised so high they’re almost lost into her hairline.

“You need to stop this stalking act of yours, darling,” Astarion says to her, lips drawn in a snarl to show the sharp tip of a fang. His usual vernacular sounds filled with hate aimed towards the drow. “It’s rather pathetic.”

Before turning on her heels to leave, the woman says, “I know why you’re so interested in her. My friend could smell it.”

Astarion’s hand on Lark’s back stiffens a little. A vile smile forms on the drow’s face when she catches it, but it doesn’t deter Astarion.

“Well of course. Who could fail to smell the tastiest morsel to ever grace this hideous place?”

Lark tries to swallow the lump in her throat and force a smile, to join in the game he’s playing. She is sure it looks more like she just got sprayed in the face by a skunk.

“But a word of caution for you and your excuse of a friend. She is mine, and I don’t share.”

If he wasn’t standing so close, or basically had a death grip on her waist, Lark would have turned to look at Astarion so quick her neck would break. But all she can do right now is look straight at the drow, who stands a little bit taller than Lark. She tries to calm her breathing, her heartbeat, her magic—

“Well. This has been wonderful,” the drow finally says, feigning disinterest. “You know where to find me when you bore of her.”

With that, she finally leaves, and Lark almost goes to pinch herself to see if she’s really awake or not. What in the hells was that?

“It’ll be fun, let’s go to Mist and Teeth, they said,” Astarion grumbles.

“Did you just use me to make an ex-girlfriend jealous or something?”

That makes Astarion gawk at Lark in such a ridiculous way, it almost causes her to lose all seriousness and laugh.

“Her? Really? Darling, that is the most hurtful thing you’ve said to me so far.”

“Who is she, then?”

“That,” he almost spits out. “Was a self-appointed blood chemist. Araj.”

“And how do you know her?”

“Not by choice, trust me when I say that,” he sighs. “She was at the opening night of the Crimson Palace. Somehow, she knew I was a vampire. And she has not stopped pestering me to bite her ever since.”

Lark looks at him, for a moment, searching his face. A vampire, the most desirable thing.

Then she realizes that his arm is still wrapped around her waist.

“You can let me go now,” she says. Not that it doesn’t feel good, his skin pressed to hers. It feels far better than it has any right to, in fact. But Lark is worried about two things— one, the excitement she feels with Astarion threatens her already questionable control over her magic. And two— she’s still not entirely sure about the prospect of developing feelings for this man without knowing what lies behind the mask. The scariest part, though, is that the more time she spends with him, the less it seems to matter— all of Astarion is intriguing to her, not just the glamorous veil.

Astarion mustn’t have been aware he was still holding her, either, as he lurches back a little, surprised. Not a second later, though, he again wears his usual smirk.

“Aren’t you glad I came just in time to save you?”

“Oh great savior,” Lark says flatly. “However can I ever return your favor?”

“You are a poet,” he says with feigned disgust, but his lips curl with amusement regardless.

“Why don’t you want to bite her?” she asks.

He looks at her with something like anger clouding his eyes. “Her blood, as opposed to yours, smells absolutely vile. I would also like to add that just because I’m a vampire doesn’t mean I want to bite everything that passes by.”

He’s right. “I’m sorry,” Lark says.

“You and your apologies. Why are you saying sorry this time?”

“I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Astarion’s eyes, now back to their bright, red beauty, searches her face. Her sincerity always seems to make him stop in his tracks; as if it hasn’t been offered to him by a stranger in a very long time.

Every time he gives her his undivided attention like this, she can feel the crackling of sparks underneath her skin. She keeps chalking it up to panic, that all-familiar sense of anxiety that usually accompanies it— but now, standing so close to him, inhaling his scent— she wonders if it’s something else. The thoughts of potential feelings creep in again, uninvited.

Lark decides to distract herself by changing the subject. “What did she mean about my blood?”

Astarion looks away. “I’m not sure,” he says pensively, and Lark can’t decide if he’s being truthful or not. “Perhaps it is only because your blood smells exquisite.”

Lark quirks an eyebrow.

“The lowlife she’s got sucking on her bile doesn’t seem like a particularly powerful vampire, so I doubt he would be able to tell your magical potential by smelling your blood. Take my word for it when I say I don’t know what the drow meant.”

It’s almost funny, how he seems to be able to tell exactly what she’s thinking. Maybe she just has zero control over her expressions. She questions for a moment if it matters to him at all whether Lark trusts him or not.

“And if she was aware of my magic? What does that mean?”

Astarion sighs. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t like that answer,” she says, honestly. He looks more thoughtful than ever, and it’s worrying.

“Let’s just go back and enjoy our drinks, shall we? There’s no point discussing what we don’t know.”

She nods, and then barely tries to conceal the mischievous smile forming on her lips.

“She’s mine, and I don’t share, huh? Did you copy that from the book at my place?”

Astarion mirrors her with an even wider grin. “That’s what you like, then, darling? Possessiveness?”

“It makes for a good romance novel, at times.”

“And what about real life?”

Lark’s smile falls on instinct. “Real life is rarely as pretty.”

“We can agree on that.”

They regard each other, eyes locked in a crimson embrace. The air is filled with understanding— it scares Lark how much she enjoys it.

As they return to their table, Astarion makes sure to somehow keep her close, both of them aware of Araj’s unrelenting gaze on them. Karlach and Gale seem to be lost in a discussion Lark understands very little about— something involving lanceboard and the necessity of smokepowder or something. Shadowheart is quietly sipping her wine.

“She’s here again?” she asks after a while.

Astarion nods. Lark assumes she’s talking about Araj.

“Don’t worry about her,” she says to Lark, and her voice is more serious than reassuring. “She looks intimidating, but a spider would cause more actual harm.”

Lark takes a big gulp of her cocktail, drops of condensation running down her hand as she holds the glass. “She seemed more interested in Astarion, anyways.”

“She needs to get in line,” he says, looking at them over the rim of his wine glass. But Lark can tell he’s deflecting. It is crystal clear that he does not enjoy all of the attention he gets— especially from Araj, at least.

Shadowheart rolls her eyes at him. “If you decide to quit right now, I wouldn’t blame you, Lark.”

They share a laugh. “I’m going to have to think about it.”

“Oh please,” Astarion says, no venom in his voice. “As if Karlach would let you.”

With that, the tiefling and Gale join in their conversation.

“That’s right, soldier! You’re stuck with us.”

As they all laugh and clink their glasses in cheers, Lark starts feeling more and more at ease, almost forgetting the disturbing presence of Araj a few feet away from them, definitely not noticing anymore her constant glare over the table belonging to the owner of the Crimson Palace.

----

It’s late by the time they leave Mist and Teeth, and Astarion insists on accompanying Lark back to her apartment, even though Araj and her party left at least an hour before they did.

“We still have a party to organize, darling,” he says and Lark finally relents. “And we can’t do that if you fail to make it home safely, hm?”

On their way back, the train is empty save for the two of them, but Astarion chooses to stay standing, holding onto the metal railing right in front of Lark as she sits. She looks up at him with curious eyes, unable to look anywhere else. She’s not drunk, barely even tipsy— but she lets herself pretend a little, even if to just watch him more intently than usual.

“I can tell you’re staring, darling,” Astarion says without meeting her eyes.

“I wasn’t trying to hide it,” she says, which causes him to finally look down at her.

“You’re not drunk. I can smell you, remember?”

“I just wonder,” she continues a little shyly. “Have you thought of biting me?”

He blinks, surprised. Several moments pass, silent but for the hum and friction of the train.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Lark says to fill in the silence.

“Of course I have,” he finally offers his reply, tearing his crimson gaze away from her childlike wonder. “Your blood is… Unique.”

“How so?”

“Why do you have so many questions for everything?”

“Not everything. Just when it comes to you.”

The train comes to a stop, and the doors slowly slide open. Lark gets up to leave. She doesn’t expect him to follow, but he does.

They walk together toward Lark’s apartment, her a few steps ahead. In another life, she imagines, it would have been scary being stalked by a vampire in the middle of the night like this. But with Astarion, she rarely feels fear nowadays— despite having felt almost nothing but fear all her life. With him, life feels full of possibilities— and risks, perhaps— but ones worth taking.

Once they reach the front of her building, she turns around to see him standing a few steps back, hands in his pockets, poised and perfect as ever.

She decides to take a chance.

“Do you want to come upstairs?”

His smile is knowing, but the softness in his eyes betrays him.

“Lead the way, darling.”

----

Lark turns on the light in the living room and invites Astarion inside. He follows her slowly, quietly— if she hadn’t just invited him to come in, she would have failed to notice him.

It is a sight she doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to, seeing Astarion in her apartment.

They shed their jackets off and Lark places them on the couch while Astarion stands around, a playful eye already fixed on the bookshelf he was so interested in last time.

Whatever. Let him get ideas if he wants to. There are far worse offenses out there then being obsessed with romance novels, Lark thinks.

“Do you want something to drink?”

“What’s on offer?” Astarion asks with a hint of mischief in his voice.

Lark makes her way toward her kitchen cabinets, surveying the contents. She has a few bottles of wine, a half-finished bottle of Mermaid Whiskey. She takes out the whiskey, shaking it at him, suddenly surprised that he’s now standing in the middle of her small kitchen area connected to the living room by a half wall.

“I’ll have what you’re having, then.”

Lark takes out two glasses and places two cubes of ice in each, then pours the drinks. Astarion watches her with barely concealed intensity. She can feel the all-too familiar crackling, right beneath the surface, and takes a deep breath.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asks. There is no speck of sarcasm in his voice— just a genuine question.

“Uncomfortable? No,” she says. Just what he exactly makes her feel, she doesn’t even know herself.

Or maybe that’s easier to say than confessing what she knows.

Lark hands him his glass, and he raises it to her before turning and walking toward the bookshelves again.

Astarion gives her a side-eye glance, aware of her watchful eyes. “No house tour?”

She snickers. “Mine is not as nearly as impressive as yours.”

“It’s yours,” he says. “That’s a start.”

A deep thump rumbles in her chest. She needs to take a deep breath to bury it.

“You always know to say all the right things, don’t you?” She sees him stiffen a little, realizing her tone might have been more accusatory than she intended. “I did that a lot too, that’s why.”

“Did what?”

“Said all the right things. Tried to. To get what I wanted.”

“And what was it that you wanted?”

“To be loved,” she says with a laugh. Her voice comes out a weak, sad little whimper. The little fawn finds her voice. Astarion doesn’t comment on it.

“Did you get it?”

“No,” she says and takes a sip from her glass. The whiskey is warm as it slides down her throat. He turns to look at her, and her chest gives another rumble. Thump. A crackle. A hum. She needs to look away, but she doesn’t want to. “Look,” she continues. “I didn’t invite you in to… Have sex, or anything. I’m… I don’t want to be another one of your toys.”

She thinks back to Araj’s eyes— the way she looked at her, observed her— as if she is something to be used and tossed. It makes her shiver.

“What do you want to be?” Astarion asks.

Lark comes to stand next to him in front of the shelves, trying to look at them through a stranger’s eyes. “I don’t know,” she says honestly.

They both reach out to grab a framed photo from the middle of the shelf, and their fingers collide. The air crackles.

“Your dad?”

Lark nods, letting Astarion hold and examine the photo. It’s her favorite one, taken on the beach. She’s barely a day over eight, her dark blonde locks a mess around her face while her dad is posing with a wild grin.

“Where is he now?”

“Traveling. He hasn’t stopped at one place for more than a week ever since he—” she pauses, making Astarion look at her. “Since he left.”

Astarion puts the photo back, but his finger lingers on Lark’s face for only a moment. It’s a softer gesture than what she would ever have expected from him.

“Do you resent him for leaving?”

She shrugs. “Not really. He couldn’t take it anymore. I don’t blame him.”

“And your mom?”

Lark remembers the night they went to the Blushing Mermaid— how she told him she hated her. “She’s dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Lark snaps. “I’m not.”

“It must be nice to have one decent parent, at least,” he offers to lighten up her mood. It works, and she smiles, then takes another sip of her drink.

“Yes. It keeps me mostly sane.” She watches Astarion’s somber gaze still fixed on the photo. “What is it that you want, Astarion? To me it seems like you have everything.”

His jaw clenches.

She takes a chance. Or, a risk.

“Does a vampire have time for love?”

“All a vampire has is time, darling.”

He says it in a pained voice— so imperceptible that it catches Lark off guard. She wants to reach out and touch him— not to pull him into anything, but to offer him solace, to soothe him—

It’s too late to stop herself when all inkling of magic in her roars to life, screaming for him. And it freezes her with fear when she realizes she’s already reached a hand out to touch his arm, the skin revealed by his rolled-up sleeve.

Something pure and bright flows outwards, from her fingers, as she caresses them over his pale, smooth skin. It doesn’t burn him, electrify him, or hurt him in any manner.

“What are you doing?” he asks, not unkindly.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I just… I wanted to make things easier. For you.”

The way he looks at her, his eyes glassy, tells her that she might have just done the opposite.

When he extends his hand, Lark is sure he’s going to yank hers off him, sneer, get mad. But instead, he gently rubs the top of her fingers.

It’s warm, and gentle. It’s everything she has ever asked for, and never received.

She has a feeling it’s the same for him.

“Would you like to bite me?”

Astarion’s breath hitches, his hand suddenly stiff on top of Lark’s. It’s clear that he’s taken aback by her offer, but she can see the gears turning in his head. He’s considering it. Weighing his options.

After what feels like forever, he takes back his hand and says, “Maybe another time, darling.”

Lark curses inwardly, chewing on his lower lip. There— she’s ruined it all, turned him into an object of curiosity, when she was the one who didn’t want to be a toy, something to be used, she went ahead and made him into—

“It’s not because I don’t want to,” he continues, noticing her panic. Hesitantly, he raises one hand and cups her cheek, his thumb drawing soft circles on her increasingly feverish skin. But he doesn’t offer further explanation.

“It’s okay,” she says. Maybe it’s her appearance— Lark thinks back to how Araj had looked at her again, analyzing her, deeming her unworthy. Maybe even her blood isn’t enough to entice him now that he knows she’s a pathetic, hopeless romantic, a prude, someone not worth the effort, burdened and wild—

“You’re making it quite difficult for me to stand behind my decision with that heart of yours,” Astarion says barely above a whisper. Only then Lark realizes how fast her pulse is racing.

“I can’t help it,” she says, desperate, but honest.

“Do try not to reduce me to ashes with one of your spells.”

He moves away, and the loss of his touch almost makes her cry out. Instead, she chokes down a plea and drinks her whiskey. Astarion does the same.

“I think I should go,” he says a second later, eyes locked onto the photo of Lark and her dad. “It’s a work night, after all.”

“Do you even sleep? Being a vampire and all.”

“I trance, being an elf and all,” he corrects.

Lark looks to the side, at her couch. “You can stay, if you want to, you know.”

He almost seems like he’s going to relent, the way he searches every inch of her face with his gorgeous, darkened eyes. “Hold on to that offer. I might take you up on it next time.”

“There may not be a next time,” she says, flatly, and watches his face contort. Then she breaks out a smile.

“Your threats don’t scare me, darling.”

“But I’m so scary!”

They laugh together. It’s easy. Natural. She likes seeing him laugh.

Astarion downs the rest of his drink and Lark watches his throat. Those sharp lines of his. She wants to bury herself in him.

“Before you go,” she says, leaving him to run in her bedroom quickly. On top of the sheets, toppled over to its side sits her target.

She holds the plushie between her arms as she walks out of her room and walks back to where Astarion is. He eyes her with a mix of suspicion and amusement.

“This is Horseradish,” she says, holding the plush horse in the air by one of its legs. “It likes sandwiches.”

Astarion’s lips curl in a not-smile. “I’m sure it does.”

When she holds it out for him to take, he doesn’t know what to do.

“What am I supposed to do with this exactly, darling?”

“When my dad left, he gave me this, to comfort me and shit,” Lark says, eyes firmly fixed on the floor. “We don’t know each other very well, but there’s… Something lonely about you. Something like me.”

A momentary flicker flashes on his beautiful face. Is it anger? It disappears too fast for Lark to be able to say for certain.

“Take it,” she says, shaking Horseradish again. “Maybe it’ll help.”

Astarion grabs the toy by its head, regarding it with a raised brow. He turns it around, then clears his throat.

“I… Well. Thank you. I’ll see you in the morning, then?”

Lark nods. They walk to the door together.

She doesn’t want him to leave, not really. As he stands in the doorway, plushie in hand, it almost seems like he doesn’t want to, either.

“Good night, darling,” he says as he shakes Horseradish.

“Good night,” she replies, and waits for him to disappear down the stairs before closing the door.

Leaning against the cold surface, Lark sighs.

At the prospect of having feelings for Astarion Ancunín.

----

A little later, once she’s in bed, Lark looks at her phone blankly. The bright screen illuminates her concerned face, expression drawn taut. She wishes she could talk to Wyll, or Lae’zel, but it’s much too late to disturb either of them, and besides— she doesn’t even know where to begin.

Instead, she clicks on the text chain with Astarion and types her message before putting her phone down and going to sleep, without her favorite plushie for the first time in almost two decades.

Be careful on your way back. I’ve heard there are vampires lurking around.

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marantis · 6 months ago

Text

I'm feeling brave, or maybe I just wanna test out the waters and see whether or not what I have in mind actually works for people. So you get a WIP. This is my first try at a scene for the Scum Villain and Epic: The Musical mash up that me and @ineffectualdemon have cooked up together the other day. Would really like some feedback, but keep in mind that this is just a very quick little thing that barely got any editing. I'm testing the waters so to speak.

Luo Binghe stared at the man in front of him. Of all the things that could potentially have been thrown into his way at this point in time. He had not expected it to be Cang Qiong Mountains mild mannered sect leader appearing in front of him.

He wasn't as tall as Luo Binghe remembered him being, but then it had been years since he'd last seen him. Though the fact that they were of a height did little to take away from the oppressive aura emanating from the sect leader.

Mild mannered, polite and friendly seemed words entirely foreign to the cultivator blocking his path.

“In all my years of living it isn't very often that I get pissed off. I try to stay collected, but damn, you crossed the line.” Yue Qingyuan's voice thrummed with a low growl, making the hairs at the back of Luo Binghe's neck stand to an end. It took all his strength of will not to take a step back.

Just what had brought Yue Qingyuan to the point that he was seething like this, his eyes steely and cold? Luo Binghe's gaze flickered to the dead body of the ancient silver tongued lark. He had been aware that killing it would aggravate the cultivators as it was seen as an auspicious omen to be seen in these parts. Luo Binghe had not enjoyed bringing it down but Shang-shishu had insisted that its silver tongue was essential for their plans.

His continued silence only seemed to aggravate Yue Qingyuan more, he bared his teeth, his grip around the hilt of Xuan Su tightened. “I will make you bleed, I will put you down.”

Without further warning Xuan Su slid from its sheath, overbearing power barrelled into Luo Binghe, forcing him to take that step back after all. As he raised Zheng Yang he could feel it trembling from the strain of holding off Yue Qingyuan's qi, the tremor travelling all the way down his arm.

Luo Binghe grit his teeth, pushing back against the spiritual energy with his own. Then Yue Qingyuan swung Xuan Su.

The force doubled, tripled in intensity, wave after wave crashing over Luo Binghe, he could barely fend it off, as Yue Qingyuan stalked closer with each sword glare he let fly loose towards Luo Binghe.

“You are the worst kind of scum, cause you're just an ingrate. You who reeks of false meekness that's who I hate. You pretend to be friends, but then turn on him and push him down. Well, you totally could have avoided all this, had you not killed my son!” Luo Binghe staggered under the onslaught accompanying Yue Qingyuan's enraged cry.

At once, he realised where Yue Qingyuan’s anger was coming from. He could not fault the sect leader for it. Not when inside himself was the same boiling flame of resentment. Yue Qingyuan was just aiming it at the wrong person.

Luo Binghe opened his mouth to protest, to defend himself, but was immediately choked by the Yue Qingyuan’s roiling qi swirling around them.

The sect leader was almost right in front of him now. Had Luo Binghe not just mused that they were of the same height? Like this, killing intent rolling off of him in violent waves Yue Qingyuan towered over him. He blocked a direct slash from Xuan Su, Zheng Yang quivering in his grip as Yue Qingyuan bore down on him.

His throat was dry as he lashed out, hoping to drive Yue Qingyuan back, to get just a moment to breathe, but a primal fear clawed at his lungs. Luo Binghe had faced countless beasts and monsters, taken on dozens of high ranking demons, the heir to the northern throne amongst them, but the last time he'd felt fear like this had been when the abyss was looming open behind him and Shen Yuan had thrown himself between Luo Binghe and the approaching Shen Qingqiu.

“He was far too nice, mercy has a price. Unlike him I have no mercy left to give.” Yue Qingquan hefted Xuan Su into the air with both hands and brought it down, its blade gleaming murderously. Luo Binghe caught the blow on Zheng Yang but could only watch helplessly as his arm was pressed down under the mountainous weight of Yue Qingyuan's wrath until Xuan Su tore into the flesh of his shoulder.

Luo Binghe screamed as Yue Qingyuan's spiritual energy forced its way into him through the open wound, flooding him with a torrent of pain. “Close your eyes, the world is dark and ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves.”

Luo Binghe only barely caught Yue Qingyuan lifting one hand from Xuan Su's hilt, vision blurry from the pain of qi forcing itself through his meridians, then something shot forth from Yue Qingyuan's sleeve and his vision went black. His last thought was, that this couldn't be how it ended. Weren't they both fighting for the same person?

#svsss #epic the musical #fanfic #little bit of further context this is like a very Bingmei Binghe #darling didn't even have to go down into the abyss cause SY went instead of him #The Epic Scum Villain Medley #ruthlessness #WIP

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sukimoves · 1 year ago

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august!

intro / part 1 / part 2

pairing: james potter x fem! ravenclawreader

content: swearing, cheating, allusions to sex but not actual

y/n l/n had experienjced love for the first time in her 5th year at Hogwarts with (not so) golden boy Samuel Carter. Weeks filled with romantic walks around the black lake and long kisses before class in the broom closet. Of course, she fell in love with him, i mean who couldn't, the boy was the perfect boyfriend and a total utter gentleman.

Up until the easter holidays in 5th year when y/n had come back to school receiving nasty glares and judgmental looks from fellow peers around her. Samuel FUCKING Carter decided to spread a rumour that the ravenclaw girl had cheated on him with a boy from her muggle hometown.

y/n lost two of her closest friends from the incident except of course Charlotte Lark who continued to comfort her best friend instead of ditching her. Luckily not everyone had believed the rumour like Remus Lupin who knew the smart girl from their parents being good friends and knew she would never do such a thing.

And so, y/n shot back any nasty remarks that were sent her way with her own or a hex that many of them were casted in the great hall; however, all the teachers were team y/n/n so pretended to take no notice!

By the time summer had begun she had built herself a wall and a promise to never trust a boy as perfect as the hideous unnamed ex of hers. Yet that all came crumbling down when her family became the next-door neighbours to the Potter's in their holiday home in cornwall. Perfect (not golden boy) James Potter had stolen her heart by one stupid grin through the window of their bedrooms across from each other. y/n l/n was absolutely smitten!

Smiles and waves turned into small conversations. Turning into days out together to midnight sleepovers to secret kisses at the back of the garden...

...until their time of the summer ended, with goodbyes and promises of letters they went their own ways before the few weeks leading up the train back to Hogwarts. However, a hopeful Ophelia waited every day for the Potter owl to fly through her open window with a reply to the letter she sent. A total of 4 love filled letters were sent yet none returned.

And now a deeply distressed y/n and revengeful Charlotte hoping to figure out James' reason for ignoring the letters.

#james potter x you #james potter fluff #james potter x reader #james potter angst #marauders angst #marauders imagine #marauders x reader #y/n #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin fluff

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georgiapeach30513 · 2 years ago

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Tastes Like Rain

Summary: the faerie king Andy has waited a lifetime for his fated one. Was growing weary and bored with the thousands of years he's been alive. And he was always waiting for you, his bratty little human. Don't worry, in time you will love him as much as he loves you.

Pairings: Fae!Andy Barber X Reader

Rating: mature

Warnings: explicit language, mentions of burn scars, mentions of tattoos, mentions of punishment, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 4K

Series Masterlist

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics

“Jasper!” Andy groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. There was noise everywhere. All day long there was noise, and it was grating on his last nerve he had left. The king was tired, and was in the mood to accept his fate. Alone. Destined to rule the faerie kingdom with nobody by his side.

“Jasper!” Andy growls. He stands up and crosses the room to look out the window. What are those silly little faeries doing in the glen? “Jasper if you don’t…oh.”

Andy’s advisor stands in his doorway. The only faerie brave or stupid enough to glare at the high king. Andy was being a whiny baby, and Jasper was growing tired of it. The vines that are embedded into his skin prickle out. Thorns grow from the blackened vines, and Andy purses his lips. Glaring at his best friend.

“You see what you do to me? You stress me out!” He takes a calming breath, looking down at his arms to see his thorns start to sink back into his skin. He hated when Andy did this to him.

“I’m stressed out! What the fuck is that noise? I…”

“It’s summer solstice,” Andy’s brow cocks up and he looks back down at the glen. Collingswood was in an uproar. “It’s the Summer King and his Nymph’s first summer solstice together. You know after the uhh…”

“Ahh! We don’t mention that wench,” Andy tosses his hand behind him, watching the faeries lark about. Even sees some humans that were taking their chances to party in the glade. Idiots. They’ll be drunk off wine before the real party even starts. They wouldn’t remember a damn thing. It’s the way it was.

“Did she really create a nymph from the creek just to fuck him?” Those two always confused him. She clearly was a glutton for punishment while Ari had some serious size issues.

Jasper’s eyes narrow, turning a deeper green then before, and Andy has to look away, “They’re doing more than fucking. But yeah, they fuck. I’m sure it’s still a tight fit, and just the way Ari likes it. But he has taken that tiny Nymph as his Queen. Now if the high king of faeries doesn’t enjoy the revelry and find his own queen…ow,” Jasper dead pans as Andy throws a pillow at him.

“You know you’re quite childish during the summer solstice. I’m sure Jax will be down there feasting off the humans that wander into the glade.”

“Please, don’t mention his name. My brother gives me a headache,” Andy dramatically falls back on his bed, taking a deep breath. It had been years since he went down to the glade to enjoy the summer wines.

“You did have his wings cut off,” Andy slightly lifts up to look at the little man with a smirk.

“And he had his faults to deserve it,” Andy sits up. People always want to mention how he cut Jax’s wings off. It’s his right as high king to do so. Jax shouldn’t have become obsessed with tattooed humans. “What do you suppose I should do?”

“Get laid, and have fun.”

“What’s the difference?” Jasper could see the mischief in Andy’s eyes. He wasn’t particularly fond of the delicate creatures called humans, but he sure did love to toy with them, and see how far they could bend before they broke.

“Exactly!” Jasper screams walking out the door. “I’m going to have some fun with the rest of Collingswood. You should do the same. I’ve heard Jax is already passed out in the thorns!”

“Do you ever miss it?” Jasper turns to look at his best friend, shaking his head no. “You belonged to his court. Evidence of your birth runs all over your skin,” Jasper shrugs as he runs a hand over his twisting vines, the same ones that darken the path to Jax’s kingdom. “There’s no thorns,” his thorns only appearing when provoked.

“You’re not pissing me off right now,” his mouth turns into a devilish grin looking at his king. “Some things we can fight, and some things will always be a part of us. I can fight the darkness, but I can’t fully remove it. Instead of briars I have roses growing there.”

“Roses also have thorns, Jasper.”

“But they’re still beautiful, even if they draw blood. Now, get your menacing self down to the glen, and have at least one bottle of summer wine with those sweet fae that would die for a chance just to touch you. Imagine the immense pleasure you could get. There’s also humans,” Andy cracks his neck with a scoff. He’ll join in the party, but he will not have a human. They always brought out the worst in him.

“Oh, I forgot, the great King Andrew, High King of all fae in Collingswood wouldn’t be caught dead with a human. Even if she cries as you fuck her face. There’s always humiliation.”

“There’s always destroying them,” Jasper’s laugh sounds like a jingle as he walks out of Andy’s room. They were the only two faeries left at the palace, and he was getting tired of entertaining a king who was becoming far too arrogant. A human would do him some good.

“Can’t you keep up?” You glare up at the group of girls in front of you. A stupid fucking ritual. You didn’t even want to be in this sorority, but you were a legacy, and it was your mother’s last dying wish.

“Come on! We’re almost to the glade,” Charity giggles while she pulls at your hand. “You’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like you walk into another world.”

“Legend has it that it is,” Faith. You hated Faith. Full of herself, and by far the most beautiful out of this group of pledges. She oozed the standard perfection, and it bored you to tears.

Perfectly round doe eyes, that glistened an even brighter blue in the sunlight. Freckles that splayed so perfect around her face you would think she put them there on purpose. Maybe she did. And the most beautiful and perfectly placed auburn hair. You despised her, and also appreciated all the attention that always went to her instead of you.

You didn’t know how she did it. How she always said the right things, and if she wasn’t such a bitch when people weren’t looking, you might have liked her the tiniest bit more. No. You didn’t like her at all. Not one bit.

“Stop!” Hope. The leader of the group. She was a fourth generation legacy pledge, and lived locally. She knew the legends of this stupid fucking glade, and was going to be sure to tell you again. It is a bit odd, a curtain of ivy that strug up between a few trees, mushrooms surrounding every bit of those trees.

“This is the faerie ring,” oh bullshit. These are perfectly manicured woods that people thought had magical powers. “When we step through this veil, it’ll be like you're transported into another realm, because we have been.”

Her eyes twitch over towards you when you snort, “Is something funny?”

“It's a bunch of mushrooms and some ivy. I’m sure the groundskeeper fixes this up for the college to play during summer solstice. It’s not that exciting, Hope.”

“No one comes and keeps this up. This is natural. Do you realize we walked three miles through the woods to get here? It never changes. Although, in the winter you can’t get through the veil because it’s not there. The mushrooms have all withered, so if you get trapped behind the veil, make sure you come out before winter. If you stay in there too long the winter fae will keep you for their own. They’re cold, and yet some of the most fiercely handsome of them all.”

She was an idiot. They all were. She holds up her bottle of homemade wine, and the rest of you join in. Yours was a mixed berry wine because why not? You hopped it was enough to get you sloppy drunk, with you passed out on the leaves or moss or whatever the fuck was beyond this ‘veil’. Children. Believing in fairytales.

“Now, if there’s men in here that you don’t recognize, go with the flow. I’ve heard sex with a faerie is the best thing in the world.”

“Here, here,” you pop the lid to your wine, taking a big gulp, “To fucking faeries, am I right?”

“To fucking faerie!” The rest join in with you. This was the oddest initiation into a sorority. Most of the older girls didn’t want to join in. Telling you things weren’t the same once they left. Like it was this high and all they wanted to do was come and party in the glade for months on end, but wouldn’t tell you what had happened. You guess it was because fucking faeries.

Everyone giggles, except you, as you walk through the veil. You ignore the static feeling that runs through you. Just lift up the bottle of wine for a long drink. Making your own summer wines was genius. Now you had every intentions of getting fucked up, and forget this night ever happened.

You’re shocked to see the amount of people that were in the woods, beyond the veil. All dancing and carrying on like they had been doing this all day. Singing, and celebrating some man named Ari, which you had never even heard of, and a tiny woman that stayed on his side. Thinking to yourself that it had to hurt.

With each drink of wine their faces become more and more distorted. Angles that are inhuman. Eyes that glow in the twilight, skin that is a color you couldn’t find at any makeup counter. You look down at your half-drunk bottle of wine, and quickly cork it. Unsure of how much alcohol was truly in this, but it had to be a lot because you are seeing things.

You didn’t believe the legend of the glade, but there was something weird going on. The people that were here before you surely had some machine that was releasing fumes and causing you to hallucinate. Hell, you could see different creautres…people fucking beside the trees, and deeper into the glade. They weren’t hiding anything. They just assume that everyone is too drunk to care about their indiscretions.

You aren’t drunk, you’re fucking fine. Glancing around you spot your fellow pledges in various stages of hookups, but not you. No…no one ever noticed the average girl whose clothes are too baggy, and lines of tattoos peek out of the hemlines of your clothes.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” you groan, stumbling away from the weird music and frolicking people. It is weird here, and the mix of the now disgusting mixed berry wine makes you feel lightheaded.

“You okay?” You don’t even look at the man that is behind you. You are perfectly okay, and didn’t need help. “Miss…”

“I’m fine,” you spin around. Nothing had even left your stomach, you just needed the world to stop spinning, but he isn’t helping. Sinfully attractive. Why were so many of these people topless? Did they just want to have sex quicker? Easier? Who are they? And why were they oddest looking people, and still the most attractive ones you had ever seen?

His mouth quirks up in a grin, and you roll your eyes. Not today. This was a dangerous man. You can feel his darkness roll through your body like the smoke he is exhaling into your face. Fuck this. You didn’t need this.

Going against girl code, you have to get out of here. Alone. You shouldn’t, but this place is haunting you in an odd way. Trying to walk past the ridiculously tall man, he throws out his arm, stopping you. “Back up!”

His answer is sniffing up the tattoo on your body, and you smack at his arm, “What the fuck!”

“You didn’t drink all your wine, little one.”

“Yeah, no shit, asshole. I didn’t drink it all because…” the blonde starts circling your body. Taking deep inhales as he encloses on you like you are his prey. This is bad. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“This ink,” he inhales deeply again, “Why are you covering scars?”

“How did you know that?” You gulp as he comes to stand in front of you. His heavily ringed, and singed looking fingers start to move your collar to the side. Looking at your scarred and tattooed skin closer. It is like your body is frozen, and refusing to move. The perfect predator had caught you in his snares, and was ogling your tattoos like his next meal.

When his fingers touch your skin, you sigh at how soothing it feels. Moving aside your shirt to see what your clothes and tattoos hide. His fingers move slowly over your skin, and your eyes are at half mast. Relaxing with this odd man. Allowing him to get too close when he licks on the tattoo, moaning like he was eating a delicacy.

“Ahh,” your whispered yelp sounds like it is coming from a distance as a sharp, but quick pain pricks at your skin, and you slowly become mush. Sinking into his embrace, and allowing this man to moan at whatever he is doing on your body.

Seconds become minutes, and minutes drag on, but still feel like no time has passed as your eyes slowly start to close, and then but one booming, but far off voice, “Jackson!”

Blackness. Sleeping off into a void of nothingness. But the most beautiful peace you had ever felt washes over you. Sleep. Peaceful sleep. Not visions and nightmares that plagued your mind. Only darkness.

“Why did you bring her here?” Jasper looks confused at Andy. His king was tilting his head from side to side like a questioning puppy. “She’s human.”

“I can tell,” Andy grouses, continuing to stare at your body.

“What happened again?”

Andy takes a deep breath, trying to replay everything that happened that night. “Jax…it was like he was getting a high off her. And I could hear her pulse, and she was dying. You see her tattoos?” Jasper nods at Andy, still refusing to step any closer to your body. “Those by her neck, they’re faded. The further away from the neck you get, they start to get darker. What’s underneath the tattoo?”

“Burn marks,” Jasper whispers. He didn’t need to be right on your body to see that there were scars all over your skin.

“I knew Jax could literally taste the feelings that went into a tattoo, but this,” he pulls back your shirt, running his fingers over the marred skin. “Someone hurt her.”

“Or she was in a house fire,” Jasper shrugs. Andy was always a bit dramatic and went for a more elaborate story.

“No. They’re strategically over her body. Her clothes hide them. You should see what’s under the clothes. She tattooed over them so…hey,” he gives you a smile as your eyes pop open. “You are…”

“Get off me! Get the fuck off me! Oh my god,” taking heaving breaths you look between the two men that were crowding around you. Neither is the man that was doing something to your neck. And both had an otherworldly beauty to them.

There is a shorter one with a mossy green tint to his skin, and the taller one is one of the largest people you’ve ever seen. “I’m dead, aren’t I? He…h-h-he killed me, didn’t he? Oh my god, I’m dead. I lived through all that only to die in the woods fucking faeries.”

Andy and Jasper look at each other quickly, and then back to you. Humans heard the tales, but most were skeptical. They came out for solstice parties only as an excuse to live deliciously, while returning back to their boring lives. But with you…something was off.

“He murdered me, didn’t he? He…goddammit. I’m so stupid. I always do this shit. I trust too fucking early. But this…I didn’t trust him. I knew, but I still let him…can you tell me what he was doing? I felt something. What was that? Where am I? What is happening?”

“Andy, she’s human,” the little one says again, and your tears cloud whatever is happening between them. They are aliens, and they’ve done experiments on you.

“I fucking know she’s human. She wouldn’t have…oh,” he stops to turn and look at you, “We screwed up. Miss,” the tears come out more aggressively, and you don’t even know why. What you know is that man…that beautiful man — no!

“Jasper, I’m about to smack her across the fucking face, make it stop,” you are not the crying type. You are too strong for this. How long have you been here? “Human! Stop!”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” Andy rolls his eyes, before wrapping a hand on your ankle, and jerking you down the bed. Moving his entire body to hover over you, and it isn’t until you feel the wind that you notice his wings. The deepest green, and veining of gold. “Are you an angel?”

“I’m far from being innocent and kind. However, I did save your pathetic life for some reason, and…mother fucker,” he grabs at his chest, and jerks his head to look at the smaller one. “Deal with this before I do.”

Standing up, he stomps out of the room, and you jerk up in the bed. You could take the little one. “If you don’t let me go, I’ll run.”

“Run. We’ll just have the dogs bring you back. You won’t go far. You can’t,” looking down at your arms, you see that they were not bound to anything. Changing tactics to feel all over your body. They put a tracking device in you.

“You won’t be able to leave our realm without him,” he states matter of fact, and it makes you feel on edge. Him? That big man, him?

“What does that even mean? Where am I?”

“Here, drink some more tonic,” you slap the glass out of his hand, and he stares down at the shards on the stone floor. “You’ll regret that you did that. What do you remember?” You shrug, moving a hand to scratch at your neck, and start panicking again. “What?”

“The…my scars. They’re…they’re not really there. I mean they are, but they’re…”

“As faded as your tattoo,” you’ve seen it all. All these ugly scars that you had covered in ink couldn’t have faded. But your fingers knew the divots and bumps of your skin. This spot in particular, gave you an odd comfort.

“We’ve had our suspicions of Jax’s obsession with tattoos. Some people get them to tell a story. Some people get them to cover up pain. You in particular got them to cover up pain and scars. He was devouring you, and your…pain,” is that why you didn’t feel as hard? Why you had become soft and cry uncontrollably?

“In doing so maybe he was healing you.”

“Tell him to suck it all out then.”

“If he removed all your pain and scars would you be you?” You ponder the question for a second. You didn’t like the tears and the panic that ensued earlier. You hadn’t felt that hopeless in years. “I’m Jasper, King Andy’s advisor.”

“King?”

“Not just any king, but The King. The King over all the faeries,” you scoff at him. What a dream. That wine must have been good because you’re losing it. “You saw him hovering over you, and you doubt that fae exists? Hmm, you really are a stupid human. No wonder he’s pissed off.”

“He’s pissed off? Let me leave then!”

“You can’t! You better get used to the palace, because you’ll never cross the veil again. All those legends you stupid giggly sorority girls tell, they’re real. We had too many humans that partook in our wines, and we couldn’t get rid of them. Long story short, we created the legends. The fae gets their feel of human flesh, while you get to cross back over, and pretend this was all a dream,” you had cracked, and so had everyone else. This was all a dream. This was all in your mind, but touching your once there scar tells a different tell.

“I didn’t…” you hadn’t taken a drink of any wine, but your own.

“You were given a tonic. Sorry, my bad,” a glimmer of a smirk flashes on his face, and it pisses you off. He did it on purpose. He’s the reason you’re here. You pick up a vase from the table, and toss it at him. You suck at aiming. “Easy. Yes, I kept you here to become Andy’s pet.”

“Over my fucking body.”

“Oh, when I have it my way, he will be over your fucking body every fucking night. You’ll have pleasure one can only dream of, and I’ll have a king who isn’t sulking. I saw it. I knew the moment he was the one carrying a human body up to his palace. I saw it when he brushed his hands over your face. You two are the ones that can feel it, but you won’t speak of it, but I can see it. Don’t sit and try to deny the way he made you feel. And if grabbing his cold dark heart wasn’t enough, then I don’t know what is. He felt it deep in his blackened soul.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” not really. The man was attractive, you couldn’t help it if you grew a bit woozie looking up at him. But you weren’t fated for anybody. You just wanted to be left the fuck alone.

“Prophecy has stated that the king is fated to be part of a human. I suppose it could be interpreted many ways. It’s the reason Andy hates mortals so much. You’re fragile, weak, and disposable. But he hates the idea that he’s fated to be with one of you for all eternity.”

“I’m not weak,” your voice is laced with so much malic. You feel the pain of your skin searing again. Baring your teeth at this freak show that stood before you. “And I’ll never spend eternity with him.”

He leans into you. Getting his face so close to yours that his pointy nose nearly touches you. His vine tattoos starting to sprout thorns, “You don’t have a choice, my dear. Neither does he. Comply before he takes from you.”

“No man will ever take from me again,” you don’t scream. But your voice growls at him. Had Jasper been a mortal, he might have been afraid.

“Good thing Andy’s no man. Have fun,” he backs out of your room, locking the door behind him, and you wail. Screaming as loud as you can, realizing you are trapped in this room with no windows, only that door.

“Andy, that’s one that will need to be tamed,” Andy, leaning up against the wall outside your door, stands up straight, his eyes rolling up to look at your door. Hearing your screams of anger, and throwing everything in your room to the one exit and entrance. “You’re stuck with her.”

“I’ll have fun with her.”

“No,” he slaps Andy’s arm. “Do not go back to that side of you. She is yours. Have your fun, but not too much. She hurts, then you hurt. You lose her, then you lose yourself. Like it or not pal, that’s your problem now. That human being is nothing more than a petulant child. And Jax has her taste in his mouth. Claim her before either one of you kills her.”

“I haven’t killed humans in centuries. Such puny creatures.”

“She’s yours, Andrew.”

You were his. And if he had to be stuck with you, he was going to have fun with you first. Test your limits. It sounded like you needed some discipline. Needed learn how to act. He would have no problem with reminding you who was the one in charge. He wasn’t an angel, and he was worse than some devil. All the fae were. And soon, little Faelynn, you would know all too well about pain and scars.

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @sstan-hoe @missusbarnes-rogers @peaches1958 @seitmai @smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989 @theinheriteddutchess @donutloverxo @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @bambamwolf87 @harrysthiccthighss

#tastes like rain #fae #faerie #fae!andy barber #fae!andy barber x reader #andy barber x reader #andy barber x fem!reader #andy barber x y/n #andy barber x you #andy barber fanfiction #andy barber fanfic #andy barber fic #andy barber fics #andy barber smut #defending jacob #chris evans #chris evans character

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the-scarlet-witch-22 · 11 months ago

Text

The Lark Ascending (A Chaconne Story): Chapter 2 (Agatha Harkness x Reader)

Summary: Ahead of your first rehearsal with the Los Angeles Symphony, you become reacquainted with Maestra Agatha Harkness.

Word Count: 4.6K

A/N: Helllooo, welcome to chapter 2 of The Lark Ascending! This chapter features a very, very special piece that I strongly recommend giving a listen, I'll link an earlier post with the video. I'm going to try to do updates around every 2-3 weeks but it will sadly depend on my schedule. I'd also like to give a special shoutout to 🫂 anon, who told me of an idea they had of Agatha using her baton to secure her hair back. Thank you, thank you, thank you for the inspiration, I hope I did your idea justice. As always I hope you enjoy and feel free to let me know what you think :)

Danzón No. 2

Previous Chapter

The head of marketing for the orchestra, Pepper Potts, motioned to the promotional materials laid out in front of you. “So what do you think?”

Squinting, you tilted your head to look at it from a different angle, taking it all in. They were certainly…interesting. Your face had been blown up on all of them, some featured you holding or playing your violin.

“Um….” You trailed off, trying to keep your tone cheerful. “Well, they’re a little different from what I was expecting, but they look nice.”

The last time you spoke with Pepper, you had explained how you were more interested in focusing on the music than yourself, you had even brainstormed on a few different campaign ideas. At the time you thought it had been a productive conversation.

“I know they’re not what we originally discussed, but we’ve found that interest groups respond better to a face, or rather, the face of what we’re trying to promote,” Pepper explained, laying out a few different options in front of you. “As our newest artist in residence, you are the face, the center focus. We’ve been trying to appeal to a wider audience, as well as a younger audience. This is the perfect way to accomplish it.”

“What she means to say is, your original idea was boring. But she’s too professional to say that, isn’t that right, Pepper?” Tony chimed in from where he was sitting on the opposite side of the room, scrolling through his phone.

Pepper let out an exasperated sigh, shooting Tony a glare. “That is not right, Tony.” She gave you an apologetic smile, something she appeared to be used to doing. “Just ignore him. Everyone else does.”

Tony checked the time on his watch, before turning his attention back to you. “If we could wrap this up in a few, is there anything else we need to cover?”

Pepper glanced at her tablet, shaking her head. “We’ve gone over everything as far as marketing is concerned.”

“Fantastic,” Tony said, standing up, stretching his legs out. “Let’s get those materials finalized before next week’s Donor Gala.” As he began walking to his desk, he paused, snapping his fingers. “See if we can get Harkness to conduct something? Something more modern, maybe, but not funky Glass modern. The donors will love that. She’s so much more entertaining to watch than Strange.”

“Well that’s not too difficult to accomplish when the man conducts like he’s performing surgery,” Agatha drawled out, and you jumped at the sound of her voice.

The door to Tony’s office was now wide open as Agatha came strolling in, followed closely by Tony’s assistant.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark. I told her you were still in a meeting,” the woman profusely apologized, giving Agatha a terrified glance before adding, “but she wouldn’t listen.”

Tony waved off the apology, clearly unphased by Agatha’s behavior. “It’s fine, Sharon. Maestra! Please, come in. I hope you’ve found everything to your liking?”

“You know me, Tony, I’m not particularly picky,” Agatha replied, enunciating every last syllable as she gave you a simmering glance that resulted in you blushing and looking down at your feet. “But I must say, I’m rather enjoying my time so far.”

“Have you met our artist in residence?” Tony prompted, and you suddenly realized he had no idea of your history with the conductor. “Peps, why don’t we get a photo of the three of us for socials? Ask that one intern for a caption, she’s pretty clever. Kamala, I think?”

Pepper sighed in defeat, fishing around for her camera. “Don’t call it socials, Tony.”

Tony then turned his attention to you, as you finally broke the rather intense staring match with Agatha. “Y/N? Have you had the pleasure of meeting the Maestra?”

Oh have you ever, you thought to yourself. Agatha merely smirked, arching an eyebrow as you stammered for a moment. “I, um, you know it’s funny you mention that, actually. I used to work for her.”

Both Tony and Pepper appeared to be equally surprised with that revelation, and the CFO’s face lit up. “You’re kidding. What a small world!”

“Y/N was my assistant a few years ago, right before she moved to Vienna,” Agatha interjected, still gazing at you with a look you couldn’t decipher. “I’ve been…quite proud of her accomplishments since.”

She was proud of your accomplishments? You knew she apparently watched a video of one of your last performances; you were curious if she had seen anything else (while also wondering why she never bothered to reach out).

“Rather high praise coming from you, Maestra,” Tony said, folding his hands across his chest as he leaned against his desk.

“Well I wouldn’t have been able to have done any of it without Agatha,” you insisted, various memories of late night practice sessions with the conductor rushing back in nostalgic flashes. “She mentored me while I was still her assistant. She always believed in me, sometimes even more than I believed in myself.”

Tony nodded, and you watched him silently brainstorm as an idea hit him. “That’s it. The Maestra and her protegee. Who wouldn’t want to see a series of concerts with one of the most beloved conductors and her former mentee turned rising soloist? Pepper?”

Pepper was already typing on her tablet, nodding along to Tony’s words. “Already on it. I’ll book a shoot for promotional materials, and we’ll have the press release ready by the end of the week.”

Tony folded his hands together, grinning as he looked back and forth between you and Agatha. “Outstanding. What a lucky coincidence you happened to be in LA, Maestra.”

What a lucky coincidence indeed, you agreed, giving Agatha a curious look. The conductor shrugged her shoulders, her usual poker face hiding whatever emotion she was feeling. “What can I say, it must have been fate.”

Tony started rambling on to Pepper about various ideas for both the Donors Gala and marketing, all whilst you found yourself getting lost once more in the enigma that was Agatha Harkness.

Eventually, you found yourself back in the concert hall right before the start of that evening’s rehearsal. The meeting with Tony had been rather successful, even if your obligations now included doing a handful of press and events with Agatha. How the conductor felt on that subject matter was a mystery to you, as she remained uncharacteristically quiet the entire time, offering only the occasional sarcastic, witty comment whenever Tony suggested something particularly outlandish.

Now, as you walked with your violin case in hand, you once again thought about being reunited with Agatha after all this time, as it forced you to think about your feelings for the conductor. Even after all this time, it felt as though a large part of your heart was reserved solely for her, and you weren’t entirely sure what to do with that information. Agatha wasn’t exactly the most open individual, and last time you nearly had to wrestle her feelings out of her. Plus, who’s to say she even feels the same way- you knew a lot could change in five years.

As usual, you were getting ahead of yourself. Right now, you just need to focus on getting through your first rehearsal, and worry about your relationship with Agatha later.

You greeted a few musicians you passed, and you nearly froze as you saw someone very familiar waving at you. Standing in the front row with her violin case was your friend and formed stand partner, Monica Rambeau. You stayed in touch with the violinist after you moved to Vienna, but she never mentioned coming to LA. Running up to her, you set your violin down before embracing her in a hug, fully in disbelief she was here.

“Monica, what are you doing here?” You breathed out, grinning at your friend who smiled back at you.

“The MSO is off for the summer while they remodel the symphony building, so a few of us are filling in out here for the season,” Monica explained, and it was then that you noticed one of the MSO flutists, Dottie and the principal cellist, Hope, up on stage.

“Dottie certainly looks happy,” you noted, watching the flutist enthusiastically chat with a few members of the orchestra on the stage.

“I think she’s looking forward to having a break from Harkness,” Monica admitted, taking a quick glance around to make sure no one else was listening before adding, “not that Maestra was even around for the majority of the season to terrorize her.”

You felt a twinge of pity at the mention of that. Poor Dottie. Agatha did seem to get some sadistic form of pleasure from tormenting her. But it was the latter part of Monica’s sentence that caught your attention, and you gave her a curious glance. “What do you mean she wasn’t around for the majority of the season?”

Although you and Monica had stayed in touch over the past few years, you made a point to never ask about Agatha. While Monica never knew about your relationship with the conductor, she at least knew not to bring her up whenever you talked.

Monica shrugged, grabbing her sheet music from her bag. “She was traveling a lot this year, and missed a lot of rehearsals. You know how she gets. Anytime someone would ask where she was, she would change the subject and find someone new to pick on.”

It didn’t take much effort for you to picture that particular scenario. “That certainly sounds like Agatha.”

“A few people think she’s looking for a job with a different orchestra,” Monica quietly told you. “But between you and me, I think she’s seeing someone.”

You froze in place, choosing your next words carefully. “Seeing someone? Why would you think that?”

“She seemed different whenever she’d come back,” Monica explained as she gently grabbed her violin from its case. “Happier, or as happy as she can be, I guess.”

You fell silent at that, trying to keep your facial expression neutral. Was Agatha dating someone? Was it serious? Is that why she came to LA? The questions began to pile on in your brain, the biggest of all being why did you even care?

As if Monica sensed your discomfort, she changed the subject. “So, have you met Strange yet? I’ve heard he’s pretty straight-laced during rehearsals.”

Strange? Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion at the question, until you remembered you never told Monica the news of the change in music directors.

Clearing your throat, you nervously bit your lip. “Actually, Monica, I should have mentioned this earlier, but Stephen isn’t conducting-”

The all too familiar sound of clapping rang out from the entrance of the hall, cutting you off as everyone turned their attention to the noise, and you were unsurprised to hear frantic whispering at the sight of Tony Stark eagerly conversing with a brooding Agatha Harkness.

The conductor had changed from the outfit you last saw her in earlier that day, opting for a pair of black dress slacks and a violet button down. Her dark brown hair messily fell over her shoulders. In one hand she lightly grasped her baton, while a few music scores were held by the other.

“Orchestra!” Tony called out, motioning for everyone to gather around him as he walked to the center of the stage. “Unfortunately, Maestro Strange will be taking a personal leave of absence for the duration of our summer season. But I’m very pleased to announce our interim conductor will be none other than Agatha Harkness. She’ll be taking over for the time being, so any questions or concerns are to be directed to her.”

From where you were standing, you watched Dottie’s face turn a sickeningly pale shade of white as Tony went on about what a fantastic marketing opportunity this was for the orchestra.

“I’m going to turn it over to you now, Maestra. I think you’ll be pleased to see a few members from your orchestra are filling in for the summer,” Tony informed Agatha with a grin, giving her a final handshake before exiting through the side stage doors.

Agatha leisurely strolled to stand on the podium, her music dropping down with a loud thud as she twirled the baton between her fingers. “Good evening, orchestra. I understand all of you on the West Coast tend to enjoy your relaxed, Erewhon smoothie drinking, sandal wearing, kumbaya lifestyles, but I have a lot to get through tonight. So, I would like to formally invite those of you not on stage to please grace the rest of us with your presence.”

“Sorry, I should have told you sooner,” you whispered apologetically as Monica stared in disbelief at the sight of the conductor. “She ambushed me earlier when I was practicing.”

“It’s fine,” Monica insisted, carefully managing to hold her violin and bow with one hand, while grasping her music with the other. “I’ll see you after rehearsal, good luck!”

While the rest of the orchestra filed on stage, quickly taking their seats, Agatha's eyes scanned the rows of musicians until she stopped, fixating on the empty chair directly to her left. “I see we’re missing our concertmaster? What a pity.”

As you settled in a seat towards the front of the hall, you noticed Dottie squirming uncomfortably in her seat. Unfortunately, Agatha also took notice, and you watched her shark tooth grin widen. “Dottie, I must say I’m rather surprised to see you. I don’t know if I should be more flattered or alarmed, are you stalking me now?”

A strikingly tall woman with jet black hair suddenly appeared out of nowhere, taking a seat next to you, as she gently opened a violin case on her lap. “She’s certainly something, isn’t she?”

Cocking your head to the side, you frowned. “Who?”

The woman nodded to the stage, where Agatha was still berating an increasingly embarrassed Dottie. “Harkness, she’s a bit of a wild one. Quite different from our usual Maestro.”

You nodded, watching as the mysterious woman applied a generous amount of rosin to her bow, before carefully placing her now empty case under the seat. “She’s definitely one of a kind. I don’t think we’ve met before, I’m Y/N.”

“Oh, I know who you are,” the woman quipped, a knowing smirk on her lips as she stood up. “Our esteemed artist in residence. I caught your performance with the Boston Philharmonic last winter. Your interpretation of Mendelssohn was…surprisingly tasteful.”

You weren’t sure if she was insulting or praising you, but you chose to believe the latter, offering her a polite smile. “Thanks, and you are?”

“Hela Odinson,” the woman introduced herself as she towered over you, giving your shoulder a brief squeeze before she turned away, adding, “now if you’ll excuse me, I have an orchestra to tune.”

Sauntering on stage, Hela cordially nodded to a few of the violinists who said hello to her, making her way to her seat at the front of the section.

It appeared Agatha also noticed the late arrival, as had she paused her verbal rant, curiously eyeing the violinist. “Nice of you to join us, Odinson. I see time management still isn’t one of your strong suits.”

“Well we can’t all be deranged tyrants, Maestra,” Hela playfully fired back, settling in her seat as she placed her bow on the stand, using her free hand to adjust her shoulder rest. “Some of us don’t feel the need to adhere to strict schedules.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Dottie nearly fall out of her chair at Hela’s comment.

Rolling her eyes, Agatha’s grip on her baton tightened, eyes narrowing. “It’s always such a treat to speak with you, Hela.” Tapping her baton on the stand, she waited for the side chatter to stop. “Orchestra, your revered Mr. Stark has requested our presence at next week’s Donor Gala. So, we’ll be switching up our rehearsal schedule. We’re starting with Márquez.”

Dropping her baton on the stand, she stalked off the stage as the orchestra began to tune, the sound of winds, brass, and strings filling the hall, making her way to where you were sitting.

“I thought you said Stephen was sick,” you reminded the conductor as she approached you.

“A personal leave of absence is just that, dear, personal,” Agatha waved off your concern, “I promise it’s nothing for you to worry your pretty little head over.”

She looked at you and for just a moment it felt like nothing had changed, as if you were still her assistant and you hadn’t spent the past five years apart. You used to love sitting in on rehearsals, always eager for any excuse you could to watch Agatha conduct. Although you’d never willingly admit it, heaven knows her ego didn’t need it, you failed to find a conductor you enjoyed working with as much as Agatha. While most conductors shared the same stubborn, prideful qualities, there was no one quite like Maestra Agatha Harkness.

But, as quickly as the bittersweet feeling came over you, it was gone again, and you were left with the reminder of how much changed, how much you’ve changed. Leaving you to wonder if Agatha has changed much too?

Taking a step closer to you, the conductor pursed her lips, humming to get your attention. “Did you hear a single word I just said?” The guilty expression on your face gave you away, and Agatha sighed. “I hate to do this, but I need to cut Vaughn-Williams today. You know classically trained musicians have difficulty with more…wild rhythms. I’ll need the rehearsal time to run the Márquez to beat every single last syncopated rhythm into their thick skulls.”

“It’s fine,” you insisted, and you should use the extra time to rehearse other music for the Gala, but you felt something urging you to do something else entirely. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to stay and listen? It’s been a few years since I last played Danzón, I’d love to hear it.”

As if she was somehow expecting you to say that, she smirked. “It’s funny you mention that, because I’m short a violinist today. I know you’re a hot shot soloist now, and I’m sure this is beneath you, but why don’t you sit in with them.”

It wasn’t a question as much as a demand, but you didn’t mind. You never did when it was coming from Agatha.

“I wouldn’t say it’s beneath me, but of course, Maestra. I’d be honored,” you accepted, turning to grab your violin from its case, and your expression fell as you saw a distraught Dottie slouching in her seat. “Hey, maybe you could try to take it easy on Dottie? She really isn’t that bad, you know.”

The once familiar scent of the conductor’s perfume, subtle hints of violet, jasmine, and sandalwood, overtook your senses as she took yet another step closer to you. “I know my memory isn’t what it used to be, but I seem to recall you used to enjoy being beneath me, hm?”

Of course she brought up the memory comment you made earlier, knowing the conductor she would torture you with it for all of eternity. You felt your face grow hot as you blushed, before remembering where you were. “Agatha…”

“Besides, I thought you liked how mean I was,” the conductor murmured, in reference to your comment on Dottie, as she stood far too close to you for far too long. “This is my orchestra after all, at least for the next few months.”

Agatha gave you an absolutely filthy wink, heading back to the podium. Raising her baton, she tapped the stand to signal for the orchestra to pay attention. “We’ll be joined by our summer artist in residence, Y/N, for the rest of rehearsal.”

She paused as the orchestra broke out into a brief round of applause, and you dared to think she looked pleased at that reaction. After a few seconds she waved her hands to cut them off. “From the top, please.”

You were thrilled to find the open chair was next to Monica, and you grinned wildly. “It’s like I’m having deja vu.”

“I know, right. I’ve gotta say, Maestra seems happier than I’ve seen in a while,” Monica said coyly, giving you an inquisitive look.

“What?” You whispered, wondering what she was implying. Surely Agatha’s good mood had nothing to do with you, there were a few things that occasionally made her happy. She always appeared happier after picking on Dottie, for example, or when one of the interns got fired.

“Oh, nothing,” Monica innocently replied, getting the music ready.

Agatha raised her baton, and the room fell silent in anticipation of her downbeat. Then it began, as her hands masterfully began to conduct, cueing in the solo clarinet, piano, and then oboe with a swish of her baton. You loved almost every piece of music you ever performed, but your heart always held a special spot for Danzón No. 2. Filled with sultry and exquisite melodies, it had several different tempo changes that required you to keep your eyes locked on the conductor. In this case, you had no difficulty doing that, as Agatha Harkness was the most engaging conductor you had ever met.

You were always surprised at how well she was able to connect with any piece and make it her own, with every flourish of her baton and wave of her hands, it was as if she was the one composing the musical masterpiece herself. Danzón No. 2 was no exception, you realized, mesmerized at the sight of Agatha in her element after so long. There was a tempo change shortly after the start of the piece, and the conductor increased the speed of her baton, urging the orchestra to follow her with little difficulty. This was a particularly fun run to play as a violinist, and you allowed your muscle memory to guide you through the familiar rhythms and notes, as it had been a few years since you had last played it, bow moving in unison with the rest of the first violin section.

As much as you loved being a soloist, there were few things that could compare to the feeling of playing in the violin section. Mastering difficult passages while your fingers moved completely in sync, counting every rest until you were cued back in, it was a special, tingly, heartwarming feeling that you hadn’t realized you had missed until now.

One of your favorite sections of this piece was the violin solo, and you watched Agatha cue Hela in. The concertmaster was, unsurprisingly, extremely talented, as she used an impressive amount of vibrato on all of her notes, ringing out through the hall. It was a slow, seductive melody, and every shift of her fingers was exaggerated to draw out the intended luscious sound. As you counted the rests until the rest of the section came back in, you couldn’t help but notice the prolonged eye contact between the conductor and the concertmaster. You then thought back to their brief exchange at the start of rehearsal. Did they know each other? Is Hela the reason why Agatha seemed so happy?

The solo came to an end as Hela played her final note, and as Agatha cued the rest of the section back in, she did something you had never seen before. Using the hand not holding her baton, she pulled her hair back, twisting it into a bun before securing it with her baton. Both hands now free, the conductor took more freedom with the slower tempo, leading the orchestra through the gorgeous melody. As the strings took over, Agatha exaggerated her conducting pattern to encourage the orchestra to grow in sound. Closing her eyes to truly feel the beat, you couldn’t bring yourself to look away, completely content with watching her in all her beauty.

Her eyes opened, suddenly, and they landed on you, her lips twisted upwards to form a rare, but genuine, smile. You couldn’t help but smile back, you had missed this; had missed her. You never stopped missing her. The moment was broken all too soon, as the next tempo change was approaching, and the strings went back to the background syncopated rhythm, Agatha beat out the faster tempo with her hands, baton remaining in her hair. It continued on, with the brass leading the rest of the ensemble to the home stretch, as the violinists did another run up the fingerboard.

Embracing her dramatic flair, the conductor whipped the baton back out, her hair flying every which way as she furiously laid out the last tempo change, and the orchestra followed suit. A final piccolo and piano duet played out as the brass accompanied, and you were pleased that Agatha wasn’t glaring at Dotite at all. The rest of the piece was a colorful, loud blend of syncopated rhythms and passages filled with scales that were embellished, pushing the orchestra forward with every measure, unrelenting until they reached the ending. Agatha conducted the last beat with a final twirl of her hands, effectively cutting the orchestra off.

“That wasn’t half bad,” Agatha offered, flipping back through her score and making half scribbled notes with her pencil. “If we could go back to the beginning, I need to hear more of the oboe when they come in, so strings make sure you stay below that.” She turned another page back, making a huge circle, “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, and Dottie I need you not to fall over, but that wasn’t terrible. I need more piccolo, so play out more…please.”

From where you were sitting, you noticed the MSO cellist, Hope, raise her eyebrows almost comically high from shock, and Monica stifled a gasp. Craning your neck, you watched Dottie nearly fall out of her chair once more, and you were happy for her. You knew Agatha meant well, in most cases, but sometimes she could take things a bit too far.

In the back of your mind you were still wondering if she had something to do with Stephen’s sudden personal leave of absence, but when you looked back to the podium, those thoughts were swept aside as the woman who occupied nearly all your thoughts was looking at you expectantly, her baton lowered. She didn’t give Dottie a half-compliment because of you, did she?

Her hair was still flying all over, as it was even more uncontrollable than normal, and you could make out the beads of sweat on her forehead from the effort of conducting such a fast-paced, intense piece. A rather intrusive thought popped in your head as you stared, reminding you the last time you had seen the conductor that out of breath and glistening with sweat was when you were naked in her bed with her fingers curling inside you as she counted how many times she could make you come.

No, you could not reminisce on those particular memories now, you thought as you tried to keep the blush from spreading on your cheeks.

It hit you full force, for what felt like the millionth time, how much you had missed Agatha Harkness. But here she was, in all her glory, looking at you for some sort of response and all you could do was stare dumbly at her, trying to wordlessly convey every thought, every feeling you had bottled up for the past five years.

“Thank you,” you mouthed to Agatha, grateful if she had indeed listened to you.

Finally raising her baton, Agatha gave you a wink, another one of those special, rare smiles on her face. “Let’s take it from the top!”

#agatha harkness #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness fanfiction #wandavision au #agatha all along #marvel au

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