#NOTE TO SELF. wide brim hat with ribbon

[albireon]

working on a new header

[sergeant-spoons]

22. A Shakespearean Twist

Olympia Bird

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​​​​​​​​ @chaosklutz​​​​​​​​ @wexhappyxfew​​​​​​​​ @50svibes​​​​​​​​ @tvserie-s-world​​​​​​​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​​​​​​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​​​​​​​ @whovian45810​​​​​​​​​ @brokennerdalert​​​​​​​​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​​​​​​​​ @claire-bear-1218​​​​​​​​ @heirsoflilith​​​​​​​​​ @itswormtrain​​​​​​​​​ @actualtrashpanda​​​​​​​​​ @wtrpxrks​​​​​​​​​

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The heatwave of Summer '41 finally broke in the last days of August. Weeks of humidity and wide-brimmed hats, rolled-up sleeves and swimsuits, and cold sandwiches and colder drinks came to a celebrated end. The residents and guests of the Bird Estate eagerly looked forward to a more comfortable September. One gloomy fact loomed over the two young courting ladies of the house, however, and it was the passage of time inevitably bringing college back into session. Antwon and David would be leaving for Harvard in two weeks to begin the fall semester. A sense of urgency dawned upon the two couples, and they began to spend more and more time exclusively with each other. By virtue of this shift, Antwon did not notice David's seemingly sudden interest in Olympia's everyday activities, and when David said he was going to invite her out for a day, his friend failed to think anything of it.

Now, he leaned in the doorway of Olympia's airy bedroom, watching her twist the ties of her dress behind her back as deftly as a practiced seamstress knotting her needlework. She had not yet spotted him, intent on her task. Two ribbons lay off-kilter, one tighter than the other. Evidently, she could feel the difference; there she went, pulling on one to even out the stretch. For a moment, he wondered how to tell her just how deeply he cared about every little thing she'd ever done, was actively doing, and would ever do. Then imaginings of her refusal silenced his hopes, and he tugged at his sleeves, newly self-conscious. Olympia paused, catching the motion and thus his reflection in the mirror, and he brought back his smile for her sake and hers alone.

"But soft," he murmured, "what light through yonder window breaks?"

He brought his thumb up to his neck and brushed it across his skin, remembering her lips there the night before. Encouraged by the smile ghosting across Olympia's lips, he went on.

"It is the East, and Juliet is the sun," he mused, his voice growing louder as he set foot into the room. "Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon-"

"-she who is already sick and pale with grief-"

"-that thou, her maid, art far more fair than she," they finished together, and Olympia giggled as David swept her into his arms. He nuzzled his face into her shoulder, exhaling with a happy hum.

"I like this dress," he said, touching its billowy fabric, "it reminds me of the clouds over the estate."

"Just these clouds?" she teased. "But you've only seen them this one summer."

"And I hope to see them plenty of summers ahead," he decreed, grinning into her collarbone as he picked her up and spun her about. She laughed, pawing at him affectionately, and he set her back down, pecking the side of her chin as he stepped back and eyed her almost reverentially.

"A few days ago, you said your father owned a sailboat." At her nod, he implored, "Come sailing with me."

"Sailing? Where?"

"The lake at the country club," he suggested, his eyes twinkling. "We'll go for the whole day, and no one can tell us to be home before sundown, and it'll be just you and me."

Olympia sighed dreamily, relaxing into his arms, and pressed a tantalizingly soft kiss to his lips.

"I would like that."

"Then let's do it," he murmured, chasing her lips as she pulled away.

"Yes," she said, her smile growing in tandem with his own, "let's."

Lake Abitibi was only an hour's drive from the estate, but it was far enough out of the way that no one of note would come looking. Mr. Carlisle was happy to drive them there without question as to their companionship, and clever Olympia knew he wouldn't speak a word of the jaunt once he was given leave to enjoy the facilities of the club up on the proper at his leisure. He paraded off to gossip and smoke with the other chauffeurs and Olympia and David strolled down to the lake far below. It was a small thing without a name, and the intended sailors were more interested in the small channel attached to the western side of the lake. It bent around the treeline and went along for two miles before opening up onto the magnificent, sparkling Abitibi. Private property of the country and yacht club, the greater lake was well-maintained and sparsely populated, exactly what the moneyed families who frequented the place liked to see. Best of all was the gondola system the club employed to transport their guests from the club and golf course to the docks of Lake Abitibi.

Olympia's father didn't even know how to sail, but all his rich friends owned a sailboat, and thus, so did he. The dockhands seemed pleasantly surprised when the heiress requested to take the boat out for the afternoon. She joked to David that this might be the vessel's maiden voyage and was endeared when he took her seriously. He made a show of ordering a ceremonial bottle of champagne to crack on the bow to celebrate, and when he ordered another bottle to actually drink, Olympia would have thought the whole display overly ostentatious had he not poured a glass for everyone present, dockhands very much included. They boarded the schooner with much fanfare and sailed away into the afternoon, taking with them a hamper packed to the brim with finger foods, cheeses, and bread from the club's very own delicatessen, several bottles of the finest wine from the Bird cellars, and, of course, a box of Olympia's favorite macarons.

But their trip wasn't really about the food (though it certainly made it all the merrier) or even the sailing. At the most base level, they'd come out here for some peace and quiet—and privacy. But while the sun shone, they'd play it coy, display their innocent friendship to any curious onlookers who might have a word to say to Mrs. Bird on the telephone later. Olympia had more fun with the whole sailing bit of the venture than she'd expected, even though she didn't have a clue what she was doing. Hardly a minute into their voyage, she almost received a nasty knock on the head by the swinging boom but managed to duck just in time, warned by David's alarmed urging. Once they were securely on their way, tacking to and fro across the lake from the east shore to the west, they both settled in, enjoying the ride. David got her to hold the rope, and she was puzzled until he put his arms around her and wrapped his hands around her own. She snuggled into his chest, smugly content, and she couldn't resist stealing a little kiss or two, even if it meant losing her grip on the rope. She managed to distract David, too, and the boom swung around when they weren't expecting it. Olympia nearly got hit (again), but David fielded off the boom with his hands and wrangled the rope until they were back on a steady westward course.

"You're not really supposed to do that," he mumbled, nuzzling a lazy kiss against her neck as she craned her head, basking doubly in the sunlight and his adoration. "You could hurt yourself or be knocked off the ship."

"But you weren't," she sighed, running her hands through his hair in the way she knew he liked. "My hero."

Olympia would happily boast that she'd learned plenty about sailing by the end of that day (she hadn't, not really), but one look at David—who actually knew what he was doing—and it was easy to pinpoint him as the professional. He did all of the real work while Olympia sat around and looked pretty in her favorite sunhat, flowy dress, and fashionable sandals. She spent quite a while admiring him—ogling the muscles in his arms as he handled the ropes, swooning at his gorgeous, windswept hair—and even longer kissing him silly. She painted her nails and convinced him to let her paint his thumb over a bruise he'd gotten the day before when he'd clumsily closed a closet door on his hand, trying to hide himself and Olympia mid-tryst from Antwon. As the day waned, they sated their hunger with the bits and baubles from the hamper, then settled down to watch the sunset. Olympia sat between David's legs, her head on his shoulder, and smiled as he pressed one soft kiss after another to her hair and forehead. He'd taken to rhythmically and innocently stroking her legs, and as they sat there, Olympia thought for the first time that he might love her.

The sunset was lovely but brief, just how Olympia wanted it, knowing as soon as twilight fell, all proprieties were to be abandoned. While there was yet orange light in the sky, David's hands began to slip to places other than her legs, places that made her squirm, all while his lips on hers kept her quiet. By the time the first stars came out, they'd all but forgotten that a world existed beyond the sailboat, and they stumbled belowdecks into the small but lavish captain's cabin to make the most of the night.

Five hours later, they were back on the dock, tugging on sandals and tipping the lone dockhand still on the clock. Under the silver light of the moon, they dashed up the hill in a haphazard line, cutting through the grass and onto the fake green. Hastening toward the sweeping steps and balcony of the country club, Olympia led the charge, feeling guilty for forgetting Mr. Carlisle. David was not far behind, picnic hamper in hand. The heiress' worries were soothed, however, when she ducked into the parlor and found her chauffeur asleep in an armchair twice the size of his person, cradling a bottle of wine. She woke him with an apology already slipping through her lips, but he waved her into silence, not minding the wait even when he realized the late hour.

"I had meself a whale of a time," he told her, getting to his feet and dusting off his uniform. "Any time ye want te go out fer the night, ye can count on me te drive ye—and yer beau."

He winked, and Olympia blushed a little but didn't deny it, knowing he'd keep the secret as well as any lockbox or safe. Mr. Carlisle wobbled on his feet and laughed at himself, looking down at his leg that had fallen asleep. For a moment, his employer was concerned as to his level of sobriety; as it turned out, Mr. Carlisle hadn't had a single drop from the bar, nor from the bottle in his arms. He informed her as they walked to the car, a relieved David right beside them, that he was afraid of someone taking this expensive wine from him, a gift from one of the serving girls after he sang her a few old Scottish tunes—or, as he said, "a few auld Scotty choons."

Their drive back was blessedly uneventful. The only other car they passed was a taxi heading into town, coming from the same direction as the only train station in the region. David fell asleep on Olympia's shoulder in the backseat, and when she leaned her head on his, she started to nod off as well. At some point, Mr. Carlisle had taken notice and turned the radio off to let the pair doze. They woke from their light slumbers as soon as they slowed down and took the wide turn into the long driveway to the estate, and did their best to look presentable while still rather sleepy. It was just after two in the morning when they crossed the threshold, hurrying to escape the cool, damp night. While Mr. Carlisle went to get himself a stout coffee from the unattended kitchen (for some peculiar reason, caffeine made him sleepy), Olympia and David drifted into the parlor, following the sounds and smell of a crackling fire. Fish the groundskeeper was still awake; as he tended to the flames under the mantel, he told them he hadn't felt right going to bed before Miss Rose came back from her dinner with Mr. McCree. Her surprise quickly morphing into unease, Olympia pointed out the hour, and Fish—an excitable man—quickly became anxious. Even more so than Olympia, sweet, down-to-earth, punctual Rose was the darling of the household; her peculiar lateness was easily grounds for concern.

Quickly piecing together what they knew didn't bring Olympia any sense of peace. Antwon and Rose had left for a nice dinner in town around six that evening. Having been granted permission by telegram to borrow his uncle's third-favorite car whenever he so desired during his stay at the Bird Estate, Antwon drove. They had plans to visit the bar and maybe have a dance or two before coming home. The thought that they'd elected to stay the night in town instead was outlandish, to say the least. Why would they want a hotel when they had perfectly good beds (and plenty of privacy) at the Estate? Steaming mug in hand, still wearing his coat, Mr. Carlisle poked his head back in and asked if there was anything he ought to do before heading to bed. Earl Gray, who'd been snoozing on the carpet in front of the fire, yawned, stretched, and went back to sleep, and Olympia started to cry. David was at her side in an instant, touching her arms and scanning her face for any sign of injury. She told him tearfully that she had a bad feeling about all this, and his expression switched like lightning from concern to decisiveness.

"I hate to ask more of you, sir," he said, and Mr. Carlisle was already setting aside his coffee before David had finished the request. He went straight away, grabbing his cap from the hook on the door and buttoning up his coat as he went out into the night. Earl Grey, woken when Fish backed into him by accident, jumped up and padded after the chauffeur, meowing confusedly at the front door when it was shut in his face. Olympia scooped him up and went back into the parlor as she stroked his back, but his purring only got her crying again. David drew her onto the couch, and they sat there, quietly discussing how Mr. Carlisle deserved nothing short of a bonus for his work tonight and how Olympia would see to it as soon as she could get around to the bank, anything to keep their minds off what they didn't know. Fish went to bed but said he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep and to come and get him if there was any news.  They promised they would, and he left.

Earl Grey fell asleep on Olympia's lap. The two humans he accompanied dozed on and off, taking turns to drift into a state of almost-dreaming until they realized the dream was about their missing friends and were promptly shocked awake. It was five minutes to four a.m. when the telephone rang. Olympia bruised her shin on the coffee table in her haste to pick it up, and as soon as Mr. Carlisle greeted her from the other end, she knew the news was nothing good. She grabbed David's hand and squeezed hard, and he wrapped his other arm around her back to steady them both.

"Ma heid’s mince," Mr. Carlisle said, and Olympia could hear the weariness in his chest from the tightness in his breath and the thickness of his usually mild accent. "All ma thoughts're like the fret rollin' in from te sea."

"Mr. Carlisle, tell me, has something happened?" Olympia pleaded, and David tightened his arm around her just a little, almost more tense than she was.

"Aye, there's been a row. Miss Rose is in hospital."

"What?!" Olympia gasped, her tears rising anew. "How?! Why?!"

"I dinnae ken," the chauffeur replied miserably, and if he didn't know, who could?

"What about Antwon?" the heiress pressed. "Where is he?"

"He's there, too." Mr. Carlisle turned aside to cough. "They willnae let 'im in te see her, though. Not me, neither. They think he's got somethin' te do wit' Rose gettin' hurt, and hurt bad."

Olympia went pale. Though David tried to rub her arm soothingly, she could feel the tremble of disbelief and anger he tried vainly to suppress. Hollow-voiced and wet-cheeked, Olympia thanked her chauffeur for the update and bade him come home. He started to say he'd be back before sunrise, but she interrupted and made him promise that if he felt like he was falling asleep at the wheel to pull over until the feeling passed. They said their goodbyes and as soon as the line went dead, Olympia fell back onto the couch, turning into David's shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her, and as she pawed at his chest, she wept for the thousand biting questions one non-answer had raised.

"What happened?" she sobbed, fisting his shirt. "What could have possibly led to this?"

"I don't know, darling." David tucked her snugly against his chest, doing his best to be strong for her but powerless against the shivers of dread that periodically wracked his body. "I just don't know."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[grave-avis]

Guys okay so I know this is a self ship blog but Tbh, first and foremost I am an OC creator and often feel awkward about writing fanfic (other peoples characters can be confusing! Shoutout to fanfic creators who nail it everytime)

Anyways I’ve been very fixated on the main trio of a story I’ve been working on for awhile and it would mean the world if I could get some asks about them? 👉🏻👈🏻

Image descriptions and typed out version of the text below!!

:readmore:

Image 1: at the top of the page is a drawing of a Crow named Gun, he is wearing striped pants, a vest, a bandana around his neck and a t-shirt. He has no wings. Text next to him notes that the outfit was stolen from a dead bartender. The rest of the text reads:

Gun he/him

Known as the outlaw/messiah

Easily annoyed, laughs when he’s mad, petty and has loose morals.

“An orphan stumbling aimlessly with a pistol and knowledge that the world is cruel and [god] is curler. His goal is to survive by all means necessary and his gift is luck/probability manipulation which he uses for aiming his gun! “

Image 2: Keaton is a red tailed Hawk with shaggy feathers and wide tired eyes. Keaton wears a wide brim hat like that of a scarecrow with a piece of wheat stuck in it. Keaton wears patchwork pants and a short sleeve flannel shirt. Keaton is trembling.

Text next to Keaton reads:

Keaton any/all pronouns

Known as the lantern bearer, Keaton is always trembling and is only still when genuinely terrified. Often paranoid and alert Keaton does not sleep and has strict morals.

“An ex-farmer who fears his past is full of sin, Keaton’s main goal is redemption.”

Keaton’s gift is minor time manipulation:)

Image 3:

Novac is a barn owl wearing a hat with a ribbon that hangs off the edge in a little bow, a dress with lace and floral ish designs covering it with a pouch hanging off her belt.

The text next to Novac reads:

Novac she/her

The pawn (it doesn’t say it in the image but I figured it out afterwards!!)

“A known con-artist and a pro at manipulation. She specializes in disguise and distractions. She’s out on the lam again and just wants to pay off a debt and settle. Her goal is to find some damn peace and quiet.”

Novac doesn’t have a determined gift yet :(

𝐎𝐂 𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐒!

feel free to tweak questions + all emojis r listed in text form bc i can't see some of them aAAaaAA! sorry if any of these questions are too similar i tried to avoid that but .. there's a lot lol! categorized by emoji type.

i wanted to make one because i could not find one on tumblr already that had a ton of questions. this was created by combining ones under the #oc ask game tag + my own contributions. hi charmymemes nation i'm back.

people

👁️ EYE - what colour are their eyes? do people notice their eyes? is there anything special about them (shows emotion easily, literally magical...)?

🤥 LYING - are they good liars? do they have tells to show they're lying?

👻 GHOST - do they believe in ghosts? what are their "ghostly experiences", if any?

💥 COLLISON - what emotions do they have trouble dealing with?

😭 CRYING - what makes them cry? do they cry easily?

👊 PUNCH - are they quick to violence?

💢 ANGER - what are some habits they have that will take some getting used to?

👪 FAMILY - what is their family like? what is your ocs relationship to them? does your oc have any siblings?

😨 FEARFUL - when scared, do they go into "flight" or "fight"?

💤 SLEEPING - do they fall asleep easily? what helps them sleep?

food & drinks

🥞 PANCAKE - what is their comfort breakfast?

🎂 BIRTHDAY CAKE - when is their birthday? do they like celebrating it?

🍩 DONUT - favourite sweet treat?

🍟 FRIES - do they order food often? or they prefer to cook their own food?

☕️ HOT BEVERAGE - do they prefer hot or cold drinks? what is their favourite drink?

🍓 STRAWBERRY - do they eat their fruit & veg? what is their favourite fruit or vegetable?

🍰 CAKE SLICE - favourite cake flavour? are they specific about types of cakes?

🍧 SHAVED ICE - do they still have any objects from their childhood? what significance does it have to them? what would their reaction be if they lost it?

plants & nature

💐 BOUQUET - create a bouqet for them! what do those flowers mean? are any of the flowers their particular favourite?

🌙 MOON - what is your oc's greatest wish? how far are they willing to go for it?

��� VOLCANO - how bad is their temper? is it a slow boil, or a instant explosion?

🌺 HIBISCUS - do they have any allergies?

🍁 MAPLE LEAF - what is their favourite season? why?

🍃 FALLING LEAF - do they enjoy being in nature? what is their favourite outdoor activity?

☀️ SUN - are they a morning person? what is the first thing they do in the morning?

🕷️ SPIDER - what is their biggest fear? do they have any irrational / mundane fears?

🌹 ROSE - do they like valentines day? have they been confessed to before? have they confessed to anyone before?

🙈 SEE-NO-EVIL - whats a side of your oc that they don't want to show other people?

🙊 SPEAK-NO-EVIL - what is something your oc will refuse to stay quiet about?

🙉 HEAR-NO-EVIL - what is the worse thing your oc could hear from someone?

🌱 SEEDLING - what is their most vivid memory from childhood?

🍀 CLOVER - do they believe in luck? are they lucky?

🌏 EARTH - will they give up the world for someone they love? is this decision easy for them?

🌌 MILKY WAY - what was the inspiration behind your oc? what was the first thing you decided about them?

activity

⚾ BASEBALL - can they play sports? what is their best position if they play a team sport? what's their strong suit (speed, power etc.)?

🏊 SWIMMING - can they swim? or are they afraid of water? how well do they swim? how do they feel about swimming in the ocean?

objects

📣 MEGAPHONE - how loud are they? what do they speak like? got a voice claim?

📖 OPEN BOOK - do they like reading? what's their favourite genre?

🪤 MOUSE TRAP - what will always lure them into certain danger? a loved one in danger? a promise of something they are always searching for?

📸 CAMERA - do they enjoy having their picture taken? what's their go-to pose? do they like taking photos? what do they take photos of?

🎭 MASKS - do they act differently around certain people? what's different between the way they act around friends, family, strangers, etc.?

✂️ SCISSORS - what is the "last straw" for them to cut someone out of their life? how easily do they let go of people?

💡 LIGHTBULB - is your oc a planner? do they write down every small detail or just wing it?

💎 DIAMOND - how rich are they? can they live the lifestyle they want to?

🎁 PRESENT - what types of presents would they be most happy to receive? are they good at gift giving?

🍼 BABY BOTTLE - what are their thoughts on children?

🔪 KNIFE - how do they react to injury / misfortune befalling their loved ones (significant other, family, friends)? do they put themselves at blame?

👑 CROWN - what does your oc want to be remembered as? why?

✏️ PENCIL - is there a particular quote / lyric that you associate with them?

🎵 MUSIC NOTE - what is their playlist like? their favourite artists? do you associate a particular song with them?

🎤 MICROPHONE - are they good at singing? what is their go-to karaoke song?

🎷 SAXOPHONE - do they play any instruments? are they any good at it?

📚 BOOKS - how were they at school? what is their best subject? what is their worst subject? do they have a favourite subject?

👖 JEANS - what is their go-to outfit?

🎨 PALETTE - can they draw? what do they like to draw?

🎡 FERRIS WHEEL - are they someone who wants to kiss at the top of the ferris wheel?

⏳ HOURGLASS - are they usually late or on-time?

🔫 PISTOL - do they trust people easily? how easily will they turn their back to someone? have they been backstabbed before? will they betray someone if given an ultimatum?

🎀 RIBBON - how would they fit into other worlds / aus? what aus would you like to try out? what fictional world would they fit / not fit into?

📎 PAPERCLIP - a random fact.

📦 PACKAGE - what are some "most likely to..." that can apply to them?

🖍️ CRAYON - what advice would you give to them?

⚙️ GEAR - what are your ocs thoughts on science & art? which do they give more importance to? how much value do they place on each?

🔧 WRENCH - are they good at fixing relationships? or do they tend to avoid doing so?

❇️ SPARKLE - what is their most prized possession? what do they value?

📏 RULER - is your oc well educated? where did they get their learning from?

transport

🚆 TRAIN - what is their answer to the trolley problem?

🚲 BICYCLE - can they ride a bike? what do they remember from learning to ride a bicycle?

weather

🌩️ LIGHTNING - are they scared of lightning?

💧 DROPLET - random angst headcanon

❄️ SNOWFLAKE - do people consider them cold? if so, what made them this way?

🌪️ TORNADO - what is the biggest change you've ever made to them? how have they changed from their original version?

🌈 RAINBOW - what advice would they give to their younger self?

🔥 FIRE - do they have any self destructive tendencies? what habits do they have that hinder them from becoming their best self?

☁️ CLOUD - a soft headcanon

🌟 GLOWING STAR - what do they think about when they look at the night sky? is there someone they want to star gaze with?

🌠 SHOOTING STAR - if they could make any wish with no repercussions, what wish would they make?

☄️ COMET - what do people assume about them? are they right?

hearts

💓 BEATING HEART - what gets their heart racing?

💘 HEART W/ ARROW - what traits do they look for in a relationship? do they believe in love at first sight?

💗 GROWING HEART - if they have a crush, is it noticable? what changes when they're in love?

❤️ RED HEART - their love language(s)?

💙 BLUE HEART - do they miss their s/o easily? how do they act when their s/o isn't around?

💚 GREEN HEART - what things make your oc feel comforted? hugs, kisses, food?

💖 SPARKLING HEART - are they a subtle or a showy lover?

💌 LOVE LETTER - do they like love letters? what kind of messages do they leave for their partner?

💔 BROKEN HEART - what could their partner do that would absolutely break their heart?

[full-moon-phoenix]

Olivia and the Shadows

Hssss!

The metal door slid closed behind her, locking itself and the room airtight. She couldn't help but look back at it, and when she turned forward again, she was no longer alone. Or, rather, her shadow wasn't alone. Two more emanated from her body, one with round ears and a top hat, the other with rabbit ears. Freddy and Bonnie? 

Olivia felt weighed down, as if the shadows were a part of her body. It was a dreadful, suffocating weight, akin to spiritual emptiness, depression, and overall hopelessness. Seeing William for what he truly was helped her to see that pure evil did exist in this world…and now she knew it was here in this room. Surely it must be, for what darkness could drain light and life this quickly, this immensely?

She gulped. "Hello?"

A whisper surrounded her. Two, in fact, coming from everywhere and nowhere.

"Ah, he finally brought her!"

"No...different aura. Similar, but it's not who we need."

"Who are you talking about?" She couldn't keep her voice from wavering, but stood still. 

The shadows moved, twisting themselves to opposite walls on either side of her body. They spoke in unison, "The third child."

I don't understand. But deep in her core she knew, even if she didn't want to.

"It's Elizabeth!" Jeremy exclaimed over the intercom. "Dad has three kids now."

Olivia inhaled deeply, then exhaled for eight seconds. She had to calm her nerves somehow. Standing up straight, she cleared her throat and asked for their help.

"What does William want with my daughter? What's he planning?"

The shadows circled her until they swapped places. Then light shone from their faces. No, not light. Emptiness, a hole in the darkness. The holes took shape into wide grinning mouths, filled to the brim with sharp teeth.

"Knowledge. William Afton seeks the key to power, which, since the beginning of time, has always been knowledge. But our knowledge comes with keys of its own, and such keys come with a price."

"And let me guess: I need to pay a price to learn," Olivia said.

A singular voice seemed to emanate from the rabbit. "Not necessarily."

The next voice, the bear, spoke up. "We simply need a vessel to show you." 

Their heads rose to look at the mirror, the one-way glass which Jeremy stood behind. Real useful there, Will. Olivia stood in front of it and held out her arms to shield it. She would never let them take Jeremy, even for something as simple as knowing William's plan. 

"No," she commanded. She held her hand toward the rabbit. "Let me do it."

The rabbit's hand reached to hold her shadow's. She swore she could feel it in her skin. Indeed, her arm then rose up above her head. It twisted, and her body twirled around three times. She put a leg out to keep herself balanced. Then she was dipped, held by nothing, but her shadow was held tenderly by the rabbit's shadow. Compassionate as it looked, she felt disgusted rather than flattered. 

It lifted her back up and forced her to hold out her hand, reaching for something. She looked at her shadow on the wall, and saw her hand was reaching toward the other two shadows. They held something in their hands. Keys?

"Long ago," the bear began, its dreadful voice in a permanent low growl. "William Afton came to us seeking knowledge of the power he calls Remnant."

Fairy dust. They must be referring to fairy dust.

Indeed, the keys evaporated into dust, which was carried across the room on a breeze. It materialized off the wall and into the air, faint shiny red sparkles like dying stars floating around her body. She spun on her toes among the swirling red mist, hands above her head. Suddenly she felt herself crumble to the ground, doubled over crouching, hands on her heart. Something inside her screamed with the might of a thousand souls, vibrating through her stomach and chest, begging for release.

The rabbit spoke, its whispy voice full of pure malevolence, of chaotic pleasure. "Remnant: the power of agony."

Her hands rose to her head as she rose up from the floor.

The bear continued, "The debt he accrued in his pursuit was not of this world. We agreed to help him, but in return he needed three souls with aura similar to his own to achieve this knowledge. So he sought- and seduced -three women to begin to pay back his debt."

Olivia's hands grabbed at thin air, her shadow's fingers entwining with that of the rabbit's. She took a step forward, then slid to the right. Back, then to the left. Her ballet had become a waltz. The shadows morphed into a man and three women. Malice radiated from it so similar to the man who'd tried to kill her, she could only assume it was indeed representing William. The leftmost woman stepped forward.

"Lupe Fitzgerald," the rabbit stated in a wistful voice. "A bold and ambitious spirit, lured in with promises of power and fame."

The waltz grew faster, then Olivia was turned around, invisible hands wrapped around her shoulders in an intimate embrace. The shadows switched to the wall in front of her. The first woman stepped back while the second stepped forward. 

"Lisa Schmidt. A timid and gentle spirit, lavished with compliments and praises. Her self esteem played a magnificent part in her seduction."

She was spun around again, no longer in a waltz, but a seductive tango. The second woman stepped back while the third stepped forward. Her own shadow, no longer attached to her body.

"And then there's you, the brave and passionate one, lured in by confidence, humility, and charm. Olivia Lauren Abernathy…"

She was thrown backward, held in place by only her right hand. Her body dipped back, vision going upside down. She caught her reflection in the mirror, and it looked nothing like her. An adult-sized porcelain doll stared back, blue hair wrapped in a bun, white cheeks dimpled with blotches of red. 

She could hear a grin in the rabbit's voice as he ended his speech. "...his precious Ballora."

"His new project," Olivia breathed, turning right side up again. 

She got a better look at the doll. A tiara of pearls rested on her hair, plum eyelids closed. The doll wore a blue leotard with a plum tutu, ribbons accentuating shapely calves as they tied down to blue ballet shoes.

"Is this how he sees me?" Olivia asked incredulously, horrified. "Just some pretty porcelain doll?" She growled and held up her left hand, ready to strike the mirror. "I am not your doll!" she yelled.

But she was pulled backwards, spinning back into a ballet. Her breathing had become heavier, strained from all the constant movement, and her toes were in searing pain from dancing on them without her en pointes. She leapt into the air, preparing to land back on her feet, but was instead carried and spun by the unseen force. It set her back down gracefully.

"You're the first to truly catch his eye, to spark his inspiration. It started with the Minireenas, then turned into his beautiful Ballora."

Olivia hated the idea of being part of his attraction. But then the rabbit said something she'll never forget.

"We can't wait for the Remnant your child will give us."

She gasped. "That's what he wants with us. He needs our children to pay back his debt." Her body kneeled again, holding out her hands with her head bowed.

"That was the deal," the dreadful voice of the bear echoed. "The souls of three of his children. The first two were brought here as mere babes, a little piece of their soul given to us. We've slowly been collecting the dust of their agony over their lives." 

The shadow moved over to the mirror and seemed to pound on it. It growled, "And one day, we will come to claim what's left of you."

"Get away from him!" she yelled. Through her panting breaths she strained, "You can't have my daughter. William never sold her soul."

They both grinned again. "Not yet."

"No!"

Her screams echoed across the room, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere just like the voices of the shadows. She wrestled herself free from the unseen force, doubling over with her hands on the floor. Her breaths heavy, her muscles aching, her spirit burning. Her hands clenched into fists. She would never let William Afton have her daughter.

"I don't want to dance anymore. I have to stop him. Get Elizabeth out of town before he tries to bring her here."

"Ah," they spoke in unison. "But we can help you. We'll make sure that never happens...for a price."

"Forget it! I'm never making a deal with you."

The shadows evaporated into the red dust again. It floated across the room and into her nose and mouth. Her head leaned upward, and she was overwhelmed with a sense of euphoria. She wanted more of the dust. She needed it. No. Olivia shook her head.

"Not for all the fairy dust in the world. Not even for the safety of my daughter. You'll probably just ask for her soul in the end, anyway."

"Reconsider, little one," the bear said. "For she will not be spared."

The rabbit spoke, "She will not be saved."

"I'm not trusting you with anyone's life! You're just like him."

She lurched upward, and started spinning on her toes again. "Stop! I can't do this anymore!" 

Her heart pounded from the exhaustion. From the stress. From the need to get out of this room. She never should've entered in the first place. She already knew she had to keep Elizabeth away from William. Now she put both herself and Jeremy in danger for information she barely even needed.

"Liv, I have an idea!" Jeremy's voice rang out from the intercom. "Remember Dad's notes? It said something about the heat, right? Just hold on!"

The temperature in the room slowly rose, but whether from Jeremy's idea or her own exhaustion she couldn't tell. She couldn't keep this up. Olivia fought against the force with all her might, jerking back and forth, side to side. She looked for something, anything in the room to hold onto. But nothing. Just when she thought she couldn't dance anymore, the force started to weaken. She wrenched herself free and crumbled to the ground in a ball, desperate to keep every limb close to her body and never let go.

The weight of the shadows seemed to disappear. She peeked up, and they were still in the room, but now they were still, no longer grinning. Her own shadow was on the wall opposite to them, and she loosened her body to try and stand up. She stumbled toward the wall, and leaned against the mirror. Her ghastly doll reflection slowly morphed back into her own, and through her strained breaths and sweaty, sticky body she chuckled just a little. The heat may have been unbearable, but the worst was over. 

Using the wall as support, she took baby steps toward the door. It hissed again and slid open. She stepped out and let the door close behind her. She was greeted not with a relieved teenager, but one wrought with tears. What had she expected? He just found out his own father sold his soul to some kind of demonic force. He ran toward her and wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his head into her stomach. She leaned on him for support, but otherwise squeezed him back and rubbed the back of his head, supporting him. 

"It's okay, kid. We're gonna be okay."

"No, it's not," he sniffled. "I saw it on the camera. I saw everything. I'm sorry."

Sorry? For what? "What do you mean?" She put her hands on Jeremy's cheeks. "Tell me: what did you see?"

"I didn't tell Dad about Elizabeth! I swear!" He rubbed the tears from his eyes. "But...but Mike did."

[writingchalamet]

In The Hills part II

A/N: hello I’m so sorry this has taken so long to write I’ve had a lot on my plate the last few weeks, I’ve sadly had a death in the family and have been over run at work so have only been writing in my spare time (which isn’t a lot) I’d just like to say thank you to everyone who has taken time to read my work, and followed me it’s the one thing putting a smile on my face at the moment. Thank you I hope you enjoy, let me know if you want part 3. ��

Part I

Weeks had past and Timothée had made it his mission to see you as often as possible. He’d meet you outside the dress makers shop and take you for strolls in the meadows, or coming and reading to your sisters. He’d planted himself firmly in your families life in the few weeks you’d known him. Today was no different, the sun hung high over the village, blades of grass from the hills almost glittering in the light. Timothée had asked if he could take you into town, there was a book store he had mentioned, and he wanted to introduce you to his sister.

You were nervous to say the least. You had heard plenty of his family and their views on the lower class but he assured you his sister would be more than accepting. This eased your nerves slightly but you couldn’t help the unease of the day ahead. 

Adorned in a black corseted button down dress, you tied the top half of your hair away from your face with a matching black ribbon, small curls framing your face. You step into the kitchenette area, your heals clicking against the concrete floor. A short gasp fell from your mothers lips. She rushed over to you puffing out your sleeves a tad more, brushing down the front of your dress. You let out a laugh at her motherly tenderness stepping away from her grabby hands. “You look lovely dear, I would wear a different colour however, black makes you look ever so pale” you rolled your eyes. 

“I believe it suits her well” You hear from the doorway, there he stood in all his glory, a sister either side of him clutching at his legs. They look up at him wide eyed then back to you. “Thank you Timothée” you wrap your arms around your mother pecking a kiss on her cheek before trotting towards Tim. 

His arm extends towards you, pulling you into a hug, his lips meet your cheek for a brief moment before remembering the children bellow staring up in awe. “well goodbye!” You wave your hand practically pulling Timothée out the door. A manned horse and carriage stood at the end of the front garden. Timothée took your hand and helped you inside the carriage, stepping in afterwards the coachman closing the door behind.

 The dirt from the road flicked up from the wheels of the carriage, passing through each of the villages. Soon stopping in a more built up area, you look out of the window seeing the socialites wandering round the streets, their gowns swaying with each step they took.  There was a warm buzz in the air, the confirmation that spring had arrived, ladies carrying parasols to protect them from the suns cool and pleasant rays. The carriage came to a halt, Timothée gaining your attention again as he looked your way. You stare into his swirling green orbs for just a moment, before the carriage door is ripped open revealing a stream of sun light into the carriage. 

You shuffle over towards the door, allowing the coachman to aid you down, Timothée following, your head spinning round at the frenzied movement of the town. You could practically smell the opulence of the men in top hats and their overly perfumed ladies walked along beside them. Your eyes widened in child like manner, you had never experienced anything like this before. 

“Well shall we go and have a look around before my dear sister comes to join us?” His smile never fading for a second while he spoke. His hand slipped into yours, fingers running over your knuckles. You nodded your head eagerly, allowing him to lead the way. You wandered through the busy streets, fascinated by the colours and the atmosphere, the town hosted many stores and tea rooms, along with the beautiful scenery of the flowers and blossoming trees, the sun beating down on you, you feel your skin start to glisten. 

“Y/n this is the bookstore I was telling you about” Your eyes set themselves on a small dark wooded store, a with a gold hand painted sign hung above the door, Timothée gives your arm a slight nudge a soft giggle falling from his lips. “let’s go inside” proceeding into the building you take in a sharp breath at the sight of the array of books collected. Cabinets standing ceiling high stacked to the brim with books. The architecture of the building its self was beautiful, gorgeous oak wood filled the shop, a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling and the broad windows allowed the sunlight to flow right in. 

“I’d like for you to pick out some books to take home Y/n” your head spun to him, a gracious and humble look lay on his face. “How do you expect me to pick anything when there are so many beautiful books here Mr Chalamet?” You teased him squeezing his hand slightly before letting go beginning your search. Timothée made idle conversation with the bookstore keeper. You ran your finger along the top of the books stopping at one, you slide the book out of the cabinet and inspect it further. You distantly hear the door opening and closing but remain too engrossed in the detailing of the book cover to care to much. 

“Vanity Fair, now that is an interesting book”You jumped almost dropping your book before clutching it to your chest looking towards the stranger. “Pardon Sir you startled me” nodding your head He wore darker features, hair neatly brushed away from his face, deep brown eyes, you could tell his clothes were expensive, it was the odd combination of colour that intrigued you, he wore a white shirt with a maroon coloured waistcoat embroidered in black and gold flowers. His neck scarf was gold and he finished the look with black tapered trousers and an overcoat. You had never seen a man dress quite so flamboyantly, it was more the women that wore the brightly coloured heavily laced garments but you thought he was an interesting character.

“No the fault lies with me miss, have you ever read that before?” nodding his head towards the book in your hand which you had almost forgotten about. “No I haven’t sir, is it any good?” drawing your eyes away from it to meet his eyeline again. “It’s fantastic, quite enjoyable” You jump slightly when you felt the contact of Timothée’s arm snaring its way around your waist. A tingle erupted in your stomach at the feeling of his hands holding you somewhere other than your arm, a blush crept up your face making you feel hot.

“Harold Alderidge, how are you?” the words seething as they passed his tongue. His grip became a little tighter on you as ‘Harold’ took a step closer to the both of you. “Timothée my boy, I’m well, didn’t you hear the news, I’m set to inherit the Clifton manor come my uncles death, shouldn’t be long now the poor bastard, I’ll be one of the wealthiest men in the country.” The arrogance rung in his voice “What’s your name little dove” He turned to you, raising a finger under your chin, you snap your head away, recoiling more into Timothée’s side.

“This is Miss Y/n L/n” Harold let out a hum eyes looking to ceiling a brief moment. “L/n, hmm, don’t tell me you’re running around with commoners now Chalamet?” He let out a scoff “Although I can see why the fascination, she is a beauty” eyeballing you up and down. Thankfully not for too long, Timothée let out a huff, pulling you towards the door with him, you didn’t give him a second glance hearing a sarcastic “It was a pleasure-” before the door slammed cutting him off.

Stepping outside into the sun again Timothée let out a sigh of relief, facing towards you, his hands raised to your cheeks, making sure your attention was fully on him, you couldn’t help the blush from once again rushing to your cheeks “Are you okay, my love” his worried eyes searched yours for any concern. You lifted your hands to meet his, laughing “I’m more than alright, Timothée, you need not worry about me so much” Your words soothing him, you took his hands from your face linking your fingers with his. Fingers tightening their grip on yours. You felt is breath on your face, your own hitching in your throat. His eyes staggering between yours and your lips. he drops his head his lips meeting yours for the first time. They were soft and plump, you hadn’t felt anything like it before. Your hands raised to his face stroking his cheeks, to deepen the kiss. His arms entangled themselves around your waist, pulling you towards him.

He placed several kisses on you before pulling away. A nervous smile on his face, “I apologise I couldn’t help my feelings” you leaned forwards placing another delicate kiss on his lips. “I couldn’t help mine either”

The tea room was filled with nothing short of luxury furnishings, flowers sitting in vases on every table and every window bay possible, chandeliers filling the room. You observed the people and their mannerisms attempting to take notes in your slightly scrambled brain before his sisters arrival. Just their subtle nuances of how they pick up a tea cup or eat a piece of cake, there seemed to be so much mechanical movement involved almost.

You sat at a table by a big open bay window, lace table cloths and doilies filled the table along with floral printed china. Timothée sat waiting patiently looking around the room, while you adapted a new nervous tick of some sort, your leg hadn’t stopped shaking since you had sat down. Timothée takes your hand in his giving it a gentle squeeze before rising from his chair, causing a scraping sound across the floorboards. “There she is” standing now with his arms open and a large grin across his face to greet his sister.

You stood as well, nodding your head to her with a shy smile on your cheeks. “Pauline it’s so good to see you!” She embraces him in warm hug. You noticed the family resemblance immediately, they shared the same facial bone structure, eyes, mouth shape and smile even. She was beautiful just like her brother. “It is so lovely to finally make your acquaintance, I am Pauline” she offers her hand to you, you can sense her kind nature and graciously take her hand dropping into a somewhat curtsy. “Lovely to meet you, I’m Y/n” she took your hand a little tighter, pulling you up from your bowed position.

“Now let’s sit” perching on one of the floral cushioned seats, Timothée took a seat beside you taking your hand in his. His feelings for you were undeniable to his sister, a soft smile planted on her face. “Being in love agrees with you Timothée, I don’t think i have ever seen you this happy, not in a long time at least”

You felt a warm rush come across your face at the mention of Timothée being in love with you. His hand tightened around yours for a moment. “What can I say, she is rather spectacular” A single curl fell from its brushed back position down onto his face, you lifted your fingers gently moving the strand behind his ear. Your heart swelled as your eyes met his, Timothée giving you a look of endearment.

“Do mother and father know?” A question you had been dying to know the answer to for weeks. You noticed Pauline’s head drop slightly, an obvious awkwardness lingered in the air. “Yes, they’ve heard whispers as such, it’s fair to say they aren’t too contented with the news but when have they ever been happy with the decisions we’ve made?” She giggled.

“They are trying to marry me off to Andrew Vanderson” A defeated sigh falls from her parted lips, you notince her sinking into herself. “The Lord!” You couldn’t help the high pitched tone in your voice, this new high society life was something you’d have to get accustomed to. The room fell silent for a second and people turned they’re heads slightly to gaze upon your table.

“As if they didn’t have enough money on their own they need Andrew Vanderson and his fortune to keep the family going” her eyes roll almost to the back of her head displaying her annoyance at the situation. “Defy them, come and stay with me at the cottage, let us cause a little chaos!” Timothée slams his hands on the table causing the cutlery to shake and a loud bang to erupt in the air. Pauline laughs shaking her head at her brothers boisterous behaviour.

“It is easy enough for a man to run away from his problems, you can go out into this world and pave your own path, it’s not so easy for woman, we must rely on others for financial support. Father has promised that if I don’t marry Andrew Vanderson I will lose my dowery, who will want to marry me then, I’ll be penniless.” She stropped her eyes were expressionless for a moment before realising what she had said.

“Y/n I didn’t mean t-“ you interrupted “if you’ll excuse me for one moment” clearing your throat you stood up from your chair, walking through the tea room for the door, your heals scraped along the floorboards barely picking your feet up as you walked. You reached the outside of the tea room and took a deep breath.

You knew she meant no harm but her words were a real kick in the teeth. You yourself held no dowery and had little money to your name, we’re you really, as she put it, unworthy of love or marriage. You’d hoped that Timithée didn’t share the same shallow views, your feelings for him were intense with no signs of slowing down but if he had no intentions to progress any further with you was there any point. It wasn’t long before you felt Timothée’s breath on the back of your neck. Letting out a sigh you turn around to face him.

“She didn’t know what she was saying” He explains his hands raising slightly in the air. “Please don’t make excuses for people Timothée it’s just something I’m going to have to get used to. If I’m going to be apart of your world I need to be accustomed to adversity, I just wasn’t expecting it that’s all” Timothée takes your hand and raises to his lips gently pressing a kiss to your knuckles, putting the faintest bit of a smile on your face.

“Would you care to come back to the cottage with me?” You sucked in a large breath nodding your head. You had never been out with Timothée for this long, your outtings usually only lasted an hour or so before he insisted on bringing you home to your father, he was a very punctual man. You heard Timothée whistle for his carriage, you took one last look at the picturesque scene before you, at the pinks in the blossom trees, and tall building and all the ladies in their feathered hats and satin gloves. Your parents had always spoken poorly of the rich and their fruitful lifestyle, but you felt it was something you could get accustomed with.

You were waiting in Timothée’s living room for him while he made yet another cup of tea. You could tell something was on his mind, as soon as you got home there was a letter written in cursive addressed to him. He read the letter going over every detail about 3 times before he started angrily murmuring to himself and pacing around the house.

He walks through the door placing the tea cups down, Marian following behind him with a tea tray and all the utensils. “Thank you Marian, that will be all” he dismisses her, she nods her head turning to give you a pleasant smile befor she stalks out of the room. It was silent apart from the sound of tea being poured and the distant clutter of whatever Marian was up to in the kitchen.

“Timothée what is wrong my dear?” You ask careful not to press too hard, hoping he’ll open up on his own. “Nothing just a letter, that’s all nothing to worry about” he rambles, his hands fumbling with themselves his breathing was rigid, you could tell he was still bothered by whatever it was he saw on that piece of paper. “Please Timothée you know you can tell me and not face judgement?” You tilt your head to the side your expression softened as if to coax it out of him.

With shaky hands he hands you the letter, his eyebrows furrowed his fingers wrap around your wrist before you can read the letter, your eyes meet his and you notice his mood change “please don’t take anything they say to heart, just know that they are ignorant people who don’t care for other people’s happiness” Your heart dropped as he spoke those words wondering who the the mysterious letter was from. Your eyes scanned over the paper a few times, tears slowly filling your eyes.

The details were too much to bare after the afternoon you’d had. The words ‘disgusted by your behaviour’ and ‘the thought of our good, hard working son settling with street scum fills us with abhorrence” the letter was filled with more abuse following those lines, speaking ill of your family and you yourself. The letter was signed by Timothée’s father, the stabbing pain in your chest only worsened after reading the name. You didn’t know what you had done to deserve such hatred towards you, your eyes welled up, dropping the letter you practically leaped out of the house.

Timothée sprinted behind you not talking him long to catch up. “Y/n please...please listen to me if I could just have one more moment of your time” he took your delicate wrists into his strong hands, scared to grip them any tighter. “Am I really so repulsive, do you my family not work as hard as yours if not harder? While your father sits in his mansion drinking whiskey and playing poker my father is out working trying to feed his family. Yet we’re the scum. How dare he!” Your voice screaches almost the hot tears roll down your face.

“I think I should invite them over and have them meet you” you interrupted him before he could finish his sentence. “Are you insane? Or do you think I’m insane that I would allow myself to be subjected to their abuse for an entire afternoon.” You shook your head taking your hands out of Timothée’s, you begin to walk away before he pulls you back to his chest, before you have time to protest his hand raises up to bring your face close to his. He closes the gap before you have time to react.

His lips smash into yours taking you by suprise, you pucker your lips meeting his rhythm, his jaw relaxes slightly after realising you were reciprocating his invite, you lifted your hands up to caress the sides of his face, one of them reaching round to the back of his neck playing with his curls. His own hands dropping from your face to take a grip on your waist .

Your lips part feeling his making their loving assault on yours. He pulled away slightly placing a few more pecks on your lips then finally pulling away. “I want to introduce my parents to the woman I wish to marry one day, I do not care for their blessing, I simply want them to see how beautiful and intelligent you are, if after meeting you they still share the same bigoted views, I’ll tell them I never want to hear from them again. Not if they can’t accept the woman I love” the words rang heavy in your ears. Especially the last sentence, he loved you. Timothée had admitted his feelings for you so blatantly and all you could do was stare back at him in awe, the words caught in the back of your throat.

I love you.

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ @sasuhinabigflash2020​​ || Day Fifteen: Turnip Soup ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata, Yamanaka Ino, Haruno Sakura ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: A Light Amongst Shadows ] [ AO3 Link ]

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For the first time in far too long, Hinata is having a girls’ day. And not just any girls’ day, but a potluck to boot!

With everyone’s busy schedules, getting a day to align to allow the four of them to meet up has been ridiculously difficult. Between Sakura’s haphazard shifts at the hospital to Ino’s work with the interrogation department to Tenten’s shop, coordinating has been a nightmare. Hinata, for her part, has tried to be flexible. Her work with Sasuke and the rest of the Hyūga to keep the civilians of Konoha safe hasn’t exactly been easy, but her new husband does his best to accommodate her.

So, finally, after weeks of near-misses, they have a day: Saturday. And Ino, with her connections to Konoha parks’ botanical group, managed to arrange a private spot in one of the village’s largest public gardens for the afternoon.

It’s going to be perfect!

And Hinata has gone all-out. Rising at the crack of done to have it finished in time, she’s made an old recipe of her mother’s: homemade turnip soup. Alongside from-scratch cinnamon buns, she’s sure to contribute to the miserable fullness they’ll all be feeling by the end of the day. She packs up bowls and utensils for her share, double checking she has everything she needs.

“Ready to go?”

Turning to Sasuke, she gives him a bright smile. “I think so! Sorry you can’t come…”

“It’s called a girls’ day for a reason. And I’m not sure I’d fit in, regardless.”

At that, Hinata pouts. “Of course you would. But...maybe you and the rest of the guys could have a day to get together…?”

Sasuke’s expression immediately sours. “Not sure I’d enjoy their idea of a ‘fun’ evening. Probably pigging out on greasy food and cheap beer.”

A giggle escapes her. “You’re probably right...still, I feel bad.”

“Trust me, I don’t feel slighted.” A hand threads fingers in her hair, resting against the rear of her head to steady her as lips gently press to her brow. “Go have fun.”

She beams softly. “Okay...I left you a portion of soup for supper, okay?”

“Thanks, Hinata.”

“Bye!” Giving a little wave, she packs up her things and heads out the door.

As per usual, the Konoha Summer has been hot. And today is no exception. Despite her demure style, Hinata has deemed a sundress necessary attire for the heat. White with a bit of lilac floral print, it’s still decent enough for her tastes. Reaching her knees with a medium neckline, the straps are several inches wide. Enough to keep cool, but not too much for her self-conscious self. Flat white sandals replace her typical on-duty boots. She even went so far as to paint her nails a soft lavender color.

And to top it all off, she’s got a wide-brimmed white hat to shade her face, accented with a purple ribbon.

...okay, maybe she put a lot of thought into this outfit, but...she wants to look nice! Especially since Ino always looks pretty...while Hinata’s not usually the dress-up sort, there’s a sort of unspoken sizing up whenever the four of them meet. Tenten pretends not to care with her tomboy attitude, but even she has her feminine moments alongside rough-and-tumble Sakura.

She just...wants to fit in, is all. Doesn’t matter how old they get, they’re still victims of their own vanities...some just more than others.

Pushing all those thoughts aside, Hinata brightens as she spots her friends. Sakura and Ino are already present, Tenten nowhere yet to be seen. “Hi guys!”

The pair turn and smile back. “Hinata-chan!” Ino greets jovially, waving her over. “Wow, you went all out, huh?”

“W-well, I...I really love to cook,” she explains sheepishly. “I brought soup a-and dessert!”

“I thought I smelled cinnamon,” Sakura agrees with a grin. “You’ve always made those!”

The pink in Hinata’s cheeks gets a little darker. “They’re...my favorite…”

“Well, I’m trying to watch my diet but I think I can cheat just one,” Ino replies, arms folding. “No one can pass up Hinata-chan’s baking.”

“Chyeah!” the rosette agrees.

“Any word from Tenten yet…?” Hinata then asks, setting her basket of goodies and wares on the table.

“Sadly she had to back out last minute,” Sakura sighs. “Apparently some important officer under the daimyō just sent in an order for a dress sword, and she needs to fill it as soon as possible.”

The Hyūga wilts a bit. “I see…”

“I swear, we’re just cursed to always have at least one person unable to come,” Ino sighs, taking a seat and draping one leg over the other.

“Someday we’ll manage it.” Taking out a large pitcher of premade tea, Sakura pours them all a glass. “We can put some of all our stuff together and take it to her place for her after, so she doesn’t miss out.”

“Oh, g-good idea!”

With that, the typical small talk begins as food is dished out: catching up on all the goings-on in their lives. Sakura moans about how busy the hospital remains. “The more hours the more pay of course, but it hardly leaves me any free time! I’m almost as bad as Naruto now with how little I’m home,” she pouts, leaning her chin in a hand.

“Well, at least neither of you are sitting there alone too often,” Ino replies, sipping her tea.

“Yeah, but I’d rather we both just have more time off.”

“You know, you both control your own schedules.”

“We’re both workaholics,” is Sakura’s sheepish admission. “Someday we’ll slow down a bit, but right now we’re in our primes!”

“I know what you mean,” Hinata offers politely. “Sasuke and I hardly ever take time off. Even with all of the Hyūga we have signed up for the community watch force, it seems we’re always needed somewhere.”

“Well, Sasuke’s the founder after all. Since Shisui’s working with the Hokage, he’s really the only Uchiha people can rely on themselves.” Ino tilts her head curiously. “And you might not be heiress by name, but your clan still has massive respect for you and your abilities. Of course they’d rely on you, too.”

At the compliment, Hinata’s head ducks demurely, blushing. “...I suppose so…”

“How’s Hanabi been holding up?”

“Well! She’s, well...she’s bored with her lessons, but she’s always been a bit...easily distracted,” Hinata laughs. “But she takes her role seriously. And I know she’s relying on Neji-nīsan for guidance.”

“Any lingering problems with him?”

“Thankfully no, he recovered very well.”

“Thank the gods for that,” Sakura sighs. “One hell of a risky procedure, but...well, we all know how stubborn she is.”

“...I’ll never be able to repay her,” is Hinata’s quiet reply.

“Not sure a debt is the point, though. Besides, the main thing is he’s okay. Now if only he’d get off his high horse and propose to poor Tenten already.”

“He wants to! It’s just, um...complicated. Clan traditions and all that.”

“But what about you and Sasuke?”

“That was mostly excused due to the alliance,” Hinata sighs. “There’s only two Uchiha left, but...he’s technically still clan heir, so my father convinced the council it was still proper. It took some convincing for him too, though.”

“Ugh, so glad I don’t deal with any clan nonsense,” Sakura mutters lowly, stirring the last dredges of her soup. “Seems like such a pain.”

“Depends on the clan,” Ino offers with a shrug. “None of my team, despite us all being heirs, were pushed into marriages into the clan.”

“The Hyūga are probably the most, um...antiquated clan in the village,” Hinata admits with a disappointed set of her lips. “I have to wonder what Hanabi will do when the time comes…”

“Oh I doubt anyone’s gonna tell her what to do, the little spitfire.”

“Probably not, but that will still cause q-quite the stir.”

“Your clan’s had lots of stirrings since the war. It’s good for them,” Ino quips, taking a bite of cinnamon bun. “I still can’t believe it took so long to abolish the houses…”

“Well, after Neji-nīsan’s actions, it couldn’t really be ignored anymore,” Hinata agrees quietly.

“Then your big role in the ousting of the rest of the old council. Now that was awesome.” A wide grin grows over Sakura’s face. “I’ll never forget that.”

“Indeed. I’m just glad Sasuke and his family got the closure they were denied for so long…” Hinata’s eyes drop to the table somberly. “It still b-breaks my heart to think about it.”

“...yeah…”

A muted silence falls over the group of them for a time.

“...well, I don’t know about you two, but I’m full of both food and gossip,” Ino then announces, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. “Amazing soup and buns, Hinata-chan.”

“T-thank you!”

“You’ll have to share the recipes!”

“You can’t cook to save your life, Dekorīn,” Ino laughs.

“That’s what practice is for, Ino-buta!”

Smiling sheepishly, Hinata waves a hand. “I-I’ll get you both copies.”

Tidying up after themselves (and putting together Tenten’s box, which Ino agrees to deliver), the trio stand and chat a little longer before parting ways. Evening is settling over the village, and Hinata sighs contentedly in the cooling air.

It was a nice day.

Arriving home, she calls out her arrival, Sasuke replying from inside.

“You’re early.”

“...am I?”

“I thought you’d be gone longer is all. Had your soup.”

“Oh! Was it good…?”

“Very. You’ll have to teach me.”

At that, Hinata gives a smile. “...I’d be happy to.”

     Woo, some slice of life fluff! Not so much centered on Sasuke this time around, but Hinata can always use more love. As can her bonds with the other girls! Still bugs me how little we got to see them all interact in canon...      Otherwise though, a simple little piece, nothing too special~ Another hot as heckie day so that’ll be all from me for now, but once the heatwave’s over I want to try to catch back up again lol      On that note though, I’d best head off for the night. Thank you for reading!

[hamlets-ghost-zaddy]

queen of peace

Part 2/10

Shifty Powers x Reader

Summary: He fights with a rifle, you with a needle. When the toll of taking lives grows too high on him, you’re there to stitch his ripped seams and patch him together again (after all, you’re awfully good at taking what’s old and giving it new life)

Margaret insists with a red-cheeked, breathless persistence that you absolutely must double-date with her and Allen Vest for the USO-sponsored Halloween dance. She dangles the prospect of a dance hall brimming with Americans like a carrot on a stick, as if the idea of young men whisking you around and around the dance floor—putting their hands on your shoulders, on your back—doesn’t make your skin hot and itchy. Yet, with the gravity of a priest, she intones her final plea as the benediction of her argument: “Father positively won’t hear of me going unless you go.”

Unfortunately for you, Mother overhears and scuttles in from the kitchen to pluck up the baby pillow you embroider—your lifeline and only valid excuse to avoid the dance—crowing a merry: “Oh, she’s going, Margaret, don’t you worry!”

You glare at your Mother, but it’s weak, crumbling under Mother’s tired face pulling into a smile. Since losing Father in the Blitz, her life-work’s in the Bond Street atelier swallowed in the same German-inferno, forcing the skeletal remainders of your family to the summer cottage in Aldbourne—Mother’s girlhood home—you’ve watched her skin tinge with gray, silver shoot through one strand, then two, of her hair. Fashionable enough on the London scene to tempt society ladies out to your countryside workshop, your Mother cinched her black dresses and tilted her birdcage-hats alluringly those first few months in Aldbourne, wilting underneath the crepe. Now, with no business save the odd order for embroidery or baby clothes, Mother has abandoned her fine London clothes. Most days, she doesn’t bother to change from her dressing gown, graying curls tied up by a silk kerchief. Now, you watch an escaped curl bounce against her papery cheek in excitement.

“It’s been ages since you’ve gone to a dance; it’s just what you need to cheer you up!” she enthuses.

You want to point out that a dance would do Mother more good than you—you remember squishing your face against the staircase rails in the old London townhouse to glimpse Mother and Father glammed up for parties, the breathless magic of your Mother’s new dress intoxicating you with heady fantasies of beautiful parties—but instead settle on: “I can’t believe you’re both so willing to ship me off to a dance where I don’t know anyone! You’re going to be busy with Vest—” you direct to Margaret “—Am I supposed to be wall décor all evening?”

The truth of the matter that you’d never admit is, for all that you happily floated through romanticized daydreams of taffeta evening gowns trimmed with ribbons, the reality renders you paralyzed. Your body rebels, sending your face flushing and fingers quaking, at the thought of the press of humanity cramming the dance hall. Preferable, instead, is getting to know a new acquaintance through a quiet chat over a cup of tea—or at the post office. Your mind flashes to meeting Shifty, three weeks gone but kept fresh in your mind and close in your heart. You duck your head as if to dodge the thought, knowing your skin pinks.

“I promise you’ll like who Vest has as your double-date; I’ve met him a few times, and he’s a real hoot,” Margaret assures, which does little reassuring whatsoever. “So, why don’t you whip up a new dress for yourself before Friday and I’ll swing by with the boys to pick you up at six or so?”

A flutter of disappointment beats its wings against your ribcage; surely if the double-date is with Shifty, Margaret would have said? (briefly, the familiar flash of guilt zig-zags through you: should you have sent more than a thank you note and promise to return the novel? Should you have initiated something more?) Your hesitation allows Mother to pipe in: “She’ll be ready and waiting with bells on.”

And it’s not like you should be surprised by the burst of annoyance that screws up your face; Margaret and Mother organize and arrange your life and, most of the time, you appreciate it. You let them cluck over your hair, your nails, allowing you time to focus on fulfilling orders quickly and balancing the ledger, and your reaction now confuses you. As if proving a point—you’re not sure to who—you go to fetch the accounting book to plan how exactly you’re going to stretch the money from the embroidered pillow as far as it will go.

...

Mother doesn’t broach the dance for the remainder of the day—Tuesday—and by Wednesday noon, you dare to hope she’s given up on the scheme. ‘Whipping up’ a new dress for the dance is impossible, with the meager fabric left in the workshop, and you’ve long-since outgrown all your nice, London things. Then, as you’re warming up last night’s pea soap for lunch, Mother appears with a garment bag draped over her arms.

Your mouth pops open to protest, but she interjects swiftly: “Before you begin to argue about supplies, and money, and waste, I’ve been meaning to remake this dress for you for ages, and we can use the discarded satin from that christening dress from a few weeks ago. Waste not, want not.”

But all arguments have fled from your mind: as she spoke, she laid out the garment bag on the kitchen table, snapping it open to reveal an evening gown, catching the weak light like a reflecting pool in its graying-blue satin current. Ideas swirl through your imagination, flashbulb recollections of magazines and socialites, and you ache for a challenge. To really create something; to have purpose again.

You forget all protests.

...

Your date appears on your doorstep, shoulder-to-shoulder with Allen Vest and Margaret and smiling as if the world smiled back. His name is George Luz and, he confides as your little quartet piles onto the USO bus ferrying couples to the dance hall, he’s half in love with a dame attending on another man’s arm. “Evie Lowell,” he sighs, and you’re not sure if he’s exaggerating his lovelorn gloom, but it makes you giggle.

His lips twitch with a barely-repressed grin.

Resisting the urge to crane around and peek at Evie—one of your schoolmates and prettier than any girl ought to be—you promise to help promote him if you can. With this vow, you fall into a conspiring comradery, relishing in inventing increasingly ludicrous ways of manufacturing a stolen moment between Evie and George until you can almost forget how you flush with self-consciousness, how your muscles hum with nerves. Then, the bus’s engine cuts off, and you’ve arrived.

The dance hall swarms with uniformed Americans and their dates, skirts flaring out as they’re tossed—occasionally into each other—around the floor. Presiding over the festivities is a proper twelve-piece band, trumpets and trombones and the whole works, and you don’t think anyone in England has enough money to scrap together to book a full band. At least, not until the Americans came. Standing on the raised lip of the perimeter of the dance floor, where tables service a heavily-populated bar, you stare with increasingly furrowed brows at the thrashing mass of sweaty bodies. Unconsciously, you work your Mother’s borrowed beaded purse in your hands.

George bumps your shoulder. “You’re acting like you’ve never seen Americans before.”

You manage to twitch your lips up. “No, just never so many all at once.” A tremulous note shakes your words, and you feel infantile—a little girl who stole snatched her mother’s skirts and accompanied them to the party.

George’s eyes are on your face, you feel them and know he’s seeing something, deciding something, because he says with feigned melancholy, “I know, I’m horrified by how crumby we are at dancing too—it’s really exaggerated when there’s a big old group of us.” He gestures to the hall, pointing out his friends and their knobby knees and flailing elbows, commentating when his buddy, Bill Guarnere, nearly clocks his date in the nose as he’s trying to spin her. George howls in laughter and your hand flies to your nose, covering your snort. Cradling your elbow, George urges, “Come on, let’s belly up to the bar, see what Vest and Maggie are drinking.”

Deciding to ask Margaret when she decided to rechristen herself as ‘Maggie,’ you allow George to guide you to the bar. The press of olive uniforms and dresses— one glance tells you the dresses are all out of vogue by at least three years, a casualty of the war—blends faces together until your mind whirs from the crush and the only keeping grounding you from dashing from the hall, or crumpling to the ground, is George carving his way doggedly through, keeping up a running monologue: “I swear, all you boys were raised in a barn, weren’t you? Can’t you see I’m trying to escort a thirsty lady to get a drink? Gee, move your massive behind, Bull! Go on, make room!”

You fixate on the back of George’s head, to the tracks of neatly combed brown hair kept slicked back from pomade smoothed in by a thin-toothed comb. Your breath shortens and heightens in your throat until—

“Oh my gosh!”

George’s hand slips from your elbow, his neat hair swallowed by the crowd. A hand on your other arm jerks you to a halt.

“George?” you squeak at where he’d been a moment before, but then you’re turned away from where you last glimpsed George, a woman’s face—wide, open, and honest, with blinking cornflower blue eyes that dwarf you with how they stare—is inches from your nose.

“Oh my gosh!” her rubied-lips repeat, her voice crackling with American dryness. “Your dress, my dear! Your dress! Where on earth did you get it? It’s—it’s absolutely delicious!” She takes a step back to properly examine your dress, reimagined into a wide skirt with pleats—and pockets, you think smugly—after a feverish three days working side-by-side with Mother.

The dizziness of the crowd eases marginally, the topic of clothes settling you. “Oh, well, thank you,” you manage, returning her smile. “I made it with my Mother. We’re local seamstresses.”

The American woman’s smile somehow grows wider. “No kidding?” she asks, eyes flashing to yours before turning over her shoulder, calling, “Vera, come look at this dress! She made it herself!”

A small gap in the crowd forms around you as another woman—presumably Vera—sidles up. “Made it yourself, huh?” Vera asks, her American accent tempered with soft vowels, not unlike Shifty’s, you can’t help but think. “It’s a mighty fine dress; like something out of Vogue.”

“I’ve been aching for something new,” the first American girl declares with all the authority of actual suffering. “Do you think you could do something with this old thing?” She gestures to her current dress—green taffeta with far too high of a neckline for her age.

Nerves uncoiling in your chest—a thread loosening from a bobbin—you nod, eyes sweeping over her dress, ideas forming: raise the waistline, lower the collar, add a fluttery chiffon sleeve. “Sure; if you want to bring it to our workshop in Aldbourne—ask anyone for y/n, and they’ll point you to us.”

The woman’s face lights up, exclaiming, “Oh, excellent!” She offers her hand. “I’m Barbara, by the by.” Taking her hand, you introduce yourself, before Vera asks if she might bring by a few dresses, too. At this point, other nurses—Barbara will inform you they’re all with the Army Nursing Corps, fresh from the Sicilian and North Africa Campaigns, and here to help with the impending French invasion—accumulated and you found yourself thoroughly entrenched in a gaggle of excitable women. You invite them all to come by the workshop with their old dresses—promising to breathe new life into them—but a deluge of questions on fabrics, opinions on designers, and comments on style preference leave you unsure if you were heard at all.

Unsure how to respond to—or what needed responding to—you turn your head helplessly, mouth opening and closing. You look like a trout.

Fingers brush your back. An accented voice, vowels gentle and consonances relaxed, asks, “Need rescuing, ma’am?”

Knowing who it is before you look, you find Shifty Powers’ small smile when you turn. He’s standing close out of necessity in the melee of the crowd, exaggerating how much taller he is, but he obligingly stoops his shoulders so he can speak softly. “You look like you’re under attack.”

Flushing, you hurry to correct, matching his volume: “They’re well-intentioned allies, I think.”

“Ah,” he drawls, “Then, we’d call this friendly fire.” You bite your lip to stifle a giggle—and since when did you giggle?—but nod nonetheless. Shifty straightens, his fingers remaining immobile on your back. Despite your apprehension earlier that week, you decide the physical contact really isn’t that bad. In fact, it’s quite pleasant. “Begging your pardon, ladies, but can I steal her away from y’all?”

You’re struck with that word—y’all—turning it over in your head as the nurses chorus their goodbyes and you offer a small wave in return. Y’all, you all: an inclusive word warmed with the milk and honey of his Virginian accent, a substantive word to warm your insides and give you nutrients. Lost in wondering how you might get him to say it again, you don’t notice Shifty guiding you to the bar, where an anxious George joins you.

“You found her!” George says, relief easing tension from his expression. Guilt coils in your stomach—you had forgotten about him, not worrying that he might be worrying. Shifty explains where he discovered you, and George crooks a grin at you. “Miss Popular over here, huh? Maybe I’ve got my eyes on the wrong English Rose?”

He winks and you laugh, too busy shaking your head at George’s candor to notice Shifty stiffening ever so slightly. “Have you spent all this time looking for me and not Evie?” you ask, and perhaps the nurses flocking to you had done some good; your nerves are entirely gone and you can forget the press of humans. You can almost forget where you are, too, only you have to shout to be heard over the band’s brass swelling noise.

“I couldn’t go courting another dame while you were MIA,” George replies, nobly.

Mystified, you repeat: “MIA?”

“Missing in action,” Shifty offers. “It’s a military term.”

“Ah, I see.” You glance shyly up at him, before diverting your eyes to George. George, for some reason, is easier to look at. You flap a hand at him. “Well, off you go. I’m back in one piece, so go!” You crane around, searching the dance hall, and find Evie as the sole female at a table clustered with uniformed boys. She looks dead bored. You say as much to George and its all the encouragement he needs to politely excuse himself, leaving a thanks in his wake as you assure him you won’t wander off again.

You’re not sure why you were so insistent on bolstering George, especially as it left you and Shifty to awkwardly shuffle your feet at each other. Shifty, who’s eyes make your skin feel like it fits too tight on your bones. “Um,” you mutter, hip leaning against the bar and elbow braced on the countertop to keep you upright, after you give the bartender your order. You glance at him, though it’s really more at his chest, he’s so tall. Your eyes alight on a new pin—two crossed rifles—and you say without thinking: “Oh, that’s new!”

“What is?”

Feeling silly, you point to the rifles. “That; it wasn’t there when I fixed up your jacket.”

“Oh, um, yeah,” he mutters, prompting you to peek at his face. He’s blushing and pretending great interest in the whiskey the bartender has just delivered to his hands.

“Well,” you prompt. “What is it?”

He flounders. “It’s um, well, it’s what I’ve been working on for…quite a while. Spending lots of time at the rifle range to practice and…and all.” He shifts again and your eyes flicker back to the pin, realizing he’s trying his damnest not to outright brag.

Taking pity, you fill in, “So it’s an award of some kind?”

Obviously relieved, he nods. “Yeah, that’s it.” Later, on the bus ride back home, you’ll ask George and he’ll snort, explaining Shifty earned the status of expert marksman. Apparently, he’s been training for it since their first days in basic training, though, the way George tells it, Shifty could have passed the test to earn expert status before he even stepped off the bus at Camp Toccoa. (‘Damned modest,’ George concludes, ‘Popeye finally convinced him to go for it on the boat ride across the Atlantic, but he insisted on obsessively training.’)

Then, your gin and tonic arrives, and you take a sip—the bartender obligingly followed your request of more tonic than gin—before asking, “How is your jacket holding up? Did, um, Sobel, was that his name? Did Sobel notice?”

Shifty’s grin beams, and you’re happy you convinced yourself to look at it just then. It curls your toes in your Mary-Janes. “Sobel is his name, yes, ma’am,” he replies. He seems pleased you remember something he said. “He’s my company’s captain and he’s, well, I reckon he’s real strict because he wants us to be the best.” You sense there’s adjectives more fitting than ‘strict’ that Shifty is unwilling to use, and a small knot of affection—affection?—weaves in your chest at his discretion. “But no, he didn’t notice a thing thanks to you.” His smile softens now, looking down at you, and you have to look away now for fear of turning luminescent red. “I do have some more wear and tear, though.”

He offers his sleeve for you to inspect the rips along his elbows and cuffs. Frowning, you ask, “What do you do to your poor clothes? Take a cheese grater to them?”

Chuckling, he shrugs helplessly. “I can’t properly say. It just happens; always has, even when I was little. My Ma would lose her mind over the tears and holes I’d come home with after a day outside.” You smile faintly at the conjured image of Shifty as a little boy, scampering in from playing in the woods, hair matted with mud and twigs, face glowing. “I reckon it might be time I learn how to sew. Think you’d be willing to take me on?”

Jerking your hands back from his cuff, you blink up at him, helpless to your mouth gaping open. Alarmed, he scrambles to add: “I know you’re probably busy, but I promise I wouldn’t take up too much of your time—just learning how to properly fix things and maybe change buttons is all I was thinking, and—and I’d pay you, too, of course.”

Surprising yourself with your own boldness, you place a hand on his wrist, shushing him. “I’d be happy to teach you, Shifty. And I don’t want to hear another word about you paying me. I’ll help you chose some supplies, and we can start whenever you want.” For all that you and Mother need the money, you still have your dignity (not to mention, you think, allowing yourself a moment of foolish whimsy as you watch his face brighten with excitement, I don’t want money to dirty whatever precious, fledgling thing this is).

Tags: @gottapenny

[friendlyneighborhoodborg]

Rose Appreciation Week 2k19| Day 2: Hero/Villain| “Angel -- Pt. 1/2″

Part 1 of my 2-Part submission to @wearemiraculous‘ Rose Appreciation Week event.

This is an expansion to an AU I’m building.  I’ll link a thing [here] later to explain it.  Basically, in this AU, everything that happens in canon happens.  Parallel to that, however, many of the side characters are secretly superheroes.  I hope it’s good, but I don’t expect it to be everyone’s taste.

Many thanks to @magikarpfangirl for helping me figure out what I was doing with Rose.

Feel free to use this concept, but please credit me if you do.  And I promise, I will explain later for anyone who’s still confused.  Or feel free to ask me.

Warnings for some violence, and an abundance of OCs

And, of course, Ladybug ain’t mine.

[Link to Part 2]

           L’Europeen, in Paris’ 17th arrondissement, is one of its more popular theaters.  Outside, it’s a building of sharp lettering, colorful neon lights, and a brilliant marquee. The marquee was a little small for this occasion, so it read simply “Marat/Sade, de Peter Weiss.”  Posters in front gave the full title of the play that would start performances next week: The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade.  The abridgement can thus be forgiven.

           Inside, the chairs are bright scarlet red, and most are arranged in a circular pattern facing the center of the music hall. This center space contains more chairs, these ones in rows facing the large proscenium stage, but these seats can be removed for productions played “in the round.”  In fact, this production of Marat/Sade had done just that, leaving a circular space at the center of the room.  In terms of props and set, there was of course the wooden bathtub where Marat would sit, many benches and chairs, large boards and buckets and great sheets of cloth, the largest of which was a French tricolor.  In the center of this was a tall electric lamp providing the only source of light in the theater, part of an old superstition, and surrounding it all was a giant square structure like a cage, with sturdy iron bars going from floor to ceiling, and a single locked door on the side facing the proscenium. In the context of the play, this was for the audience’s safety, as the “inmates of the asylum” would get rowdy and try attacking them.

           In fact, they happened to be really well-made bars, and four people locked inside of the cage were chained to them.

           These four had been drugged, a normal occurrence at the type of university-campus party they were attending.  Where the custom differed was that these four had been taken to the theater and handcuffed on both wrists, each one of them stuck looped around a bar of the cell on the side facing away from the door. They had regained consciousness recently, each still a bit drunk, and they were being rather loud about it.

           This was a conversion.

           Vampires, along with some other monsters (and yes, they existed, as the university students were recently made aware), could infect humans, and conversion rituals had the sole aim of performing this task at a large scale.  In a factory-like manner, monsters would snatch up groups of normal humans, bring them to a single place, and infect all of them at once.  Back in the days when this cruel, impersonal ritual was still practiced, conversions would curse tens of people at a time, creating nearly 200 monsters in a single night, ripping people from their families as they were forcibly indoctrinated into their new lives.

           But in those days, there were twenty or thirty creatures of the night to oversee the event.  Tonight, there was only three.

           “Is there any way to make them shut up?” a burly, bald vampire in black body armor shouted over the whines and screams, silencing the whimpers as he checked each of their cuffs.

           “Hit them over the head, they’ll go out light a light,” a scrawny, dark-haired man in a tweed suit answered.  “But why would you want to?  I read that it’s more fun when they scream.  Aria, how’s the cage?”

           “Secure,” answered a blonde woman wearing a leather biker’s jacket, clicking a padlock and chain around the cage door and pocketing the key.  “Are we getting this started or what, Serge?”

           “In just a moment.”  The leader of this small gang, Serge, withdrew a pair of reader’s spectacles from his jacket pocket.  “Just to set the scene.  To make it more authentic.”  He withdrew an index card as Aria rounded the side to join Leo.

           Clearing his throat, he began to read.  “Tonight, brother and sister,” he beckoned to the people directly in front of him.  “Tonight, we deal a blow to humanity.”  He glanced at their lackluster haul.  “Not a large blow, but a blow nonetheless, to the species that has curbed ours to near-extinction.  Tonight, we carve ourselves out of the marble that is the disgustingly weak ‘dominant’ race.”

           “Quick question,” Aria interjected.  “How long does this go?”

           “Yeah!” agreed Leo.  “I wanna see these bugs bleed.  Couldn’t you, you know, speed it up?”

           Serge glanced between the two of them before looking back down at his notes.  “Tonight, we feast on the blood of their children, turning them away from the harsh, burning sunlight to dance in the embrace of the sweet, refreshing moon.” He glanced anxiously at their prey, who in turn quivered at the hungry faces of the three monsters.  “Tonight, we will educate these peons to the sins of their fathers and mothers, who have hunted and shunned us without remorse.”  He ran his fingers down the note, cutting through words, and spoke the last sentence quickly, with a fang-toothed grin. “And tonight, we three shall take strides for the glory of our kind!”

           Aria and Leo clapped politely.

           “Okay, that’s enough guys.”  His comrades stopped.

           But the clapping didn’t.

           Elsewhere in the auditorium, from a seat in the center of the gallery, someone was applauding.

           She also wore black.  Mostly black, anyway: black leather gloves and black tunic with a light pink bow around the collar, and a short, frilly, black skirt that went to her knees.  She had a black, wide-brimmed hat with a deep red ribbon around it, and her padded leggings and combat boots were also black.  Her long-sleeved undershirt was pastel pink, and her masquerade-style mask was pink with swirling black and silver.  The black cape, split down the middle and clipped to her shoulders, was lined in shiny red satin.  And across her torso, from her right shoulder to her left hip, was a black bandolier, holding half a dozen knives shining in gleaming silver.  Clipped to her waist was another weapon, a long black baton with a pink stripe spiraling down the length, and a polished chrome ball at the end.

           She stood up and whistled, giving a one-person standing ovation.  “Bravo! What an incredible performance!” she shouted, resuming her applause standing up.  “I almost believed it!”

           “Intruder!”  Leo bared his fangs.  “It’s a monster hunter!”

           The figure continued to smile widely.  “Worse.  It’s a peacekeeper.”  She leaned forward with interest, taking hold of the seats in front of her for support. “That is some outdated rhetoric you’re using.  In fact, I think you plagiarized it.”  She crossed her arms, clearly trying to stare them down.  “And you really rushed it, too.  You skipped one of the best passages.  You really just want to get to the good part, don’t you?”  The stranger tilted her head to the cage in the middle of the room.  “Biting random strangers in the neck.  Not my personal cup of tea, but to each their own.”

           “It’s a kid.”  Aria realized.  “Identify yourself!”

           “Oh, don’t tell me you don’t know who I am.”  She glanced at their expectant, murderous glsres. “Oh, you really don’t.  You’re new, aren’t you?”  She walked slowly to the aisle on her left.  “Well, your pack leaders must have mentioned me.”

           When she reached the aisle, she faced the vampires and curtsy-bowed.  “I,” she introduced, “am L’Ange de Sang.”

           The vampires surveyed her, sizing her up from a distance, before Serge started laughing.  His compatriots joined in, and de Sang deflated a little.

           “You?”  Serge hooted. “You?  The Angel of Blood?  You’re just a child!”

           De Sang crossed her arms and tilted her head. “Well, it takes one to know one. From the way this whole thing is set up, I’d say none of you actually know what you’re doing.  So, coupled with the fact you don’t know me, and the blatant disregard for the laws of your kind, I’m gonna say…  A few weeks?”  The vampires stopped laughing.  “You were turned a few weeks back?  And already, you’ve got a keen sense of kinship with vampirekind.”  She nodded.  “I’m glad to hear it.  So many vampires these days would rather burn in the sun than exist for another night as a monster.  It’s good to have self-pride.”

           “What’s your game, kid?” the tweed-clad leader spat, turning back to the hostages.  “If you’re just going to stand there and dissect us with your words, you’d best leave now.”  He ran his finger along the bars of the cage, stopping to caress one student’s cheek. “What happens next isn’t for the faint of heart to witness.”

           “It’s not for anyone to witness.  Conversion rituals are outlawed.  Your leaders promised.”  The vampire snapped his head back to face the approaching vigilante.  “Stop this, right now, before you make a big mistake.  This isn’t going to solve anything, and it’s just going to hurt you in the end.  These people have nothing to do with you.  They didn’t even know vampires existed before tonight, you don’t want to hurt them.”

           “And what makes you think we would?”

           De Sang stopped walking, standing a few short meters away.  “Well, here’s the thing.”  She pointed at the group.  “You have heard of me.  So, you could all go home if you want and save us all some trouble.  I don’t like the alternative.  Because the alternative involves violence.”  She grit her teeth.  “And violence is the one thing I don’t like, in any context.”

           “Threatening us is cheap, coming from someone your age.”

           De Sang spoke her next words very quietly.  “I was trying to help you.  This is threatening.”  Without breaking eye contact, she unclipped the baton from her waist and held it out to the side.  It was just longer than her forearm, and the silver weight at the end was about the size of a grapefruit.  “I said I don’t like hurting people, but sadly I’m really, really good at it.  Kindly release the hostages and go back to your pack.”

           The boss seemed to consider this alternative. He ignored it.  “Aria, kill her.”  The blonde vampire cracked her neck and bared her fangs.

           De Sang clapped.  “Oh!  Perfect!  Introductions!  Aria, was it?” She stepped back as the monster approached.  “Have you ever killed someone before?”

           “Stop talking,” she spat.

           “Please answer me first.”  The masked girl pointed at the cage with her baton.  “You were about to convert these innocents, have you ever killed before?  Think about that, would you be able to kill?”

           “Are you calling me weak?”

           “What?  No!”  She raised her hands defensively.  “I’m, I’m definitely not saying that!”

           “Liar!” Aria hunched over, flexing her claws.

           “I mean I really try not to—”  De Sang glanced nervously at the approaching creature.  “Strength has nothing to do with it!  I mean, I’ve never killed anyone—”

           Aria pounced.

           Time almost seemed to slow down, and vampire and vigilante stared each other in the eyes. Aria had fangs bared and claws out, ready to rip into flesh, and Sang just stood there, like a statue.

           At the last possible second, de Sang’s baton went up and swatted her attacker out of the air like a baseball, landing her into the seats behind and to the left of her.

           The air went still.

           “I don’t kill,” the Angel said to the silence. “I’m just really good at not dying.” She turned to the vampires still at the cage.  “I told you who I am, right?”

           Serge snapped.  “Leo, crush her!”

           “Uh, can I advise against that?”

           The giant charged at her, which the mercy huntress sidestepped, hopping onto the arms of the seats and using them as stepping stones to cut through the audience.  Serge tried to cut her off by going up the other aisle, and Leo followed her example.  But it was soon apparent from the brute’s clumsiness that he had never done this before.

           De Sang noticed this.  “You chose the theater,” she defended.  “Watch your step, it’s difficult terrain!”  She snatched a throwing knife from her bandolier and sent it at Leo’s hand.  The brute dodged it, and the one that followed, but the distraction was enough. Sang had bounced around the seats behind him and delivered a heavy blow to the head with the baton.

           “I’m so sorry,” she muttered as he went down. “That wound will take a few days to heal, for a newly-turned.  You don’t recover at the speeds an older vampire would.”

           While the large vampire was recovering, Sang quickly swooped down and took the shackle keys from his pocket, and, using the chairs as a boost, jumped over them and landed in front of one of the hostages.

           “Undo yourself,” she commanded, thrusting the keys through the bars at the bewildered (and still slightly high) hostage.  “Get the others free, too.”

           He took them, dazed, and squinted at her.  “Who… who are you?”

           “Nobody special.  Now do it, I believe in you!”

           “Stop them!” the scrawny Serge shouted, racing down the aisle towards her, but the hero was too quick.  He ducked what he thought was a swing of her baton, but it turned out to be a feint; he was struck in the back, and that coupled with his incredible speed sent him face-first into the cage.  De Sang pulled him away before he could recover and delivered a swift blow to his windpipe, weakening him.

           Leo had followed her example and jumped from the chairs, but by then the first two hostages were free—with one shackle undone each, they could pull their arm back through easily, and what had become their prison was now their only sanctuary as de Sang dodged every swing, throwing the vampires against the cage walls.

           As the last prisoners were undoing their cuffs, Aria was trying to undo the lock on the cell door.  Seeing her, de Sang abandoned her fight with the other two, slipping away from their grasps with a fluid ease.  Bounding up against a front-row seat, she launched herself off the arm of a chair and flew through the air.  At her apex, she grabbed the bar at the corner of the cage, to the left of where the door was, and used her momentum to swing around and propel herself straight at the vampire.  A throwing knife disarmed her, sending the key flying into the cage, where a hostage snatched it up as Sang knocked the wind out of her with a heavy kick.

           The hostages cheered her on, and she quickly dashed to the door.  “You have the key?”  Someone held it up.  “Leave it in the lock.  Run when it’s clear, use the backstage exit.”

           “Thank you so much!” they all blubbered in various, drunken ways.

           “Don’t thank me yet.”  She spun and ran.  “Aria? Remember me?  I clobbered you a while back?  Come on, get up!  Show me who’s boss!”

           Aria clawed at the ground, scrambling towards her on all fours, but de Sang used the cage as a ladder to avoid her, as well as the other vamps who had raced to join their fallen comrade.  Moving with alacrity, she brought Aria and the others to the front of the cage, where their fight resumed.

           “Up-up!” she chastised.  “All eyes on me.  That’s a bad idea, tactically speaking, although I appreciate your concern.”  No one paid her words any attention—they were too busy trying to keep up with the animal dodging every swipe and blow they made for.  De Sang returned glancing blows on all of them, just enough to keep the three of them busy as they tripped over each other trying to peg her.

           About a minute into this, she started giving notes on their fighting.  “Serge, fix your posture.  Put your weight into the swing!  Leo, you’re golden.  Everyone, do what Leo’s doing.”  Leo grabbed the baton in Sang’s grip, and was promptly flipped.  “I don’t think that belongs to you.  Please ask nicely if you want to borrow things.”

          By this point, of course, the cage was completely empty and the hostages long gone.  Enraged, Aria broke away from the fight and fled to the audience.  She copied the vigilante’s stepping-stone trick to get behind her, finding one of the discarded knives in the process.  Wielding it, she approached the seemingly-oblivious huntress and made to attack.

          “Woah!”  De Sang spun and deflected the imminent danger upwards with her baton.  “I was looking for that, thank you!  I’ve only got six of these.”  She caught the knife as it came down and replaced it in the bandolier.  She kicked Aria into the seats, and Leo and Serge immediately joined her.

          “Alright, that’s enough of that,” the vigilante said to her fallen foes.  “I don’t like to be mean, but if I was an actual hunter, you guys would be dead.”

          The vampires, heedless of her warnings, scrambled to recover.

          “Look,” she said, trying to get their attention.  “You’re not bad people.  You almost made some very bad decisions.”  The vampires had stood back up, having climbed out of the audience, and were about to face her again, so she stamped her foot.  “Your leaders know you were here tonight!”

          That stopped them.

          “They called me,” she explained, “to keep you guys out of trouble. They wanted me to stop you breaking the law, and to protect you in case an actual hunter showed up.  Because those hunters, the Iron Cross, they are on patrol in this city.”

          “Iron Cross,” Aria spat.  “We can take them.  And we sure as hell don’t need some human kid to babysit us.”

          “But can you actually fight?  I’m asking you, do you think you could stand up to an actual hunter?  You couldn’t beat me, the human kid.”  The Angel stood back as the vampires considered this bleak assessment. “That’s okay, though,” she assured them.  “You’re all young.  None of you can even shapeshift yet.  You still get to learn all that.”

          None of them would look at her.

          De Sang took a deep sigh.  “Okay… That’s how it is…”  She surged forward, grabbed a startled Serge by the arm, and dragged him in front of the cage.  “If you come across an actual hunter, you want to take note of your environment.  I know that sounds a little cliché, but it cannot be understressed.”  She hopped up onto the bars to demonstrate, quickly climbing up and down.  “What sort of hazards are on the terrain?  What can you do to keep yourself from falling down? And how can you get your opponent to trip?”  She hopped off the bars and stuck the landing.  “If your opponent’s on the ground, you’ve got to make sure they stay there.  Don’t ever let up, you can’t ever let them get their bearings.  Fight dirty if you have to.  That’s the difference between life and death.”  She stood back up and addressed the whole group.  “Your main goal in the fight is to keep yourself at the advantage, and to keep your opponent discombobulated while you keep the hits coming.  Don’t let them get a turn.  Hunters will try to kill you.  They will use any dirty method they can to kill you.  You have to stop them from killing you at all costs. Understand?”

          No one made any motion, wondering instead what the hell was going on.

          She turned and addressed Serge directly.  “Understand?” she repeated, with intensity this time.

          He nodded, startled.

          “Good.”  She spread out her arms.  “Punch me.”

          “What?”

          “Go ahead.  Try.”

          He glanced back at his friends, wondering if this was some sort of trap. When he got no confirmation, he took a deep breath, wound up, and swung.

          De Sang ducked easily.  “You projected,” she explained.  “In the split second it took for you to wind up, I could see exactly where that punch would go.”  She stood back and got into a fighting stance.  “Now me.  Watch me, figure out my trajectory.  You’re vampires, you’re fast enough.  That’s one of the perks.  You have incredible reflexes, use them.  Just trust that.  If I were going to punch you, you’d be able to see it coming so you could—dodge!”  With no warning, she swung at Serge.

          Blinking, Serge realized that her fist wasn’t coming at him anymore. In fact, he had somehow… caught it.  He’d stopped the punch.

          De Sang smiled warmly.  “Or you can do that.”  She pulled the hand out of his grip, and stepped briskly over to Leo, pulling him aside. “Don’t let me realize it, though, and don’t kill my momentum.  I just threw a bunch of my weight into that direction, and you can use that.  Leo, do that catch thing Serge did, but keep pushing me in the direction I’m going.”

          She swung, and Leo caught it.  He attempted to move her with it, but she wouldn’t move.  “Again,” she said.  “Don’t catch me, then move me.  Catch me and push me at the same time.”  This time, the burly man threw her down, into the seats.

          “You see what that did?” she praised, standing back up.  “Now I’ve got to recover from that, and in that time you and your incredible speed have caught up and delivered another hit.” She patted the man on the back. “You’re a natural, Leo.”  She addressed the whole group again.  “It’s even worse if, say, I jump at you, because I’m not stabilized by anything.  Plus, if you know where I’m going to land, then you’re prepared to get me to lose my balance while I stand back up.  Aria, look alive!”

          The woman in question barely stepped out of the way in time, because the Angel had taken a jump off of one of the seats and was headed straight for her. As de Sang landed, Aria took the opportunity to kick her in the ribs, causing her to slip and land on her side instead of her hands and feet.

          “Excellent!” she wheezed, jumping back to her feet.  “Alright, that’s enough for tonight.  I’d love to do this again some other time, though. You’re all fast learners!”  And she skipped away, humming as she went to collect her knives.

          The three vampires looked at each other, immensely confused.  “What the hell just happened?” asked Leo, disturbed.

          Serge shook his head numbly.  “I have no idea.  I feel… happy?  I guess?” He blinked, staring after the girl who had floored him several times tonight as she cheerfully refilled her bandolier.  “What the hell is with that girl?”

           “Someone hurt her,” Aria said.  “Only explanation.  She must be crazy.”

           “I can hear you, you know,” the Angel chirped, not looking up.  “I’m not crazy.  I just wish people would be better to each other.”  She wrung her hands, downcast.  “But some people just don’t listen.  And Aria, those ones are the weak ones. A weak person doesn’t have the strength to challenge themselves, physically, mentally, or ethically.”  Snapping herself out of the dreary tone, she beamed widely at the vampires and tipped her hat.  “I look forward to challenging you.”

           There was a short, sharp whistle.

           Leo suddenly cried out in pain.

           De Sang’s face fell, and she rushed forward and saw the crossbow bolt, lodged into his arm and smoking.

           “Hunters,” she whispered, mortified.  “They’re here.”

(3900 words, and I’ve still got part 2 to do.)

(Edit:  Whoop, forgot the cut).