#The perils of buying wonderful things from a small business

[tophatandboots]

Eeeeeeeeeeeh (unnecessarily high pitched due to frustration) I really don't like mending buttonholes! It is dull and fiddly and gives me eye strain!!

But I would hate not being able to wear my favourite coat much more, and they've worn away to weirdly shaped raggedy fraying holes.

[littlefreya]

The Crystal Ship - Part 1

Summary: Henry is the most dangerous crime lord in England, he has everything he wants and women throw themselves at his feet, but what really gets him off is what’s hard to get.

Pairing: AU! Mafia Boss!Henry Cavill x OFC (Ash)

Word count: 4.8K

Warnings: Smutty Smut, MaleDom Vibes, Stripping, Bad language, Sexual innuendo, dry humping, bodily fluids.

A/N: I’ve been wanting to write this for a while and I only hope you guys will like it. As usual, I am nervous. It was supposed to be a one-shot but ended up being longer than I expected so I am dividing it into two parts for now. Many thanks to @agniavateira my sweet beta and helpful muse. Cover designed by me.

Please leave feedback  💖🥺 and more importantly, enjoy.

Title: The Crystal Ship

The sweet, smoky scent made his nose curl in repulsion. It was thick in the air, like a fruit that was too ripe, mere moments before rot sets in. Henry dreaded coming to the Imperial, even though it was the only safe ground to conduct business without having to deal with the district attorney's snout or any unwelcome eavesdropping. The club felt musty, drenched with bodily fluids and not in a good way. The men who frequented this place were foul animals; being amongst them made him feel as if their filth was rubbing onto him. 

Sitting at the bar, he downed his whiskey, hissing while the fiery liquid hit the back of his throat. The bartender stood behind the counter, polishing some glasses and looking at the large man as he brooded on the sleek black marble of the counter.     

Plastic neon lights flickered magenta and turquoise on the slick surface. An offensive contrast to the gloom that played inside Henry’s head. Life lacked vividness when everything was handed over on a golden tray. Money, beautiful women, fast cars. 

The women of the club were especially keen on throwing themselves at his feet, thirsty for his attention and money which he was never willing to give.

“Please fuck me, Henry.” “Please let me suck your cock.”

As any man, he was flattered, though if he wanted to see a woman naked, he wouldn’t need to pay for it. Still, they circled him, desperately whining at his feet whenever he stepped into the club.

All except for her. 

Big, almond-shaped eyes the colour of fertile light brown earth with a touch of green. Sitting on a barstool in the opposite direction. She was one of the girls working the club, no doubt. He didn’t imagine she was a gangster wearing fishnet stockings and a tight corset.

New girl, he gathered. He had never seen her pretty face before tonight. It was apparent she could sense his glance. Her body shifted uncomfortably, her irises focused on the straw of her tall glass of orange juice yet she never bothered looking back. Not even a smile on her nude lips. 

Henry scoffed as a spike of interest surged through his mind. He spotted the long-haired beauty earlier as he sat through an infuriating meeting. Her big hazel eyes cut into his attention abruptly, focusing on his glare for a wisp before she swung away. 

Treating him as if he was a nobody.

She chose to ignore him, much to his contempt. 

Girl likes to play tough? Well, I happen to like bending things in my hands.

-----------

Ash felt her hand prickle as she waited on the bar stool. Sipping on an orange juice, she watched as an ageing rich couple made out on a red vinyl booth while a curvy girl danced on their table. Candy-Apple, the girl who she was paired with for the night, disappeared to one of the VIP rooms with a customer. Instructed her to wait and not to take any customers alone, being still a trainee. 

The Imperial had some strict dos and don’ts. 

Little did Candy know, Ash had the miraculous gift of getting herself into sticky situations and for reasons she couldn’t explain, tonight felt like one of those nights. 

Taking another sip, she exhaled nervously, the corset tight around her ribs, further pushing her already strangled lungs. It was her very first shift and she seemed to have fallen on a busy night. The customers were not too pushy, though. No one has smeared himself onto her while holding a pitcher of beer and smelling of peanuts on their breath. Candy promised that the owners won't touch the girls and don’t let anyone else touch them either. The Imperial might be a “gentlemen’s” club, but it was one of the safest joints for girls to work at in London.

It didn’t do anything to calm the anxiety that waited at the door as she felt the presence of the tall stranger who kept his eyes on her for the last couple of hours. 

She “bumped” into him earlier as she walked around the ground floor. Broad shoulders and a face that looked as if it was put together from all the best parts found in heaven. He sat with three other men, looking like the superior one in the group. Fury burned in his eyes, yet his posture was composed which only made him look more frightening. It was a mistake to gander, she knew it deep in her heart, but he was an impressive specimen of a man. She couldn’t look away, not soon enough before their eyes met.

Now he was sitting a few meters away. A spiced drink sits in his glass, a ghost of a smile loomed over his face while his fingers were pressed to his temple in some sort of dark intrigue. He stared with the confidence of a man who knew he could have everything and it seemed like she fell on his aim.

Feeling uncomfortable, Ash broke her gaze and slipped off from her seat, wishing to find a place where she could hide from his hungry curiosity. This man had trouble written all over his arrogant posture and if she learnt anything about herself, it was that she was a magnet for chaos. She turned on her stilettos and crouched down for a second to rearrange the fishnet stockings around her thighs before straightening up moving on.

In the most natural order of things, the stranger was there to stand in her way. 

Broad and mysterious, the man towered above her with a small smile edging his mouth. Up close, she noticed his copper-brown curls and eyes like smooth steel. They shone like sharp knives through the club’s neon lighting. His jaw was cut marble, defined lines soared across his high cheekbones and even his lips had the perfect cupid’s bow. 

Ash registered him carefully and her heart murmured. No man should be this good looking; he was beautiful in manners that seemed unearthly.

“May I buy your precious time, love?” 

His voice hung low and deep, smooth like a chocolate truffle that melted on one’s tongue. 

The scent of danger filled Ash’s nostrils; it smelled like peated scotch, aftershave, and heady musk. Judging by his cool-grey tailored suit, it was quite clear that he was a businessman from the underworld kind.  

He burnt hot, and a part of her was immediately drawn to the flame. Yet despite the thrill, he seemed much more perilous than any of the other criminals who lurked around the club. This man could easily fuck up some poor girl’s life. 

In the dark cold cavern of the club, with his shadow casting over her face, the stranger seemed more like Hades than just the ordinary mobster.   

“Maybe some other night”, she forced herself to refuse, doing her best to sound polite yet stern while offering an apologetic smile in the hope that he would accept her refusal and let her go. 

She knew right away that wouldn’t please him. It was clear as vodka; he wasn’t a man who took no for an answer. The thought alone made her nerves shiver as if someone was sliding ice on her skin.

Henry ran his knuckle across the dimple of his chin. The signet ring on his pinky finger flickered on her hazel eyes in blinding silver. He took her in with a deep inhale. No, not even a drop of appreciation on her pretty face but he did detect a tinge of fear.

Interesting he mused, a small grin stretching his defined lips. The little dark-haired woman was either completely oblivious to who he was, or she was one of them ladies who had principles. 

Whichever it was, it spiked his intrigue and made for a curious turn of events in a very boring night.

“Isn’t that what you do, darling? Dance for money?”

He asked as he waved two £50 bills between his long fingers as an offering. His accent was posh and not a fake one either. She imagined he grew up wealthy. How does a man who presumingly, could achieve everything in life wound up into a place like this, she wondered. Not that the Imperial club was anything sort of sleazy. It was owned by the largest underworld family and had a taste of an old cabaret. Male celebrities often visited the club aside from gangsters and corrupt politicians.  

“It’s my first night I’m not really...”

Henry reached into his pocket, drawing six more £50 bills and offered it to her. The steel in his eyes softened for a moment, yet the peril still hovered on his face. 

He was a man trying to appear harmless and the risk never seemed so alluring.

Chewing on her cheek, she stared at the money. It was enough to stock the fridge for at least a month but it wasn’t as even half as seductive as her stranger’s haunting charm. 

Fuck it.

Taking a deep breath, her slender fingers reached toward the hand that held the cash. She snatched the money from between his digits and tucked it in her garter belt. Henry beamed, pleased that she agreed. Two large dimples creased his cheeks as if this man needed any more attractive features.

Ash wrapped her fingers around his wrist and led him through the depths of the club while her heart thundered in her chest. For some reason, it felt as if she was walking freely into a trap. 

And yet, excitement boiled in her blood. 

The cracks between their silent contract were filled by the beats of the monotonous music. They passed by the abundance of half-naked women who were coaxing different men around the bar, touching and smiling sweetly, serving them with nothing but the illusion that they are wanted, when in fact they were needed for nothing but a paycheck. 

Henry followed the petite woman, anticipation coating his veins and spiralling a small grin on his face. He guessed that without her heels she’d be at the height of his shoulder, this pretty little thing with raven black hair. He was intrigued by the way she bravely withstood him, almost to the point of irritation. It seemed as if his spell was useless on her as she carried herself carelessly, unlike the many women who threw themselves at his feet, begging to be fucked.   

There was something provoking in her, to the extent of him willing to break another one of his own rules and get a sense of what she felt from the inside. 

Her fingertips pressed on his wrist, sensing the pulse within. His heart ran strong and confident but she imagined it would only be a matter of time until she’d have him a complete mess. 

They all have the same weakness, no matter how much power they have. 

The large spacious club narrowed into a slim corridor while teal and magenta-coloured lights danced diagonally across a mirrored tunnel. Their own reflections appeared several times, accompanying them as they arrived in an open room, guarded by a huge, square-shaped bodyguard with a shaved head, chewing on the dead skin of his thumb.

Henry eyed him carefully, giving him a small nod before following her into the room. The interior was dark, with a black ceiling and a black shiny floor, embellished with white LEDs that reflected on her red stiletto heels. An onyx leather couch waited in the middle next to a small edge table holding plenty of bottled hard liqueur.   

“Make yourself comfortable.” She gestured toward the seat and shut the door behind her, taking a deep breath as she felt a slight increase in her heartbeat. In the confinement of the small space, the brooding man had the energy of a lion, hazing her senses and making her feel like nothing more but a fluffy little rabbit. 

The leather squeaked beneath his weight as he shifted slightly, wide thighs spread open while he glanced at her rear. She turned to tinker with the stereo system, selecting a tune to dance to. 

Browsing through the selection of beverages, Henry decided to treat himself to a bottle of smoked whiskey. He unturned a clean lowball on the table, the sharp hiss making her flinch and then slump her shoulders at the sound of thick liquid being poured. The odour of spiced ashes filled the room, mixing with his musk and her sweet perfume.  

“Should I pour you one as well, pet?” 

“I would rather not drink on the job,” she replied and pressed play. Soft synth tunes played through the speakers and Ash turned to him slowly, giving him a seductive glance. 

“Depeche Mode, really?” He crooked an eyebrow and smiled with amusement before pressing the glass to his lips and eyeing her carefully.

“I thought this song is fitting for my first VIP client” she answered, and made sensual steps towards him, already feeling captive by the daggers on his eyes. Henry took another sip of the amber-gold drink and placed his glass aside, pressing his fingers against his temple while examining the woman who was running her hands over her corset.

“You’re my first too.” 

“Bullshit,” she mocked, entering into the space between his knees. 

Henry tilted his head, a small warning glare crossing his chiselled face. “Mind your tongue, sweetheart. You’re a lady, act like one.”   

She bit her tongue, avoiding the small tremor that flapped from her chest all the way up to her throat like a tiny caged bird. The dominance and authority in his voice made her shiver, making her feel as if she was owned by more than just his money. She wondered what made a handsome man like him even bother paying for something he could get for free from any woman he wanted.

“Fuck,” she provoked, keeping the fear on her breath tucked well behind a sweet sultry smile. She took joy in the dissatisfaction that danced on his face as she cursed. “You know how this works, then?”

“You take off your clothes and dance on my lap like a good girl?” 

“I can touch you, you don’t touch me.” she warned, and slowly fell to her knees between his thick thighs, following the hollowed drop in the melody. Henry stared down at her with a pleased look on his face, his eyes hued with wanton as she rolled the laces of her corset between her fingers and unwrapped herself like the sweetest present. 

It wasn’t her first time giving a lap dance. She worked in strip clubs outside of London, but those were much smaller clubs that held no more than 40 guests. And none of her customers looked like Big Handsome Boss. 

“That seems unfair,” he answered as she spread her corset open. Her perked nipples teased through the loosened fabric while she gave him a pouty look and pulled at the laces delicately until she was free of the confinement of her bodice. 

Henry shifted in his seat uncomfortably while she revealed her body to him. Small breasts glowed heavenly in the LED lighting, skin pure and smooth like honey. He was forced to reach a hand to adjust the huge bulge that pooled with arousal while her fingers began stalking up to his knees like two big spiders. 

Big boy, she noted, trying to deny the small electric tingle that ran mischievously between her legs.  

“Many things in life are unfair, Mister…”

“Henry.”

“Henry,” she answered, her French-manicured nails scratching his thighs, eliciting a low growl from him that made her spine crawl. “Not that I imagine that a man like you would know.”

He let out a small chuckle, she wasn’t far from being right. The hardest thing in his life right now was the fact that a beautiful nymph was dancing between his thighs and he wasn’t allowed to touch her. Yet.

The little vixen clutched his thighs tightly and pushed herself up steadily, spine curving, her breasts displayed an inch from his lips. She climbed to his lap and straddled his waist, pressing her panty-clad crotch against his caged erection. A rogue moan escaped her lips as she felt the mass of his bulge between her legs, much to the large man’s delight.

It appeared she wasn’t all immune to his spell. Her breath was shaking in her throat as she pressed her hands against his chest, feeling the hard pecs under the soft cotton of his grey shirt. Henry was sturdy and large. She couldn’t help but wonder what he hid beneath his well-tailored outfit. His biceps were bigger than her head as he kept his arms folded; those thighs beneath her ass felt thicker than logs.  

Her lustful gaze swayed to meet the sky in his eyes up close, detecting a slight imperfection in one of them: an earthly taint of brown. He gave her a slanted grin, descending to feast on the sight of her half-naked form with a flick of his tongue across his lip. 

Red flags waved at the back of her mind. This man was the epitome of danger, drenched with dark lust and sinister grins. The fact that he was a sweet, sugary treat for a starving girl made for a sinful mixture, causing both distress and stickiness between her thighs.

Henry placed both his hands on the armrests, fingers digging into the onyx leather to hold himself from grabbing her slim waist and grinding her onto his cock. Her mound felt fiery hot onto the fabric of his trousers, and the slow tidal sway of her hips did nothing but engorge him even more.        

“What’s your name, little minx?” He asked, his breath heavy and sweet with whiskey against her neck. 

She hummed in response, closing her eyes and throwing her head back while her hands held onto his broad shoulders. The dark waterfalls of her hair streamed down behind her. Her torso stretched, bare breasts a delicious sight while she danced on his groin, increasing the friction that ran like smouldering heat. 

“It’s… Lilith…” she answered, licking her lips as she felt the blood vibrating between them.

Henry groaned, enjoying the brush of her body against his. She moved in sensual waves- slow yet hard, like a storm inching an ocean. Her voice hummed softly in his ear, her almond-shaped eyes tricking him into believing he was desired, needed. 

And perhaps he was, as her lips swelled red with passion and she danced on his cock with as much urgency to please herself as to please him.

“Your real name, pet.”   

Ash closed her eyes and shook her head. “I am not allowed to tell you.”

“Fair enough,” he growled. He felt her increase the pace, pushing harder onto him. His self-control was vastly challenged. His breath became fervent fumes. He felt the moistness beneath his hands as he clutched tightly on the soft leather as if his life were dependent on it. The pulse in his organ became as rageful as a volcano.

“You look like you’re enjoying this as much as I am,” he murmured, letting his lips inch dangerously close against her neck. “I wonder if this sort of thing would happen with anyone else, or I’m special.”

Goosebumps spread through her skin, her nape felt a cold shiver. Ash swallowed hard. If this was a thriller film this was the point where she was supposed to turn back and save her skin, yet all she fancied was to push her cunt against menacing Henry and mewl as tinders of joy licked between her legs.

“Is that a problem, if I am?” She dared.   

Unable to control his body’s natural instincts, Henry broke and bucked his hips roughly into her mound, giving in to her grind, growling as the collision created sparks of fire that increased the flame between them. 

“Not at all,” he grunted, feeling droplets of sweat forming on his brow. “Only that I paid you.” 

“Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself.”

And tendrils of pleasure were indeed within her grasp. Ash felt a tremble in her thighs. He was large and hard, demanding to be let inside her. She’d be lying if she didn’t want the same, imagining just how large a man of his size was. 

She wondered how he’d fuck her, would he be as slow and rough as their carnal dance, or would he throw her on the bed and wreck her till she cried. 

The dark gaze in his eyes made her lean toward the latter and darn if he didn’t look at her as if she was the most intoxicating woman on earth. Feeling the flush ride from her cheeks down to her chest, she turned around, pushing her ass against his cock instead. She wanted to come so badly, the throb between her legs mingled with the fear that tingled in her chest. She wanted to remind herself she was protected by the owners of the club and the man standing right outside, yet Henry made her doubt herself. 

And for some reason, it only made her more excited.

“Touch me!” She demanded in a voice tainted with desperation.

There was no need to ask more than once. Her handsome stranger groaned the most beautiful melodies in her ear and reached his aching hands to squeeze her breasts. They moaned together as the much-needed bond had formed. Henry’s thumbs circled her nipples while his fingers kneaded on the fat of her flesh. She knew this was a mistake, he would leave his violet fingerprints all over her skin yet her judgment was clouded by the pleasure his touch elicited on her desperate flesh.

“Lilith.” Henry gasped, allowing himself to nuzzle the girl’s hair as she seemed completely lost to her own desires. “Do you fuck your boss?”

“I’m not a prostitute.” she answered breathlessly as one of his hands climbed up to her neck and held her jaw, drawing her head back onto his shoulder. His hips bucked harder against her ass, the pounding in his cock was nothing but white-hot fury. He held her tightly while she dug her nails into his thighs. 

“Not what... I asked…” he gasped, his voice breaking between grunts.

“No.” 

Ash felt his cock twitch beneath her and his moans chanted repeatedly, becoming louder and louder. The pulsating need inside her was unbearable yet it wasn’t enough, not for her. She needed to feel something inside her throbbing cunt yet she feared breaking the rules. Henry pushed against her ass with vigour, emitting inarticulate sounds until he clutched her tightly and gasped with pleasure. 

For a few seconds, the room felt like the most radiant thing on earth.  

Ash breathed out as his hot mess was sticky against her ass. Slight disappointment danced in her chest as she didn’t share his climax and her heart was still in rageful turmoil, furious for not being let to feel the much-needed pleasure. Yet a part of her was relieved that their contract has expired. 

She might have managed to avoid trouble for once. 

“Good.” Henry breathed out, panting heavily as he tried to adjust his lungs. His hands still covered her breasts, sensing the dampness of her skin against his sweaty palms 

“Because I am your boss, darling.”  

Her mind still fuzzy, Ash let out a confused chuckle which quickly died as the man beneath her didn’t join in her laughter. The rigidness on his breath sounded dead serious and the signet ring on his pinky finger suddenly felt cold against the softness of her breast.   

“Cavill.” she called out, panic pitching her voice higher. “Henry Cavill…?”

“Mhmm.” he hummed with approval, an arrogant smile spread from the corners of his lips as he noticed the obvious shift in her mood. Still seated on his lap, she let out a trembling wheeze as her heart sank to her gut.

“You are not joking, are you?”

“No,” his voice rumbled, vibrating low and thick against her prickling spine. 

Ash felt the sweat turn cold on her skin. Giving a small turn, she was unable to determine whether she should get up or remain seated on his groin. She could see the shit-eating grin on Henry’s sharp jaw from the corner of her eye and decided to gather her shaky feet to stand, nearly losing her balance as her heels suddenly despised her.

“Mr. Cavill, I’m so sorry,” she dropped her gaze to the floor, her hands covering her breasts nervously out of the misled thought she offended him. If he felt threatening before, now she felt pure terror making her blood sting. The Cavills were the most notorious organized crime family in the United Kingdom. Their web spun across each district, and they owned half of the police force in London.

She just made a filthy mess out of the trousers of a man who kills much more important people than her.

It was very much clear to her that it would take little to no effort to make a no one like Ashleigh Carr disappear. 

The room began to feel as if it was depleted of air all of a sudden.

“Considering you just made me come all over my pants, you can call me Henry, or sir.” he corrected her in his deep voice while his piercing steel eyes focused on the obvious stain on his crotch. 

Ash blinked, terrified as Henry reached for the phone at the back of his trousers. A muscle strained in his jaw while he scrolled through the device and then placed it against his ear. She opened her mouth to apologize once again, yet was silenced by Henry holding up his index finger gesturing “wait”.

“Sean, I will need a clean suit brought to the Imperial, ASAP. Make it a dark one.”

The crime lord ended the call with a friendly yet authoritative “Cheers,” before lifting his gaze to the slender girl who still stood at the same spot with eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights. Never in his life had he had a naked girl look at him with so much fear on her face. 

It was an interesting new aspect. 

Reaching down between his knees, Henry fished for her flimsy corset and pulled his heavy body upward. His long legs stretched as he stepped toward the horrified girl. Giving her a smile, he handed her the piece of garment. 

She snatched it from his hand with slight hesitation while he stared down at her, his head tilting as if to further study the features of her face. She was too afraid to break eye contact, strapping the corset back around her body without saying another word.

“Lilith…” Henry called, his spiced breath hot on her face.

“Ash...Ashleigh,” she admitted.

“Ashleigh,” Henry pronounced her name softly in his low voice, giving a small dreamlike smirk as if it was the most beautiful name he ever heard. His tongue licked over his bottom lip while he drank the sight of her in. 

“I’d like to fuck you.”

Ash stared at the man in front of her with surprise, lust still blooming between her thighs, her skin tingling with the imprint of his touch. Inside, she seared with passion and he was undoubtedly the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen with his kissable lips and crystal blue eyes.

But she detested the idea of being a whore. She never slept with a customer, nor was she willing to sleep with her boss. 

Even if it cost her life. 

“As I said, not a prostitute.”

“I have no intention of paying you,” he answered with a dry chuckle.

“You just did,” she answered and then took a deep breath, choosing not to say more. She still valued her life after all, no matter how pitiful it is. 

Henry gave her a slanted smirk and began circling her like a predator stalking his prey. Careful eyes followed him, her breath measured with every step he took. 

There was a spirit in her, warm and feisty. Defiant despite the fear that sparkled as clear as water in her beautiful eyes. In the cold, secluded room of his sinful club, he finally felt the thing he chased after for years. Passion. Desire. 

And it was booming in his heart.

“I find you interesting, Ashleigh,” he replied and shoved his hand into the pocket of his jacket, drawing out a sharp silver card.

“But I am not one to beg, nor do I take pleasure in pressuring women to sleep with me.”

The card gleamed like a knife as he held it between his digits while waiting for her to accept it. 

“This is my driver’s number, just in case you decide you do want to spend your night with me.”

*

Read Part 2

________________________________________________

[thebmatt]

FFXIV Write Day 1

Foster – “encourage or promote the development of (something, typically something regarded as good)”

“I still cannot believe you built a bloody airship! I mean, I’ve done maintenance work on them under Cid or Stephanivien’s tutelage, but you BUILT one, from practically nothing!”

Tataru looked up from the pile of paperwork she was dealing with and grinned at Franks. “What, you didn’t think little old me could do it all by myself? No, wait, that’s not it, is it?? You’re JEALOUS!”

Franks threw down the cloth he’d been using to clean his gun and tools only moments before. “Of COURSE, I’m jealous! You know how many times I’ve tried to make time with either one of them to learn more about magitek engineering? I’ve lost count, because every time, without fail, either I have to cancel because the star’s in peril again or one of them has some company emergency or other to deal with! And now here you are, buildin’ an entire AIRSHIP! Hells yes I’m jealous!”

Tataru spasmed as she tried to hold back her mirth, covering her mouth, but there was no hiding the look in her eyes. First a few giggles escaped her, growing more numerous and loud, until she released peals of laughter, falling over in her chair. Franks eventually joined in, the pair enjoying a simple moment together.

Eventually Tataru managed to get herself under control. “Well, hopefully one day, this will all be in our pasts and you can spend the rest of your days building and maintaining magitek, if you wish. Think you’ll open up Cid’s first competition? Or maybe work for him? Wait, can you stand to be around Nero that much?”

Franks chuckled as he resumed cleaning a wrench.”Honestly, once you recognize and accept that his boundless arrogance is an attempt to mask both his profound fear at having to essentially restart his life in a formerly-hostile land AND trying to sort out exactly how he feels about Cid, he’s really not that bad. But while working at the Ironworks would certainly be enjoyable, I think my place is in Ishgard, in the Machinists guild. I want to be at the forefront of that discipline, both training new recruits and helpin’ Stephanivien come up with new tools for them to use. I foresee workin’ closely with the Ironworks to make that happen, though, so it’s really the best o’ both worlds.”

Tataru nodded. “I don’t know what the Scions will do once this is all over. I don’t even know if there’s really a place for us once the world is saved, if such a thing is even possible. But I might quite like working for Cid, I think. There’s a lot of upsides. Good pay, constantly getting to learn, don’t have to leave Mor Dhona…”

“Not to mention being in constant proximity to a certain Lalafell engineer…” Franks added, smirking as he looked over in her direction.

Tataru flushed and quickly looked away from his knowing gaze. “Y-yes, I suppose being near my good friend Wedge would be a nice perk!”

“Uh huh” Franks replied, not at all sounding like he was buying that description for one second. He finished wiping down the last piece of his aetherotransformer, and with practiced ease, began reassembling the components. With a final click, the device came together and lit up from within. Giving it a final examination, he returned it to its place at his hip and began reassembling his gun. “So…this next question might seem cruel, and if it’s hurtful please tell me so I can apologize, but I’m curious. You’re clearly a good engineer, which means math isn’t a problem for you. So why have you had such a problem with arcanima?”

Tataru had returned her attention to her paperwork, but the question stopped her mid-sentence. She looked back at Franks, her expression one of sad acceptance. “Thank you for saying it like…. that”

“Tataru, I’m so…”

“No no, it’s not bad. It’s nothing I haven’t asked myself and wrestled with, but I came to an answer a while ago.” She picked up a small clock that adorned her desk. “When I’m building, anything from constructing an airship to something simple like sawing wood…the math is there, a physical object in front of me. When I can see, can feel, the results right then, it all makes sense in my head. But with Arcanima….it was all in my head for me to unravel before it would manifest the magic. That’s harder for me. Not impossible, I don’t think I could have manifested a carbuncle or a Ruin spell otherwise, but I was a lot less confident, doubly so when I had to fight with it. I think that confidence, or lack thereof, is why my carbuncle didn’t do what I want.”

Franks nodded. “That absolutely is understandable. Everyone learns differently after all.”

Tataru’s smile brightened. “And really, I’m somewhat glad it didn’t work out! I wouldn’t have been able to find my talents as a crafter and intelligence gatherer for the Scions if I hadn’t accepted defeat with a grimoire!”

Franks laughed. “Absolutely true. I’ve no idea what would have become of the Scions if you hadn’t! We probably would still be wondering how we’d pay for the fare to Kugane! Definitely wouldn’t be eating as well, that’s for sure!”

She had to laugh at that. “Oh, I get it, I’m just your bank lender and chef, is that it?”

“In all seriousness, do you still wish you could join us in the field? Fight alongside everyone?”

She paused, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. “I won’t deny the idea doesn’t STILL have some appeal, but I know I’m way more valuable to the Scions in my current role. I do wish I had a more reliable way of defending myself, especially should the Garlands attempt another Waking Sands massacre, though. I suppose I’ll just have to hope the people of Revenant’s Toll are more capable of defending us than the citizens of Vesper Bay were.”

Franks looked back down to his gun, nodding. “Mmm, makes sense. Even if you aren’t in enemy territory, as it were, traveling around isn’t always safe. We might just have to….” he stopped, nearly dropping the assembled firearm.

“Have to what, Franks?”

“I can’t believe I never thought of this. How did it not occur to me?”. Franks stood up, slinging his weapon across his band into the holster that held it in place. He looked to Tataru with an almost manic gleam in his eye. “Go get something warm to wear, Tataru! We got someplace to be!”

Tataru looked confused “W-where??”

Franks grinned. “Ishgard!”

A bell later, the air around the Ishgardian aetheryte gave a slight pop as it was suddenly displaced by the appearing forms of Franks and Fearless. Both shivered, if only briefly, before their bodies re-acclimated to the colder temperatures that they had grown used to those many moons they’d spent in the city.

Both were quickly recognized by practically everyone they passed by, and while Franks had little hope of recognizing most of the people who spoke to them, Tataru seemed to know everyone, able to call them by name and ask personal questions that she’d had to have learned about on those random evenings in the Forgotten Knight. More than once, she was able to recognize fully helmed Temple Knights by voice alone. Franks, for his part, hurried them both along, seemingly eager to reach their destination.

“So where ARE we going, exactly?” Tataru asked in between a conversation with one of Hilda’s people in the City Watch and a noblewoman of a minor house. Franks didn’t reply aside from a grin on his face until a few minutes later when he stopped in front of a building and pointed. “There!”

Tataru bid one more person farewell and stopped to take in where the pair had arrived at. Sounds of rhythmic thumping filled the air, which smelled of flame and metal and soot. She looked up at the building. “Skysteel Manufactory? What are we doing here?”

“You’ll see!” Franks called back, already having made his way to the corner where one needed to turn to enter the Manufactory’s font door. Tataru squeaked and started after him as quick as her smaller legs could carry her. By the time she rounded the corner, Franks had already thrown open the wooden doors of the entrance and strode in.

“Franks, my old friend!” a voice cried out from within. Tataru quickly ran to catch up, and as she entered the door, the eyes of an Elezen man quickly jumped to her. “And mistress Tataru! What a surprise!”

“Good to see you too, Lord Stephanivien!” she replied, smiling.

“Whatever brings Ishgard’s savior, and most importantly my best machinist, and the Scion’s….erm…what IS your official role within the Scions of the Seventh Dawn these days, milady? If half of what Franks tells me is true, “secretary” would seem a woefully inadequate title! Perhaps ‘the very hull on which the entire ship is built’? No? Too long?”

Tataru giggled. “Oh no, milord, ‘secretary’ is just fine. I like it, makes people underestimate me! And that’s how I get em!”

“Who’s come calling, milord?” came a voice from the upper levels of the Manufactory. A woman’s head peaked over the railing, her blond ponytails dangling from the sides of her head. “I thought I heard….TATARU!” With that, she bolted for the stairs that led to the entryway, sliding down the rails. Tataru ran for the woman and lept right into her arms, hugging.

“What’re ye doin here, girl? I thought you were busy keepin’ them Scions from fallin apart!”

“I don’t know, rightly! Franks dragged me….” Tataru trailed off as she noticed that Joye’s braids had somehow completely undone themselves, and her hair was a wild mess. “Are you ever going to tell me how you do that??”

“Dunno what yer on about! FRANKS!” she turned and yelled at the man who’d been quietly conversing with Stephanivien. “Why you dragged this poor lass all the way out into the cold arse o’ this time o’ night without tellin’ her what’s goin on?”

Franks smiled, leaning away from Stephanivien, and crossed his arms. “Well, Joye, I’d like to introduce you to someone that, well, you don’t really need introduction to! That lady you’re hugging is Tataru Taru, Scion of the Seventh Dawn, the glue and rivets that keep the very organization held together, and-“

“We know who she is, ye daft sod!” Joy interrupted, setting Tataru back on the ground. “Ya literally just watched us have a mini-reunion!”

“-AND, assuming she’s amenable, the newest member of the Machinist’s guild!” Franks continued, as though he hadn’t been interrupted.

THAT got everyone’s attention. Both Joye’s and Tataru’s jaws dropped. Stephanivien simply smiled.

“Wait…this is your solution to me wanting to increase my martial skillset?” Tataru asked.

Franks threw his arms out, gesturing around to the manufactory around them. “It’s a perfect idea! Think about it! You’re already proficient with magitek, you’ve certainly proven that by now! You already know what I’m guessing is about 80% of the members already! You don’t need any extensive training in magic or heavy melee arms, all you really need to learn is how to shoot! I don’t doubt you can get the hang of that, especially with Joye teaching you!”

Joye looked down at Tataru. “Aye….aye I can! Tataru, this’ll be great!”

Tataru still appeared in shock. “But…I don’t…I don’t have a gun! And I bet they don’t keep ones sized for Lalafell around!”

Stephanivien knelt down to face her. “As it turns out, my dear, we actually made a custom one for a colleague of ours from Garlond Ironworks. He frequently comes to collaborate with our fair guild and commissioned a carbine with which to recreationally shoot. He keeps it here, as well. I believe you are acquainted with one Wedge? His weapon should suffice for you to practice with until we can build a custom one for you. I daresay he will not object either, would you not agree?” He winked almost conspiratorially.

“I know where it is! Come on Tataru, let’s go blast some training dummies!” Joye practically dragged Tataru behind her as she ran outside. Tataru didn’t require TOO much prompting, however, as pretty soon, she was running full steam out the door behind Joye under her own power.

Stephanivien turned to Franks. “Seems you have a knack for fostering talent in people, my friend. I heard of the fortune that befell the Baroness de Jervaint, and now you’ve added a new member to our guild’s ranks as well! I know you must wear any number of metaphorical hats, but I am quite glad the Machinist’s goggles are among them!”

Franks smiled. Whatever the future held, he was glad to keep building towards making it better.

[kelyon]

Golden Rings 24: A Stranger

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

Rumpelstiltskin seeks out the mysterious man on a motorcycle

Read on AO3

August Wayne Booth. 

The man had been at the forefront of Rumpelstiltskin’s mind for weeks now, ever since Jefferson had mentioned him in passing. His friend had only known the stranger as a man on a motorcycle, someone who had come to town in January and stayed.

Outsiders weren’t supposed to be able to come into Storybrooke and they certainly weren’t supposed to stay. The only person here who hadn’t been born in the old world was Henry Mills. The people affected by the curse didn’t notice it’s constant effect because that had been their reality for twenty-eight years. But a normal person would notice the oddness around Storybrooke, the little things that didn’t quite add up. Henry had, and he was only a child. If an adult who had been born in the world without magic slipped into town, the curse was designed to fill them with an unfathomable dread, a soul-deep revulsion that would make them want to leave as soon as they could.  

But not Mr. August Wayne Booth. 

For a few weeks, Rumpelstiltskin kept tabs on the man. Gold had a loose network of informants, people who wanted to stay on his good side. It was easy to make subtle inquiries. Emma Swan had given him the name, as well as the fact that he was a writer. That had piqued his interest. A storyteller coming into a town made of stories. Wasn’t that awfully convenient?

 “Booth” was clearly a false name. If he was a writer, it was a pseudonym. If there was something more nefarious going on, it was an alias. Either way, the name was a lie. What was the truth? Who was he, this dark-haired young man who had been born in the old world but had come to the land without magic without being part of the curse? 

And why did he seem to be watching Gold as much as Rumpelstiltskin had been watching him?

****

It started with Henry. One day after school, the boy came into the shop. Thankfully, Mrs. Gold was out at the time. Rumpelstiltskin hated to imagine the sorts of things that woman might try to get away with in front of a child. 

Rumpelstiltskin liked Henry. He liked most children--they were so refreshingly direct. Henry reminded him particularly of Bae. It was something about the dark hair and wide brown eyes, the conflict of innocence and experience that made both boys wiser and more haunted than they should have been. Bae’s life hadn’t been an easy one, and Henry had been raised by Regina, a woman the boy had correctly identified as the Evil Queen. 

“Good afternoon, Henry.” He left the back counter to talk to him. “What brings you in today?”

Henry looked around the shop with a half-frown on his small face. “I wanted to buy a present for Mrs. Nolan,” he said. “You know, since she didn’t die.”

Kathryn Nolan’s disappearance, various sightings, and eventual re-appearance had been headline news for weeks. The poor woman had finally made it to the doorstep of the sheriff’s station, dehydrated and malnourished but clear in her mind. She reported that she had been abducted, had escaped several times, and had been recaptured and moved to different locations before finally making a break for it.

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t wonder who might be responsible for something so tragic happening to the woman Prince Charming was married to in this world--or who might benefit from it becoming public knowledge that David Nolan and Mary Margaret Blanchard were having an affair while Kathryn was in such peril. But he did wonder how things might have been different if Regina had asked someone more competent to do her dirty work. He would have refused, but she should have at least tried to come to him first. 

That was all in the past. Now, Kathryn Nolan was recuperating in the hospital and young Henry wanted to buy her a gift. 

“What were you thinking, my boy?”  

Henry shifted from one foot to the other. He seemed focused at some point over Rumpelstiltskin’s shoulder. “Um.... Maybe something musical? Something that makes a lot of noise.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Interesting choice. Perhaps a music box?” He went to the case where he kept a few antique music boxes. He wound each one up and set them on the counter for Henry’s inspection.

“They’re not very loud.” He held one shaped like a golden harp up to his ear. 

“I also have a mechanical nightingale.” Rumpelstiltskin pointed to a clockwork bird that was covered in jewels. In the old world, it had belonged to an emperor, who had valued its song over that of any real bird. “Though I fear it may be a touch out of your price range.”

There was a noise from the back of the shop. Rumpelstiltskin turned to look that way, but then Henry spoke up again.

“What about a bell?” he asked loudly. “Do you have any bells around here?”

“I’d be happier if I had one more,” Rumpelstiltskin joked to himself. “But yes, they’re in the case on the other side.”

He got them out--glass and porcelain, silver and pewter. Henry had to ring them all, of course. Several times. It was only when the boy was done that Rumpelstiltskin noticed more noise from the back. 

“Excuse me,” he said to Henry as he limped over to the curtained door. 

There was a man in his office. August Wayne Booth. Looking through the shelves of unpriced antiques. 

“May I help you?” he threatened. 

Booth put on a boyish grin. It was meant to look disarming, which only made Rumpelstiltskin arm himself more thoroughly. 

“Yeah, I was looking for some maps, if you had any.”

“They’re out there,” Rumpelstiltskin nodded behind him. “In the shop.”

“I thought this was the shop,” Booth chuckled. 

Slowly, Rumpelstiltskin came toward the man, who backed away without losing his shit-eating grin. 

“This is my office.” He kept his voice low, to make sure Booth was listening. “Private.”

“Ah!” To Booth’s credit, he kept up the ruse, no matter how thin it was getting. “Sorry. My mistake.” 

Why did the memory suddenly come to him of Baelfire insisting that he had washed his hands before dinner, even when Rumpelstiltskin could see the dirt on his palms?

Booth made a hasty retreat through the curtained door into the showroom. A moment later, the bell over the front door rang. Without looking, Rumpelstiltskin knew that Henry and Booth were both gone. 

****

      “Will you be able to watch the shop today?” Rumpelstiltskin asked Mrs. Gold the next morning. She had started coming down for breakfast again, though she still made her own coffee and toast. 

For some reason, she seemed to be warming up to him lately. In the evenings she lounged around the house instead of staying cooped up in her room. She offered to help him with dishes and other chores. She stood close to him again. Sometimes she even tried to take his hand. 

She set down her section of the newspaper. Instead of reading to him as she once had, now they divided the paper and read in silence. “You won’t be in?”

“No, I have some business that would bore you.” 

For a moment, he wondered if she would question him. When the curse was in full force Mrs. Gold would have obeyed her husband without thought. Her trust in him--damaging and perverse though it may have been--was absolute. But since Rumpelstiltskin had given up any pretense of acting like Gold to her, she didn’t know him anymore. It had hurt her at first, especially when she had seen him with Jefferson. But lately, for some reason, the breakdown of their marriage didn’t seem to bother her as much as it once had. 

She just nodded. “Feels like I haven’t been in the shop in forever.”

She hadn’t. When Mrs. Gold avoided him that meant avoiding the place where he spent the most time. Should he have done something different with that? Should he have arranged that they alternate days in the shop, just to give Mrs. Gold something to do? Would keeping her busy have made her happier? Would it have prevented some damage to her heart or her mind?

Was it too late for him to make things better for her?

****

 The question of regrets, of apologies and restitution, weighed heavily on Rumpelstiltskin’s mind. Everything he had done for the last several hundred years had been to get to the moment he was in now. He had created a curse that would destroy the old world and bring them to this one. He had manipulated events so that Regina would have enough power and enough rage to cast it, and that Snow White and Prince Charming would have enough True Love to create a Savior who could break it. All of that was just the first step, just the way to get to Baelfire. Now he had to find him, and he had to make things right by him. 

But what if Baelfire had found him first?

The thought was too precious to believe in. It didn’t help that he had no idea how old his son would be. Time worked differently in different worlds. In some places it stopped altogether. Jefferson once spoke of a world where thousands of years could pass between one of his visits and the next. In this world without magic, Bae could still be fourteen. Or he could be an old man. 

Or could be an adult who rode a motorcycle. 

Booth was staying at Granny’s Bed and Breakfast. As the owner of the building, Rumpelstiltskin could have insisted that Granny Lucas pull out her master key and escort him up to the room. But there was no need to make a public display. Not when a set of lock picks could achieve the same result. 

Tit for tat, after all. Booth had invaded his territory. It was only fair that Rumpelstiltskin repay him in kind. 

After four months of him living there, the hotel room had plenty of information to offer about Booth. Housekeeping had made the bed, but dirty clothes still littered the floor. A desk was strewn with books and papers, with a typewriter sitting in the middle. That gave some credence to the idea that Booth was an author. There was a page in the typewriter carriage, the end of a paragraph about a smirking blonde woman. 

There were two stacks of papers on the desk. The larger stack appeared to be a ream or two of blank printer paper, waiting to become the next Great American Novel. The smaller stack was the actual results of Booth’s work. Typed pages held down by a wooden carving of a donkey.

Rumpelstiltskin picked up the figurine. There was no brand on the bottom, it could be hand-made. Once, Baelfire had asked him to teach him to whittle, as he had seen other men around the village teach the other boys. Rumpelstiltskin had been forced to admit that he didn’t have that skill. His father had never taught him either.  

He leafed through the pages until his heart skipped a beat. Hidden with the rest of the papers was a drawing. Baelfire had loved to draw, as Milah had before him. And this drawing was certainly something that only Baelfire would have made. 

It was the dagger. His dagger. 

He had told his son about the power of the dagger, that it was the source of his magic, the only weapon that could hurt him. That anyone who used the dagger could control him and make the powerful Dark One a slave.

Bae had hated the dagger. He hated what his papa had become--and hated more that Rumpelstiltskin didn’t hate it. How could he? The power, the knowledge, had been like nothing he had ever known. Once he had lost his soul to dark magic, Rumpelstiltskin felt like a man for the first time in his life.

But Bae had only wanted his father. 

And when the time came, when Rumpelstiltskin had to choose between the dagger and his son--the son he would die for but could not protect without magic--he had made the worst choice he could have made. 

By the time he realized what he’d done, it was too late. Bae was gone. Rumpelstiltskin lived for centuries without him. Centuries trying to find him. And now…

And now his son might be in Storybrooke. 

****

Later that afternoon, he took Gold’s car and followed Booth on his motorcycle. The Sisters of St. Meissa Convent was an odd visiting place for a man as worldly and rough-edged as Booth appeared to be. But Baelfire had goodness in his soul, the kind that time could not erase. He would talk to nuns as easily as he would talk to fairies. How fitting that the Blue Fairy was now the Mother Superior over a superfluity of nuns. 

Booth was talking to her. Bae had once asked the Blue Fairy how to remove the darkness from his father, and the gnat had given him a magic bean. The bean had opened a portal to get to the land without magic--this world.

If she had offered the same courtesy to Rumpelstiltskin when he had demanded it, the curse would have never happened and none of them would be in the mess they were in now. 

The fairy and the man spoke for some time. They walked around the convent grounds while Rumpelstiltskin waited in the car. From the far side of the large parking lot, he kept an eye on the motorcycle. Once Booth came back to it and started the motor, Rumpelstiltskin got out and made his way to the convent. 

“Mr. Gold!” Mother Superior squeaked when she saw him waiting for her by the entrance. She quickly recovered and straightened up in a display of determined self-righteousness. “It isn’t Rent Day. Are you here to repent of your sins and beg for forgiveness?”

“My sins are far beyond your forgiveness, dearie.” He showed his teeth. She might be stupid enough to think it was a smile. “Who was that man you were talking to?”

The fairy lifted her chin in the air and began to walk on. “I don’t have to tell you that.”

“And I don’t have to not double your rent.”

She stopped in her tracks, her back to him. She was dressed in wool from her stockings to her habit--all of it dark blue. At least some things hadn’t changed. The Mother Superior stomped back to him. 

“What do you want?” she asked through a clenched jaw.

“That man,” Rumpelstiltskin repeated. “What did you talk about?”

Fidgeting with the sleeves of her cardigan, the Blue Fairy didn’t look him in the eye. “He’s a lost soul looking for his father. He asked me for advice on how to approach him.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s throat went dry. He stayed very still and gripped the handle of his cane. “What did you tell him?”

Her temper seemed to flare. “The same council I would give anyone in that situation: To be selfless, and brave, and honest.”She looked at him pointedly. “You have to care about the other person’s feelings more than your own pride, you know.”

“You would know a thing or two about pride, dearie.” Rumpelstiltskin turned away and began to walk, leaving the gnat sputtering in his wake.  

****

Taking time to chat with the Blue Fairy made Rumpelstiltskin lose track of Booth’s whereabouts. He drove back to town, knowing he would run into the man again. Especially if he was looking to reconcile with his father. 

Should he believe what the fairy had said? Mother Superior would know better than to make things worse between herself and Gold. Nothing she had said seemed to be a lie. But there were so many ways to deceive without lying. 

He parked the car by the shop, but didn’t go in. Without knowing that he was doing it, he began to walk down the main street. He needed to think.

What he really needed was to talk to someone. Belle would know what to do. He could talk to her about anything, and she would understand, or try to. At least she would listen. In the too-brief year of their marriage, he had poured out his soul to her a hundred times. She had always known how to help him, how to see what he needed to do and how he might go about doing it. He could be weak with Belle, in a way he could never be weak with anyone. He could admit his confusion, his inarticulate mass of fears and sorrows--and always, she would help him untangle the threads of his thoughts, without judgement, with nothing but wisdom and love.

No one else could do what Belle did.

He might reach out to Jefferson, but the poor man was so caught up in his own misery. Little Grace didn’t know who her father was, it would be cruel to talk to him about a possible reunion with his own child. It also occurred to Rumpelstiltskin that Jefferson didn’t know Bae existed. His son--his life before he became the Dark One--was one of Rumpelstiltskin’s closest secrets. Only Belle knew the whole story. It would be too much to burden Jefferson with all of it at once.     

After circling the block, Rumpelstiltskin’s feet stopped in front of a building across the street from the shop. It was called the Hepworth Building, Gold had owned it for years. Among other businesses, it housed the office of Dr. Archibald Hopper, the town’s resident psychiatrist. 

In the old world, Hopper had once been a petty thief named Jiminy. After getting caught up in some magic he didn’t understand, Jiminy had been transformed into a talking cricket. To atone for his previous crimes, he had made it his duty to act as the conscience for confused humans, to encourage them to do the right thing.

Rumpelstiltskin sighed as he knocked on the office door. Whatever might happen with the cricket, it had to be better than stewing around in his own head. 

Dr. Hopper opened the door. A tall, bespectacled man in tweed, he radiated a kind of earnest goodness, a guileless sincerity that made Rumpelstiltskin itch. 

Belle would like this man, he told himself. Belle would want him to talk to someone. 

“Mr. Gold.” Hopper’s voice was always soft, even when he was surprised and confused. “Are you… here about the rent?”

Of course that was all Gold was to these people. Nothing but a monster set out to take as much from them as possible. 

“No.” He leaned on his cane and looked at the carpet. “No, I’m… I’m not sure I could tell you why I’m here.”

Hopper’s frame had been taking up the entirety of the doorway. Rumpelstiltskin stood in the hall, far enough away that no passerby would think he was waiting to go into the psychiatrist's office. With a single step Hopper went out into the hall. Now the door was wide open. 

“Would you like to come in?” he said. “I’ve got some time before my next appointment. If there’s something on your mind…?”

Rumpelstiltskin brushed past the doctor before he could change his mind. Once in the office, he had just enough time to find a chair before his knees gave out and he collapsed, like a puppet whose strings had just been cut. 

Hopper sat down in the chair across from him, so they were eye to eye. Some deep, primal emotion burned in Rumpelstiltskin’s throat. He wanted to talk. He shouldn’t talk. If he started talking--about Bae, about himself, about Belle--he would never be able to stop. 

“So,” Hopper began, “what brings you in today?”

A coffee table sat in between Rumpelstiltskin’s chair and Hopper’s. He looked at it, at the fake wood grain that covered up the cheap plywood. He breathed.

Gods, he wished Belle was here.

“I think I might be seeing my son again soon,” he said.

Hopper was silent for a moment. His head tilted to the side. “I--didn’t know you had a son. How old is he?”

“Let’s start with something simpler.” Rumpelstiltskin took a shaking breath. “I haven’t seen him since he was fourteen. I…” He trailed off, then began again. He was here. He was talking. He was determined to plunge in the knife as deep as it would go. 

“I haven’t seen my son since I abandoned him.” He looked up, stared directly into Hopper’s eyes. “I can’t imagine that he doesn’t hate me for what I’ve done. I know I deserve his hate. I deserve all the anger and rage he wants to pour out onto me. But I’m still afraid of it.”

“Well of course you are,” Hopper said simply. “No one wants to deal with negative emotions, or the consequences of actions they regret. The past can be a scary place, and it sounds like you’ve got some real causes for concern.”

Rumpelstiltskin blinked. He’d forgotten how good it could feel to have someone agree with him, to look at the facts of the situation and say that his reaction was justified. 

“I do want to see him,” he said. “But… but how can I make up for what I’ve done? If I make myself vulnerable to him, I might as well put my head on a chopping block.”

The dagger was the only weapon that could kill him. Did Bae want it for that reason? Had his son decided that enough was enough, that he would end the evil of the Dark One no matter what it cost?

“Vulnerability,” Hopper said, “is a very scary thing. Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but you don’t strike me as a person who is comfortable with being open.”

Rumpelstiltskin sighed. It had been the greatest gift Belle had ever given him--the chance to open himself up to her. Could he trust Bae in the same way? Could he offer his son all he had, all the weakness and cowardice? Could he trust his boy to understand everything he wasn’t, as well as everything he was?

“When he was growing up,” he said, “I always wanted to be strong for him. I didn’t want him to… know.”

“Know what?”

“What I lacked. As a father, as a--man.” Rumpelstiltskin’s hands balled into fists. “I didn’t want him to know that I wasn’t good enough for him.”

The confession escaped him like air from his lungs. It left him feeling hollow, deflated. He looked at the ground. 

The office was silent. Hopper seemed to be waiting to see if he would say more. When it was clear that he wouldn’t, the doctor put his hands together, entwining his fingers.

“It’s clear you have regrets,” he said gently. “If you want to talk about those things in the future, we can schedule an appointment. But you came here because you have concerns about reuniting with your son. On that end, I have a question for you.”

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t speak, but looked up from the ground to let Hopper know he was listening. 

“Do you think your son doesn’t know about what you think of as your faults?”

His eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“Everything you were trying to hide from your son when he was a boy, everything you didn’t want him to know--do you think, right now, that he is unaware of those things?”

Rumpelstiltskin opened his mouth. “No,” he said after a moment. “No, I don’t see how he could be ignorant anymore.”

When Bae was small, he had tried to be a regular father to him. He’d tried to keep him from understanding how wretched their poverty was, how unhappy Millah was, how far Rumpelstiltskin fell from being anything their world thought a man should be. But Bae had grown up and he had learned. And then he had seen that not only was his father less than a man--he was a monster. 

Bae had known that. And he had run from it. But now he was back. He had chosen to come back, to seek out Rumpelstiltskin.

“If that’s the case,” Hopper said, “though it might still be frightening, I don’t know if there’s any reason for you to feel like you need to hide from him anymore.”

He didn’t speak. He was too overwhelmed. He should see his son. He would see his son. He had to. 

“Do you know where mold grows, Mr. Gold?”

Wordless, Rumpelstiltskin shook his head.

“In the dark,” Hopper answered his own question. “Any rot, any corruption, it’s mostly going to happen in dark, hidden places. Basements, attics, the back of the fridge. It’s the same with emotions that people keep secret. If you don’t bring them out into the light, they’re just going to get… yucky.”

He allowed himself to grin. “You know, that sounds exactly like something my wife would say.”

****

   That night, when Rumpelstiltskin followed the motorcycle, it drove off into the woods. It took him a few minutes to realize that they were headed to Gold’s cabin. The same place where he had buried the dagger all those months ago. 

Good. That dagger had been the linchpin of the conflict between him and Bae. No matter how that conflict ended, the dagger would surely have some part to play. 

He parked the car beside the motorcycle. The cabin was dark, but moonlight reflected off the lake. The figure of a man stood by the shore. 

Rumpelstiltskin hesitated before going out to meet him. How was this going to play out? How angry would Baelfire be? How could he ever make up for leaving him, for embracing the darkness he had hated so much?

How could he ever be a father to him again?

Do the brave thing, Belle would have said. Bravery will follow after that. 

Leaning on his cane, Rumpelstiltskin stepped onto the grass and walked out to meet his fate. 

The man didn’t move as he heard him approach, but he did turn his head as they stood side by side in front of the water. 

“I didn’t know if you would come,” he said calmly.

Rumpelstiltskin planted his cane in front of him. Just barely, he resisted the impulse to weep. He wanted to throw his arms around his son, to get on his hands and knees and beg forgiveness from his beautiful boy.

“I didn’t know if I would be welcome,” he said honestly. “After… everything.”

Now Bae faced him fully. In the moonlight, his eyes sparkled blue--so like Millah, so like Belle. His eyes shone with unshed tears.

“Papa.” 

It was all he said. It was all he needed to say. Rumpelstiltskin’s resolve melted. His son was in his arms. They hugged and cried and apologized. Bae assured him that everything was alright, everything was forgiven. They were together again. They could be happy again. 

“Look at you!” Rumpelstiltskin held his son’s face in his hands. He had changed, but he had grown up to be a handsome, strong, capable man. Bae was everything he had ever hoped he would be. “Belle will be so happy to meet you at last.” 

Bae looked confused. “Who’s Belle?”

“My wife. Your--well, she’d like to be your step-mother, if you want to think of her that way.”

Belle had wanted to be a mother to his son, a mother to all the children they could have together, once the curse was broken and the world was safe.

“Of course, Papa,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll love Belle. She’s got to be a better wife to you than that girl who hangs around your shop.”

Rumpelstiltskin winced. He patted his son on the arm and began to walk toward the cabin. “Don’t judge Belle by Mrs. Gold, son. This curse… it is a terrible thing.”

“I know.” Bae began to walk ahead of him. Then he stopped and looked back. He waited for Rumpelstiltskin to catch up.

Limping, he chuckled at his son. “Just like old times, isn’t it?”

For a split-second, the man’s face was blank. Like he had no memories of running to the village on market day while his father hobbled on a staff, urging him to slow down, to stay close. The blankness remained in his blue eyes, even as he smiled and laughed. “Oh, right.” 

Had Bae always had Millah’s eyes?  

Rumpelstiltskin felt his jaw clench. A worm of worry had gnawed into this perfect moment. But he couldn’t worry. He couldn’t be afraid now. Not when he finally had Bae again. 

He had Bae. And Bae had forgiven him. It was so easy.

Too easy?

They kept walking, past the cabin and to the patch of woods where he had buried the dagger. There was a shovel in the cabin. The young man insisted that he do the digging. Rumpelstiltskin watched him work. He tried to keep a level head.

The deeper the man dug, the more worried Rumpelstiltskin found himself. Was that just his connection to the dagger? Dark magic knew when it was being threatened, it always worked to protect itself. Bae had tried to separate Rumpelstiltskin from the Dark One before. Did the dagger know that? Was it afraid that Bae would win this time?

Or was Rumpelstiltskin afraid that Booth wasn’t really Bae at all?

After unearthing the metal box, Booth handed it over to him. 

“Can you unlock this, Papa?”

The keys were in his trouser pocket. He didn’t reach for them. He held the box in both hands, in the dark and silent forest. 

“You know,” he said. “I gave the dagger to Belle, before I asked her to marry me. I knew it was the only way we could be together. If I kept my magic, she would have the power to control it.”

The young man looked up at him from his hole in the ground. “That’s… really sweet, Papa.”

Rumpelstiltskin let out a breath. “Funny thing, though,” he said. “In this world, I don’t have magic. Wasn’t that the whole point of coming here, Bae?”

Thinking clearly for the first time in days, Rumpelstiltskin looked August Wayne Booth in his lying blue eyes. 

“There is no magic in this world,” he said. “My son wanted to escape from magic. He would leave this dagger buried in the earth. You are not Baelfire, so who the hell are you?” 

Booth opened his mouth and held up his hands. “Papa, how can you--”

“Enough!” Rumpelstiltskin roared.       

By the time Booth had scrambled out of the hole, Rumpelstiltskin had unlocked the box and taken out the dagger. He pushed Booth up against a tree and held the point of the dagger to his lying throat. 

Booth’s breath went ragged. “You just said it doesn’t have magic.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t sharp, dearie. I think you should talk while you still have a voice box.”

He tried to swallow, then seemed to realize what a dangerous endeavor that would be. “I-I-I’m not your son.”

Rumpelstiltskin bared his teeth. “A little fairy told me she advised you to be honest. Now tell me something that I don’t already fucking know.”

“I know where he is!” Booth gasped out the words. “N-Baelfire. I’ve met him, I’ve talked to him. I can find him again.”

“See, if you started with that, you might have some credibility. But now I’m going to make you bleed, just because you insulted my son’s name by putting it in your mouth.”

He pushed the dagger into a spot under Booth’s ear, far away from any fatal areas. Rumpelstiltskin had seen blood in the moonlight before--it looked black and otherworldly and beautiful.

But Booth wasn’t bleeding. A trail of clear liquid rolled down the man’s neck, much more slowly than blood usually did. Rumpelstiltskin reached out a gloved hand to touch it.

“Who are you?” he asked. “What’s wrong with you? Were you not born in my world?”

Though clearly feeling pain, Booth was able to grin. “That’s where you’re wrong, Dark One. I wasn’t born at all.”

Rumpelstiltskin eased up on the point of the dagger, but kept Booth pushed up against the tree. “And?”

“I was carved,” he explained. “From the wood of an enchanted tree. And enchanted trees don’t do well in a land without magic.”

Now Rumpelstiltskin stepped back. Far enough away that Booth couldn’t grab the dagger away from him, but close enough that he could still rush the man if he needed to. 

“You need magic,” he said to the wooden man. “Did you think you could control me with this? Use me to keep yourself alive?”

“There are three people in this town who might have access to magic.” Now Booth leaned against the tree. He rubbed at his neck, wiping away the sap that had leaked from his skin. “It’s Emma, you, and the Evil Queen.”

Understanding dawned. “You’ve been hanging around Emma for months.”

“Trying to get her to believe.” Booth shook his head. “Hasn’t worked.” 

“Well, you couldn’t claim to be her long-lost child, could you?”

He had the good grace to chuckle at that. “I don’t have anything to offer Regina either. Hell, she wants me to be a pile of kindling.”

“You haven’t exactly endeared yourself to me either, sunshine.”

Hanging his head, Booth looked at him. Blue eyes--Bae’s were brown, they had always been brown, dammit!--had no hope in them. “Do you want to kill me now?” he asked. “Or do you want to watch my limbs and lungs and brain slowly turn into wood?”

“It’s a day in the park either way.” Rumpelstiltskin didn’t hide his satisfaction at this news. This man had lied to him, betrayed him in one of the most personal ways possible. He deserved to die. “Any guess as to how long you’ve got left?”

“Maybe weeks.” Booth pressed his hand to his thigh, then rapped his knuckles against his leather jacket. “Maybe days.”

“Hmm,” he grinned. “Well, Mr. Booth, for as long as you’re flesh and not furniture, you have a job to do.” He stepped up to the man, grabbed him by the collar and spoke loudly into his ear. “Get Emma Swan to break the curse. She is the Savior. Her magic is what will save us all.” He released Booth, tucked the dagger into his inside coat pocket, and walked back to the car. “Even those of us who don’t deserve it.”  

[narcisocacoplex]

Ascendance of a Bookworm and the Multiversal Marketplace of Ideas

Something that fucking stuns me about contemporary isekai as a genre is the way that it handles cultural transmission from one world to another. There’s a very consistent formula (as with all things in standard-issue isekai), and it all hinges on this fascinating system for deciding what gets to filter in from Earth through the protagonist and what is handily discarded when it would become an obstruction.

Consumer goods and services penetrate through the protagonist into the fantasy setting most easily. The single most consistent thing that isekai heroes reinvent in their otherworlds is cuisine. Almost universally contemporary Earth cooking, whether it’s Japanese, Chinese, or Italian (it is very rarely anything else), outperforms anything the locals produce, if only out of sheer novelty.

This sort of thing often forms the basis for the isekai protagonist’s horizontal monopoly—I’ve lost track of how many of these books I’ve read where an overwhelming portion of the plot is dedicated to the hero managing human and material resources as their multiple intersecting businesses proliferate like a cancer across the setting. It turns out that more than being a world savior, isekai readers fantasize most about being an entrepreneur living for the grind—albeit freed from the trouble of having to come up with your own ideas, as you can just re-hash the achievements of thousands of years of human endeavor instead and take the credit. Call it the McFly approach.

What’s peculiar is that less tangible and/or economically exploitable things don’t penetrate or are actively stripped away in the transition from life on Earth to life in the fantasy world. The most obvious point that comes to mind has to do with basic political and ethical conceits like the right to the most basic forms of self-determination. Isekai protagonists are indescribably quick to roll over for and get cozy with flavors of aristocracy and totalitarian power that the global public has been consistently taught not to trust.

Consider, for example, Ascendance of a Bookworm. I’ve lost track of how many people I’ve seen argue that Bookworm’s one of the standout isekai titles, and I can see why: it’s extremely committed to realizing an in-depth fantasy setting that’s not neatly explained with Dragon Quest allusions; the protagonist has an interesting array of flaws and limitations; in spite of the level of power on which the characters operate, it consistently creates convincing scenes of tension and peril in multiple dimensions; and the story is driven by a legitimate interest in something larger than the narratives the author has already consumed. This much is all great.

But the thing that strikes me about Ascendance of a Bookworm—the thing that keeps me from liking it at all—is that all of this craft and effort is sunk into a narrative about how there is no escape from serfdom. Myne starts at the absolute bottom rung of society, and through a conjunction of hideous self-neglect, total accident, cosmological convergence, and internecine political infighting, arrives at a position of frighteningly far-reaching authority. As Rozemyne, the archduke’s adopted daughter, she makes decisions every damn page about how her vast entourage will spend their lives in service to her agendas. Huge swathes of these books are just characters talking about how they’re going to move around various subordinates and, critically, which subordinates can be put in positions where lives won’t be at risk because of a failure to communicate across inviolable class boundaries.

While Rozemyne frequently shoots herself in the foot because she still takes as a given from time to time that people deserve to be treated like human beings and not disposable chattel, it’s never really up for consideration whether any of the societal structures that create this profound alienation should, perhaps, be changed.

And it’s not like dramatic social change isn’t a subject the story explores! Rozemyne’s whole objective in this story is to establish a thriving printing industry and universal literacy so she can go back to the standard of living she was used to as a Japanese bibliophile. She’s radically altering the cultural and industrial landscape of this other reality; it’s just that she’s not interested in changing the parts where, if you’re an aristocrat, people will act weird if you don’t murder peasants that look at you funny.

It ends up feeling kind of sinister, like the narrative is trying to convince you in slow, small steps that hey, maybe the problem here really is with Rozemyne not being willing to walk all over people as much as she could given the latitude afforded her (it’s worth noting that in many regards it’s the only latitude she’s got; the nobility are just as bound by bizarre, self-destructive social contracts as every other social class—it’s just that they can take it out on the people beneath them), and she’s already buying orphans in bulk from the church to staff her printing operation.

This is not helped by the most persistent fantasy elements of the setting. “Mana” in Bookworm is, on its face, a fantastical gloss made to legitimize the divine right of kings and the great chain of being. People have limited but varying capacity for mana, which is both trainable and heritable; the people bred for high mana capacity rule the country because their expanded mana reserves let them pump blessings into the surrounding environment, improving crop yields. Literally every noble is a miniature Fisher King, and when nobles withdraw their support from whatever fiefdom’s getting shafted, it withers and the people who live there suffer. This may be cruel, Rozemyne opines, but It Must Be Done to remind people how order is kept, however much she may not like it. Human survival in this setting hinges on the nobility’s generosity with their mana, and if there’s another option, it’s not really up for consideration.

I think periodically about how, as dense and thoroughly realized as this setting is, there’s really only one “nation” that I’ve seen so far in this series. There are rival fiefdoms, internal struggles, and cultural variations from region to region, but nobody’s really “foreign.” Everyone speaks the same language and follows the same broad set of customs. I wonder, when these thoughts come to me, how someone from a different nation in the same world might think of the culture represented in Ascendance of a Bookworm, and the thing I keep circling back to is “oh, those are the people who can’t do without owning other people.”

Part of the thematic messaging of this series, however inadvertent it may be, is how quickly a contemporary Japanese person adjusts to these expectations, even if they might make an effort to be as lenient as possible in most cases.

But pasta and hardbound books—those our hero will fight tooth and nail to introduce to this world.

[etheralisi]

ρυмρкιη ριε αη∂ αℓℓ тнιηgs ηιcε

Uses references to this fic:<br /> https://archiveofourown.org/works/5832037

And more or less based on this prompt:<br /> http://transcendence-au.tumblr.com/post/160337841310/fluffbird-writing-prompt-s-an-old-and-homely#notes

Alternatively titled ‘Why Gloria Jenkins Should Not Be Allowed Near Candles’, this was the first tau fic I managed to complete back in 2018. It’s undergone a few changes, because ehhh, but I’ll release it into the wild as a short something. It’s doing nothing here, lying around and collecting dust.

𝙰 𝚌����𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐  

𝙱𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎   

 ~ 𝙹𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙺𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛

 Gloria smiled to herself as she sunk into her chair, her heart as toasty as an open fire, and insides tingling with the lingering feeling of contentment. Sure, the darn thing was falling apart, ragged at the edges and probably worth no more than a penny or two in a garage sale. Stuffing was oozing out that very moment. But it was home , and everything she had left of a life lived, with children running and screaming within these walls. Growing up. Living. Thriving. Leaving the coup to fly free.

 But her? The mother hen? She stayed home.

 After such a busy day of rooting around her loft for family photo albums, she honestly felt this time to rest her aching bones was well and truly earned, and no, she won’t take any constructive criticism on the matter thank you very much. What was, however, unfortunate to admit aloud and something she’d never in a million years concede to in front of her family was that her bones weren’t as energetic as they had been once upon a time… much alike her dwindling eyesight. Hazy blobs, it all was. Pretty ones, but hazy nonetheless. Her world became an abstract painting the very second her glasses left her face.

 The elderly woman groaned, realisation dawning like a sledgehammer to the head, full on smack. She knew something had been missing. Her glasses! The darn things! How could she have possibly forgotten such an important item as those? 

 Using as much force as she could, Gloria found it in her to haul herself out of the comfort of her chair, even with her body’s initial protest. She stumbled about the house a bit, the grace of a drunkard or woman in need of glasses, searching for the location of wherever she had last left her glasses case. It had been, what? Two moments ago when she saw them? She’d put down the glasses into the case, taken her seat, and fallen into quiet bliss in her chair. Had it been knocked off and fallen under something? 

 Luck was on her side since her vision wasn’t as bad as it could have been in a few years time, deteriorating as the months wander by, so she managed to make out the basic shapes and colours of her surroundings just fine. No walking into walls for this woman!

 Ah. Wait. No. Luck was very much not on her side at all, the case still having failed to show, and Gloria had to result to “making a strategic retreat” as she put it, deeming it inefficient to keep looking for something which would just turn up sooner or later when she wasn’t really looking for it. Thus is the way of life. Shrugging, she made her way back to her sad but lovable excuse for a couch seat, only stopping when she noticed the basket by the front door that she had placed there little under an hour earlier. Her niece, Juliana, had asked if Gloria had any family photos left in her house that she could share with her immediate family, and she had risen to the challenge by diving into her vast loft. And yes, she meant vast . There’s got to be at least two or three sigils on the walls at least to enlarge the interior to twice that of the outside. It was all new technology at the time she bought this house. All the rage.

 So. The whole place was a disaster zone. Where all those missing trinkets turn up. Lost some socks? Probably go there, somehow. Good luck finding it in the coming year.

 Getting to that album sure took some sweet sweet time. Which is why, on her long perilous journey, family photo albums weren't the only things she had found in her search, the numerous other knick knacks of various interest lying within the basket being an obvious example of this. There had been plenty of things she’d forgotten about, stashed away within the depths of the loft, never to be seen until they resurfaced that very day. Her gaze drifted to the fuzzy, orange sticks lying atop the basket that vaguely looked like fat carrots, if a little waxy if you so chose to chew them. But don’t be fooled by her eyesight, for they weren’t as they seemed.

 She was pretty sure those were the candles she’d found hiding in a box labelled “ dangerous ”. Gloria had no idea why they had been labelled as such (maybe a potential fire hazard? Children’s grabby hands and whatnot) and could honestly never remember buying any candles from the Pine River Candle Company in her life. Yet, she knew good quality candles when she saw them, so she had taken them out of their box and added them to her basket to be brought down and used whenever she wanted to make her home smell like fresh pumpkin pie.

 Hmm… fresh pumpkin pie, huh? It got her in the mood for a spot of baking. Reminded her of all those years back, the big grin her grandson had always given her whenever a plate stacked with her baked treats was laid out before him.

 Alas the boy never really seemed to come visit his ol’ granny anymore, always giving excuses (and oh how he had the audacity to deny them being so — she knew an excuse when she heard one, could sniff one out from a mile away, blindfolded), and barely ever sent her up a Christmas card! 

 Well, it was his loss. He didn’t want to eat her baking anymore, then fine! She knew others, like the postman, for one, who’d take kindly to being fed.

 With that thought in mind, Gloria picked up all six of the candles and made a return back into the living room. She began placing them all around the perimeter of the room, lighting them one by one as she went.

 Her chair made protests of its own as she plonked herself back, age being something they both shared in common. Sadly. But she was no feeble woman, and outright refused to fall apart. Nope, not today. Life was good. Great even. 

 Caught in the moment, she sniffed the now heavily sweet scented air, an aroma that spelled everything she loved more than words could describe. It frolicked, dispersing itself throughout the air, tickling her nose as if it were a feather.

  Ah, perfect.

 Her eyelids began to shut as exhaustion took ahold of her, which is why it can be excused how she completely missed the way the candles in the room flickered, one by one being replaced with a much more menacing azure flame. Nor did she bear witness to the figure who popped into her living room in a plume of smoke.

 What she did not miss, however, was the way said figure grumbled under his breath at the use of scented candles. Just, come on! She may have been old and her sight may have been lacking, but she wasn’t deaf! 

 Gloria wearily cracked open her left eyelid, before blinking twice to snap herself out of her stupor. The peculiarity of a strange man being in her house was something to pay attention to. And complaining about her candles no less?

 Wait…

 That brown blob of hair, that voice… could it be? 

 “Arthur, is that you?” Speak of the devil, had her grandson finally decided to get up off his backside and visit his old lady?

 Somehow, though she didn’t know how, the room seemed to become ever more quiet as if trapped within a bubble of silence where not even time dared to flow.

 “Uhm…” ‘Arthur’ choked out at last, “ Excuse me? ”

 “Aha!” Gloria’s mouth twisted up with glee as she let out a small, victorious laugh which somehow morphed into a gleeful cackle when on the verge of petering out, “I knew it! You couldn’t stay away from my baking forever!”

 “Your- nevermind .” He took a deep breath just before he continued, his words strained. “Look, Gloria, I’m not Arthur. I’m Alcor and I-.”

 “Alcor huh?” She hummed in thought, not noticing how ‘Arthur’ harrumphed at her interruption. “Sounds pretty dumb. Why’d you change it?”

 “And...” Gloria squinted, continuing. “What’s with the wardrobe change? Have you gone gothic, Arthur? That’s a lot of black you’re wearing.”

 ‘Arthur’ didn’t take too kindly to her plethora of questions, already shuffling backwards from her chair. “... Look, this seems like it was some mistake. I’m just going to go..”

 With a speed so fast that she might have even broken the sound barrier, Gloria was out of her chair and had her hand firmly grasped around his arm, “You’re not going anywhere young man! Don’t you dare stop by for two minutes and then leave! You’re coming with me to the kitchen and we’re going to do some baking together just like we used to.”

 She noticed him start to speak, though she cut him off before he could even so much as squeak a word out.

 “Now off you trot, to the kitchen!” She released her hand from his arm and began pushing him through to said destination. “This rocky road cake isn’t going to bake itself.”

 ‘Arthur’ seemed to perk up at the mention of ‘rocky road’ and Gloria couldn't help but snicker at his sweet tooth. Some things never seemed to change.

 “Ro͜cky̶ ͟ro͘àd͏?” He asked with an odd layer of reverb, getting Gloria to begin questioning if hearing was going a little off after all. 

 “Yes.” She sighed, already shovelling him into the kitchen and dismissing the reverb. “Now make yourself useful and turn on the oven.”

  Alcor’s gold on black eyes numbly trailed after the woman’s figure as she left, leaving him alone in some random kitchen and wondering what the actual heck just happened?

[ruffsraven]

Dark Mark | D.M.

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Slytherin!reader

Summary: You thought that receiving the Dark Mark and doing the Dark Lord’s bidding alone would be the worst that can happen. However, when help came, you found yourself refusing.

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: I’m not confident to post this story but I’ll be more than glad if you somehow like it. This isn’t much but I’m still practicing,

It wasn't your fault that you have Death Eaters as parents. That mere fact has been a torment to you since you step foot in Hogwarts. In your juvenile years, you thought that the prejudice you receive from being a Slytherin was the worst thing that can happen to you at Hogwarts. Years of forbearance had passed by until all the baleful remarks normalized. Little did you know that it wasn't the end of your agony.

The first weeks of your fourth year were the best of days you knew. Those were the blossoming days where you started distinguishing forms of affection that you barely received from your parents. 

After all, you had Draco. You generally acknowledged that he wasn't the best man in the world to build an affinity with. But despite his cold and prideful nature, he held you together when you felt every inch of you falling apart. He was your friend, not because your parents are former Death Eaters. He cared for you and you knew.

"Y/N?" There was a knock.

You don't know why you suddenly lost it and his voice just reminded you that crying will do nothing to save Cedric Diggory from his untimely death. You expected another knock but your peripheral vision just caught the lock of the broomstick closet loosening. 

Draco barged in, slamming the door behind him, making it darker once more. He doffed something across the small room and approached your hunkered figure in the corner. 

He shook your shoulders lightly and said, "Y/N, why on earth are you crying? As far as I'm concerned, Diggory was not much of an importance to you." Your shoulders trembled beneath his hand from forceful restraint. 

He softened and scooted closer so that he could secure your shivering figure around his arms.

"Tell me," he whispered, blotting your damp cheeks with his fingers. "It's not entirely about Diggory, isn't it?"

"H-He's back." 

There was a short pause and then, "You know that Potter could be lying." You searched for his eyes in the darkness. "Draco, are you thoroughly blinded by your anger to neglect how traumatized Potter looked like?" "So you believe him?"

You clutched his collar in both hands and hissed, "Draco, our parents...t-they could go back to him. Serve him again..."

He gently removed your hands off him and said, "You shouldn't be bothered. They'll not involve us in their affairs." And he was awfully wrong.

The upcoming year hadn't alleviated the anxiousness that shuddered your insides since Cedric died. Dolores Umbridge's reign was not in favor of you either. It displeased Draco that you refused to join the Inquisitorial Squad. But somehow, you constructed a not-too-pathetic lie that you sucked at handling prefect jobs. 

Draco was ecstatic to receive credits for having authority over the Gryffindors. The year went on like the usual but an inconceivable fear started to encumber your heart in a way you can't handle. You knew for a fact that something ominous would happen.

By the end of the year, you went home bearing profound hatred and trepidation. Voldemort had truly returned and The Daily Prophet couldn't tell a tale otherwise anymore. 

You keep yourself shut in your room all summer, constantly exchanging letters with Draco. By and by, you noticed minor changes in the way he writes and how frequently he does. You'd most likely get a letter or two for a week, all of them short as if hastened. But it didn't stop you from sending lengthy letters all at once, continuously asking for his condition. But all of his letters, as you analyzed each, contain one general message: "Be careful always."

It was one month away from returning to Hogwarts when a mishap happened in your life. 

Night was creeping up the sky when your parents sat across from you in your living room. Their gaze met as if in anticipation in which to speak first but your mother immediately broke the silence and asked you to visit Diagon Alley with them. You hesitated but eventually agreed. After all, you had no choice but to obey. 

To your surprise, they stay beside you and even let you visit Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. You had always admired the inventive products of the Weasleys but always too ashamed to tell them so. You walked out of the store with a few handfuls, partly because your parents insisted on buying everything you like. It was all too perfect and you couldn't wish for anything else. 

It never crossed your mind that you'll reach home imprinted with a Dark Mark. Your parents held you and together you Apparated back home. You tore away from them, almost stumbling in your own feet, and burst outside the house. You wanted to run away. Anywhere away from them. You cried in disbelief, anguish brimming between your disappointment and love for your parents. You scorned the bad reputation entitled in your name but never did it cross your mind to loathe them nor defy them. But things got worse and you were getting involved in a dispute you shouldn't partake of.

Since your childhood, your little tree house has been home to you but in these dark phases of your life, it became a haven that protected you from any further danger. Indeed, the evil mark across your forearm aches occasionally, like the serpent protruding from the skull's mouth had the intention to slither out of your skin. 

As you wept under a bundle of quilt, your trembling body begged for warmth more than a quilt or a fireplace could give. In no time, you found yourself scribbling a letter that you addressed to Draco.

***

Returning to Hogwarts has never been as dejecting as it did this year. You unpacked your luggage with exhaustion and the Great Hall ceremony were suddenly deflating and despondent. 

It was midnight and your new homeworks were put away on your table. You tossed and turned as you strived to grasp sleep but nothing came but the behest spoken to you in that dreadful night in Borgin and Burkes.

"Y/L/N, my recent endeavor in the Ministry of Magic has been spoiled by foolish negligence." You kept your head lowered as the Dark Lord spoke. You winced at the discomfort your new mark penetrated, all you could do was cradle it with your other arm with utter caution. "Child, scraps of tales reached me that your intelligence was remarkable and I'm rather glad to have you in my circle. Do not disappoint me. The punishment can be worse than you think."

Your vision caught the sight of your mother as she restrained the urge to crouch down and enveloped you in her arms. You know they loved you, but cowardice prevailed over them for letting their daughter in a perilous disposition. The Dark Lord walked past you and addressed you in a more commanding tone, "I expect much from you than your parents, Y/L/N. You had the advantage. Clever. Near the boy." You processed his last words. And your eyes widened in sudden realization in what undertaking your fate rested upon.

"Y/N? What's the matter?" 

A light stroke in your hair snapped you out of your musings. And there kneeling beside your bed was Draco with a worried expression in his face. 

You rose from the pillow, wiped your face in haste as if to cover up the unrestricted tears that dampen your cheeks.

"What are you doing here? It's late. Go to bed."

Draco sat in the foot of your bed and said, "You haven't written anything for me for the past week. I'm just wondering if everything's fine."

No. No, Draco. It wasn't, you gulped down the thought and let it die in your throat for good measure. 

"Fine. Everything's good," you lied. "Just a bit occupied lately."

"Then why are you crying?"

"Nothing. Just remembered something."

"Care to share?" 

"No. It wouldn't interest you," you forced a laugh and almost succeeded. He paused for a moment, perusing if you're being truthful. 

"Alright," he said finally though he doesn't feel half-convinced. "You're a terrible liar but whatever that memory is, I hope it won't last long. Crying just doesn't fit you."

He stood up and wrapped you in his arms, giving you a light squeeze. You hugged him back, trying not to fall apart then and there. His scent somehow reminded you that people are also homes.

***

Potions class with the Gryffindors was the last thing you wanted in this time of day. The small vial in your fist shook as you entered and arranged your table with cauldrons and ingredients. 

"What's in your hand?" 

The familiar voice deepened your frustration but you managed to respond: "None of your business, Potter."

It silenced him but Ron scowled, "Don't need to be rude, Y/L/N. He's only asking."

Someone emerged beside you, dropping his cauldron with deliberate hostility. "No need to poke your nose in as well, Weasley. No one to bother, are you? Why not go to your Mudblood?

Ron almost quivered with fury that Harry had to practically drag him away until they reached the table farthest from you.

"Draco," you said, pocketing the vial not to arouse suspicions. "You promised me not to say that word again."

"If that's the only way to fend that Weasley off, why not? In this instance, I obviously have too."

"What do you mean?"

"Y/N, not to be blunt or anything, but lately you look weak and frail with no capability of defending yourself."

"I can defend myself," you answered indignantly. "I just don't see the point of arguing with them."

Draco sighed, mixing something in his cauldron. "If you said so."

***

"I know what you're up to, Y/L/N."

Harry followed you in the secluded hallway heading to the seventh floor, knowing that Draco wasn't around to send him away. 

"Leave me alone, Potter!" you shouted, quickening your pace. "You're a loon. You and your friends." 

It became your cue to pull out your wand without any afterthought. His accelerating footfalls alarmed you and your second move fought against your better judgement.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

You heard the thud as his rigid body fell in the ground, you looked around once more, watchful for any hidden witness that might have seen your misconduct. You raced to the seventh floor, still half-guilty for hexing Potter. You almost reached the Room of Requirements when a faint rustling approached you from behind.

"Everte Statum!"

In no time you were swept off your feet, sharp pain coursing through you as you flew backwards, immediately hitting the wall with your shoulder.

You saw Ron tossed the Invisibility Cloak aside, his wand pointed at you. Your only hope of escape was the door, no bigger than a broomstick closet, beside you. But half of your body felt sore like the effect of the spell worsened at each passing second. Potter scurried behind Ron, still shaking away the temporary rigidness of his arm.

He had an adverse expression in his face unlike what he did before. For a moment, you realized that he meant no harm against you but casting a hex on him pulled his last straw.

He appeared hesitant for a moment, seeing that you're hopeless and defeated. And neither of your senses wanted to take action as if giving your fate to the circumstances.

All of a sudden, a loud rattle of a door thundered beside you and your vision caught Draco appeared from behind. Seeing Harry and Ron pointing their wands at you increased his malevolent anticipation. Then: "Crucio!"

Harry and Ron dodged away, splitting on either side. Harry raised his wand and shouted, "Sectumsem—"

"Expelliarmus!" you cried out, finding the last shreds of your strength. Draco took advantage of their incapability and lifted you from the ground. He pulled you to the Room of Requirements, thwarting another hex from the outside as he slammed the door. The door clicked and locked by itself. An eyehole materialized on its surface, allowing Draco to peer through.

"They went away."

One of his arms was circled around your waist as you leaned against his body for stability. He withdrew from the door, placing both of his arms around you. It lasted for a minute, enough for you to look around and observed the rubbles of abandoned items stack around you. For a second, the room felt narrow and confined. 

He finally let you go, helping you sit in a nearby chair. 

"I saw your letter, the one hidden in your trunk," said he, kneeling in front of you. His features softened and less hostile than you saw him before. And being the one causing them gave you a sense of warmth. "It was addressed in my name so I obliged." 

He strived to search for your eyes, expecting that you'd tell him the truth yourself. He didn't wait for much longer before rolling the sleeve of your left arm. It was no use to stop him.

His face darkened, his expression became more manlier than boyish as if maturity was wedging itself in him.

In a low, calm voice, he whispered, "Do you trust me?"

His inquiry was irrelevant but you answered, "I always have."

"Good." He stood up and approached a wooden furniture across the room. Its door swinged from its hinges revealing darkness from the inside. You recognized at once that it was the Vanishing Cabinet. He pocketed one of his hands and ran his finger over the cabinet's facade with the other. 

"Let me take over the responsibility."

"What?" Your response was immediate as if his statement was incoherent.

"I've got the Mark as well," he said, turning to face you.

"No," you shook your head, wishing that you were right "No. You don't. Please no..."

Draco noticed the weakness in your voice like nothing was left of you to fall apart. Your parents. Your innocence. And Draco.

You force to keep it all together but seeing Draco roll his sleeve, half-hesitant as if ashamed. The Dark Mark printed over his pale skin like an ugly, blackened scar.

"Now—don't mind me, okay? I'll ask him—the Dark Lord—I could take over your job. I'll be fine."

"I'll help," you insisted, walking over to him. "It's not a burden for you to carry. It's mine. If you insist, just let me help."

"No."

"What? Draco—"

"I said NO," he fixed something by the Vanishing Cabinet, turning his back against you. "I don't want your help."

"I can help," you reasoned. "By all means, I know a fair amount of spells and schemes to fulfill the Dark Lord's wishes. Draco, I know you want the glory but you can't do this alone."

"The glory!" he faced you, hurt and rage interweaving in his eyes. "I was merely trying to protect you as much as I can. Bold of you to assume I want all the admiration!"

"It's not your job to protect me..." you said quietly.

"It felt like it is." His eyes bore through you, his eyes suddenly gleamed with tears, you supposed. Then he looked away. "I know what the Dark Lord is capable of. He wouldn't think twice to kill. And I'd be lying to myself if I chose to save my own neck over yours."

"Oh Draco." It was enough for you to throw your hands around his middle, pulling him close so his head could nestle in your neck. You felt hot tears streamed down your skin as he whimpered. His hands wandered in your back, finally resting in the curve of your hips. You felt him lean on your touch and it hit you like a forceful jab in the chest

"I know it's stupid. I tried rubbing them off—its stupid, but I don't want it. I had no choice." His voice was uncontrolled and rather hopeless, all the pain he suppressed burst as tears. 

You just held him. No words can soothe away the pain you both shared. You stroke his hair, shutting your eyes close as you felt his body quiver from too much crying.

"Draco, just let me help. Please," you said hopefully. 

He gently pulled away, clasping his hands over yours. A smile pulled in his lips as he gazed down at your hands, how perfectly they fit like your hands were made for him.

"I know you can stand for yourself. But leave this to me. Okay?"

You sighed in defeat, squeezing his hand for reassurance. He squeezed back. You fished something out of your pocket. The vial. 

You held his wrist, opening his palms. "Keep this. That's the least I can do." He eyed the potion before asking what it was.

"Liquid Luck," you answered. "Nicked it from Potions class. As much as I hate the Dark Lord's plan...I want you to be safe," your voice settled in your throat for a moment and then: "It wasn't much but I hope it helps."

"Thanks." He pocketed it inside his suit.

"Draco?"

"Yeah?"

"Mind if I stayed with you tonight? It's just—our dorm, it was lonely out there without a company," you admitted. 

"I'd love to."

However, it escaped you the sparkle in his eyes, knowing that this night—perhaps the rest—won't be as miserable as they did before.

***

Masterlist

[salyardskatalyna]

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[imperium-marcel]

Still In The Dark | 5/5/20

Axel looked at the clock on the nightstand, it was perilously close to 7am and he hadn’t slept a wink. He’d tried, mind you. Tossing and turning for hours before giving up and settling for watching the sun slowly start to peak out of his bedroom window. He sighed and slipped out of the covers, feeling much smaller and unhappier than usually.

He’d been prone to melancholy most of his life, being a quiet unassuming child growing up with a larger than life father. Wrestling had brought him out of his shell in his late teens and for long periods of time he’d been the social butterfly he’d always remembered envying as a child. Now, he felt himself slipping back into the bad habits of his childhood; closing down, isolating himself from people and wallowing in the pain he had thought he’d let go off a long time ago. 

The argument with Kelly had been stupid, not really sure why he’d even started that but still feeling stubborn enough not to insist on making it right with her. He’d apologize later, he always did but right now, the idea of revisiting that conversation was giving him a headache.

Turning the kettle on in the kitchen, he opened the balcony door adjacent to the kitchen and sat down waiting for the water boil. It was going to be another beautiful, sunny day in Orlando but that thought didn’t fill him with any kind of excitement. Every day was beautiful, to the point of it losing all meaning to him. Glumly, he thought how much he’d prefer the tart cold breeze of his childhood home in West Germany. Memories flooded him of playing football on the streets of Pinneberg, dreaming of a career playing for his father’s chosen football team of Hamburger SV, wearing their white and red home kit with pride. 

The click of the kettle brought him out of his reverie and for a few moments afterwards, he busied himself by making a cup of tea and mechanically fixing himself protein pancakes. Settling back on the balcony with his food, he ate but didn’t particularly enjoy it so he ended up abandoning his pancakes four bites in. Maybe he was becoming unwell, that would explain the lethargy, the sleeplessness and bad appetite. He sighed again, louder this time. He needed to get a grip, this was ridiculous and his father would be so ashamed of him if the elder Barthel could only see him now. 

He toyed with the idea of calling Walter, it was past noon in Germany after all. Though, calling him was dangerous too. If anyone knew him inside and out, it was the big Austrian. They’d traveled a long road together and he didn’t trust himself to not break would Walter call him out on his odd behavior. His mom would just fuss and he didn’t want to worry her; especially since there was nothing she could do to better his mood. Besides, worrying her right now would be a selfish thing to do since there was nothing technically wrong. He wasn’t injured, didn’t appear to be sick and judging by the trajectory of his career had taken, that was going better than ever. It was only his stupid brain creating problems when there clearly weren’t any. 

A self-destructive part of him wondered if getting stupidly drunk before noon was acceptable during quarantine. He wasn’t needed at work until tomorrow and who would really know if he got sloshed in his underwear? He could simply close his phone and pretend no one else existed for the day. It wasn’t like they could show up behind his door, demanding answers. Well, Fabian could technically walk in with the spare key Axel had given him but he wouldn’t. Or would he?

He flung himself back into bed without enthusiasm, smushing his face in the pillow and feeling the urge to scream. Again. He didn’t dare, not at this hour. His brain suddenly conjured up an image of his father ruffling his hair and telling him how proud of his only son he was. He could almost still smell his aftershave and that thought brought angry tears into his eyes. This felt like his body was betraying him, which made him even more irrationally angry. He didn’t want to think of his dad right now as Axel’s skin felt hot and like it was two times too small for him, feeling the urge to scratch and claw it, hoping for a release. 

Suddenly, his phone beeped somewhere close to his head. Without even realizing it, he flung it somewhere and he heard a loud crack as it crashed on the floor. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He sighed again, feeling too drained to get up and examine what had happened to it. Good thing he wasn’t particularly attached to that phone. Maybe now he could sleep, as he had truly cut himself off from the outside world. At least until he had to go buy another phone. He closed his eyes warily and soon found himself drifting into restless sleep, images of his father appearing again behind his closed eyelids but this time, he didn’t fight them off. 

[mantra4ia]

The Rise of Skywalker: Expanded Reaction Episode II (spoilers ahead)

A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, I must preface my opinions with the one central point of view that has never wavered: you can be a Star Wars fan and a film critic simultaneously.

Dislikes (big and small)

So in this new trilogy, does everyone know all about the secretive Sith? No one knows where Exogol-Sith-home-world is without a wayfinder. Yet some random spice traders know who the Sith are and that they have a runic language, but nearly the entire Jedi culture disappeared until the tale of Luke Skywalker revived it. This dislike is not isolated to RoS, but it's so odd considering that in the prequels and OT, the Emperor did not put the knowledge of the Sith right out in the open.

Too much telling, not enough doing. I detest plot reveals via exposition, because a majority of the time explain-y dialogue is far inferior to natural conversation. But for two-thirds of the movie, I couldn't settle into the world because I felt like I was being told a Star Wars story instead of being in it. Case point 1: Poe's argument that Rey is training instead of being on the front line to try to verbally push the narrative that she's not just naturally too-gifted. Case point 2: Explaining Force heal to the audience (via droid) after its already been demonstrated as if we can't interpret how it works. AND YET we get no planet captions? Who's advice are you listening to? Disney could spell everything else out in dialogue when it was unnecessary and borderline condescending to audience, but when it mattered you couldn't give us planetary captions so I blinked and missed the fact that we opened with Kylo Ren kicking a** and taking names on freaking Mustafar! That was a great scene. Epic. Kylo’s on a mission, and there ain’t no questing here - it’s as fast and direct as the throat punch. He’s tired of being jerked around, he’s in a position of power to demand answers, and he’s going for the head of the Emperor, all while I was like...was that Mustafar, that was Mustafar, except now we just left Mustafar. DAMMIT.

We see the repair on Kylo's mask but not the repair of Luke's saber, or Rey building her own saber? TLJ broke the most iconic lightsaber and RoS just fixed it off screen (see point above)? I suppose this shouldn't be shocking since they introduced Palpatine IN THE CRAWL, but it was disappointing.

Did like the opening crawl, did not like how it was used as Palpatine’s business card. I think my exact words were: did they really, what kind of movie am I here for?

Leia's death. I don't buy for a second that establishing a Force visitation with Kylo across the galaxy was enough to kill her. TLJ (in my opinion) demonstrated enough to establish her as a powerful force user, which Rise of Skywalker doubled down on using the flashback training scene. So no, I don't think the exertion of it was enough to take her life unless it was inferred that she either wasn't recovered from the events of TLJ or that the Force sensitive impact of Luke's death was taking an extended toll on her, or that she was somehow already overdoing it trying to use other Force abilities behind the scene to protect the resistance/ reach out to Luke. I understand that with Carrie Fisher's (rest in peace) sudden death it would make certain practical sense for Leia to die if fitting, but put all that explanatory dialogue to some good use for once and build up tension so that Leia's death makes sense.

Luke's Force ghost being underutilized. From the beginning I didn't have a problem with Luke's conclusion in Last Jedi (minus a subtle eyeroll at the noble sacrifice trope being easily confused with honor) because it doesn't bother me whether a character is living or not as long as they are still growing. I thought, I hoped, I legitimately put money on the fact the Rise of Skywalker would use Luke in the training of Rey or the haunting of Ben and that he would play an active Force ghost role. He was used for damage control. That was infuriating.

Han Solo. I recognize the irony of this moment being in both my likes and gripes. While I liked seeing Han bestow Ben forgiveness, even if he was just a memory and not a ghost, it quickly became a hollow sort of nostalgia. FULL POST HERE.

Why in the world is there an arbitrary 16-hour frame before the Exogol fleet strike? The Last Jedi gave us a slow space chase and now what, the executive team thinks that the polar opposite is the answer? So you already have to wrap of an entire saga in a 2-3 hour real world runtime, and you've decided to amp up the pace and cram that into 16 hours of Star Wars time just for funsies while the Emperor broadcasts propaganda to kill morale? Rushed, forced, we just spent a chunk of the movie at Fyre Festival in a space desert, don't tell me there wasn't more time to allocate for imminent doom.

So essentially, we had a StarKiller base in TFA, mini-Death Star canon in TLJ, and a thousand Death Star planet killing cannons on Star Destroyers? LET that part of THE PAST DIE!

The execution of Leia training Rey. The idea was wonderful...in practice you can really tell the dialogue was built around her, and the scenes suffer for it. Execution, for the sake of preserving the character Carrie built, may have been accomplished by Tricia or Joely Fisher or her friend Meryl Streep as a way to still honor her.

A case for triple / quadruple convenience. Star Wars has always been a universe of happy coincidences, but Rise of Skywalker takes them to new extremes to the point it smacked me out of the movie. Every movie has it's own unique level of “good faith reserves” after which point plot conveniences elicit “you've got to be kidding” reactions. This happened to me during the setup of Force healing. FULL POST HERE.

Execution of Finn's character. Apart from his force-sensitivity and connection to the trooper defectors, I think Finn's plot regressed in this film each time he had to follow in Rey's wake every time she went solo, (going after Rey in the sciff, yelling Rey in the Death Star battle, Rey I have something to tell you). I thought that we had gotten past this in TLJ when Finn found purpose in the Resistance and something worth fighting for, but old habits die hard. 

Scavenger hunt questing and the damn Sith Dagger. If part of this was in the crawl, that might have been good with me. I get that Rey's a scavenger – it's good to see her in her element like TFA, climbing through the Death Star at the culmination – but it's far too time consuming to do the double header of dagger/wayfinder and coincidental. She could have been standing anywhere on Kef Bir, the oceanic moon of Endor, but she happened to be standing exactly where she needed to be with no reference to force power, and the tides hadn't moved any part of the wreck and the topography hadn't changed at all for the protractor on the dagger to work?! I’m a nerd about mathematical, logical tools, but they don't work well in a Sith alchemy plot! Even when we try for logic, the convenience appears, which could have been passable if I still had good faith. In the words of John Mulaney, “you spent it already?!”

Nostalgia aside, where are the stakes? They're trapped in a sand cave / wait, no they're not. They're being hunted through Fyre Festival and they don't have a get away ship / oh yeah they do, and its fully fueled, parked in the open, not stripped for parts. There are about five different “fake” deaths where the tension releases so fast, and two real deaths of spies that should have been given beats but were skimmed over: Chewie's dead / but no it was the wrong transport, 3PO's peril / never mind we've got backups, Zori wants to turn Rey in for bounty / then they have the quickest fight in Star Wars and are on good terms. Instead of taking big risks and getting reward, this film banked on unraveling the plot by the flip of a two-headed coin and settling for surprise “Oh, they did wot now?” instead of awe.

“Retconning” The Last Jedi / plucking it out of the timeline. Rise of Skywalker, in many ways, feels like a direct sequel to The Force Awakens. Direct slaps to TLJ include but not limited to: Holdo maneuver “one-in-a-million,” and Luke plucking Rey's saber from the fire. “A Jedi’s weapon deserves more respect (except when its Kylo’s),” and Luke lamenting about going into exile as a mistake. Concepts that could have been accepted, some even verbatim foregone conclusions from TLJ, were it not for terrible execution clearly framed at goodwill appeasement.

So, the Knights of Ren were window dressing? They just follow Kylo around like bouncers and when he turned to the light, they turned on him? A) Like the praetorian guard for Snoke, they are supposed to be loyal to Kylo and if they’re not we should get to see that, B) they just made Ben look boss as he took them out. Epic saber fight, lackluster idea, especially when the Knights were so speculated on and could have had mythos. Take them out of the film and put Luke's ghost in. Problem solved.

Rey as a Palatine / OP (Overpowered) Rey. All the one-ups that ensued between Rey and her grandfather. No thank you. I don't mind that she has power and is very naturally and diversely talented, don't let lineage play a factor. It was vastly more meaningful when she was ‘ordinary.’ I could go into a whole dedicated post on this.

Hux as a spy? No, I can't imagine that's what TFA set him up for. Interesting concept - I don’t want you to win, I want Kylo to lose - terrible setup. The Last Jedi did it better, Benicio del Toro is one of the only things I'll give Canto Byte credit for.

What even is the point of Zori apart from a character used to deliver a plot point of security clearance? She is very much used to prop up Poe's story. I like the idea of the character, I don't dig her role, and even more so I don’t like how the destruction of her planet first was used to fish for emotion. Invest more in Poe's struggles ascending to acting general.

Palpatine overall, from his intro in the crawl to his motives – He's such a cool, larger then life character, it shamefully never feels like we JJ knows what he wants out of the Emperor as his villain. Palpatine's motivation for decades was the dark, unnatural Sith ability to live forever sought by his master Plagueis before him, yet in RoS he's so utterly content to say “kill me so that you can ascend to Empress and I can flow through you (possess you)” – and then the discovery that draining the “Dyad in the Force” can regenerate him changes the plan immediately. Principally its an interesting idea using him as a puppet master to tie *all* the trilogies together, but for me it didn't work as nothing else about his character felt cohesive. And then when his own Force lightning is blasted at him, hasn't he learned to stop using it (throwback: Mace Windu) and pick up a saber and fight. Fool my once, shame on you, fool me twice and I'll cut you down. Wouldn't it be so great if, despite his wizened state, he still had latent combat skills? We were sooo robbed of that opportunity.

“Undermining” Anakin’s arc as the chosen one. I don't think bringing in Palpatine undoes Darth Vader's sacrifice – because Anakin still brought peace and balance to the Force when he sent Papatine back to the shadows. Balance restored by nature is not a permanent state, so it makes sense that the balance Anakin brought would eventually be challenged - but it does take away from the satisfaction of his story, especially considering that we do not see him return in physical form.

I get the "Be with me" use of Force ghost voices from all the Star Wars mediums. It was teed up right in the very beginning of the training montage. But you’re STAR WARS, you are making history. Go big, take a risk, PUT THE FORCE GHOSTS ON SCREEN (or at least a few from the central saga)! Give me Obi-Wan, Anakin, Yoda, maybe Mace, Luke, and Leia bestowing their energy on Rey, or go home! I mean my goodness, the Emperor had Snoke clones, but they were just sitting around as props in tank. If you wanted to go really big you could get all the clones of his main Sith disciples on screen (Snoke, Maul, Dooku), and have him force drain them to illustrate Sidious matching the power of the Force ghosts. But instead Disney played it safe.

Rey’s return to Tatooine and taking on the name Skywalker. FULL POST HERE with better options than appropriating the name Skywalker, especially considering that the plot does plenty to fulfill the film’s marquee during the Final Order Battle on Exogol when Rey embodies the Force of the Jedi and they will her to RISE. Taking on the name by contrast seems to trivialize via overkill what was delivered on (imperfectly, but powerfully).

The death of Ben Solo / “the redemption”: This depends on largely on what how you define and merit redemption. I can see why some loved it and others hated it – if you define redemption as “Kylo turned good after all that universe wrecking carnage and now he has access to light side force ability?!” then I can see where you didn't like or want his redemption arc, and might be satisfied with his death as a conclusion. If, like me, you didn't see Kylo's redemption not as the act of turning good but rather turning to face his own reflection / the thing he most feared – himself – exactly like Rey – and that's what allowed him access to the light side abilities to heal, that's fascinating as h***.  My gripe is I don't think Ben needed to die for the redemption to work or as a way to finish his arc. (FULL POST HERE) Again, why another Luke-themed noble demise? It could have worked for Luke’s character because Rise of Skywalker follows TLJ and gives you room to breath and play. But there’s nothing after this episode for Kylo in the same way.

So peace was created by defeating Palpatine and his fleet? Nah. First of all, Rey killed Darth Sidious exactly like he “wanted” her to and yet he didn't possess her as promised, while an order of Sith stand around watching– okay, was the Emperor really that attune in his Force Cognizance that he expressed with full confidence to his followers “whatever happens, the ritual will be complete. Don't move, sit back, enjoy the show”? And there's still the fragmented First Order (see the previous point above). Not every First Order officer and ship were loyal to or trusting of the Emperor and his comrade General Pryde, so it would stand to reason they didn't all heed the call to the final order and join the fray. What happens to them now that their Supreme Leader (Kylo) abdicated and then died? Yes, they are far fewer in number and they no longer have the firepower of Exogol behind them so they retreat into that shadows and regroup like opposition always does. I don't believe for a second that they all gave up or were defeated by the groundswell of Resistance. And now we are right back to where Return of the Jedi left us almost beat for beat.

Initial Reaction *** Episode I *** Episode III

[hollenka99]

The Glitch Who Stole Christmas

Summary: After Jack loses a game of hide and seek, his friends and neighbours lose a lot more.

Warnings: Possession, arson

Since I was still going through a ‘copy and paste? never heard of her’ kinda phase last year, I thought I’d post this fic properly now. Even a year on, this is still a fic I feel pleased with how it came out.

I would like to thank @just-silly-liv-things​ and @marsupials-of-mars​ again for letting me use their This Christmas and Hide and Seek videos as inspiration. Please go check out their content because it’s pretty cool.

Jack gazed out from his recording room's window. A couple of his neighbours stood on the island in the middle of their cul-de-sac. Probably ensuring the tree was secure for the night. Every December they would stick an unstably large evergreen on that island. Most towns and cities had gatherings to switch lights on. His neighbourhood had a tree. The one last year nearly collapsed on someone's car.

He used to enjoy the holiday. Back when he was a kid, he would rush down on December 25th to see if Father Christmas had visited. As the youngest, he'd always been the most excitable. His parents and siblings used to tease him about it. However, it was all in good humour.

His neighbours had a habit of asking him if his loved ones had bought him cheap clothes again. That didn't feel like it was quite as innocent. Sure, the first time, he'd rolled his eyes. The first Christmas after moving here, his mother had sent over a jumper that had unfortunately ripped within a few uses. The joke got old quick. It soon became an inside joke that he was expected to be a part of despite not wanting to participate. It didn't help that they tended to boast about their own gifts from friends and family.

Forget that, he was still friends with them. It was only one joke that rubbed him the wrong way. They were decent guys during the other 11 months of the year. The whole reason he moved to this cul-de-sac in the first place was to make it easier to hang out with them. He just wished he could get them to stop the K-Mart gag without being told he 'couldn't take a joke'. Besides, K-Mart didn't even exist in Ireland.

He left the window. Why worry about others when there was The Grinch? He could snuggle up with Signe and do Christmas his way. Except no, she left to do some last minute shopping an hour ago. Never mind, he could still watch a film without her.

Jack's doorbell rings as he scans the shelves for a DVD. He's surprised anyone would want to visit him after dark, especially on Christmas Eve. Signe never forgot her key, door-to-door salesmen wouldn't bother at this time and his neighbourhood didn't get many carollers. He glances at the window to check.

A pair of green eyes glow on the over side of the glass. Not as if a light source has caught the eyes of an animal. No, these eyes were generating their own light. They shared the same eye line as his too. In fact, if Jack dared to study the figure closer, he'd likely notice slight glitching affecting their body.

Nothing about this was good. What was Anti doing here? Not only that, what was Anti doing in December? Jack and his group of egos would spend the entirety of October on edge because of the demon. October, particularly Halloween, was at Anti's mercy. They all had to navigate the tenth month's perils to survive the glitch's antics. At least they knew to expect it.

He presses against the front door. His body is pretty weak as far as physical defences go. He can't hold off intruders with only himself. A query appears. If he runs to find a chair to act as a wedge, would the demon take advantage of his absence to break the door down? Perhaps if that plan miraculously went in his favour, he could warn his girlfriend not to come home. God knows she doesn't deserve to be caught up in this mess.

"I know you can hear me. Open up the door." Anti spoke with a melodic tone. "Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off." He begs under his breath. The door sounds again. "You can't keep me waiting." Was that nails scraping against wood?

It turns out his deliberating costs him a chance to act. In seconds, green light builds to the point it illuminates the entire living room. The glass audibly cracks, shards presumably scattering across the floor with soft clinks. The glitch doesn't need to harass his front door now. The window can be his entry point. Jack has to get as far away as possible. Their eyes lock. Anti stays standing right outside the house. Could he not glitch through the wall? Wait, no. Glitching through walls would be terrible.

The thing with the egos was that they weren't completely corporeal, not the way that Jack himself was. At one point, he had total control over them. That was fine, those were the good old days. Their relationships were mutually respectful. Jack allowed them to develop their personalities until they were able to practise independence. They were still tied to him whether fully developed or not. Their connection to him could never be tampered with.

Unlike the others, Anti could get away with being wayward. He was the most different in terms of creation to Marvin. Whereas the magician had come to exist through a video the subscribers enjoyed, Anti was their product. Jack had built Anti using aspects of their image. The undeniable tie was frayed between himself and the glitchy demon. If he wished to murder Jack, the consequences wouldn't affect him as much as the other four.

Who would he want here instead? If it was Henrik, that would be nearly as unnerving as Anti. He was supposed celebrating with his family tonight. Heiliger Abend, was that what he'd called it? He had no business here. Neither did Marvin and Jameson, really. Marvin's had some holiday special he's performing and Jack doesn't know Jameson well enough for surprise visits. Then there was Chase. Jack could deal with Chase. Him drunkenly showing up to ask if he could crash over the holidays? That would be slightly problematic but not completely unexpected.

Jack can't let Anti harm him once more. If he sustained irreversible damage, who knows how badly the other egos would be affected. Chase and Henrik collapsing suddenly in front of their families wasn't something to be desired. Until Jameson's arrival a few weeks ago, Marvin had lived alone. He'd hate for the apartment to be devoid of life again.

He's freaking out. There's no way the demon can't tell. It in no way helps that Anti has begun climbing through the broken window. Jack stops standing in the corridor, peeping frequently at his living room by the doorframe. He's been watching Anti this way for the past minute.

The layout of the ground floor is odd. The kitchen is connected to not only the corridor but to the living room also. He considers himself a little lucky that he can trick Anti. If he can get the demon to follow him into the kitchen, he'll hopefully be able to sneak back to the living room while he's still out of his eyeline.

Like an idiot, he falters as he bursts into the living room from his kitchen. He simply cannot allow the glitch to spot him, not even a glimpse. He finds himself wedging his body between an armchair and the wall. It's uncomfortable, too small for him to fit unless his legs are practically pressing into his ribcage and possibly the worst place for him to hide. He swears Anti is right behind him, leaning over the armchair. While he wants to dismiss it as paranoia, he can't risk staying in one spot.

"It's already too late for you to try and run away." That damned, unmistakable giggle travels through the air. "Here I come to find you. Hurry up and run."

He doesn't need to be told twice. Getting out from behind the chair is awkward and honestly, it may be a Christmas miracle Anti doesn't become alerted. Or perhaps he has been but is allowing Jack to get a head start. He sprints upstairs to the first room he can enter. It's his bedroom. Jack instinctively attempts to lock the door, only to find it futile. It's not even lockable as such. There's no chain like the front door or something he can turn like in his old apartment. It will only buy him the few seconds it takes to turn the handle and push.

He needs to find himself a better safe place within the house. There must be a room somewhere with a lock. One of theses days he should get a bomb shelter or panic room. Somewhere with guaranteed security where he can stay indefinitely until threats like Anti leave him be. If he could set up his recording equipment so the glitch never had access to the subscribers again, even better.

The best place to keep him safe right now though is likely his closet. There's more space than under the bed. Not to mention less dusty. Jack's never noticed just how full of clothes it is. When he uses it previously, he didn't stop to imagine how he'd one day be ignoring a jacket sleeve tickle his ear while he sat on stacked jumpers and hoodies.

It doesn't matter. What's more important is controlling his breathing. It's too sharp. He may be imagining it as louder than reality out of panic. However, the less sound he made, the better his chances of getting out of this alive were.

"I can hear your footsteps. You're not very good at hiding, are you? You can't hide from me. I'm coming."

Anti has the audacity to knock. As if that will somehow excuse the breaking in, window destruction and general terrorising he's committed while in this house. What's worse is that Anti is clearly taunting him. The asshole wants Jack as terrified as he can make him.

It's fine. It was only a glitching demon hunting him down in his own home. He should focus on slow and silent breathing. He should certainly ignore Anti eliminating the bed from potential places Jack was hiding.

"You're not here. I wonder, could you be inside your closet?"

No. No no no. Oh God, no. Fuck, he's trapped in here. There's absolutely no way he can just race past Anti as soon as those doors are opened. Now would be a great time for Narnia to not only magically come into existence but do so in this very wardrobe. He could beg Mr Tumnus to hide him. Except, doesn't Tumnus get killed or something along those lines after helping the kids? He's probably only seen the film once, that time years ago when he was bored and there was nothing better to watch.

Anti swings open the closet doors, looming over Jack with the widest grin he's ever seen Anti wear. He fools himself into thinking he could bolt to the kitchen before the glitch caught him. All it took was some superior reflexes and agility to catch him unawares. Except, it's already too late.

Anti's won the 'game'.

Same as ever, things begin numbing. Jack can't remember the last time he blinked as he maintains eye contact with Anti. The merge is fluid despite his efforts to fight it. Anti's taken control enough times for Jack to know his senses will cease being dulled by green haze at any second. And there it is. He can't scream out as his own neck severs in a straight bloodied line.

Jack's officially not himself as he steps out the closet.

"Better luck next time." Anti mocks. There's still people outside. "How about... we sew their lips clear shut with fear?" What the hell? No! It's one bad joke. I don't care that much. "Don't you?" He's heading to the kitchen now. No. Why do you care anyways? It has nothing to do with you. "Because October is great. You're all looking for the next scare. I'm able to do whatever I want, have as much fun as I can in 31 days. They don't even care. They love it." He's searching through the knife rack, inspecting every one. "Then it's o͢͠ve̴r̡͟. Then you all focus on the next holiday. You all stop paying attention. There's just... So. Many. Distractions."

The glitch strides into the living room. It lifts up the snow globe that was brought out with Jack and Signe's Christmas decorations.

"But this Christmas, everything will change."

Jack is helpless as the demon tosses the snow globe in the direction of their fireplace. He doubts the glass will burn but the tiny house and tree inside will. The glass certainly shatters from the impact. How is he going explain this to Signe? She gave him that snow globe for their first Christmas together. It was one of his favourite holiday decorations. Now it was gone forever.

The malicious entity sat on Jack's bed, conniving. Tonight would be the best night for the job. After all, it was Christmas Eve. By tomorrow, the level of celebrations would be at its peak. They wouldn't care about anything other than their presents and food by then. However, if they had no gifts to get joy from, their attention would free to go elsewhere.

There was some commotion outside, attracting the demon's attention. A crowd had gathered outside Mark's house. Oh, was it already time for his obnoxiously bright lights to come on? Jack could never work out why Mark and Amy bothered to invite the entire neighbourhood for a five second activity. There was all the hype, he supposed. At least they only turned their light on the evening of the 24th. It was meant to 'show Santa where he could land'. God knows the damned things kept him up the entire night, twinkling away. Why did he have to live opposite Mark again?

He spotted Signe mingling with Ethan. Jack wasn't surprised to see her here. After all, it was Signe who usually tried and failed to convince him to attend Mark's light party. He tended to argue they could watch the dumb lights be turned on from their bedroom, sparing themselves the cold.

Anti didn't appear to find dressing as Santa Claus too difficult. Jack couldn't even recall when he'd bought the outfit. He had certainly worn it for the charity stream earlier this month. Regardless, the red jacket and trousers with white frills slipped on easily. He questioned the inclusion of black gloves but it wasn't his revenge plot so... whatever. He was only coming along for the ride because he was physically forced to.

Mark's party lasted longer than he'd expected. It was well past midnight before everyone in the cul-de-sac was sound asleep. Ethan's was the first home the demon targeted. His friend was completely oblivious to the theft when they left. He had even stolen some gasoline from Ethan, stating he would 'need it for later'.

With every house, Anti gathered every last present from under the tree into the Bag-For-Life he had stolen from Jack's home. Yeah, the demon wasn't too pleased by its 'sack'. But who actually had a sack like Santa's simply lying around the house? On the rooftop, he would chuck the contents of the bag towards the cul-de-sac's island. How he was able to haul all those fir trees up chimneys was beyond Jack's understanding. Thanks to all the chimney travel, the costume was filthy by the time Robin became a victim.

Once again, the demon took an interest in something other than a present. Robin's box of matches were confiscated with the repeated excuse of their later use. Moments later, he is rummaging through his presents.

I don't have any Yuletide grudge against Robin. Could you at least leave him alone? "I'm not leaving any spares." Look, Robin is my editor. You want to be noticed year-round? I can ask him to add stuff into videos that will help with that. I doubt he'll be too co-operative if I steal from him though. So what do you say? "I say... we'll show them what true misery feels like. Tonight, e͘vȩr̢̕y̵͞t̨͟h̴͢͏ing̸͡ ̢b̡̕u͢r̵n̵͞s̶̢."

"Jack?"

He notices Robin himself cowering at the demon's outburst. He is clearly traumatised by the sight of his possessed friend. Jack wants nothing more than to reassure him it will be okay, that this isn't really him performing criminal acts and his regular self will be back before long. Then again, he doesn't even know if he'll ever come back. Jack hasn't had the best experiences with Anti possessing him. He's been saved by Henrik before, even if it was touch and go. If it happens to him again, how will his friends react? What on earth is Signe going to think? She must have returned from the party to find him missing without any explanation, broken glass everywhere. Not to mention tomorrow when people discover Jack re-enacted The Grinch Who Stole Christmas before dropping dead out of nowhere.

"Don't be stupid." The demon scolds him as they escape through Robin's chimney. "You won't die unless I kill you. Keep telling me what to do. Maybe more than presents will burn."

When every house had been hit, Anti got to work. For the rest of the night, he piled presents upon presents and the occasional tree until they all precariously lay in one giant heap, circling the community's tree. Jack is sure Anti would climb to the peak to pour the gasoline everywhere. Instead, so as to avoid ruining half the night's work, the demon splashed the flammable liquid as high as he could fling it. The flames could work their way up to the top.

"Hey everyone, look outside your window! I have a s̡u͢r͜p͢r͜͏͏is҉e͢͠ for you!"

God knows how many presents were in that pile. And was Jack really counting 16 trees? They definitely hadn't stolen from 16 houses. Which asshole had multiple full-sized fir trees in their home?

Jack feels the disbelieving stares from numerous windows all direct themselves at him and the heap. Anti strikes a single match from Robin's box. With little wind, all it takes is for him to let go and the tiny flame meets flammable liquid. The gasoline gives it a boost. However, it can only race so high. That doesn't stop the fire from climbing, albeit at a reduced pace. It refuses to stop until there is physically nothing else to burn.

Externally, it seems as if he's loving the sight of colourful paper, boxes and what was once part of a natural landscape become blackened. Internally, he is mortified by how mesmerising he found the flames. Why did fire have to be so charming?

"I'm not ending this game. This is only the beginning." Anti announced to everyone. He continued to mock the neighbourhood. "What's that? Christmas is ruined? Isn't that a crying shame."

This is too much. Anti is just standing there, revelling in the destructive heat of the fire. A few residents have ventured out into the cold to witness the events unfolding.

Congratulations, you've ruined everyone's fun. You must be so pleased with yourself. "And you'll get all the blame. After all, who's the one with the matches?" You. You are. And you need to go. Right now. "Weren't we having fun? Visiting your friends, playing hide and seek... Maybe next time you can try harder to hide." Stop taunting me. Jesus, can't you just fucking leave already? "Sure. We can do this all over again at Easter." Jack collapses onto his hands and knees as the demon departs.

"Jack!"

Shit, that was Signe launching herself into a sprint towards him. What would she think of him, after all that Anti's made him do? He's sure she must have been worried this whole time. Before he knows it, her arms are encompassing him. He wants to be comforted but he can't yet. Instead, tears start to leak.

"That wasn't me. I swear, that wasn't me. I didn't-" "Jack, it's okay. You're fine now. It's okay." She mutters in his ear. "No, it's not." Still sitting on his legs, he announces his plans to fix this. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll buy everything you've lost. You can get it back." It's not an impossible task. It will involve a lot of contacting people and asking what they got his friends. Though inevitably time consuming, it could be done. He can rectify Anti's actions tonight. He only hopes none of the presents in that fire were hand-made or had sentimental value. There is some muttering and nodding amongst his neighbours. If they can think of a better solution, he'll take it.

"Come on, let's get you inside."

He doesn't argue as she ushers him back home. He refuses to admit to anyone, least of all himself, it's much warmer by this massive bonfire than what their central heating could provide. He sits uneasily in the armchair he'd hidden behind hours beforehand. The glass in the living room is all gone. She must have swept it up.

"I'm-" "Sorry, I know. You weren't in control. Nobody is going to blame you for what happened." "They should." It finally comes to his attention that her eyes are bloodshot. Although, she doesn't appear to have been crying recently. "Are you alright? I know I disappeared without warning." "Yeah, I've been up for most of the night. It's fine. At first, I thought this was all Jackieboyman's doing. I was prepared to have a talk with you about him. I figured I might as well ask Marvin and Chase to keep an eye out for you. We all know you have a tendency to be reckless when you wear that suit. Then I found his costume was still here. And your Father Christmas outfit was missing instead. You would have told me if you were out cheering people up. Plus, that didn't explain why our window was smashed. The three of us have been looking for you around town." "And I was here the whole time." "I'm guessing this was Anti." "Yeah." "I can warn the others for you, if you want." She picks up her phone. "There's no point." The flames are still going strong. Phil from three doors down is running with a bucket, shortly followed by his roommate Dan who's carrying a cooking pot. It will be a while before their method of haphazardly throwing water at the bonfire will yield major results. "He's already got what he came for. I'll just have to be better prepared for him next time."

[wild-untamed-heart]

Space!au White Day 2k19 Drabble

Here is the white day drabble from Vasco! Thanks so very much for requesting for a drabble from Kajika’s side! I had a lot of fun with the drabbles this year! Hope you enjoy it! Do with this one as you please ^^

-

Vasco had been on the lookout for possible gifts to give to Kajika ever since she’d given him the gift a month (?) prior. At least, he was guessing it was a month ago. It was hard to tell time when you were on the move. He really appreciated the gift that she gave him and he was looking for something that would be useful to her to have.

That’s when he came across something grand. On one of the planets they visited, their technological advancements were high. Their gadgets were all very fascinating and sophisticated, even by Vasco’s standard.

One item caught his eye and he inquired in the shop about a possibility of any additions that could be added. The fact that there could made him all the more excited about gifting Kajika the item he picked out for her.

Surely this would prove useful to her to use during their travels! It was going to take some time for the additional function to be added. In the meanwhile, he would continue to travel around, taking in the sights, and jotting information down in his notes.

His notes could be useful for the next time they visit (if that time ever comes), or it could be used to help a future adventurer of they ever get their hands on his notes. He used the notes of past adventurers to flesh out their route, so it was only right for him to do the same to help someone else in the future.

That’s how you pave the way for safer travels for others.

He had so much respect for the navigators of the past who lived through many perilous space paths and jot their findings for others to use for their own needs. They could have kept their knowledge to themselves, but they chose to share them. How respectable it was for people to spread knowledge selflessly in order to provide others a safer travel across space.

That is the very essence of adventuring, wanting to explore the world. Withholding knowledge went against the spirit of advent. That’s how he felt, anyways.

As he checked out all the local sites, jotting down anything worth noting, he kept himself mindful of the time. He didn’t want to miss his appointment to pick up the item, after all.  

Once the appointed time arrived, Vasco picked it up before White day came around. He simply had to hide it away and wait until the day arrived.

On the day, he stopped by Kajika’s room with a bag in hand. It was a purple colored bag, nothing too fancy, but he thought it would suffice for its intended purpose. “This is my return gift for Valentine’s day. I hope you enjoy it.” He handed her he purple bag.

Inside of it was what looked to be a black pouch that you could attach to a belt. The pouch was small but sturdy. If you looked closely, you could see faint lines of light running across the pouch. In the center of the pouch was a circle with a faded blue color.

“That’s an interdimensional space pouch. You can store non-living things inside of it, like your tools. The space it holds is the same as the cargo hold of this ship, so there’s a lot you could store away. You could store your own personal belongings if you wanted.”

It made packing a lot simpler if you could throw everything into the interdimensional space pouch. “It’s small so you could carry it around on your belt for ease of access.” Vasco continued to explain.

For people who were on the move quite often, something like an interdimensional space pouch was an important tool.

“That circle in the middle, if you tap on it, it will activate the additional function I asked for. It will transport whatever you put into it to its sister portal.” The circle was smaller than the size of a fist, so bigger items wouldn’t fit through it.

He revealed what looked like a wrist watch on his forearm with a similar circle. He tapped on it, activating it. The circle glowed a vibrant neon-blue color, showing that it was ready to be used. He fished a rolled up letter from his pocket and held it over the circle. When he dropped it, they could both see how the circle ‘ate up’ the letter and the circle on the pouch blinked, to show that she’d received something.

“If you tap on the circle on your pouch, it will spit out whatever I’ve transferred over to you. The letter he wrote was rolled up and kept in that shape by wrapping it with a ribbon. Once she unrolled the letter, she’d see the words:

“Happy White Day, Kajika. May this prove to be a useful companion for you during our journeys. Stay safe and never forget a thing during your travels.”

With this, she’d be able to carry around an entire cargo-full worth of items with her for whenever she’d need them. She wouldn’t need to carry heavy tools around with her everywhere, neither would she forget to bring something with her so as long as she kept all her tools in the pouch.

The additional feature worked like an instant messaging system. “If you need to tell me anything urgently, or if you just want to engage in idle chatter, you can send me messages through the secondary feature. I’ll receive your message, and I can send one back to you.”

Isn’t that nice? You could carry everything around with you, and you had a way of reaching out to him whenever you needed it. It made splitting up to find their captain much easier, because they could send messages to each other to give the other live updates.

_______________________________________________________________

Kajika flopped down onto her bed with a sigh of exhaustion, marveling how tired she was and barely half over. She placed the blame entirely on one particular crew member whose identity was for the time being unknown. It had all started when the ship started unexpectedly lurching accompanied by the engine making rather peculiar sounds. A hurried investigation had resulted in the discovery of a pair of darts which had somehow travelled through the vents and ended up where they had no business being.

How they got there, she wasn’t sure she even wanted to know but she certainly would love to give the culprit a piece of her mind. She had spent just about the entire morning trying to remove the darts from the system and then a additional couple of hours fixing the damage they had caused. Hence the exhaustion.

Kajika was wondering whether she’d be able to get away with a nap when a sudden knock on her door prompted her rise and see who was calling on her. If it was another engine problem she might be inclined to slam the door in their face however…

Upon opening the door, she immediately felt some of her fatigue and exasperation melt away as she was met by the familiar sight of her friend. Friends really were amazing beings. It took her a moment to realise that Vasco wasn’t empty handed but was bearing a purple bag which instantly roused her curiosity. She was touched to learn that it was a return gift for Valentine’s and recalling his earlier words felt her curiosity multiple tenfold.

It went without saying that she wasted no time in opening the bag to reveal the contents, her silver eyes widening and sparkling with delight the instant they identified the contents.

He didn’t…

It was beautiful, and practical and she absolutely loved it. Kajika had heard of these interdimensional space pouches but had never gotten around to buying one herself since most of her savings somehow always ended up going towards mechanical gear or interesting tools. Not to mention he had even had an additional functional feature which would certainly come in handy.

With a happy laugh, she practically launched herself at him and hugged him exuberantly.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!!”

Vasco obviously had no need to worry about the bar ‘being set high’ as he had put it. His gift was perfect beyond all measure and she would definitely be making good use of it.

[arthurmorganthings]

Love in The Sky

Pairing: Arthur x Princess Margaret

Summary: A party hosted by Angelo Bronte turns into a magical night.

Warning: Explicit content

Princess Margeret was never one for balls, contrary to the popular belief of socialization in gatherings full of aristocratic beings. White, elitist men all the same with their ideals of what superiority they have from privilege and social status alone, they’re untouchable to anything opposed to them—or so she heard from the ignorant bullshit spewed from the mouth of Angelo Bronte. Had her daddy been away from these group of men, she’d give him a taste of what Monocan woman can do.

Her corset sinched tightly around her waist and crown placed gently above her crimps. She graciously held her hand out to shake Bronte’s. Emphasis on graciously, had it been any other way, his face would be in a body bag. Begging for repentance. He smiled in return, “Princess! Look at how you’ve grown. How old are you now?”

She held her tongue, tight lipped. “Twenty.”

“You’re at your peak you know? You should be considering possible suitors that you can keep warm at night.” He trailed as the men around him laughed, savagely. She grits her teeth behind her lips as her father sensed her discomfort, asked to be excused.

Margeret followed bellow the stairwell, as she frowned. “Such elegance your, magesty.” Sarcasm dare escape the princess’s mouth. “Had I known you associate yourself with subordinates of such discourse, I wouldn’t have agreed to come with you to Saint Denis.”

“Well I don’t mean to be the bearer of bad news, but your coronation is due within a year from now. You must find possible suitors that befit the throne. Why not mingle outside of Monaco?”

Princess Margeret’s frown worsened. She never asked to be apart of royal linage, she longed for adventure beyond the white walls of her castle—she yearned for the West. Perhaps this trip was for her own selfish gain because as a child, she always read about America in westerns. Now that she arrived in a country full of outlaws, bandits, and conman—she still so happened to associate herself with bourgeoisie people.

“If it happens to be a big deal, why can’t you hold off the wedding until I’m ready?” Her hypothetical question didn’t sit right with her father. He points a finger in her face to announce who the man of the House was.

“You mustn’t speak to your father this way. Now go mingle and do not linger. You are to report to the guest room by midnight. Understood?” One thing Margeret learned—her father always had the final say, so she nods innocently, his demeanor returning to his regular plesant mood, “Good! I shall see you soon, my beloved.”

He pivots on his heel to return up the banister to continue his conversation with Mr. Bronte himself.

Margeret exits the mansion and into the backyard where her potential “husband” lied.

“Ha.” She scoffs, arguably tired of rich folk flaunting their riches. As she sauntered past folk that were star stuck, or eager to play matchmaker—Princess Margeret made it to the table filled with an assortment of champagne.

She pours some for herself, standing to observe. She notes a group of men that seem to stand out in a peculiar way.

A man in white satin gloves, moustache primped neatly with hair pomade, a gruff looking feller, an older man with a wise aura, and a handsome young prince so it seems.

His eyes were enchanting to look at, even at this distance as he lit his cigar—though they didn’t stick out nearly as much as they should have, Margeret seen right through them.

Outlaws.

She read about them in stories. The tall tale of gunslingers that suddenly finds sense of morality as they fight through a perilous journey through civilization. One of many outlaws fear the most.

She wonders if she can aid in any pick-pocketing of sorts as she saunters past suitors vying for attention, but she sees right through them. Money can make any fool fold without noticing she has the upper-hand. Royal flush.

“Hello gentlemen.” She says, clearing her throat, making herself less scarce of the group. They stare collectively in confusion as she feigned ignorance.

“Hello ma’dam.”

“Dutch, you fool! Do you not know who this woman is?” The older man hiss. “That’s the Princess of Monaco!”

“Is she now?” Dutch response with mischief in his voice, as he held his hand out. Her glove happened to make it across his lips with finesse. “And what do we owe the pleasure of such a presence tonight?”

“Well I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking for a suitor to rule a country. But.” Looking right at the man she’d been eyeing since he first arrived with his entourage. He glanced at her as her heart swelled in glee. “I can see right through you boys, you’re transparent.”

What was meant for the man across from her, was mistaken to said people.

A beat of silence followed as a baritone chuckle made by Dutch. Not once had Margeret budged in her not so indirect staring contest with the man she’d soon have in her private quarters. She’d write about her escapades with an outlaw in her diary.

Dutch notice the interaction, and brings light of it. “Your majesty, have I introduced you to my friend Arthur Callahan?” His hand gently on Arthur’s shoulder

“No sir, you haven’t.” Her smile that of diamonds in Sierra Leone. “Hello, Arthur.”

The accent alone added a bit of flare to his southern charm of a name. He gulped, nervously as he nods his head respectfully. “Princess.”

“Now If you could excuse us for a minute, we have a—business meeting.”

“But of course.” She smiles again. Her wispy lashes looking back at Arthur with such sultry before sashaying away.

Giving the group of boys something to look at upon her departure.

“What a woman.” Dutch trails off as he discusses what said party has to do before the soiree was over.

Princess Margeret helps herself to the hors d’oerves. Caviar with lamb-fry on a stick—your classic Europe meets hilbility ensemble. She feasts the appetizers down with wine before making her way back to her private sectors, as she makes her way into the grande foyer, she notes one of the Mayor’s head huncho antagonize a maid harshly—the woman could barely speak any English!

Margeret fumed. “Hey!” Enough to cause him to whip his head to her. “Leave that woman alone.”

“What business of it is yours, your majesty?”

“I will have you know, I’m due to run a country in less than a year. Had I been queen by now—I’d take joy in seeing them go off with your head in the gallows.” Her voice taking on a tone to invoke fear.

It did. Oh how it did. Perhaps she does take after her father after all. “Leave her alone and get back to work.”

“Y-yes, your highness.”

She smirks, nodding at the maid. She thanked her in her native tongue before top returning to her job. Margaret smiled before crossing her arms, her back facing Mr. Callahan from the shadows.

“I never pegged you for an errand boy, Mr. Callahan.”

A tense silence followed before the sound of russelling ensued. She pivots to him with an amused smile. “Your transparency, I see right through you.”

She left little space betwixt them, the smell of woodsmoke and cologne filled her nostrils. “You realize guests aren’t allowed past this quarter, Mr. Callahan.”

“Just tryin’ to relieve myself, princess.”

“You must have me mistaken for a fool.” She replies, hands roamed the small of his back before gently tugging at his tuxedo. “Your men, are bad business.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about miss.”

She was exhilarated her lips grazed his teasingly, the thrill of laying with a wanted man was a high she couldn’t get enough of. “You can bullshit all you want. I want in.”

She took his breath away, perplexed as to why a woman that could buy the whole city twelve times over, would want to partake in a robbery. Removing her silver pendant, she hands it to him in hopes to earn his trust. “Hopefully this clears things. That is a four-thousand dollar necklace, do with it as you please. I wish to join you now, Mr. Callahan.” There was a beat of silence before sighing.

“Come on.”

Her core clenched at his gruff tone as he saunters up the stairs next to her. Lifting her dress to make walking up easier. Upon entering the Mayor’s private sectors, Margeret announces her plan.

“You stand watch.” She mumbles, Arthur’s brows furrow.

“You’re searching for files only where I know, sits.” She pulls a key between her buxom breasts. “Trust me.”

The operation didn’t take long, showing him files in regards to an oil company owned by Leviticus Cornwall. Margeret has met him one too many times to conclude her disdain for him. A man that sat in his bedroom full of money, and privilege—an asshole for better words.

“Here.”

Handing him the documents as he stared in awe at how swift she moved. As he grabbed for them, she moved the said folder teasingly, still in her hand. “I didn’t say getting the files would be, easy to come by.”

His smirk widens. “But of course.” His chest against hers. “You drive a mean bargain, your highness.”

“Please. Call me Margeret.”

He chuckles. “Sure. Well, what a sticky situation we find ourselves in, Margeret. You see, I need those files. Perhaps, there could be a way to get them from you?”

She masks her impending smirk. “Now that you inquire, there probably is one.” Her figure sauntering past him like an apparition. She beckons him with her body and how it flows beautifully in her custom-made dress.

He follows.

Her private quarters locked privately as she teases him. “Wait here.”

Her orders were firm, Arthur placing himself onto the beautifully sculpted, King-sized bed. He observed the fine jewels sitting on her nightstand, a barrage of dresses that lined neatly on a wooden chair. The room alone was enough for him to disappear from a life of mischief.

From the walk-in bathroom, Princess Margeret calls.

“So, Mr. Callahan. What’s your line of work?”

“I don’t think you wanna know.” His gruff tone says, scratching at his beard filled with aftershave. “I’m a bad man, Margeret.”

His eyes widens as Princess Margeret reveals herself. Christ, Dutch was right indeed—what a woman.

Her body removed from her custom-made dress into a lace chemise and matching bottoms, a clear negligee from the finest seemstress in France. Arthur’s body betraying him as his dress pants grew tighter. Her wispy lashes beckoned him as she crawls up the soft, silken sheets—straddling him.

“You know, I dreamed of laying with an outlaw. But I’d never imagined him to be as handsome as you.” Her voice softly spoke as she kisses at his jaw. Arthur goes slack in that second before groaning in pleasure.

His hands finding their way to her bottom, giving it a firm slap—earn a sound of approval. In Arthur’s years of living, would he ever imagine to be in a position to say he made love to a princess. This woman must see men younger, wealthier, and more cunning than he was—perhaps the thrill of a sheltered home could be the reason.

“Look at me.” Her hips grind at his crotch as he stares into her emerald orbs, captivated by what he saw. His lips found her’s, now caught in a languid make-out session. Lips tasting that of the finest wine and champagne as he gripped at her bottoms tightly. Once removed by the kiss, said lovers gasped before Princess Margeret urged he removed his clothing.

Once his black tuxedo, and tie was removed. All was left of him was his union attire. Arthur wasted no time taking off her negligee, each touch brought her content until she laid stark naked, grabbing his jaw again, she kissed at his neck, betwixt kisses, Margeret says. “I. Want. You.” Causing a short chuckle from her lover.

“Okay. You can ‘ave me, Princess.” Unbottoning his union suit some more, Arthur lined at her wet heat while sucking in a breath. “Shit, you feel so good.”

The princess sighed now relieved of her pleasures being denied for so long. She missed both the pain, and the yearning.

An outlaw was shameless, least in the eyes of her father—yet something about how he looked her in the eyes. His thrusts were deep, not hard as he placed his elbow on both sides of her head, taking her for who she is. Her moans grew in volume as he shushed her quietly.

“We don’t want your daddy hearin’ what we do.”

Daddy.

It brought something in her to say it, seemingly. “Daddy?” She whispers.

Arthur groans, “Yes, your daddy.”

His thrusts began to piston as he wrapped her legs around his shoulder—the princess’s eyes fluttering closed.

“On your back, hn. But somethin’ tells me you live for that kinda thrill.”

“Fuck, yes—yes.” He sushed her again, at bit harsher punishment this time. His hand wrapped around her throat.

“You got a mouth on you, your majesty.” He groans, her guts turning inside-out as his cock thrusts into her pelvis in tandem to her cries of pleasure.

She said it again, this time consciously aware of her onslaught. “Yes, daddy.” She doesn’t understand the sudden fondness of the petname, given the context used, but it seemed to fit Arthur so well.

“That’s a good girl. So good for me.”

She was close, painstakingly enough Arthur pulled out of her before flinging her body to her stomach as a pool of wetness trailed down her thigh. His thick fingers protrudes her before landing a firm smack across her ass. Biting down her cry, She wiggles a bit—beckoning him with every move.

He chuckles smugly, “I musta hit the jackpot, getting to lay with a princess.”

“Don’t get arrogant, it’s beneath you.”

That remark earned anouther hard slap from Arthur. “Hm, I’ll be the judge of that darlin.’”

She never could get the final say, his cock roughly pushed into her walls, pulling at her brown locks as her gaze made contact with the chandelier that hung beautifully over them. Her jaw went slack, eyes rolled to her skull as Arthur’s lips marked her neck. Margeret cried out in glee.

She felt like a cortesean in silken sheets, how could a man that inflicts pain to others, make a girl feel so—alive? She knew his type. The man that he was, to him this would be a memory to tell his friends.

“Haaah.” She screamed.

He asked, “Who’s making you feel this good?”

Her body was in nirvana, her impending release on the precipice.

Arthur tugs at her hair harder, “I asked you a question.” His voice husked in her ear.

“You.”

“And, who am I?”

Oh. He wanted her to say it. “Daddy.”

He smirked as his thrusts grew sloppy, indicating that he was going to come soon but fought against it as he grabbed her by the neck, "That’s my girl." Arthur affirmed.

Fluttering her eyes opened, she felt his girth make pace at her cervix as she threw her head back helplessly, "Oh my god." She screamed, her body growing numb while her eyes rolled back again, “Oh,"

Arthur lets out a grunt as perspiration accumulates across his forehead.

She squeals, her toes curling from the friction. She gasps, "Ugh, I'm coming Arthur, I'm coming."

"Don't hold back. Let it out," He retorts, his tempo increasing three times-fold as Margeret saw white, releasing one final cry upon Arthur withdrawing from her core, spewing his seed all over her back. Her body shook at the aftershock of it all, while feeling the weight of Arthur’s body be placed on her. They laid there for quite sometime before Arthur removed himself.

The faint sound of items moving filled the room as Margeret stayed limp on the bed she fornicated in. A sudden feel of a wet rag be placed on her back, cleaning up his mark.

Her eyes grew heavier but knew their time together would come to an end. She knew when Arthur cleaned himself up, now presentable—they’d both return to their own lives.

“Stay.” Margeret whispered. “Come to Monaco with me.”

“You know I can’t do that girl. My loyalty is here.” His voice responds with the same tone, his ring finger trailing at her naked back. “But, I enjoyed every second of tonight. So much that I’ll remember this for the rest of my days.”

Her heart swelled, earning a smile from him.

The last she seen before trailing off into a deep slumber.

—

“Princess Margeret! Are you done packing?” One of the Mayor’s servants call from behind the door as Margeret stares at the window that overlooked the industrialized city. She couldn’t bring herself to cry. She got what she wanted after all. One of the greatest nights she’d ever had.

A sigh escaped her lips, “Yes, give me one moment please.”

Before her departure she made sure to clean as much as she could so that the maids wouldn’t have to work so hard. Margeret checks everywhere again to assure nothing was left behind—what she didn’t expect was what seemed like a drawing of Margeret. Naked, as the day she was born.

She’d presumed this was Arthur. As she flipped the sketch, a note read:

Remember these sheets. -A.M

[the-observant-frisbeetarian]

Chapter 2

The Tiger and the Dragon by George deValier

Chapter saved by fluffchemy ♥

After only a few minutes, Yao started to wonder if it was the wine that had made him make such an insane decision. He certainly did not feel as confident as he had a moment ago. He glanced up at the man walking beside him to find the man looking back, and Yao quickly looked away.

"Do you know… there is paper on your neck," came that thick Russian accent.

"Oh," said Yao, feeling himself go red as he reached up and ripped it off. "I forgot about that, my friend put it there."

"My name is Ivan," said the Russian, stopping and extending a hand to Yao.

"Oh," repeated Yao. He crumpled the streamer in his hand and dropped it before taking Ivan's hand. It was much larger than his own, and surprisingly gentle. "I'm Yao."

"Pleased to meet you, Yao! My bar is behind you."

"Oh," said Yao, nearly kicking himself. Could he say anything else? He turned to find a dark doorway cut into the street wall behind him. If you didn't know it was there you could easily miss it. "Your bar, you say."

"Da, my bar. Shall we?"

Yao followed Ivan through a narrow, dark hallway that led into a small, even darker room. Ivan threw his trench coat over the back of a couch and pulled out a stool at the bar for Yao. Yao sat down warily, glancing around at the entirely empty room. There was a circle of couches in the centre, a few dimly lit overhanging lamps, and no windows. He could feel himself growing anxious.

"What do you think of my bar?"

"Oh… it's… well, it's…" It's dark and creepy and there's one exit and I feel like I'm in a gangster movie and Oh God you actually do kind of look like a gangster... "It's nice."

"Ah, it is not much, but it is convenient."

Convenient for what? "So, this is what you do? You run a bar?"

"No, no. This is just a small part of my operations."

"Your…ah. And, um…what would…" Yao trailed off, realising at this point that some part of his brain had shut down and he was incapable of thinking of a single thing to say. He sat there, silent, cheeks burning, as Ivan just smiled at him politely as though expecting him to go on. Just when Yao was on the verge of either running for his life or passing out, he heard a voice beside him.

"Can I get you a drink, sir?"

Yao nearly hugged the bartender. Instead, he turned to him and politely enquired if it was possible to get a cup of tea. He wasn't sure drinking was a good idea.

The young bartender raised one eyebrow. "No," he replied. Ivan laughed softly.

"Oh. Well. In that case I'll have a glass of wine. Please."

"Red or white?"

Oh God. "White." Then again, maybe a few drinks for confidence wasn't such a bad idea after all.

The bartender nodded and busied himself preparing the drinks. He was very good looking, with shoulder length brown hair and large sad eyes. Yao thanked him as he handed him a large wine glass. He just nodded again before placing a bottle of vodka and a glass in front of Ivan.

"Spasiba, Toris," smiled Ivan. Toris looked terrified of Ivan which didn't do anything for Yao's nerves. Ivan poured the vodka into the glass and raised it to Yao. "Za vas," he said, shooting back the glass and pouring another.

Yao simply nodded in reply, hoping that wasn't rude. "Is your bar always this quiet?" he asked after taking a very long sip of his wine.

Ivan shrugged. "My bar is very select. It is, how would you say, invitation only. And tonight you are only guest, Yao." Ivan smiled that ever present smile.

"Ah. Great." Yao finished half his wine in one gulp and felt it go straight to his head. "The wine's good."

"Da, it is from my own private reserve. It is Russian. Best wine in the world, Russian."

Yao wondered what Francis would think of that.

"So, er, what do you do Ivan?"

"I am a businessman." Ivan threw back another vodka.

"A legitimate one?" asked Yao before he could stop himself.

"I'm sorry?"

"Nothing," said Yao, feeling a flush of fear. He quickly moved on. "That's, er, very interesting. I'm a chef."

"Ah, yes, you look like you are good with your hands."

Yao again found himself with nothing to say so took another gulp of wine instead. "So, why did you want to buy me a drink, Ivan?"

"Hmm. How do you say. Because I want to sleep with you."

Yao froze, his eyes wide and his glass halfway to his lips. Gathering himself, he placed his glass down, stood up, and turned to leave. Before he could move, he felt his hand seized.

"Wait, do not go."

Yao looked down suspiciously at Ivan. He'd known this was a bad idea. But why did a simple smile make Yao's indignation start to dissolve?

"My English, it is not the best. Do you speak Russian?"

"Do you speak Chinese?"

"Ni hao!"

"Dasvedanya." Yao turned to leave again but Ivan did not let go of his hand.

"Please. What I mean to say was… I would like to… to get to know you, da?"

Don't turn around, don't turn around, don't turn around. Yao turned around and sat down, wondering what he was doing as he rapidly finished his glass. He didn't see the next one placed before him, but he picked it up anyway and took a sip, staring warily at Ivan, who just smiled charmingly back at him. Why did Yao get the feeling this could be the best or the worst decision he would ever make?

It didn't take long for Ivan to put Yao a little more at ease. But that also may have been the wine. Yao remembered reading somewhere that in Russia it was polite to match your host drink for drink. He quickly realised this was going to be impossible, but was regardless putting up a valiant effort.

Ivan had a charming manner about him, even as he remained rather imposing. Yao quickly found himself fascinated by Ivan as he spoke in that alluring accent. Ivan managed to avoid the subject of his work though and Yao became intensely curious about what the man actually did. The fact that he owned a private bar in the middle of the city was interesting enough. Yao listened carefully to every word Ivan said but there was nothing to give a single hint to the manner of his business. And the entire time they spoke Yao couldn't tear his gaze from Ivan's. His smiling face seemed so innocent, yet his eyes made Yao shiver. There was something perilous about them.

"So, all of this celebration, it is for the Chinese New Year?" asked Ivan, already nearly halfway through the vodka bottle.

"Yes. The year of the tiger, actually." Yao was trying to sound cold and aloof but was afraid he wasn't pulling it off. It was hard to appear aloof in front of Ivan.

"Are you a tiger, Yao?"

"Um, no. Actually I'm a dragon." Yao continued drinking his wine at a steady pace. "What is your sign?"

"A dragon?" Ivan smiled widely. "You look like a dragon, Yao. I don't know my… sign, do you call it? I have never thought of it."

"Oh, well, I was given one of these charts earlier…. someone in the street was passing them out…" Yao reached into his pocket, pulling out the flimsy paper pamphlet he had picked up earlier that evening. He spread it out on the bar, noticing his hands were shaking and trying to still them. "So, let's see… what year were you born? You find that, and it will tell you what sign you are."

Ivan pulled the chart towards him and studied it intently. "Ah! It is my year."

"You're a tiger?"

"Da."

Yao looked down at the chart. So Ivan was either 36… or 48… or 24… He looked up at Ivan, dressed in a black business suit and a light scarf, his white-blonde hair falling in those piercing violet eyes. It was almost impossible to say which was more likely. Yao decided it would be rude to ask.

"Tigers and Dragons… your chart thinks we make a 'good match'," said Ivan, enunciating the last two words. "Is chart correct, do you think?" He looked up and fixed Yao with that penetrating stare.

"Ah... well… tigers can be a little aggressive for my liking," mumbled Yao. "And intimidating," he added quietly around his glass.

"I think you believe in this chart, yes? You are what they call 'superstitious'."

Yao shrugged. "It has worked for thousands of years, hasn't it?"

"I understand this. We are very superstitious people in Russia. But it is silliness, most of it. My sisters, they believe in this sort of thing…" Ivan trailed off, his smile disappeared and his eyes unfocused slightly. Yao waited tensely until finally Ivan shook his head and drained his glass of vodka. He glanced back at the chart. "It says here that Dragon is a … 'free spirit'. What does it mean?"

"Well, it means that we're, um, independent. We take risks. We like to live life to the full." Yao paused. "Well, we're supposed to, anyway. And we're honest and proud and energetic and we like to be alone. Oh, and we're lucky."

"And the Tiger?"

"Hmm, you're strong, powerful, courageous and dominant." Yao blushed and turned away. Toris walked past behind the bar and smirked at him.

"Toris, what do you think, this sounds like me?" Ivan waved the chart at Toris who stopped and took it carefully. He quickly looked it over.

"Do you know, sir… I think this sounds exactly like you," said Toris, glaring at Yao as he spoke. "Exactly." Yao shivered.

"Then chart is correct! What is your little animal, Toris?" asked Ivan, smiling widely again.

Toris dropped the chart onto the bar. "Excuse me sir. I don't believe in this silly thing," he said before walking away. Yao got the very strong feeling that Toris didn't like him much.

Yao was definitely starting to feel the effects of the wine. Maybe now was a good time to go. Yao felt trapped, knowing he should leave, but feeling intensely compelled to stay. Ivan was like a magnet.

"Well, I think chart must tell the truth. Because I am like Tiger and you are like Dragon, Yao."

Yao laughed. "Not according to my friends."

"The friends you were celebrating with tonight?" asked Ivan.

"Yes. Well, they were celebrating. I didn't really want to go out."

"And why not?"

"Well… because… I've been busy working lately. I'm in the last year of my apprenticeship and I really want to run my own restaurant. I work really hard, but that's because I have to. And no one understands that." Yao slammed his glass down a little too forcefully. Before he knew it it was full again. He looked around but Toris was nowhere to be seen. Damn he moved fast. "This wine really is quite good, you know."

"I can see that you like it."

Yao nodded as he drank. "I don't have the best wine knowledge… that's Francis, he's really good at all that."

"He is one of your friends who does not understand you?"

"Exactly. He doesn't have to worry though, he is pastry chef at the restaurant so he already has his career set up. And Arthur's in college so he gets to sleep in every day till noon. And Alfred has a steady job as a firefighter. So really, none of them get what it's like to be completely unsure about your future and to have to try really hard to prove yourself while wondering if anyone even notices and they all just think I'm boring and I know they're my friends but sometimes I wonder if they even care and…" and Oh God stop you're babbling… "…aru."

"Aru? What is aru?"

Damn."Um, er, it's just something I say when I'm nervous. Can't really help it. Like a nervous tick. Aru." Yao looked at the ground, closing his eyes briefly. He always seemed to make an idiot of himself at times like this.

"And why are you nervous, little Dragon?"

Yao froze. Damn it! So much for being a confident Dragon. No wonder he never did well on dates. Was that even what this was? Yao went back to drinking, polishing off his glass. He'd lost count of how many he'd had.

Fortunately the silence was broken as a door slammed open and a young boy ran breathlessly into the room. "Mr Braginski sir, I'm afraid…" the boy trailed off into silence, staring at Yao. Yao hastily looked away and saw that Toris had appeared again and was frantically shaking his head at the boy behind Ivan's back.

"Raivis, why are you interrupting me when I am obviously in a very important meeting?" Ivan was smiling but his eyes still held that terrifying intensity. His entire voice and manner seemed to change.

Raivis was shaking and looked almost as scared as Yao himself would be if he hadn't had quite so much to drink… was this a new glass in front of him? Yao shrugged to himself and drank.

"I'm sorry Mr Braginski sir, I never would have bothered you if it was not important… it's just…" Raivis looked at Yao, then at Ivan, then back at Yao, looking like a small animal caught in headlights.

"Da?"

"Sir, perhaps this is a delicate matter that Raivis would prefer to discuss in private?" said Toris quietly.

Before Ivan could respond, another young man came rushing through the door with a laptop clutched under his arm. He only paused for a moment to notice Yao before giving his full attention to Ivan. "Sir, it is more serious than we thought. An entire section of my hard drive has been accessed. I don't know what they were after, but I am afraid there were…" his eyes flicked briefly to Yao, "…client's personal files stored within the hacked area. This was a malicious attack against our operations. And I think we know who…"

"Enough, Eduard," whispered Raivis.

"Hmm," said Ivan. "Eduard, you are supposed to be best computer engineer in country, da? I have highest confidence that you will solve this little problem to your best ability. Now go… and solve it."

"But sir I…"

"JUST GO EDUARD!" cried Toris. Yao jumped slightly at the outburst, and the room fell silent. Toris dropped his head and immediately started wiping the bar top, his face red.

"Perhaps Toris is right," said Ivan. "After all, I am sure you do not want me to get… upset."

Yao could almost feel the atmosphere in the room change. Toris froze mid wipe, Raivis squeaked, and Eduard choked back whatever protest he was about to make and nodded instead. Eduard grabbed Raivis by the arm and rapidly guided him out the back door. Yao realised he was holding his breath and released it slowly.

This was strange. Yao knew he should be running screaming from here by now. All his senses told him to get out. But for some strange reason, he stayed. That's because you're drunk, some part of his brain supplied. Well maybe. But maybe it was also because, even though Ivan made Yao nervous and uncertain and, going by his employees reactions, a little scared… he also made him curious, excited, and, he had to admit, intensely aroused. Yao groaned inwardly. This went beyond unpredictability. This was stupid.

"I apologise for this unforgivable rudeness," said Ivan. "Please, can I offer you another drink?"

Yao was just about to respond that that was the last thing he needed when he reached for his glass, only to watch with a sinking stomach as he knocked it over, sending it crashing to the floor as the last of the wine spilled over his hand. His cheeks burned.

Ivan laughed. "Lucky there was not much left, da? However…" Ivan gently took one of Yao's hands. "This is very good wine."

Yao could barely breathe as Ivan brought Yao's hand to his lips and kissed it softly. Yao bit his lip to suppress a moan when he felt Ivan's tongue lightly trace over his fingers, lapping up the spilt wine. The feather touch of Ivan's mouth sent shocks to every part of Yao's body. It felt exciting. It felt terrifying. Yao felt his breath come faster and his head start to swim. Ivan looked up at Yao and those violet eyes burned into his. Suddenly everything seemed too dark and too fast.

"I… I think…" I think I've made a fool of myself. I think I've drunk far too much too quickly. I think I'm done being unpredictable. Yao tried to fight the waves of darkness rushing through his head, but the room kept spinning around him. "I think I'm going to…" The last thing he felt was strong arms surround him.

.

Next Chapter

Disclaimer: This story belongs to George deValier. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I own nothing.

THANK YOU FLUFFCHEMY FOR SAVING THIS CHAPTER!

[jui-imouto-chan]

Birthday fic for @anxiety-incarnated !

This is a crossover between Mob Psycho 100 and Detroit: Become Human, with no pairings, and a return to my weeb-y fanfic phase. ✌🏾☺️ Wish me luck lmao!

••••

It wasn’t difficult to find the criminals. Fleeing to Japan wasn’t entirely intelligent, as they went under their actual, legal passports, and their demeanors raised red flags with the airport security already. Unfortunately, with the influx of people traveling as the holidays approached, they were too busy to give them enough attention.

Connor knew that the Japanese government had already dealt with the deviancy situation long before the US, as their androids were very slightly more advanced and personable, and their people had a higher degree of attachment to their robotic companions and counterparts. As such, it was incredibly easy to get into the country and have the financial support and resources provided to him by the police force.

His search wasn’t particularly long or perilous, and he eventually tracked the thirium dealers to Salt City. The town wasn’t too special, nothing out of the ordinary, but not so normal that it felt suspicious.

Or so he’d thought.

“Sir,” he addressed the blonde man in front of him, whose arm remained outstretched and facial features comically tense, “why are you throwing—“ Connor licked his lips, “—salt at me?”

Behind the man stood both of Connor’s criminals, followed by a small boy with a bowl of black hair and the blankest poker face Connor’d ever seen since his days prior to deviancy.

The man—easily identified as Reigen Arataka—said something unintelligible, then asked the men behind him if Connor was “the spirit that’s been chasing [them],” to Connor’s amusement and mild befuddlement.

How had these men eluded him so long? They contacted a psychic to discredit him, of all things! Hank would likely be laughing at him mockingly if he were here, so, despite Connor’s chagrin, there was a silver lining.

“Sorry to disappoint, sir, but I am not a spirit of any sort. I’m an android sent by the Detroit Police Department in the United States to capture the drug dealers Kyo Tsuzuki and Haru Tomoeda—your clients.” Connor clarified, watching Reigen process the information. The blonde man’s eyes flicked back to the black-haired boy, who nodded very slightly, and the man quickly grabbed at the two criminals, hauling them in front of himself.

Connor seized their wrists and handcuffed them without a moment’s hesitation, smiling at Reigen in thanks.

With a blink of his LED, the police arrived at the scene in less than ten minutes, collecting the criminals and telling Connor about his accommodations before his flight back to the US.

Eventually, he, Reigen, and the boy stood alone on the road.

“So, America, huh? You’re an android, aren’t you?—It must be nice to finally get some respect.”

The brunet smiled thinly, thinking back on how everything went for a moment. His heart ached for those they’d lost, both at his hands and the soldiers’. “I suppose.”

Glancing away from Reigen, Connor suddenly noticed the kid—Shigeo Kageyama—staring at him rather intently.

“Shishou,” he said, bringing an arm up to point near Connor’s head, “There’s a spirit there.”

Reigen looked to him unwaveringly. “There? Is it evil, Mob?”

Shigeo took a moment to think about it, but ultimately shook his head. “It’s... kind, gentle. Lost. ...It’s a child.”

Connor bit his inner lip. The only potential spirit of a child that he could think of was...

—Who was he kidding? Perceived “spirits” were often the product of human ideation of post-mortem existence combined with overactive imagination and, more frequently, desire to monetize paranoia.

Connor shrugged it off, sure that these two would con him into buying something to “ward it off”.

Reigen pursed his lips. By the raise in his stress levels, Connor could tell that the words deeply saddened him. Shigeo, too, held a look and indication of sorrow.

“Do you know what it wants?” Connor inquired, only to humor them. Perhaps if he’d get that sadness out of them, he’d feel more at ease and could leave.

Shigeo glanced to the air at his side. His eyes followed an invisible trail across the air until it reached exactly where he’d been fixating previously. Finally, he responded, “It wants to possess you. Only for a moment.”

The unease in Connor stirred once more, but he ignored it, ready to play up his ‘possession’ to entertain the middle schooler. “Tell it to do as it wishes.”

Shigeo relayed that to the air, and Connor readied his joints for over-exaggerated shimmying and jittering, only to feel a wash of ice in his artificial veins, shudders locking up his body.

He could feel something jostling around his programs, messing with his electric pulses for a moment and making him spasm for only a second. Curiousity resonated in his mind as whatever it was—the spirit?—wandered about his code and prodded at his systems.

And then, with a fizzle of noise across his vision, Connor could vaguely register the feeling of another something inhabiting his body.

“Are you okay?” Shigeo didn’t seem extremely concerned, seemingly just seeking assurance from Connor about whether or not he was right about the spirit. Connor hesitated on his answer.

It was at that moment that Connor noticed the ugly green object hovering near him.

“Wh-What the hell is that montrosity?”

The object turned its oddly-formed body around to show a face, which was contorted into a sleezy smirk. “Hey, Reigen’s not that bad.” It chuckled.

“Dimple, that’s mean.”

Connor blinked, CPU stalling. “No, I was talking about you. Rei—Arataka...-san is fine; he’s even objectively attractive.”

The blonde grinned at the blob in condescension, though Connor was still quite uncomprehending of anything at that moment, so he didn’t even really notice.

Shigeo pointed at the pear-orb-ghost thing. “That’s Dimple, don’t mind him. He’s not nice to anyone, really, so don’t take anything he says personally.”

“Oi!”

Connor nodded mechanically, tuning out the bickering that broke out between the three others around him.

Though he was trying to rein himself in, the little spirit possessing him fluttered around his mind palace, causing his tensions to rise further. His stress was significantly high, to his ire.

The spirit likely found his memory banks, sifting through them, until an image of Hank came into his HUD. Connor felt a longing pulling on him, and he shook his head, not wanting to believe his initial suspicions about the supernatural entity could be true.

‘Dad....’

Connor’s LED was a searing red. Upon catching sight of it, the other three exchanged looks.

Reigen procured a business card from the inner pocket of his suit, passing it to Connor carefully. “If you need help with that spirit, give me a call.”

Connor nodded slowly.

More importantly, however, he’d need a call with Hank. How he’d explain, he’d no clue, but he needed to—or maybe that was the ghost talking, who knew?

Regardless, as Connor watched the three walk away, he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of town he’d gotten himself into.

••••

It feels bad >^<, I wanted to write it well but it doesn’t feel like it’s good enough, and I even took so long to write it that the day is over 😭😭

[magistralucis]

Russian Sweets Review [Part 1]

😍☕️ IT’S A HAPPY TEATIME ☕️😍

Today is my birthday, This year I received a most generous gift from @absolut--kurant in the mail: a package full of Russian confectionery! Me being all the way over in the UK, so many of these sweets I’ve only ever seen in images and didn’t think I’d see for a long time, if ever. To express my joy and gratitude, and because I love talking about food (news to no one, ahaha), I’ll be writing reviews of the contents as I work my way through this wonderful present. This is just part one of several, dealing with the small collection pictured above: four types of конфеты (chocolate sweets) and some very crunchy сушки (sushki).

The tea is Red Label (Fairtrade) with a spoonful of honey. Let’s begin.

(Note: I intended to take pictures of the actual sweets but I was so lost in savouring them that I forgot ffffffff and I really want to save them and eat them slow. So I’m going to do this scrapbook style, with the wrappers folded out to show what they look like. I collect exotic sweet wrappers so this serves me well, but I think I’ll include pictures of конфеты proper in the next installment of this review as a supplement.)

Сушки (Sushki)

This was on the top layer of the parcel you sent, @absolut--kurant! It’s the first thing I took out when I unwrapped the box, and accordingly the thing I surveyed for the longest as I sorted all the other delicacies.

From what I understand, the relationship of these мини-сушки to full size is that of mini pretzels to actual pretzels. Mini pretzels usually have so much rock salt tossed on them I don’t enjoy them half as much as soft pretzels - but these, I loved. These sushki are smooth and glazed with a faint yeasted aftertaste. Provided that they aren’t too heavily salted or spiced, I actually love dry flour-and-water-based foods like these. I get through packages of cream crackers, water crackers, and hardtack faster than I do any kind of cookie. I don’t even need to put cheese on them or anything, they’re moreish on their own.

Sushki taste of savory and nutrition. I just took one more out to sample while I was writing this section and then ended up grabbing five more. God save me. Also this is one of the very few things in the parcel with English labeling on the back, so I was perfectly informed of what this contained 😂

“Красная Шапочка” - Красный Октябрь (Red Riding Hood - Red October)

This sounds strange, but here goes: part of the unreality of Russian sweets for me was the way they are folded. That triangular-tipped fold is something I have literally never seen anywhere else. That’s probably why I picked up this one first - I saw there are other конфеты available with that fold, which I will sample in the next review - and examined it.

The fold was simpler than I thought it was. I’d always assumed it was some kind of tucked-in origami.

As for the chocolate itself: I expected solid chocolate, but was surprised by the wafer inside the chocolate shell. Russian chocolate is noticeably of different quality than British. Much smoother, I think, with a darker edge and a deeper flavour. The wafers were laid with some kind of nutty praline and it was a gorgeous thing to nibble. Are there конфеты that are especially good to take with tea, perchance? This was a good one for a quick dip.

“Халва в шоколаде” - Рот Фронт (Halva in Chocolate - Rot Front)

hello russian language reading skills please interact

I spent several minutes trying to read this wrapper and didn’t get far. I should learn cursive; this exercise showed me that I really am functionally illiterate in this language outside of print, because I can’t puzzle out the very frequent instances of cursive. At least it was obvious what was inside this chocolate. Халва couldn’t mean much else.

I love my halva, but I’m not versed in the different types. It took me ages to find a place that even sells them here, and it’s just the sesame variant. The halva inside this chocolate was very crumbly - but in a thicker, more tender way, not in thin layers like sesame halva tend to be. Brown, very sweet, extremely hearty. It’s one of the bigger конфеты in this package so I was satisfied.

I don’t know what type of halva it is, though. Some kind of nut?

Батончик - Рот Фронт (Batonchik - Rot Front)

WHAT WHAT WHAT WHAT THE CHRIST ARE THESE THINGS???? WHY ARE THEY SO DELICIOUS?? WHERE CAN I BUY FIFTEEN HUNDRED KILOGRAMS OF THIS STUFF AAAA?aAa?aa??

This. This made me bolt upstairs and search for 1) what this was, and 2) where I could buy it in the UK. It’s like 2.29GBP for 250g and I’m honestly considering stocking up on these because these absolutely hit the spot.

I think I like pralines. I think I like pralines a lot.

According to my research these are peanut-cocoa praline rolls. They’re not covered in chocolate themselves, but the mouthfeel is so incredible I was enchanted from the first bite. Elegant and soft. It also has one of the few Russian sweet wrappers I recognized (only in terms of visuals - I am unversed as to what’s actually in them), red and gold. I might have actually read the ‘red and gold’ descriptor in a book, too, some months ago. I only can imagine this ascertains their popularity among Russians.

There’s a Russia Beyond recipe for those. I might follow it.

“Маска” - Красный Октябрь (Mask - Red October)

I think I like Russian pralines a lot.

Batonchiki-like filling covered with a thin layer of luxurious chocolate. I think maska must be a different kind of praline, though, it feels lighter somehow; batonchiki feel denser to me. I return again to the comment on the quality of Russian chocolate again for this one, because this is the конфета that helped define what feels so different between Russian and British chocolate. To me, it feels that the standard quality of British chocolate has fallen in recent times, and Russian chocolate reminds me of the time when it was good.

Don’t get me wrong. Fine brand name chocolates have always been available here, and they were always of excellent quality. Nobody’s complaining about the posh M&S truffles or the Rococos or the Artisan du Chocolat. The UK is not lacking in excellent chocolates or chocolatiers with flourishing personal businesses. But the quality of everyday chocolates, the sort from Cadbury and the like, that has fallen ever since Kraft took over a lot of chocolate makers here. I remember when Dairy Milk was sold in vibrant royal purple wrappers with thick, mouth-watering squares weighing easily 500g per bar. Now it’s dozens of flavours but with very thin, mediocre chocolate. The perils of selling out.

I think Russian chocolate hasn’t done that. I’d have had to experience the Soviet life to follow the full continuity of these конфеты, of course, but they taste more legitimate to me. These are some fine chocolates. Though now I’m thinking of that ‘Russian chocolate with a horse magnet inside’ post and wondering what that one’s all about

Guest of Honour: Зефир (Zefir)

It is her ; w ; I see that when your product consists of what is essentially jelly meringue, 250g holds quite a lot of zefir, given the size of this pack. This honorary mention is mostly to prove that these got to me fully intact.

I did not open the zefir at this time because I was concerned about how I would keep them. They seem to me the most perishable food, once opened, out of everything else in the parcel - and the weather here alternates rapidly between hot, cold rain, and humid-sticky at the moment. I have put the zefir away to rest in a nice cool dry place for now. They expire in August, so I will pick a cold afternoon in the next week or two to enjoy them for real. I will write a review about them, too.

Closing Words of Part 1

Overall, this made for an excellent tea break and an excellent treat for the tastebuds. I can’t wait to arrange the second teatime. I feel like I learnt quite a lot, too - I first encountered the word конфет(ы) in Duolingo, where they’re translated simply as ‘candy’ (e.g. ‘Купи конфеты, пожалуйста’ is translated as ‘buy candies, please’). I thought very little of this. Like... you know, candy.

These things.

Surely you mean these things.

these things??????

But turns out, no, конфеты did not mean these things. I don’t know what a fitting English translation would be for them now. ‘Buy candies, please’ is one level of abstraction, but ‘buy this very particular subset of Russian confectionery, often chocolate-coated and in bar form, that are sold individually wrapped in paper or foil, please’ is quite another. Some retailers seem to content themselves with ‘chocolate sweets’ (but batonchik doesn’t fall cleanly into that category) or just ‘sweets’, but none of these translations carry the nuance of конфеты proper. Something for me to think about.

Thank you so much, @absolut--kurant. You gave me a fantastic birthday, as well as several more teatimes to look forward to. Tune in soon for further reviews ;)