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infamous-if · 1 year

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would u be willing to post seven's internal monologue?? pretty please just for us??? 😳

So sorry I don't mean to write all my characters with such sad internal monologues that's just what I tend to gravitate to 😢 hope it's not a problem

I shouldn’t be here.

That thought follows them outside the car. It follows them down the street. To the Heavenly Isle lot. To the entrance. To the dancing crowd.

Their logic is practically yelling at them to turn around by the time they’re becoming one with the audience, shouldering dancing bodies as they maneuver through the human current, keeping one eye on the stage. The singer of the band on stage belts out lyrics to their song, baring their soul as they relay a love letter to an unrequited love, Annabelle. The subject of the track.

Seven clears their throat, oddly uncomfortable, before finding a relatively empty spot in the crowd.

Seven’s bandmates join them a moment later, crowding around the circular standing table by the edge of the crowd. Seven senses a few eyes on them. They brace themself for someone to ask for an autograph, even a picture, but loosen up when no one does. Good. Let them be a ghost. Let their image disappear. Let them cease to exist. Just for this one night.

They just need this one night.

“Why are we here?” Pope whines, going as far as stomping his feet. “We ditched a rager to watch BOTB auditions? We already won.”

Seven stares ahead, expression unchanging as the singer dives into a bridge full of confession and regret. It was just last week they were up on that very stage, auditioning for the chance of a lifetime, singing lyrics just as raw. Just as vulnerable.

Oddly enough, Seven wasn’t even half as nervous then as they are tonight.

“It’s good to get to know our competition,” Seven replies, surprising themself with how casual they sound. It’s funny, really. There’s nothing casual about their appearance tonight.

They feel eyes on them and they meet Avina’s gaze, who shoots a pointed look at the table. Seven looks down, finding that their hand is tapping relentlessly against it. They turn it into a fist, shoving it in the pocket of their plaid shirt, hating how observant their friend is.

“Our competition?” Keiran asks, doing a perusal himself. “When did you become so”—they make a vague gesture with their hands—“involved?”

Seven clenches their jaw. “Is it a crime to want to win? If you want to slack off this competition, be my guest, but you’re not doing it in this fucking band.”

Kieran’s brows lift.

Seven shuts their eyes. “Sorry, that—“ They huff. “I didn’t mean that.”

Pope shoots Seven an odd look. “Why are you—“ Even beneath the dimly lit mezzanine that shakes with the weight of the dancers, Seven can see the dawn of their realization clearly. “Oh. Oh. I get it now.”

“Get what?” Kieran prompts, whipping his head back and forth in search of an answer. “Get what? What?”

“Seven didn’t come here to scope out the competition.” A teasing smile grows on his face. “Well, they did. One competitor in particular.”

Seven shuts their eyes as Kieran lets out a child-like ‘ohhhhh.’

“Pope,” Avina sighs out, staring at Seven with a trace of worry on their face. Which makes it worse. “Stop it.”

Pope raises his hands in surrender. Kieran has enough decency to pat Seven supportively on the back.

“The pain we reap. The lives we seek. Would you bury me with the rest of your past misdeeds?”

Seven looks around, soaking in the dancing crowd. Are they listening? Truly listening? Do they resonate with the pain of the singer?

Do they care?

That’s one of Seven’s biggest problems as an artist; having to deal with the fact that sometimes a song is just a song. That for Seven, it could be their whole heart on a track. And for others it could just be another three minutes to escape.

Seven briefly wonders if they watched their performance. Would they have listened to the lyrics Seven wove in the quietest hours of the night, catered specifically for them? Would they have understood?

Seven clears their throat, shaking away the thoughts just as Donny, the host, comes up on stage. The next few minutes melt together in a blur of cheering and conversations Seven hardly hears.

Because they’re there. Right there. And Seven has lost all grip on reality. Any sense of self. For a moment, it almost feels like a dream.

If only they cared a little less.

They feel an arm on them and look up to see Avina smiling. “Howdy, partner.”

Seven faces ahead, watching as (MC) and the band takes their places on stage. Their eyes track MC’s every move, as though MC is in danger of disappearing. Isn’t that what they did the first time? “Hi,” they say finally.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Avina says. The lights dim, signaling the start of the song. “You can just leave.”

“I know,” Seven clears their throat, “but I can’t.”

Avina says nothing to that, instead choosing to face ahead. Pope and Kieran come closer, whispering to each other as the first notes of the song start.

MC’s voice is just as Seven remembered. Smooth. Hypnotizing. They hate that it still gives them chills. Hate that MC still has that kind of power over them and their body.

As the crowd becomes increasingly excited, Seven’s will to stay weakens. The lyrics are too close. Too real and watching MC up there cuts a bit too deep. Seven wants to care a little less? No—they don’t want to care at all. They wish they could wash MC off them like filth. Strip memories of their scent, forget the way they laugh, strike out every memory with a marker like some failed lyric in one of their notebooks. Just erase it all until there’s nothing left.

And it’s in that moment, while Seven is thinking up every twisted metaphor, that MC notices them.

A stifled sound they didn’t know they could make crosses their throat. MC eyes pierce through them as if Seven were made of glass. That’s surely how they feel right now—delicate and liable to break.

MC’s voice pitches upon the realization and they look around, as if to check if anyone noticed. No one does. But Seven did. Seven always does.

It’s then that Seven answers their own question. If you heard my song, would you understand? They know MC would, because this is not just music to them. Their songs used to be another language. It was the way they laughed, the way they knew what the other was thinking with one kiss. The way they touched and danced and did nothing at all under the pulsing lights of the stars on their mom’s roof.

And it’s all gone.

“This was a mistake,” Seven whispers to Kieran, hating how choked their voice sounds. Despite their earlier humor, Kieran remains grave when they nod.

Seven doesn’t have to say anything else. Their friends know instantly. Just like what Seven had with MC, they have their own language. This is how it is—you move on by finding something else. By burying the past with the Seven they killed the night they decided to leave.

Seven gives themself ten seconds. Ten seconds to allow themselves to feel. Then, once the ten seconds are up, they imagine themself scribbling this moment out like a song in a journal, doing so dark enough that even the most painful moments can’t been seen under the messy wall of black.

They turn around and walk through the crowd. They don’t look back.

#Just like Rowan's this is quite long #once again pls excuse typos or any awkward sentences #i only do one draft of drabbles #seven lawless #drabble #POV drabble #seven's pov #i should be correcting errors #haha

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feiandart · 7 months

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"Aziraphale." "Yes?" "This is a photo album." The Lord swallows, nodding slowly as he lowers his gaze. The redness of his face has spread to his ears, while his head is nestled firmly between his shoulders. Anthony looks at the small binder he holds on his thighs: it will hold no more than fifty photographs, one per page, front and back, standard size. The cover is hard, in a red similar to the artist's hair, and has a shiny golden rectangle in the centre of which is engraved an inscription that he does not read at first. "I thought... I thought we could fill it together,'' Aziraphale suggests with an edge to his voice. ''There's already a photograph of us inside, actually. Maggie took it in February, when we weren't looking. When she showed it to me, it was inevitable that we decided to print it." Anthony lifts the cover slowly. The photograph portrays the two of them, as foretold, during one of their afternoon readings: the artist lying on the sofa with his head on the Lord's legs, while Aziraphale is busy stroking his hair as he has done dozens of times; an extremely familiar scene, even though they are used to living it and not seeing it from the outside. The perspective is taken from the top of one of the mezzanines. The atmosphere is tinged with the orange tones of sunset. It was evidently taken from a mobile phone, and as high definition as it is considering the device that was used, there are some small imperfections that make it obvious: such as their faces not being properly focused and the resolution ruined by zooming in to capture the scene better. Despite this, however, it is a wonderful photo. Anthony caresses it with his fingertips through the transparent film. He lets out a long sigh, stretching his lips into a smile. "It is a splendid gift, Aziraphale." He turns a grateful expression to the Lord, and the latter lights up, joyful. The artist affectionately takes his hand. "Thank you," he says, as he closes the cover and lowers his gaze to the golden plate. He thanked too early, however, because he only notices it now. One year of memories, it says on the cover. One year.

#good omens #good omens art #ineffable husbands #good omens au #gomens #crowley #good omens crowley #anthony j crowley #long hair crowley #good omens fanart #aziracrow #aziraphale #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #good omens fic #good omens human au #sugar

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superficialdomina · 1 year

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Missed connection Part 3

Summary: A drink, some smut, and a goodbye.

Part 1

Part 2

Warnings: RPF. 18+; smut. PIV, unprotected. Ethical-ish non-monogamy/infidelity. Mentions of alcohol. Language.

AN: Thank you all for waiting. It's so good to be writing again! This is the genuine final chapter. Promise.

As for part 2, this story is happening in a fictional AU where Tom is single, available and a little bit lonely - not his actual, and obviously joyful and satisfying, real life.

Word count: 5.1k (sorry...)

“Whoa.” The word fell from your mouth with a slow exhale, as you took in the beautiful, ancient building in front of you. The Palazzo Intimo. The Intimate Palace.

You glanced nervously down at the elegant, spidery writing on your own business card; needlessly, since you’d memorised the words casually scrawled there. Palazzo Intimo. 10pm.

*****

“I hope we’re not done,” you had murmured, fingertips seeking to pull him close. But even as he had leant in to kiss you softly, you’d felt his body pull away. Confused, you’d lifted your eyes to his face, where sweet concern was etched across a sad smile. …Wh…What?

He had bitten his lower lip, which still glistened with your body’s wetness. “I… I can’t stay, I’m afraid.” You had felt the glow of orgasm begin to fade like the heat of his body where he had moved away. “I’m sorry.”

Wait, what?

“I am… supposed to be somewhere,” he’d continued over your silent perplexion. “I’m already quite late -” so what’s another twenty minutes!? “- And I’d hate to - to rush away... Afterwards.”

Oh.

He had stood then, and, a sense of humiliation rising, you’d tried to straighten your tousled clothing to cover your naked lower half. But he’d laughed affectionately, drawn the loose edge of the bedcovers over you, and picked up the pen on your nightstand. A pile of your business cards, carelessly strewn after the final conference session, lay scattered there; he took one, and wrote in the small space above your name.

“Are you free tomorrow night?” He’d asked as he scribbled.

“I-" Tomorrow? "Yes,” you’d managed, breath coming a little fast, still not sure what was happening.

“Meet me,” he’d said, pinning the card back on the nightstand under your pen. His gaze held yours. “Please.”

You wanted to protest; this line was too fine for your clumsy feet. But he had smiled down at you - dazzlingly, beautifully, reassuringly. And so you’d nodded, and he’d kissed you again, and delicately brushed your face with his long, fine fingers. “Tomorrow, then,” he’d murmured.

You had watched him gracefully descend the mezzanine stairs to your kitchen. Watched him retrieve his discarded shirt from your floor, and his still-damp hoodie from the back of your chair. Turning the door handle, he'd looked back up to you, lying still on your barely-mussed sheets, and given you the tiniest wink. Then he was gone, and you were alone in the echoing silence, your skin still tingling from his touch.

He hadn't even taken his shoes off.

*****

Of course, you’d Googled the Palazzo Intimo immediately. "Padua's most romantic hotel". “Dignified, spacious and charming.” “Allegorical frescoes worthy of the Sistine chapel.” A grand, elegant building worthy of a grand, elegant man. A long way, metaphorically, from a tiny apartment above a bustling café.

And yet not, apparently, a long way in reality. The walk across the Old Town had been surprisingly short; you were a few minutes early. Which was fortunate, as your feet seemed to need a moment before they could carry you through the ornate front doors.

Now what? You berated yourself sternly. What’s the rest of your plan? Just walk up to the front desk and ask for him?

The night city was abuzz with energy and noise. Bright street lights illuminated the aged cobblestones, where throngs of pedestrians and bicycles maneuvered by one another in polite mayhem. Music spilling from several open-air restaurants mingled with chatter in a tuneless, though not-unpleasant, mess. The confusion made it hard to think.

It was one thing to invite him to your apartment on a whim, or to silently accept the pleasure he offered in the surreal heat of the moment. But this - arranging to meet him at his hotel room, knowing fully what you intended to do there. This was… deliberate.

Why was it bothering you so much? I am not breaking the rules! you repeated to yourself for the hundredth time.

But you remembered his vulnerability as he’d read you an obscure Ursula Le Guinn passage in a still, quiet train carriage; remembered the longing you’d felt after he’d left your apartment, which was heavier than just residual arousal. You caught sight of your reflection in one of the Palazzo’s large, dark windows, remembering how long you'd spent getting ready to come here. Am I?

The ancient bells of San Antonio’s church began to peel across the city. 10pm. Now or never. You stepped across the precipice into the dark and quiet of the Palazzo.

As you did so, you realised that you still didn’t have an answer to your earlier quandary. What DO I do next? He hadn’t given you a room number, and even if he had, you doubted you could simply walk up to his door. Surely you couldn't just ask at reception? They would laugh you out of the building.

Or maybe they wouldn't, a venomous voice whispered in your mind. Maybe he'd had "visitors" every night he'd been here.

Once again, you spotted him before he saw you, although this time you wondered if he had orchestrated it thus. His long, lean frame leant casually against the far wall, hands in pockets, face shadowed in the romantically low light. You stared at him, warmth humming between your thighs, lips parted shamelessly.

He was - there was no other way to describe it - dressed up. His well-tailored suit pants fit tight to his sculpted lower body. One foot, clad in a dark leather dress shoe, rested lightly against the wall; even at this distance, the solid outline of the quadriceps of his supporting leg was clearly visible through the fabric. His crisp, white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, exposing the deep dip of his jugular notch, with sleeves oh-so-casually rolled up to his elbows revealing long, sinewy forearms. Perfectly tousled curls tumbled gracefully across his forehead, and - oh Gods, it was kryptonite - grey reading glasses elegantly rested on his long, straight nose, as he gazed at the floor, lost in thought.

He was utterly, unbearably, beautiful.

Your heart raced as feelings of insecurity blossomed within you. The Palazzo seemed anything but intimate; the high ceiling and dark lighting felt like a cave, and you were small and insignificant in its ancient grandeur. You felt decidedly underdressed in your simple cotton dress and flat sandals. His shoes probably cost more than my entire outfit, that toxic voice whispered again. He hasn't seen me yet. I could still leave...

Maybe he heard your thudding heartbeat, or the snaking voice in your mind. Maybe he had simply heard the peeling of the bells across the city - whatever the cause, he raised his eyes, catching you on the verge of fleeing. He straightened, removing his hands from his pockets, and gracefully strode towards you.

"Hello," he smiled softly as he reached you. "I'm so glad you've come."

His affect was as different to the last time you had seen him as his outfit; decorous, controlled, composed, like a persona he'd put on as he'd buttoned his shirt. You searched his face for a hint of the wildly amorous man who had placed his hands on your hips in your small kitchen. He placed a gentlemanly hand on your upper arm, and leaned in to chastely kiss your cheek. As though his fingers had never been inside me, you thought.

You swallowed, searching for your voice. "Hi, Tom," you stammered, feeling your skin rise in goosebumps at his touch. His smile was easy, but genuine; the peek of his teeth below his top lip made your fizzing nerves begin to fade, replaced by a different low-belly effervescence. He reflexively pushed his glasses up his nose, and your breath caught.

Deliberate.

"Will you join me for a drink?" His hand still on your arm, he indicated a low archway to your left, beyond which you saw a carpeted staircase. You hesitated, confused. A drink? Aren't we here to... to...

"I - sure," you faltered again. He stepped back, his beautiful forearm gesturing you ahead, and you climbed the narrow stairs to a classic Paduan balcony overlooking the thronging street. A small table and chairs sat nestled between flower boxes and wooden shutters. The sounds of music and chatter rose to reach you, but you noted that you were out of the eyeline of anyone in the street itself. Unexpectedly secluded, you thought, with a touch of sarcasm. How romantic.

Angst found you again. This was not what you had anticipated. A quiet knock on a hotel door, whisked into his room before you could be seen; a quick fuck in expensive bed sheets and a hasty, anonymous exit. That was what this was meant to be - wasn't it? You weren't sure exactly what you had expected, you admitted to yourself, but it wasn't this. It wasn't a date.

Eying the flimsy balustrade, you considered how far it was to the cobblestones below, still wondering maniacally if you should attempt an escape.

"Il tuo solito, signore?" A stranger's voice in the open doorway you made you jump. It was a young man dressed all in black, not a hair out of place. Tom was clearly expecting him.

"Si, per favore, Marco," he said, familiarly. The young man turned to you expectantly.

"Ah - aperol spritz, per favore," you added, guessing at his unspoken question and grateful to the staff at your café for their daily language lessons. The waiter nodded politely, and vanished down the dark staircase, leaving the two of you alone. Tom gestured to the chair closest to you, and you nervously perched on the edge of it.

In contrast to your fluttering fears, Tom seemed to radiate confidence. He sat back deep in the wrought iron chair, almost slouching, elbows resting comfortably on its arms, his thighs splayed wide. His face displayed a knowing smile that was just-too-polite to be a smirk, eyes glinting. Player, you thought derisively; 'a perpetual escapee from emotional entanglement', you had once heard him describe himself. And yet, his comfort made you comfortable; in his easy presence, you felt your self relaxing. Maybe he was a player - but tonight he was playing you, and that was oddly exciting.

He was watching you with that familiar, intense gaze. "You look beautiful," he murmured, and you were surprised at how well his voice carried over the noise below; the balcony felt all the more intimate. You felt your cheeks heat, but you held his gaze. Don't look away, you thought. You were not normally coquettish with lovers, and you were determined to be authentic now.

"Thank you," you replied, and your voice was stronger than you expected. "You - you do, too." Ugh. Awkward. You swallowed, willing casual conversation to come to you but finding yourself without the words. Authenticity or not, you still seemed to have nothing to say to him.

Of course, in his easy, cleverly comfortable way, he came to your rescue again.

“Did you finish your book?” he asked you, his hand resting lightly on his chin. You pictured your Bernard Cornwell novel resting on your nightstand, bookmark triumphantly discarded beside it. Had he noticed it there, as he scribbled his invitation on your card?

“I did,” you smiled, not unmoved that he had remembered.

“And? Did you enjoy it any more by the end?”

“I…” You paused, reflecting before you answered. “I did, I think. Some of my favourite characters from earlier in the series returned, and… I guess their motivations became more… real. It was a good ending. I’m glad I stuck it out.”

As you spoke, he absently traced his fingers over his lips, then trailed them down his throat and over his collarbone. You watched, a little transfixed. He was so tactile. You wondered which part of him was enjoying the sensation more - the skin of his face and neck, or the pads of his fingers?

"What will you read next, now that you've finished it?"

"I don't know," you answered truthfully, surprised. "I didn't bring anything else with me. I guess I'll have to pick up something rubbish at the airport for the flight home."

He gave a look of distaste, but was interrupted before he could speak again. The young man - Marco - reappeared, placing a wine glass of blood-orange aperol in front of you, and a squat-sided tumbler before Tom. His glass contained three or four fingers of liquid; from the pale amber colour, you suspected whiskey and water.

"Grazie," you both said in unison; you butchered the pronunciation, while Tom rolled his "r" delightfully, prompting a vivid, unanticipated memory of your body thrashing wildly under his tongue. You felt your cheeks warm again, and the pleasant hum that had lain purring quietly between your legs rose to a gentle roar.

"I have been thinking about your question," Tom began tentatively as the young waiter left, sipping his drink and placing it back on the table.

You were puzzled. Did I ask a question?

"Maybe it wasn't a question," he continued, as though he had heard your thoughts. "But you made me wonder about my - my favourite words. Ever written." He seductively bit his lower lip. Whore, you thought lustily, arousal thudding through your most sensitive places.

But again, you found yourself surprised and touched that he had remembered your conversation.

"It was something you said," he rushed on, looking down at his hands, "about... About accepting our imperfections, that made me... It reminded me of something I read a long time ago that still resonated with me." His rambling was charming, delightful. Designed, no doubt, to enrapture you, and succeeding. He looked up at you, as though waiting for confirmation.

"Spit it out!" You laughed. "I'm on the edge of my seat."

He grinned, took another drink, and leaned back, gazing up at the night sky, and quoted.

"All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life, is made up of light and shadow."

You were thrown; the words were unfamiliar to you. He was looking at you again, willing you to respond, until your hesitation expanded uncomfortably between you.

"Tolstoy," he added, in explanation.

You shook your head, laughing at his surprised look. "Sorry," you added.

He stared at you, bemused. "You can quote The Dispossessed, but you've not read Anna Karenina?" You shook your head again. His disappointment was palpable.

"So tell me," you urged him, still chuckling. "What does it mean? Light and darkness... Like yin and yang? Two sides to every coin, all things opposite but... but complimentary?"

He smiled devilishly, disappointment fading, and you felt that you had fallen into some trap he had set - or at least, predicted. It was exhilarating.

"Not light and darkness," he corrected, leaning forward again with palms pressed eagerly into the table, eyes bright. "Light and shadow."

"I don't-"

"It is not simply that all things have equal and opposite parts." In his excitement to explain, he interrupted you. You didn't mind - there was such a thrill in watching him lose control. "It is that all things have shadow - all things create shadow." He watched you carefully for a reaction as you tried to understand his meaning. "The sun shines on me, and I cast a shadow - and that shadow is a result of my existence. Is proof of my existence."

There was so much passion in his voice as it rose and fell that he was almost singing as he spoke. Dramatist. But you thought you understood. "I think I see. Our darknesses - shadows - are not just an integral part of us, but exemplify our... our..." You hesitated, and he waited for you to finish your thought, eyes alight. "Our humanity."

"Yes!" he said eagerly. "Sorrow, shame, ego - these are the shadows that make us human. They are evidence of our light."

He sat back, smiling to himself, and picked up his glass again, following the slosh of the amber liquid as he swirled it vaguely. It was hypnotic, watching him, momentarily lost in thought. What are your shadows, Tom? you wondered into the silence between you. All dirt and rocks...

"Ah - a beautiful choice," you muttered awkwardly, realising you were staring. Then you laughed again as an idea came to you. "I really thought you were going to quote something from Shakespeare."

"Why?" he half-laughed, playfully. Then he paused, and you watched a mood transition across his face; playful turned to puzzled, then solemn. You felt the energy between you shift rapidly, but were unsure as to its direction. When he spoke, he did so quietly. "Why would you think that?"

Something in his tone gave you warning. Did I say something wrong? "I..." You swallowed, completely lost. "I... I'd just heard - heard you..." Your words froze in your throat as you realised that this was the first time since you'd met in the train carriage that either of you had alluded to... to his fame.

"I'm sorry," you offered. "I don't understand what... what I've said."

He met your eyes again, replacing his glass on the table with a shaky clink.

"No - no, it's me who should be sorry." He forced a small laugh. "I just... I forgot, briefly, who I was."

At last, understanding washed over you. All his veiled hints of sadness and regret. Of longing for something that had long ago been lost.

"It's a strange thing - fame," he continued hollowly, looking down at his hands. You had the sense that you were hearing words long thought, but spoken aloud for the first time. "There's a guilty pleasure in it, in being known. Being... adored. It's - it's addictive." You held your breath, fearful of interrupting his stream of thought. "But it's - hard, too. Keeping your head down. Remaining aloof. Pretending not to hear your name called in the street. It's almost like the more people say your name, the less you're... you're... there. The less I'm there."

He raised his face to you again. His smile was so deeply sorrowful that your heart broke for him. "For a moment, I felt... here."

You wanted to speak - to reassure him, to comfort him - but your voice remained firmly locked in your chest. What could you possibly say? You are here. I see you.

"The pathetic thing is," he said softly, his pretty, pale eyes full of self-mockery, "if I had the chance to walk away tomorrow - to disappear into obscurity - I'm not even sure I would take it."

His manner was so sincere and undefended, you felt an inordinate urge to... protect him. The hissing inner voice sent you an admonition: these waters are dangerously deep. You're getting swept away in the tide.

But he seemed to have reached a catharsis; having said the words, he seemed... lighter. Finally, you found what you wanted to say.

"Is that pathetic?" you asked. "It sounds... Well, human, to me. To regret something, resent it even, but still be unwilling to let it go. Needs are complicated things." His features began to relax; you pressed the small advantage. "It's not all bad," you added, gently flirtatious. "For the next twenty years, you get to be a generation's answer to the question, 'Who was your first celebrity crush?'."

He chuckled, blushing; stepping back from an invisible brink. Joining in your game, he raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Keanu - in The Matrix," you grinned. He pursed his lips, pretending to appraise your answer. "Go on then," you prompted.

"Christina Ricci," he laughed, then paused thoughtfully. "Or maybe Anna Kournikova".

That tracks, you thought, affectionately imagining him as an excitable teenager, roaming the outside courts at Wimbledon. How endearing.

As rapidly as it had descended, his mood lifted again. And something else had returned - something that had been absent since he'd kissed your cheek under the somber call of the San Antonio bells.

Swagger.

He downed the last of his whiskey, replacing the glass on the table - confidently, this time - then tucked his chin, so that he looked at you provocatively through the small gap between the rim of his glasses and his striking brow. His blue gaze was electric.

"Come with me," he said, rising from the table.

He led this time, not waiting to see if you would follow as he strode quickly back down the narrow staircase and across the cavernous Palazzo entrance room. Somewhere in the journey he had reached back and taken your hand, and you let him pull you along through the ancient corridors. If you had briefly forgotten the arousal coursing through you with his show of vulnerability, it screamed for attention again now; reignited by his pace and determination as his long legs left you to an ornately carved wooden door.

You saw a flash of the ceiling fresco in the semi-dark as he pulled you inside - renaissance depictions of full-figured, bare-breasted women - before his mouth was on yours, pressing you into the cool limestone wall.

He was wild and tumultuous, kissing you with a storm's urgency, the scent of him filling every heavy breath you sucked in. But he was tender, too - his long fingers tracing the skin of your arms were firm, but gentle. It was not the kiss of a stranger; not the hot-but-detached fucking you had anticipated before your arrival. It was - the word felt traitorous in your mind - affectionate.

His lips left yours and moved to your jawline, then your neck, his hands working over the rough cotton of your dress, his desperation fading into decisiveness. Your own hands were forfeit, gripping his strong, muscular hips, while the caged creature in your belly writhed, urging him onwards. Fuck, you thought, I'm going to come just from his touch.

Hands found the hem of the dress, pulling it up and over your curves, eventually tugging it from you altogether so that you stood, exposed, in nothing but simple lingerie. He stood back, and your heart began to thud hard as he appraised you hungrily.

"Am I... Is this...?" The anxious thoughts could not form a complete question before he interrupted you.

"You are exquisite," he breathed, eyes full of lust, devouring you.

When he touched you again it was slower, deliberate; the howling whirlwind of your initial kisses had passed, though what remained was no less powerful. He guided you through the open-plan apartment like it was a dance; you felt drunk on the thrill of him, and could only trust where he was taking you.

Eventually you tumbled backwards onto his bed, and he stepped back again - but this time it felt almost exhibitionistic on his part, as though he were giving you the opportunity to appraise him. You lifted your torso, resting on your elbows, staring. He kept his eyes on yours as he began to remove his once-crisp, white, shirt, now untucked and disheveled, then undid the buckle of the leather belt at his waist. Elegantly stepping out of his pants, he gave you a small, self-conscious grin.

"May I?" he asked politely.

You gave him what you hoped was a look of playful exasperation, but you were thrumming with exhilaration as he brought his perfect, naked body close to you; ran his soft hands over your curves; looped his fingers in the trim of your panties, slipping them from your skin. You pulled him close, letting your own fingertips trace the ropes of long, lean muscle of his torso as your lips met again.

He let his hands drift to your sex, where arousal had been pooling for hours; he stroked you, hot and wet, easing you apart, his clever fingers deftly playing the strings of your body. You gasped openly as pleasure and desire raged within you, loving his teasing, desperate for more. He gave it, generously, circling and massaging and dipping and stroking, and the precipice of orgasm loomed ahead of you, waiting for you to crash through. Not yet, you begged your body.

Your hands stroked his neck, his collarbone, mimicking the way he had run his fingers over his own skin earlier. Impatiently, you sought and found his hard cock, curving gloriously up towards you; you wrapped your hand around him, and he moaned wantonly into your mouth at your touch. Your breath caught as you noted his girth; your fingers did not meet around him. You moved, palm sliding along his satin-smooth length, as he involuntarily thrust against you; as desperate for release as I am, you thought.

With an abrupt growl, he rolled atop you, pinning you under his broad chest, intertwining his long legs with yours and using the torque to widen your hips. His face was so close that you could see the flecks in his irises; feel the moist breath from his parted lips. His hard length pressed into the crease of your thigh

"Is this alright?" he murmured, intently watching your face for approval. At your nod, he growled again, more ragged this time, and used his hands to guide himself to you. You felt his wide tip nudge at your entrance; you fought the urge to close your eyes as he slid inside you, sank into you, until he bottomed out deep in your channel. Every throbbing inch of him was bliss.

You could sense his urgency returning, and you hungrily pressed your mouth to his as he began to rock inside you. You groaned into his mouth, wordlessly begging him to fuck you harder, faster. He read your body like poetry.

"Please don't stop," you moaned sluttishly, not caring about propriety, lost now to anything but the pleasure of him.

"T--aagh, touch yourself," he grunted, and you let your fingertips toy through your slick folds to massage your clit. You were both losing control now, your bodies a mass of messy thrusts and heady groans as you fell towards release together. He threw his head back, eyes closed; but you pulled him back to you.

"Look at me," you half-begged, half-demanded. His eyes met yours, and he gave a sharp intake of breath.

With a guttural moan and a rush of pleasure, you came. You felt your body give up a fresh gush of wetness, and the flush of orgasm seemed to heat your blood to the tips of your toes. You slumped backwards onto his bed, but didn't take your eyes from him.

His thrusts became messy; eyes closed, mouth agape, filthy grunts falling from his mouth as he chased his own release above you.

"Y-yes. Fuck, yes-"

He came with a long cry, spilling his hot seed into you, his fingers gripping the bedsheet beside you, his face twisted in the agony of pleasure. He chest heaved as he breathed heavily into the afterglow, eyes still closed, hand seeking yours and gripping tightly when your fingers met.

When he eventually opened his eyes, they were full of boyish charm again. He grinned at you, slowly pulling his body off of yours.

"Will you stay?" he asked, fingers still entwined with yours.

"I..." you hesitated. Don't catch feelings. "If that's alright," you said, meekly.

He laughed, his contentment clear, and pulled your body close to his.

*****

You awoke to shafts of light penetrating the heavy bedroom curtains, and the sound of running water splashing off bathroom tile. Morning. You rose, finding your clothes in their discarded piles and pulling them on.

The water stopped, and after a moment, he appeared in the bedroom door, a lush white towel wrapped around him. His smile was as breathtaking as it had ever been

You took a deep, steadying breath.

"Good morning," he grinned at you. You could only offer a smile in reply; he began to re-dress while you watched, perched on the edge of his bed.

It would be so easy, you thought with regret, to fall for him.

"I wanted to ask you," he added, "when are you flying home?"

"Ah - tomorrow," you managed, "morning. Out of Venice."

He turned back to you, delighted. He was dressed now, and sat on the bed to put his shoes on. "Will you have dinner with me tonight?" he asked excitedly. "There is an operatic production of A Midsummer Nights' Dream at the Teatro del Veneto. We could dine on the waterfront beforehand-"

"Tom," you interrupted him quietly, and his sweet face fell at your tone. "I- I can't..." You willed words to come to you quickly - the look on his face was unbearable. "I - My husband and I - we have an... an arrangement. It works, but only if we follow the rules." He had composed his face into a polite smile; you stumbled on. "I - I'm afraid if I spend any more time with you, I will come dangerously close to... to breaking them."

He nodded, but didn't speak. Was he waiting for you to continue? There didn't seem to be much else to say.

It would be so easy...

"I - I'm sorry. I wish... I could..."

"Stop," he cut you off, smiling at you sadly. "You have nothing to apologise for."

Shoe laces tied, he stood.

"There is breakfast on the table; please stay as long as you need." He walked to the door, then turned to you, still smiling politely. "Thank you for your company, Y/N. It has been a pleasure."

You lifted your chin and swallowed. "Likewise," you said softly.

The door clicked behind him.

*****

The sun had barely risen on your last morning in Padua. You opened the little apartment mailbox to leave your AirBnB key, as instructed, and were surprised to find a small package with your name on it. You tentatively pulled it out. Inside was a gently used book, and a short note scrawled in now-familiar, spidery letters.

I hope this means you can avoid the airport garbage. T.

You turned the book over to read the cover; Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. You swallowed, touched, and not altogether surprised by the prickling in your eyes.

Finally, you turned back to the street, ready for one last walk through the barely-awake city to the train station. It would be a long journey home.

Italian phrases:

Il tuo solito, signore - your usual, sir?

Si, per favore, Marco - yes, please, Marco.

Grazie - thank you.

Tagging some people who enjoyed the first two parts:

@acidcasualties @lovelysizzlingbluebird @lokischambermaid @peaches1958 @thomase1 @tomlugirl @vickie5446 @vbecker10 @chantsdemarins @lokixryss @wolfsmom1 @laprofesoratinacita @cabingrlandrandomcrap @hyperlokilover @siriusly--gay @dangertoozmanykids101 @villainousshakespeare @huntress-artemiss @viv-annelore @so-easy-to-love-me @ladymischief11 @kats72 @chokemedaddyloki @cerynas @lokisfavtoy @sititran @faesimps

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fic #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston smut

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randomingoftherandomness · 10 months

Text

Fic: You did some bad things, but I'm the worst of them

Pairing: Kim Jiyong x Jo Heon

Tags: Undercover AU

@dangermousie @kingsandbastardz <3

The pulse of the club music thrums deep within his sternum. It's an organised chaos of lights, colours, and bodies on the dance floor. It's beautiful in its own way. Jiyong sucks in a deep breath the second he feels Jo Heon pull his attention back to the path their cutting through the club floor to the VIP section.

The hand at the small of his waist dips over the curve of his ass and that's where it stays for the scant minute it takes them to navigate their way to their booth on the mezzanine.

"Lean into me."

Jiyong turns himself into Jo Heon's waiting embrace. Arching his face into the side of his neck, playing up the pretence of a spoiled boy toy with a small nip to the man's skin. The fucker barely even flinches.

Instead, he finds the hand on his ass squeezing, burning a hiss out of him. "Be good," Jo Heon says, brushing his lips to the side of his face. "Baby."

The server waiting on them bows after Jo Heon rattles off an order for the both of them. Jiyong waits until the heavy velvet drapes are pulled close to twist away, but he doesn't get far. Not when Jo Heon is dragging him back close by the hip.

A warning grip has him huffing exasperatedly. "No one is watching us right now."

"You must always assume that someone is watching. At all times," Jo Heon calmly states, tugging him to straddle his lap like he weighs absolutely nothing. "That way, no one can ever get the better of you."

Jiyong doesn't know if that's a lesson or a warning, but he settles in his lap anyways. Letting heavy hands pin him in place, not fighting back when he feels himself being lifted and pressed up against the railing. His breath catches. He reaches out to dig his fingers into the meat of Jo Heon's stupidly solid shoulders as the man holds him in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination of the revellers below.

Jo Heon chuckles. Lips to the corner of Jiyong's own. On an inhale, Jiyong can taste the headiness of the cologne on his tongue. On the exhale, he can feel the way his mind fuzzes out when Jo Heon absolutely does not release him when the server comes back to deliver their order.

If anything, the bastard bullies his hips between Jiyong's. Shameless about the way he is playing the part of a patron with deep pockets and a stolen heart caught in the wiles of a pretty face. Jo Heon tilts his face, sliding their hungry mouths against each other. Jiyong is caught by the way the man kisses.

He's expected a ravishing. He receives the gentlest of licks against his own tongue and the softest sigh on his lips.

"Is this also because someone is watching?" Jiyong asks a little breathlessly when they part for air.

Jo Heon doesn't answer. Smirking a little while he's digging his thumb into the meat of his thighs. His big hands dip, pressing onto the front of his slacks, cupping right over his bulge.

Jiyong eyes up the server who is sneaking glances their way, then spies the blink of red in the corner of the ceiling.

Making an impulsive decision, he rolls his hips, sucking a sharp hiss of air when the older man merely laughs. A clear thread of delight in the timbre of his voice that swallows up Jiyong's own giggle.

He meets Jo Heon's gaze and cocks his head.

The server leaves then, quietly melting into the shadows of the club and the sounds of the crowd cheering as the music changes up.

And still, Jo Heon doesn't let up.

Pressing the mouths close again in a mimicry of a kiss, Jiyong cannot help the sudden starburst of disappointment that blooms in him when Jo Heon doesn't immediately kiss back. And in the next second, he feels his heart race at the implication of it all.

It's heady. Hard to shake.

Made especially difficult when Jo Heon tightens his hold, buckling Jiyong's knees where they are pressed to his sides. "Bastard..."

"Now, now baby boy," Jo Heon drawls. "That's no way to be talking to your husband, now is it?"

"I wasn't aware we were even married."

Jiyong scoffs, moving to push back a little when Jo Heon takes his left hand. Singling out his ring finger, he hums, wrapping his lips around it. Dark eyes hold his gaze as the music begins to crescendo around them. With a small smirk, Jo Heon sucks his finger into his mouth, sinking his teeth to the base.

It stings. But not in the way Jiyong thought it would. There's a frisson of an unnameable thing that blooms deep in his core, fanned into an inferno by the way he can feel Jo Heon's tongue soothing his bite when he releases him from the warm and wet heat.

"I'll get you a proper ring later. Only the best for my baby boy," Jo Heon promises. In the flashing lights, Jiyong sees the glisten of spit on his lips. Before he dwells on it, Jo Heon has brought his hand down to Jiyong's crotch. Thumbnail flicking at the zip, it's a little too close to where he wants it to be. "Unless you'd rather I put a ring on this pretty thing instead."

The implication sends the inferno into his very veins.

"If you two could pump some blood into your upstairs brains instead of your downstairs brain, that would be much appreciated." Gangok's voice testily crackles over their earpieces. When Jo Heon doesn't immediately let Jiyong go, opting instead to pull him to his chest in a show of strength that steals Jiyong's breath, Gangok huffs. "Jo Heon, I'll pay for a room at the nearest 5-star hotel to break the bed in if you could just focus on the task."

That gets a slow sigh. "Alright. But that room better not be bugged."

"Boo. You're no fun!"

Jiyong shakes his head at that, laughing only a little when Jo Heon turns him around. He lets his body go sweet and pliant in his arms, finding it scarily easy to melt against the strong body holding him up.

"Eyes up, baby," Jo Heon growls against his jaw. "It's show time."

Sighing a little, he flits his gaze over to where their target is. Jiyong pulls his wits around him and prays that the bulge in his pants isn't too visible.

#vigilante #vigilante kdrama #kim jiyong #jo heon #kim jiyong x jo heon #gab writes stuff #fr this one is toeing the spicy lemon line the whole day before settling in garlic and herb territory

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words-after-midnight · 7 months

Note

Happy STS! What is your character’s living situation like? Do they live in a house/apartment/boarding house/castle? How neat do they keep it and why? What sort of vibes does their home have? Share as much detail as you like for as many characters as you want!

Answer under the cut because a) THIS IS LONG AS HELL due to me having Complex Feelings about this house and b) I wanted to share some concept art. :3

Oh boy, this one's a real can of worms where Life in Black and White is concerned. The antagonist's house is a central location, and it is very elegant and very charming and very cursed.

I designed it to be very "him," to reflect his personality and general vibes. It's an old, Victorian-style two-storey house with wraparound decks on the ground and second floors, gated and set in a large yard at the center of a crescent. The backyard is surrounded by trees, and there's a sparsely wooded area in the back. The front yard is landscaped by one of Jeff's housemates in exchange for a discount on rent that he (the housemate) doesn't realize is a severe ripoff. In fact, Jeff rents out most to all of the extra rooms in the house to friends at any given time at such "discounted" rates, in exchange for housework and/or odd jobs. This is fully instrumental - he gets to live in a well-maintained house essentially without lifting a finger, gets extra pocket money each money, and has live-in company/entertainment. The only exception to the "not lifting a finger" thing is his personal space, ie. the master suite (which consists of a bedroom, balcony, vanity room and bathroom), which he maintains himself and allows few people to enter. All in all, despite the fact that Jeff does little around the house himself, the house is pretty consistently immaculate because he has a near-pathological preoccupation with cleanliness (which is something I'm working on getting across more in the final version of the story). This applies to both his living space and - especially - himself. He's extraordinarily proper (appearance-wise, definitely not personality-wise) and meticulously put together, and this is all reflected in the house as well. Like most old Victorians, it's swimming in delicate gothic vibes and subdued elegant charm. An imposing beauty with a certain daintiness and texture in its minute details. Ivory siding, dark green shutters. The decks are lined with deep brown railings that match those of the house's centerpiece - a spiral staircase leading from the lobby to the basement and second floor - and of the open, mezzanine-style landing of the second floor. Jeff's housemates and friends jokingly/affectionately refer to the house as "Silverwood Manor" (after the street, Silverwood Crescent, which is named after a real street in my hometown).

In a way, the house is the "centerpiece" of the story, namely because Gabriel (protagonist) considers it home; it's the only place he's ever seen as "home" since the death of his mother, which occurs shortly before the chronological start of the narrative. While Gabriel takes a while to warm up to Jeff, he's enchanted by the house at first sight, and remains so throughout the story. As his relationship with Jeff intensifies and they grow closer, Gabriel begins to associate the house - and Jeff himself - with his concept of home, although Gabriel only actually lives there very briefly (although he might as well have lived there for most of 2002 - he was there so often that the guest bedroom basically became "his room"). Once Gabriel and Jeff are estranged, Gabriel loses access to the house, and he's often deeply homesick and nostalgic for his old life and "good" (to him) memories there. He notes that he always seems to "find his way back" to the house, which he returns to "visit" many times after he and Jeff are estranged, and each time he visits the house is a bit different in one way or another - this is meant to symbolize the stages of his relationship with Jeff, but I don't think it comes across clearly enough, so I'm trying to clarify that as well for the final version.

If you're interested, here's a rough sketch I did of the house exterior:

Map of the interior:

#sts #ask #writeblr #libaw #silverwood

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headfulloflettuce · 27 days

Text

The Human Who Fooled All of Prythian

17. All Things Magic and Mystic

Note: Hello, I had finals but now am back at it with writing :D

Perfume is a luxury good that is technically recession proof - in theory. A theory that Cosette did not want to test as it would require the whole of Winter Court’s economy to come crashing down all at once. Unfortunately, as everything stood at the moment, that’s where things were headed.

So, fueled by her guilt of taking away Theo’s and his father’s woodworking business and her fear of rising parsley prices, Cosette began working on a little side project.

“Cosette, a few customers are wondering if we have larger bottles of the vanilla fragrance in the back?” Theo snapped Cosette out of her thoughts.

“Oh? Yes, we should have some, I restocked them this past weekend.” Cosette looked up from the paperwork in front of her.

Theo nodded, quickly rushing to the back to get the bottles a fae had requested.

It had been a couple weeks since they officially opened for business and Cosette was proud to say that they had made enough money to move inside the building. Due to them only having a little bit of spending funds Cosette focused on fixing up the first floor, blocking off the mezzanine from curious explorers. Although the store still had much that needed to be improved, like the creaking floorboards, Cosette was happy that she and Ophelia were at least out of the cold.

Apart from the cinnamon and vanilla scents Cosette had made a mahogany teakwood perfume in honor of the store’s official opening. Cosette looked over to her left where Ophelia was assisting a customer who wanted to make a purchase. While Theo helped out the customers in the front and did any heavy lifting Cosette needed assistance with, Ophelia managed the cash register and resolved disputes. Theo’s father was tasked with stocking shelves or working in the back. Cosette focused on mass producing perfumes, otherwise floating between jobs, ensuring everything was getting taken care of from paperwork to customer satisfaction.

The female fae’s face shifted to one of displeasure as she caught a whiff of Cosette’s scent. Cosette couldn’t help but smile at the irony that she was deemed one of the few good perfumers in Winter Court, yet she bought perfume from the street that shall not be named.

I am seriously giving those bastards free promotion.

Even Blanche had asked her why she wore the disgusting smell if she made her own perfumes. Cosette always excused it by apologizing and claiming it was just another experiment in perfume making gone wrong. She had Ophelia test her masking scent several more times, but thus far all trials had resulted in failure.

Cosette straightened out the documents before her, putting them inside a folder.

“Ophelia I’ll be back.” Cosette waved at her friend, wrapping herself in a coat.

“Where are you going?” Ophelia watched her friend head out with a slightly worried expression.

To work on my side project.

“To get us lunch and get some fresh air.”

“Okay, don’t stay out in the cold for too long.”

Cosette waved goodbye, wrapping a cloak around herself and entering the street’s fray. Even if Cosette didn’t fully understand Winter fae yet, she had begun seeing patterns in their behaviors, doing her best to mimic them.

Cosette passed through the market street, eyeing the various food stands. The amount of freshly grown fruits and vegetables had decreased. Firstly because trade with other Courts was a mess, but also because Winter’s own harvest was small.

Now that just wouldn’t do.

Cosette hated Blanche’s expression when she refused her son apple juice, or chocolate cookies because she couldn’t afford them.

It wasn’t fair.

So, Cosette had a plan; instead of putting all her eggs in one basket she was planning on expanding to a new business venture.

Though, something a little bolder this time around.

Cosette grabbed two cheap sandwiches before making her way to the richer districts, stopping before the store she saw during their tour with Blanche; ‘All things magic and mystic’. Cosette adjusted her hood carefully to keep herself warm, slipping on a simple white mask once she was out of the guards’ line of sight.

One could never be too careful if going to a shady magic shop…even if it was in a rich neighborhood.

Stepping inside Cosette was starting to get worried if she was about to get scammed. Disturbing paintings hung around the front room with various bottles standing on shelves. A couple stuffed creatures stared down at Cosette from their spots in cabinets. An herbal scent hung in the air.

“Oh, hello dearie.” A stout fae woman walked into the room, smiling kindly at the blonde.

“Hello, I heard you do consultations?” Cosette asked.

The fae nodded, doing a little bow, “From consultations to personalized medicines. I can take care of everything as long as it’s related to magic.”

“Wonderful.” Cosette smiled, “You didn’t have set prices listed outside, how much does a single consultation cost?”

“Hmm…” The woman seemed to size her up.

Gauging my rich meter ma’am?

“70 gold.”

Cosette cringed, “Alright.” she reached for her money purse.

“Ah, ah, ah, let’s take care of payments later.” The fae waved her hands, “I want to see what you want from me first before I rob you blind.”

“Hahaha…right.”

“You look quite chilly, would you like some tea?”

“Yes please.” Cosette followed the woman deeper into the shop and into a small room. The place was cozy, covered in pillows and blankets, with a medium sized table positioned in the center.

“So what can I do for you?” The fae set out two tea cups and some cookies.

“I have some questions regarding spirits.” Cosette sat down on a chair, making no motion to have the refreshments.

The woman noticed her hesitance but didn’t pressure, instead eating a cookie herself.

“Ask away dear.”

“I heard that spirits assist in the growth of crops, is that correct?”

“It is. Lower ranking spirits help and encourage the harvest to grow.” The female took a sip of tea. It smelled of chamomile.

“However, in recent years the harvest has been consistently getting worse.”

“Yes…” the woman’s expression darkened, “Farming has always been challenging in Winter Court. Considering how things are going it’s very likely our High Lord will need to increase trade with other Courts to try and sustain the population.”

“Is there a particular reason that the crops are failing to grow?”

The woman shrugged, “I am no farmer dearie, there could be many reasons. From soil quality to a lack of magic.”

“Lack of magic?” Cosette perked up, “You mean the spirits aren’t blessing the lands?”

“The spirits do a lot of work to sustain the ground, a lot of which goes unappreciated. It’s possible that some are getting tired of putting in effort when there is no reward. Traditionally there is trust between the farmer and the spirit. The farmer grows his crops, and the spirits bless them. After the harvest is collected the spirits receive a small offering.”

“Yet there are those who abuse this system?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” The fae looked sad, “Some lesser fae try to carry on traditions but it’s not always enough. It makes the spirits angry, and can you blame them? Who wants to work when there is no reward?” she sighed, “Guess we should be lucky that the primary spirits are still respected.”

“Primary spirits?”

The woman looked at her surprised, “Do you not know about the primary spirits? Surely you must have heard of the Spirit of Winter or Spirit of Spring?”

I always thought that phrase was used as a metaphor…

“I grew up in a very secluded village.” Cosette explained sheepishly.

“An uneducated village.” the woman shook her head disapprovingly, “Each Court has a spirit that represents it. They, unlike many minor spirits, still receive gifts and adoration from the people of their respective Court. That strengthens the smaller spirits in turn as they serve spirits that are stronger than themselves, but it’s not enough, hence the small offerings after a harvest.”

“So then the issue lies only in the offerings?”

“Spirits are slippery creatures. You can never be completely certain of what’s bothering them. To even have the vaguest clue you’d need to ask them directly.”

“How does one make contact with a spirit?”

The female laughed, “By being very powerful or intune with the natural world.”

Fantastic, I am neither.

“Okay, well where do the spirits live?”

Maybe I could knock on their front door or something.

“Everywhere, nowhere. Hard to say. They exist in the in between.”

“In between?” Cosette was trying to not get annoyed.

This fae was speaking in riddles.

“Indeed, in the in-between. They’re often hiding in plain sight though.”

“I see.”

Cosette, in fact, did not see nor understand this conversation thread. The woman sipped her tea again, observing Cosette’s reactions.

Deciding to get to the point, Cosette continued, “I once asked a farmer why nets or tools weren’t being used to help extract plants deep under the snow. He explained that the spirits struggle to get to crops covered in nets. From his description it sounded like there were two main issues; one, it was that not all plants that grew were retrieved due to the layer of snow, and second, it was a hassle to make an offering every time you harvested a plant. So, I was thinking if there was a potential way to streamline the process.” Cosette pulled out some papers, laying out her ideas before the fae. “I wanted an expert’s advice on this since I am lacking in the knowledge of spirits. This type of container would create the best environment for the plant to grow while permitting farmers to not lose track of it under the snow thanks to the handle extension from it. I come to you because I don’t know how to make this more enticing or easier for spirits to access. I redesigned it here to look more like a house, but you say spirits live in the ‘in-between’, so I am unsure if that’s actually a bad design choice now.” Cosette looked at the woman hopefully.

The fae picked up the papers, looking at them carefully.

“I was also thinking of putting a mechanism here to give them an offering when they enter the little home immediately so they don’t have to worry about being denied their reward.” Cosette pointed to the little box-like structure on the side of the fairy house.”

The female nodded silently.

“I have to admit it’s clever, and considering how desperate the situation is, this is definitely worth a try. It is important to consider that many spirits may feel insulted by this. They want their egos to be fed, not to be treated as a cog in a machine. To combat this use the design that looks more like a house rather than a container, it will mimic the placement of offerings in the secluded areas of homes or a tree hollow.” the fae hummed, running a finger along the detailed dispenser, “A smart strategy, but make sure the reward is after they bless the harvest. Spirits are mischievous creatures, they might be tempted to not work if you reward them beforehand.”

Cosette nodded, jotting down the fae’s comments.

“You know what else can help you?” the woman suddenly stood up, moving to one of the bookshelves to pull out a large tome, bringing it over to Cosette, “This. To ensure the spirits can enter and feel comfortable in the provided space you could carve the following runes into the little ‘house’. This will also help identify if the spirit gave the crop their blessing.” The fae flipped to a specific page, marking it for Cosette.

“Ah, okay.” Cosette leaned in, looking at the text.

Great, I understand none of this.

“Does the fae need to have magical power to be able to write properly functioning runes?”

“Yes, they do, however since all fae have even a little bit of magic it shouldn’t be much of a problem. These ruins don’t require a massive amount of energy.”

Shit, all fae have magic? Even Lesser?

“It’s quite funny, that’s why most charms around human homes have never worked properly. Only a select few function and that’s only because they don’t require a user’s internal source of magic to activate but instead rely on the surrounding energy or natural elements.”

Cosette examined the intricate ruins.

It’s as I thought, this work would be perfect for Theo.

“Thank you for your assistance.”

“Don’t mention it dearie.” the female sipped her tea, watching as Cosette sketched out the ruins on her papers, “That will take you forever, just borrow the book and return it to me once you’re finished.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll run off with it?”

The fae laughed, “I have a feeling that’s not in your personality.”

Cosette hummed.

She wasn’t wrong.

“I have another question.” Cosette took a deep breath.

The reason why she was going through all this effort to pretend to be a fae.

“Do you know anything about traveling between worlds?”

“Are you referring to world walkers?”

“I-..yes? Is that what you call people who make that sort of journey?”

The woman nodded, “It is. What is it you want to know about them?”

How do I ask about this without seeming suspicious?

“How often do people travel across worlds?”

“Haha, world walking isn’t exactly a fun Friday activity.” the fae giggled, “It’s rare.”

“Do people ever travel by accident?”

“On accident?”

“Yeah, like they just fall through a magic portal or something?” Cosette made vague hand gestures, unsure how else to explain what had happened to her.

“Hmm…” the woman pondered the concept, “Nothing like that would happen for no reason. Traveling through worlds is dangerous business. Though, I guess falling through a portal is plausible…”

“How are portals opened?”

She shrugged, “Some fae open them using their own powers if they’re strong enough, others are just naturally intune with the…more intricate makeup of our worlds.”

“Say a person had no such power of their own, how could they open a portal?”

The woman observed Cosette, tilting her head.

“To be honest, I expected a young female such as yourself to come here looking for love advice.” the fae smirked, “Not ask me about spirits and portals.”

Cosette didn’t respond, making the consultant sigh.

“Have you heard of the four Dread Trove items?”

“Yes…”

Briefly, people were raving about them online, something about Nesta using three of them to be an absolute badass.

“The Harp specifically is said to be able to open any door. Even one to a different world and time.”

Okay, perfect, the issue is…

“It’s currently being held by the Night Court.”

Wait.

Cosette froze, eyeing the woman.

“How do you know all this?”

I know this stuff because I was chronically online, why do you also know these things?!

The woman laughed, “Why should I not?”

“I doubt the Night Court would let this information be public.”

“Hm, well. I have my ways.” the fae’s smile widened, “Just as you do friend.”

“Are you a witch?” Cosette tried not to shiver.

“Would you run away in fear if I was?”

“No.”

I'd ask how you gained all that power.

“Then it matters not.”

Fair enough.

“Can anyone use the Dread trove items?”

I really should have paid attention to the lore of this series rather than raving about the drama.

“Technically yes, but if you’re not Cauldron made those items can be used upon you as well.”

Girl, I don’t want to jump into the soup pot just to get out of here with no consequences!

“So there’s repercussions to using their powers?”

“Oh my dear customer, there’s always consequences. It’s the way this world works; fully based on equilibrium.”

I somehow doubt that considering how many fake-out deaths there were in this series.

“Are there consequences to world-walking?”

“Depends on the circumstances surrounding the traveler.”

“What’s the best case scenario?”

“Hm…they’re somehow meant to be in their new world. Probably filling in a role that is lacking an actor.”

You’re making it sound like everything is a play.

“And the worst case scenario?”

The female’s cheshire grin showed all her teeth, “They’d suffer like no other for daring to defy the Mother’s will.”

“I think that will be all.” Cosette said quietly, standing up.

“Leaving so soon dearie? Don’t you want me to read you your future? It’s on the house.”

“No thank you.”

“Hm? Really?”

“Absolutely, I already kn-have plans for what mine will look like.”

Me back home with my family and hopefully a fixed car - bro has had several years to get it repaired.

“No one can know their future for certain, it’s always fluid.”

“How much do I owe you?” Cosette pulled out a money purse.

“Since I had so much fun talking to you, I’ll give you a discount. 20 gold.”

“That’s a very generous discount.”

“I am a generous being.” The fae took the money Cosette practically threw at her.

“Pleasure doing business with you!” The woman’s laughter followed Cosette out of the shop as she ran into the cold, tearing the mask off once she was a distance away.

She walked down the street, her breathing slowly evening out.

Strange woman…

The guards stationed in the square paid no attention to her as Cosette walked out of the square they were guarding and into the crowded streets.

The Winter Solstice was approaching and everyone had begun preparing, the streets filled with faes purchasing last minute gifts or foods. Blanche had invited them to celebrate the Winter Solstice at the inn which Ophelia was looking forward to. With them having made good progress on Theo’s debt they had all gone out looking for gifts but hadn’t found anything yet.

As Ophelia stepped inside the perfumery she was greeted with a scene.

“Why can’t I meet the perfumer?” a male fae shouted.

“I am sorry sir Cosette is ou-oh! Cosette, you’re back!” Ophelia looked relieved at her friend’s appearance, the merchant quickly turning around.

“You.” he dramatically pointed at Cosette, “Are you the perfumer?”

“Yes sir.” Cosette smiled.

Please don’t be an asshole.

“Truthfully?”

“I-yes.” Cosette looked at him gingerly,

The man seemed to relax a bit, “It’s an honor to meet you Miss Cosette.”

“It’s an honor to meet you too sir…?”

“Call me Amelio.” he shook her hand, “You know it’s really hard to track you down, many of my acquaintances have tried but failed.”

“Haha, I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“Gah, no need to apologize! I understand first-hand how busy the life of a business person is!”

“May I know why you wished to see me?”

“Ah, yes. That.” the man glanced around, as if it was some sort of great mystery, “Could we talk somewhere more private?”

“Of course, please follow me.” Cosette led the man upstairs to her office, giving Ophelia a reassuring nod.

The office looked much cleaner compared to the first day. The windows were now shiny, the table neatly organized, and the shelves lining the walls no longer empty.

“Would you like some tea?”

“Absolutely.” the man took a sip of the brew Cosette gave him.

“So what is it that I can help you with sir Amelio?” Cosette sat across from him.

“I wish to order a custom perfume.”

Cosette looked at him with slightly wide eyes.

Oh my God, why hadn’t I thought of offering such services earlier?!

Cosette felt slightly dumb.

“I would be happy to make you one, what kind of perfume are you looking for?”

“I want a perfume for my wife, she’s a big fan you know?” Amelio smiled, “She loves warm places like Summer Court, could you make a scent that imitates that?”

Cosette nodded, “I can try. Do you know if she has any allergies or prefers particular scents?”

“She really likes sweet perfumes with a little bit of zest. Also, do you know if it would be possible to make this perfume before the Winter Solstice?”

“Hmm.” Cosette thought for a moment, “I can try to get it done before the Solstice, but I want to make sure you’re satisfied with the product so how about I make you a couple samples of perfumes and in about two weeks we can meet to talk. That leaves time to make any necessary changes.”

“That sounds perfect.” Amelio stretched out his hand, “I look forward to our meeting then.”

“I look forward to it too.” Cosette shook it, walking Amelio out of the perfumery and bidding him goodbye.

With custom orders they’d have an even easier time clearing Theo’s debt.

Cosette sighed, a feeling of contentment washing over her.

All was going well.

“Say Ophelia, do you remember the day when we arrived at Winter Court?”

“Yeah! Gosh it feels like it was yesterday.” Ophelia nibbled on her sandwich, the two of them relaxing as the perfumery was empty for a moment.

“We still haven’t visited the guards at the training grounds to see if that one fae got punished appropriately.”

“Do you really think we should?” Ophelia looked hesitant.

“Why not? It would only be fair to see if they actually took disciplinary efforts with him as promised.”

“I just don’t want us to get in trouble?”

“In trouble for what? Using the literal permission slip the captain of the guard gave us? Highly doubt that’ll land us into jail.”

“Look who’s the sadistic one now…” Ophelia winked.

“Hey, I am not a sadist! I just think it’s important to see if the man actually got punished for his crime!”

The two ordered a carriage to take them to the palace, closing down shop for the day as most faeries were beginning to head home. The carriage stopped before a large gated archway, being forced to step outside by security.

“Do you two ladies have permission to come onto palace grounds?” a guard looked at them skeptically.

“Yes, we do.” Cosette showed them the paper Aquilo had filled out and signed.

The guard attempted to take it, but Cosette pulled it back.

The man’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t protest as he looked over the paper from where Cosette held it up for him.

“Hmm, everything seems in order.” he nodded begrudgingly.

“Thank you.” Cosette shot him a smile as the guards let them pass through the large crystal-like gates. The soldiers exchanged glances as the two non noble fae walked down a long wide pathway that separated into various gardens, escorted by the fae who had examined the paper.

“Wow, everything is so pretty.” Cosette whispered to Ophelia.

“Agreed, I wonder how much they pay the gardeners?”

The guard kept a straight face despite the two women gossiping like high school girls, leading them down a separate pathway towards the training grounds.

The grounds looked quite similar to the ones at Autumn; spacious fields with cleared out areas for fighting and drills.

“Captain!” the fae called out.

Aquilo, who had been yelling orders at some young-looking soldiers turned around to face them, his eyes flickering with recognition.

“Take five.” the captain ordered the soldiers who relaxed, practically collapsing onto the floor.

“Wow, you’re really working them to the bone.” Ophelia commented.

“They need to be prepared for the worst in order to protect Winter Court well.” the captain noted coldly, “Welcome to the training grounds. How has the capital treated you two?” he paused awkwardly, “I must ask you two for your names again, as I have forgotten.”

“I am Ophelia! The capital is breathtaking!”

“Cosette, pleasure to make your acquaintance, again. We have settled in quite well.”

“I am glad to hear it. What have you two been up to?” Aquilo kept a neutral expression, though his tone sounded amused.

“We’ve opened a perfumery near one of the city’s centers.” Cosette said.

“A perfumery? Oh! Are you two managing the one place that opened up recently? The one that is costing the perfumery street’s store owners’ customers?”

“Yeah that’s us.” Cosette couldn’t help the proud smile on her face.

“Well, I unfortunately have only heard of your products but perhaps once the solstice comes to a close I will visit.”

“We’d be happy to have you. Cosette’s perfumes are truly something else.” Ophelia pipped in.

Nice commercializing Ophelia.

“So you’re the infamous perfumer?”

Cosette nodded sheepishly.

I am not that amazing, your perfumers are just really lazy.

Aquilo looked at them silently for a moment before continuing, “Onto business; I assume you’re here regarding the soldier’s punishment.”

“Yes we are.” Cosette confirmed.

Though it’s more for Ophelia than me.

“Very well, please follow me.” Aquilo led them down the snowy field, into a building to the side of the palace, “As part of his punishment we’re having him undergo all his required trainings again and review the laws of the Court. He has also been demoted and is on cleaning duty till the Winter Solstice ends.”

“Wow.” Cosette muttered.

That was harsher than I expected considering the patriarchal nature of Prythian.

“I take pride and honor in our work.” Aquilo glanced at Cosette as if reading her mind, “I expect nothing less than perfection from my subordinates, so punishments are given out appropriately if someone tries to abuse their power.”

Aquilo led them into a room, where the white haired fae from months earlier was sitting behind a desk, reading through a book.

“Captain.” The man quickly stood up, saluting his commanding officer.

“At ease.” Aquilo gestured for him to relax, “Edur, I am sure you remember who these two ladies are. Please greet Miss Cosette and Ophelia”

Edur nodded, hesitantly glancing at the two females. His earlier cockiness from months seemingly erased.

“Hello…” he shifted, clearly uncomfortable under their gaze.

An awkward silence filled the room, as Edur glanced between the three people before him.

“I…” he hesitated, “I would like to apologize.” he bowed deeply, “What I did was wrong. Not only did I discriminate against you both as Lesser fae, but I also attempted to proposition Miss Ophelia. I am truly sorry.”

Cosette was surprised. She hadn’t expected an apology, especially not one that sounded so genuine.

Perhaps because this world was fictional, but people could change so easily.

Cosette laughed internally.

Or Aquilo’s punishment was so grueling that the sexism and racism was knocked out completely.

Ophelia’s face mirrored Cosette’s feelings, “Oh um, it’s okay.”

It’s very much not okay.

“What’s important is that you understand what you did wrong.”

There we have to agree, Ophelia.

Edur nodded, glancing at Aquilo who nodded in approval.

“Is there anything specific you would like to see?” Aquilo turned to the two women.

Cosette looked at Ophelia, “What do you think?”

“Eh? Oh, um, I am good I think.” Ophelia said, smiling awkwardly.

“Then that’s all.” Cosette agreed.

“Alright then. Back to work Edur.”

Edur quickly sat back down, burying his face in a book as the trio left.

Cosette and Ophelia were escorted back to the front gates.

“Have a safe trip home.”

“Thank you sir Aquilo.” Cosette said.

The group said their goodbyes, with the duo leaving to find a carriage to take them home.

Cosette glanced at Ophelia, smiling softly, “See?”

“Hm? See what?”

“Don’t ever let people try to use or force you into things you don’t want, okay?” Cosette smiled at her friend.

I really hope seeing this gave her a confidence boost.

“You deserve better. Always.” Cosette crawled into a carriage, patting the seat across from her, “And if anything does happen, I’ve got you.”

Ophelia looked at her with misty eyes, “Cosette, I should be the one protecting you, not the other way around.”

“You are protecting me. By teaching me how to be a proper fae.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Ophelia shook her head, “Besides, I already know not to let those things happen to me! I know how to speak up for myself.”

I worry you don’t. Sometimes you don’t truly believe that consequences or justice exists until you see it yourself. Leading to people not voicing their fears because they don’t think they will be believed.

“Alright, if you say so.” Cosette smiled at Ophelia, “We should start heading back, otherwise Blanche might get worried if we’re not on time for dinner.”

“Actually, I have something I want to do.” Ophelia said, not getting into the carriage.

“Hm? What’s up? I can come with you.”

“No, no. You head back to the inn, I have something I want to do.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes I am sure.” Ophelia smirked mischievously, “It’s a surprise after all.”

“Alright, I can’t wait to find out what it is.” Cosette said as Ophelia closed the carriage door, “I’ll be dying from anticipation!”

The carriage took off, Cosette waving to Ophelia through the window, her friend quickly disappearing out of sight. Cosette stared at the empty seat of the carriage before her.

I really hope I didn’t upset her.

Back: Chapter 16 - Open for Business

Masterlist

Tag list: @rcarbo1

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hectic-hector · 11 months

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Encantober prompt #20: Vision

A Perfect Vision

If you had asked four-year-old Mirabel what her favorite color was, her answer would vary from day to day, sometimes even minute to minute. One moment it might be pink or purple, the next moment it might be yellow, silver, or red. And sometimes it was impossible for her to choose when her Tia Pepa made a rainbow.

The prospect of picking a favorite color had never seemed as daunting as it did on the day that Julieta told her youngest daughter she needed glasses. “But why can’t you make my eyes all better with food?”

The question had very nearly broken Julieta’s heart. With a sigh, she set her pestle down and wiped her hands on her apron. “Because that’s not how my gift works, mija.” She knelt down in front of a sniffling Mirabel and clasped her tiny hands in hers. “Your eyes are not broken. They’re just a little different. Like your father’s.” She looked over at Agustín, who made an attempt to appear suave by leaning casually against the counter while adjusting his glasses. Casita playfully swatted him in the back of the head with a cabinet door, making him jump and knocking his glasses askew. Mirabel giggled. “See?” Julieta said. “His glasses make him look handsome and smart. And guess what? Doctor Orozco says you can have any color you want for your frames.” She smiled big. “Isn’t that nice?” The little girl began to mirror her smile, but after a moment, her face fell. “I don’t want any color,” she murmured, looking at the floor. “I don’t want glasses.”

Julieta sighed again and gently coaxed her into a hug. “I’m sorry, querida, but if you want to see better, you need them.” Agustín knelt beside the two, hugging his daughter next. “It’ll be alright, Miraboo. I wear glasses, and I think they’re great! Here, why don’t you try mine on?” He removed his glasses and, after some fiddling, just barely managed to balance them on Mirabel’s much smaller nose and ears. The girl lifted her hands to feel the oversized frames as she glanced around the kitchen, marveling at how different everything looked. The designs on the floor tiles appeared blurrier, while saucepans and ladles hanging on the wall across the room were more in focus. Mirabel shook her head. “Don’t like um.” She handed them back to her father. Agustín put them back on. “Well, the eye doctor’s going to make special glasses just for you, Mira. They’ll fit perfectly and make everything crystal clear. And don’t forget to tell him your favorite color!”

Julieta nodded, cupping the girl’s cheek and kissing her forehead. “We’ll go tomorrow morning. Alright? In the meantime, I want you to decide what color you want for your frames. You can only pick one, though. And ‘rainbow’ isn’t one color.” “Awww!” Mirabel pouted. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“You’re probably gonna look like this. Or like this. Or maybe like this!” Camilo, who had only gotten his gift a month prior, kept changing into different versions of Mirabel with glasses, each one growing progressively less flattering. The glasses grew to the size of saucers, and the nose and teeth had also grown until he looked like a comically nerdy caricature come to life. “Stop it, Camilo! That’s mean!” Mirabel shouted, stomping her foot. “Papi has glasses and he doesn’t look like that!”

“That’s ‘cuz he’s a boy,” Camilo replied, reverting back to himself. “He doesn’t gotta be pretty.” No sooner had he spoken than a wreath of pink and yellow plumerias burst into bloom on his head. “Nobody has to be pretty,” said Isabela, descending from the upper mezzanine on a vine. She stepped down in front of Camilo, growling at him. “Now buzz off before I make you pretty!”

The boy took off, tearing at the flowers that continued to sprout from his hair. Isabela rolled her eyes. “Boys are dumb,” she muttered, boredly conjuring pansies and petunias out of thin air. “You won’t look that bad, I’m sure. Especially if you pick a good color for your glasses. Like one of these.”

Mirabel took the proffered bouquet, looking at the bright colors. They were mostly various shades of pink and purple, with a little bit of white and yellow for accents. “What color would you pick?” she asked, gazing up at the much taller twelve-year-old.

Isabela blinked. “Me? I wouldn’t pick any color, because I don’t need glasses.” Mirabel’s lip trembled, but she remained silent as she turned and walked away, the hand holding the bouquet hanging dejectedly at her side. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Mirabel spent the next hour alone in the nursery, flowers, papers, and crayons scattered all around her on the floor as she lay on her stomach drawing and redrawing herself with different colored glasses. Camilo’s unflattering interpretations of her kept invading her thoughts, and each time they did, she pressed the crayons harder into the paper, drawing the lines thicker and darker, as if she could somehow scribble those images out of her head. When the first crayon broke, so too did Mirabel’s resolve.

Sobbing, she stood up, clutching her latest drawing to her chest, and ran out of the room. Tears clouded her vision, and as she ran up the mezzanine toward her parents’ room, she did not see the figure that emerged from a different door until it was too late.

Mirabel collided with a green blur, nearly knocking both of them to the ground. “Whoa, careful there,” said Bruno, catching her by the elbows to steady her. “You really gotta watch where you’re going, kiddo. You don’t wanna get… Mirabel? What’s wrong?” he asked as he looked her over. “Are you hurt?”

Mirabel shook her head. Grabbing two fistfuls of fabric, she buried her face in her uncle’s ruana, sobbing quietly. Bruno looked down at her, speechless. He leaned down to put his arms around her, to offer the poor girl some comfort, but paused when he noticed the paper on the ground. It was rumpled and tearstained, but the picture she had drawn was unmistakably a self portrait. A distorted, exaggerated self portrait, with so much frustration and fear rendered in thick black crayon, particularly in the wide circles around the eyes. Bruno stared at it for a moment, then at the little girl clinging to his clothes. He knew what he had to do.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mirabel stood in the middle of the stone chamber, holding her uncle’s hands as well as her own breath. Bruno’s eyes glowed brightly as he slowly turned his neon gaze from Mirabel to the sands swirling overhead. Though this wasn’t the first or even the tenth time she’d witnessed him having a vision, she still found herself transfixed by those eyes. A second pair of gleaming green eyes appeared in the storm above. Mirabel squinted, as much to keep the sand out of her eyes as to try to make out what the vision was showing her. Meanwhile, Bruno’s eyes remained wide and unblinking, even as his hair whipped violently around his face.

The two green circles widened, then connected, as other features began to take shape around them. Mirabel was just beginning to make out a face and a body when the swirling sands flared impossibly bright. She let go of her uncle’s hands to cover her eyes, and in an instant, the torrential winds ceased. Silence fell inside the stone chamber, and when she looked up again, Bruno was holding an emerald slab over her head to protect her from the falling sand.

A moment later, he was turning the tablet around for her to see. “Looks like you’ve got nothing to worry about after all,” he said, grinning despite his sudden headache. “See?” Mirabel stared at the vision. Etched in emerald, a smaller version of herself looked back, smiling wide as she reached her hand out toward a butterfly. Even her eyes were smiling behind large, round glasses that flattered her face.

“Here.” Bruno set the tablet in her hands. “No more sad or scary drawings of yourself when you’ve got this.” ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mirabel had no idea how, but somehow, that vision tablet had survived the fall of Casita. And it was Bruno, of all people, who had found it in the ruins: cracked, chipped, but still in one piece. He recognized it instantly. Mirabel saw him standing motionless in the rubble on the second day of cleanup and went to see what he was holding. As she approached him, she froze when she saw it. Bruno looked up at her. “You kept this?” Mirabel blushed. She stepped closer, pushing some debris aside with her broom. “Um, yeah. I did.” They both looked down at the tablet, studying the nearly forgotten image for a long moment, before Mirabel spoke again. “I wanted to remind myself that I shouldn’t worry so much. About the future. About… myself.” She shrugged. “I guess I also kept it to remind me of you. After you left.” She met his gaze, and despite the fact that she was smiling now, there was a little shadow of sadness behind it. Bruno had gone into hiding only a month after giving Mirabel that vision. The last one he had ever given her, until the present day. “No matter what anyone said about you, I didn’t want to believe them.” She placed a hand on his arm. “You gave me a perfect vision. I didn’t want to forget that. Or you.”

Bruno could only stare back at the young woman, completely speechless. Mirabel took the tablet from him and wiped away the remaining dust, and as she did so, her smile grew warmer, and when she looked up at him again, there was no trace of sadness left. “You’re the reason I chose this color, you know,” she said, tapping the frames of her glasses. Bruno blinked. “You mean because of how they looked in the vision?” Mirabel giggled. “No, silly. I picked green because I wanted my eyes to be like yours!” Bruno could only stare at her, speechless yet again. “What?” she said, tucking the tablet under one arm. “I was just a kid at the time. A kid who thought you had the coolest eyes when they glowed.”

Bruno smirked. “So if my eyes glowed bright pink instead –”

Mirabel smirked back, shaking her head. “I like green better.” @encantober-official

#encantober2023 #Encanto #Mirabel #Bruno #Julieta #Agustin #Camilo #Isabela #Madrigal

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faithconsumingcope · 8 months

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okkkk gonna do a list of my 30 favorite albums

(1 per artist to make it varied, ofc i’ll forget a few)

1. Magdalene - FKA twigs

2. Homogenic - Björk

3. Untrue - Burial

4. Loveless - My Bloody Valentine

5. Dummy - Portishead

6. Mezzanine - Massive Attack

7. Selected Ambient Works 85-92 - Aphex Twin

8. Mutant - Arca

9. The Money Store - Death Grips

10. Songs About Leaving - Carissa’s Weird

11. Blackout - Britney Spears

12. Renaissance - Beyoncé

13. Oil of Every Pearl’s Un-insides - SOPHIE

14. In Rainbows - Radiohead

15. good kid, M.A.A.D city - Kendrick Lamar

16. Titanic Rising - Weyes Blood

17. How I’m Feeling Now - Charli XCX

18. Blonde - Frank Ocean

19. So Tonight That I Might See - Mazzy Star

20. Deathconsciousness - Have A Nice Life

21. Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas to Heaven - Godspeed You! Black Emperor

22. Phoenix: Flames Are Dew Upon My Skin - Eartheater

23. Veteran - JPEGMafia

24. Rid of Me - PJ Harvey

25. The Ark Work - Liturgy

26. The Downward Spiral - Nine Inch Nails

27. Psychocandy - The Jesus & Mary Chain

28. Born to Die - Lana del Rey

29. El mal querer - Rosalía

30. Shabrang - Sevdaliza

#music vibes #experimental music #electronic music #fka twigs #björk #charli xcx #weyes blood #eartheater #pj harvey #alt music #i have the best and worst taste #mazzy star #portishead #rosalía

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ashwini-enterprises · 4 months

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#industrial ducting and cladding work #industrial ducting and insulation work pune #industrial hydraulic goods lift manufacturer #industrial structural fabrication work pune #mezzanine floor manufacturer pune #mould rack manufacturer pune

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antaxzantax · 8 months

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Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 28

After the last class, Miller summoned Birkin and Wesker to his office to proceed with the signing of their employment contract. Oswell E. Spencer, on the recommendation of Dr. Marcus, was offering them an irresistible opportunity: to be heads of research at a clandestine laboratory he had built on the outskirts of Raccoon City. Yes, clandestine; just like their contract. They were graced with a salary and extraordinary bonuses in exchange for their silence.

Wesker signed without thinking.

Birkin hesitated before stamping a quick scribble on the paper.

Miller pocketed both contracts in a folder and wished them good luck.

Their last day at the training center consisted of repacking their bags and going up to the roof to await the landing of a helicopter that would transport them to the popularly known Spencer mansion. There was no graduation ceremony or valedictory speech. Their celebration consisted of Dr. Marcus shaking their hands and wishing them good luck before leaving for the roof. Miller didn't even accompany him.

The helicopter landed. The rotor churned the stale air around them, the stench of gasoline in the air. Wesker opened the cockpit door and indicated to Birkin where he should place the bags and sit down. Unbeknownst to him, it was Wesker who strapped him in as the pilot signaled the start of takeoff. Birkin felt nauseous during the vertical lift.

III

The building loomed above the treetops. A mansion. They landed on a helipad located on the roof. They were greeted on the tarmac by an aging, middle-aged, half-bald man. He introduced himself as the Director, without mentioning his real name. The Director handed them a dossier with information about the facility and their research project. On his way to the elevator, Birkin forgot his suitcase. Inside the cubicle, the Director asked him to please pick it up. On the way down, Wesker asked the Director if the place was called by any names and he said no, just nicknames: Spencer Mansion for the country house and Arklay Laboratories for everything else.

Once the elevator doors opened, the Director led them down an aseptic corridor to armored doors. Behind them, they discovered a huge laboratory equipped with state-of-the-art technology. Technology infinitely more expensive than that available at their prestigious universities. Here, said the Director, is where they would conduct all of their research. Birkin trembled with nervousness as Wesker nodded excitedly. In front of one of the control panels, Birkin began to fiddle with some buttons. The Director became enraged and called him to attention. Birkin, crestfallen but without losing an ounce of elation, apologized. The tour of the main laboratory over, the Director led them to their rooms slash dormitories slash apartments. These were in a sort of wooden house that looked cheap compared to the stone mansion overlooking the lower garden. Good thing they would never share a bedroom again.

The pseudo-apartment wasn't too bad. It had its own toilet with bathtub, desk, double bed and solid wood closets. Once they had gotten rid of the heavy suitcases, they met the Director in a sort of bar/lounge area. They climbed the stairs to a mezzanine and sat on steel stools facing three of the four sides of an unused pool table.

The Director explained to them that they were under his orders at that facility, but that the boss of the whole world was Oswell E. Spencer in that half of the company. The other half of the company belonged to Alexander Ashford. Publicly, Albert Wesker and William Birkin were listed as employees supposedly working in a tiny laboratory that Spencer had set up in Raccoon City as a front. Officially, it was there that Birkin and Wesker were listed as heads of research. The need for the ruse stemmed from the fact that their real business was not pharmaceuticals, but bioweapons. And bioweapons would be their business. Finally, the Director forbade them to enter the mansion without his permission. The mansion was the territory of the owner and the employees who guarded the estate.

With that said, the Director left. Birkin and Wesker were left alone. Birkin avoided Wesker's gaze and Wesker stared at Birkin. Wesker wouldn't stand another second of self-imposed discomfort without murdering Birkin, so he reached out his hand in kindness.

“Albert Wesker," he said the first thing that came to his mind. “I'm from New York. I went to Columbia.”

Birkin weakly overcame his resistance.

“I'm glad we've both been appointed chief investigators. It's always good to stay competitive so as not to lose faculty,” he insisted.

Birkin raised his hand in return.

“Hello. My name is William Birkin. I'm from Baltimore, Maryland. I graduated from Harvard University. Sixteen years old. My parents are from Baltimore, too. We've always been from Baltimore. Uh... Uhm. I'm glad, too.” They shook hands.

“Of course.” Wesker smiled.

A strategy as stupid as it was effective.

The probability of an Ebola infected person not surviving was around 90%. There was no cure. The dossier made it clear that his goal was to use a sample of the Ebola virus to make a B.O.W. out of it. Birkin showed a keen interest that translated into long and intense working days. For the first few days, Wesker found it hard to keep up with the demonic pace of the haggard teenager, so he shifted his focus. To excel on his own, he centralized staff and laboratory management, functions that Birkin had neglected because of his tendency to self-absorption and obvious lack of people skills. Thus, while Birkin burned hours with the more esoteric elements of research, Wesker poked around the facility to find out how his employer really worked.

In the meantime, Wesker sold his switchblade, the one he had kept under his bed at the training center, to a security guard. He shed his once beloved red bomber jacket and traded in the short-sleeved T-shirts with the US Navy logo for the shirts and sweaters he bought with his first paycheck. The effect of his style change was felt by Birkin, who was more talkative because he felt less intimidated. Birkin talked about how much he loved Star Trek and that he had dreamed of becoming an astrophysicist. Discussing U.S. foreign policy, Birkin said Vietnam had been a mistake and Wesker revealed that he left the military because he didn't feel like dying as a nobody in a Cambodian minefield and that his work at Umbrella would help him avoid conscription.

With the first results, the Director briefed them on the second phase of the project: combining Ebola with a virus discovered by Ashford, Marcus and Spencer, the Progenitor virus.

He was about twenty-five years old at the time. Name, unknown. Origin, unknown. Eleven years later, she was still alive. A deformed female form. A parody of a human being languishing on a battered cell bed.

The Director smiled sardonically. He said she was available to them as a test subject.

At that instant, Birkin and Wesker knew there was no turning back.

Birkin let out an infrasounding curse.

Spencer wants results, the Director concluded.

#resident evil #william birkin #albert wesker #oswell e spencer

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onesourceofbadinformation · 1 year

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i saw peter pan goes wrong and it was one of the best nights of my life and here is everything that is different from the bbc recording/some stuff i want to remember/make note of

the preshow bits were so fun. i couldn’t see it all bc i was in the mezzanine but:

jonathan was going around chatting with people. chris came up and took him backstage, but he kept popping back out to talk

at one point both trevor and jonathan were climbing over the front rows. unclear why

trevor was drinking a beer

you could see max and dennis and sandra poking their heads around from the stage. max kept waving

robert was onstage trying to get the lights to work. they were doing something with a cable—they had the audience involved in feeding the cable back through the audience. again, couldn’t really see due to being in the mezzanine

one of the backstage people (actor, not for real) (im pretty sure she played annie in one of the broadway runs of the play that goes wrong!) was going around asking people if they had found a hammer. she made me check under my seat :) eventually she found it and lifted it up onstage to show everyone. everyone cheered for her :) then she pretended like she was going to throw it into the audience. good bit queen

at one point neil patrick harris was visible on the stage behind jonathan and jonathan seemed to think the cheers and applause were for him. good bit. in general i think the show is perfectly cast but greg tannahill is really a revelation. so perfectly charming yet smug

ok preshow bit over.

chris was even more sopping wet and pathetic than in the bbc version. he slipped on a puddle of “medicine.” he stabbed himself in the leg with scissors. he strangled himself with his own tie. he drank hand sanitizer

he was forced to drink hand sanitizer when he was [AGE AMBIGUOUS]

(cecco was supposed to hand hook a spyglass, rum, and a pistol. he handed him a rolled-up map, a bottle of hand sanitizer, and a program of “six” that nph tore into the shape of a gun—a “six-shooter.”)

a couple people in the front row came in late and chris stopped what he was doing to stare at them disapprovingly for a full ten seconds

later, when we booed him, chris called out the people in the front row, saying “don’t boo me, latecomers!”

instead of “pantomime”, the running joke was “family show”, and we just booed captain hook instead of “oh no it isn’t”/ “oh yes it is.” we did do “he’s behind you” though. and somebody did “do you need a hand.” i kind of do wish americans had the cultural context of pantomimes so we could do more of a call and response. also i think chris bean saying “oh yes it is” with increasing frustration is very funny. YES IT IS. OF COURSE IT IS. anyway it was still really fun to boo him

robert was the one who said it was a family show. “look how many children there are in the audience! child. child. ugly child”

chris bean, later, during the poison scene: “don’t boo me! robert was right, you are an ugly child!”

there was a whole undersea scene in the lagoon involving black lights and fluorescent fish and mermaids and such! typical goes wrong jokes (mermaid loses its head, jellyfish legs get tangled, fish fuse together to look like a dick and balls)

speaking of mermaids: max and dennis came out in mermaid costumes involving roller blades. matthew cavendish appears to be a pretty talented roller blader

i liked matthew cavendish’s performance as max! different then dave hearn but not in a bad way! there were no “snap snaps” but i actually prefer that, because it feels like a dave hearn thing. this guy was doing his own max, who was a little less of a ham and more a guy who is just having a silly time. i think dave’s max is a little smarter than matthew’s. dave’s max knows he’s fucking with chris—matthew’s max does not. i like them both.

when jonathan fell, a giant banner of “jack and the bean” (starring robert) also fell down, and chris yelled “intermission”

later, during the stage revolve bit, we see a banner of “rapunzel” featuring sandra’s ill-timed haircut

robert did the mr. bumble bit. hilarious bit of robert lore.

nph said something like “i fear that thing and the ways it may hurt me” re: the chair. he also climbed into it through the hole in the back. good chair bits. him being knocked unconscious during the final scene was just excellent. man fucking flew through the air

during annie’s electrocution, he “stalled” by (poorly) playing “being alive” on the recorder

during the poison scene chris had a little girl in the second row open the poison bottle and then said “you poisoned peter pan.” then annie pointed at the little girl later when jonathan asked who would do such a thing

robert’s “audition tapes” were played throughout during the sound cue errors. my favorite was his “uptight englishman” audition tape, which was basically “eughhhh im chris bean and i get to be the director AND the captain and i have thin reptilian hands” (at which point lucy reached out to feel his hands). also they played a bunch as we walked out. apparently robert has over 1000 audition tapes

during chris’ pan pipe “take one” recording, he called out something like “mother, have you seen my pan pipes instruction manual?” i just like the chris bean parents lore. raymond bean—racist?

trevor getting hit by the plank and hanging lifelessly was even funnier in person

when the boat was rocking back and forth chris got fucking LAUNCHED

when they made lucy “walk the plank”, she got absolutely hurled out of her wheelchair and trevor ran out to catch her. national hero. she clung to him like a koala. it was really cute. the audience cheered for him #trevorsweep

on the pirate ship, after “dennis you’re wearing the wrong costume”, dennis delivered an entire fight between a married couple. carl and jerry i think their names were? but i heard “she” at one point so maybe it was a “gerri” situation. one of them walked out. some lines i can remember (im probably misquoting, but this is the gist) “i’ve wasted years of my life with these people” “if you walk out, you’re not just walking out from this company, but from this marriage” “our marriage is a sham! you know it, i know it, even the kids know it” (to dennis) “hey little buddy. how you doing? i’ll be taking over. let’s take it from: aye, captain hook”

the final revolve bit was INCREDIBLE. i didn’t know where to look. when the stage started spinning faster and more out of control! sandra getting hit by the door twice! robert on fire again! the pirate pile-up!

by the time the stage stopped spinning, chris bean was just despondently lying on the top bunk. absolutely fantastic.

i feel really sad that this is probably the only time i will ever see the original mischief cast in…anything, since i don’t live in europe. i also feel really lucky that i got to see the original mischief cast!!! it was amazing! i was smiling the entire time! i kept having moments of “oh god this is really happening”

i tried to get my program signed but i was too far back in the crowd. Sad! but i did see chris leask, henry shields, greg tannahill, and matthew cavendish.

overheard at the stage door: a child asking his mother, “which is the guy whose pants fell down?” chris leask and greg tannahill were out. both of them had a pants incident. brilliant show 10/10 now THIS is theatre

harry kershaw as francis. you are my white whale. you know what they say you know what they say…put your trousers in the cabinet </3

i got this t shirt. i will treasure it forever and always.

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