#Three Secrets to Successful Loafing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

author-morgan · 4 years ago

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Title: Picnics and Flowers Pairing: m!Eivor x fem!Reader Rating: T Summary: With the help of your little sister and her band of rogues, Eivor and you finally have to face the feelings you’ve kept from one another. Plot idea by @angstygunslinger. just took me six months to write it.

A FRUSTRATED SIGH escapes your lips as your little sister dashes off with the piece of parchment you were using for a letter —now half-written. Rising from one of the tables in the longhouse, you start after her. “Helga!” You shout, catching her disappearing toward the granary. “Come back here!” You round the corner of the longhouse in haste, colliding with a wall of warm muscle, the both of you falling at the sudden impact. A warm and familiar laugh fills your ears from beneath you. “Eivor!” You gasp, eyes wide in shock —he was not due back to Ravensthorpe for some time. He smiles at the flush of color creeping up to your cheeks. “Sorry, I was–”

“Chasing after Helga,” he finishes, laughing again, “as always.” Much had changed since leaving Norway, but Helga’s antics for mischief had not —you swear she must be one of Loki’s spawns with how often you have to chase after her and keep her from getting into serious trouble. You roll off Eivor, and he’s quick to rise, offering his hand —calloused from battle— to help you up.

Eivor smiles as he brushes the dirt from your shoulders and the smudge on your cheek. “It is good to see you,” he notes, the amusement gone from his voice. Of all the people in Ravensthorpe, he always finds himself missing you the most. Your gaze flicks away from Eivor, unable to meet his clear blue eyes and the soft smile hiding behind his golden beard without making a fool of yourself. “But weren’t you chasing after your sister?” Eyes widening, you dart off after Helga again. Eivor shakes his head, laughing to himself as he conducts his rounds.

EIVOR CALLS FOR a feast to celebrate the Raven Clan’s new allies in the north and his return to the Ravensthorpe. For now, he has no intention of leaving —at least not until the time comes to secure another alliance with the lords of England or Sigurd summons him away. It is a good feeling, knowing you will see Eivor more often —like the days before you fled Norway. You watch as he makes rounds, speaking to Gunnar and Wallace, among others who call this growing settlement home. He may not wear the title of Jarl, but Eivor is a good leader with the love and respect of his people.

Helga stumbles to where you sit, hiccupping with every other step and trying her best to hide the cup of mead behind her back. Part of you wants to laugh; you’d gotten into similar trouble as a young girl —Eivor and Sigurd your accomplices— but Helga is all you have in this world, and despite calling you sister, you’re the only mother she’s really known, too. “You are too young to be sipping on Tekla’s mead,” you tell her, giving her a cup of watered ale instead. She opens her mouth to protest, but you shake your head. “I won’t hear anymore on it, Helga.”

Pouting, she clambers onto the bench next to you, reaching for the last remaining piece of a berry tart at the table. If she can’t have any more mead and fun, then she’ll eat enough sweets to make you stay up all night to hear her complaints. Helga follows your gaze as she bites into the sweet raspberry tart Tarben made. You’re watching Eivor as he speaks to Mayda and Bertham —young lovers in a predicament with disapproving parents. Helga can’t say she’s surprised to find you staring at him. You seem to do that a lot. With the glances you and Eivor have exchanged all evening from across the longhouse, and after snatching a half-written poem from your desk a few days ago, she decides it’s time for her greatest plan yet. “Do you like Eivor?” She asks —words slurring together.

“Of course,” you answer, unsure why she would even ask a question like that. Helga knows how close you and Eivor are and how he oft comes in the late hours of the night seeking counsel, especially if he and Sigurd were at odds over something. “He’s one of my dearest friends.” Nigh every story worth telling from your childhood features Eivor.

Your little sister rolls her eyes with an exaggerated sigh. “No” —she shakes her head, whole body squirming on the bench— “not like that. Like how,” she pauses, trying to find the right way to describe it, “Gudmund and Gudrun like each other?”

Skimming the hall, you find the two shipwrights —having sent Eira to bed, Gudrun sits on Gudmund’s knee, sharing laughs and exchanging quick kisses. You ignore the way your stomach and heart seize at the thought of having something like that with Eivor and decide not to respond to Helga’s drunken question, but she thinks silence is just as good as a yes or no. You narrow your eyes, seeing her struggling to keep hers open after drinking all that mead and stuffing her belly with meat, bread, and sweets. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?” The question perks Helga up. Across the table, Hytham hides his laughter behind a cup of ale.

“We are celebrating,” Eivor notes, throwing an arm around your shoulder as he sits next to you with a tankard of mead in hand —he winks at Helga.

IN THE WEEK following the feast, Helga tells the other children in Ravensthorpe to meet her behind the stables. Sylvi, Knud, and Eira all appear after their morning chores are done, looking to Helga for what their next adventure entails. Last time, they put a cowpie in Osbert’s slipper and spent the rest of the day hiding and running from the collector as he chased them about the settlement with his hammer and chisel, threatening to carve off their noses while they slept. The empty threats made for an amusing afternoon.

But this time, Helga’s plan is not nearly as nefarious. No, she likes to think she’ll be doing you a favor since you seem oblivious to the obvious. “He’s always staring at her,” Sylvi says, peeking over the stable fence to see Eivor watching you pick raspberries to help Valka with her elixirs and salves. “You know, they both smile more around each other too,” Eira whispers. All of Ravensthorpe seemed brighter when you and Eivor reunite.

“I have a plan,” Helga announces to her cohort of merry troublemakers, motioning the three of them closer.

HELGA FINDS EIVOR fishing off the docks, a woven basket next to his feet almost filled with eels and trout —a successful morning, which means he’ll be done by the time you finish with the stew and her plan can come to fruition. “Eivor!” Helga shouts, skipping onto the wharf and stopping next to him, peering down into the murky water of the river Nene. “Will you come to our picnic?”

He regards Helga and the sweet smile on her round face —she’s up to something. “I think I can make time,” Eivor tells her, what few duties he had could wait until the evening hours. Besides, whatever your sister is plotting will undoubtedly be far more entertaining than writing correspondences to the Raven Clan’s allies.

“Can we pick flowers first?” Helga asks —she made sure to find a patch of wildflowers nearby where your favorite wildflowers in England grew. With you tending to a pot of stew in your shared cabin, she knew this plan would work out just dandy. Eivor agrees, pulling in the last of his catch for the day —a good size bullhead. Taking the basket of fish and eels to Merton, Eivor follows Helga as she leads him to the eastern part of the settlement, where there’s a dense patch of wildflowers growing atop a small knoll, knowing she’s up to something but saying nothing of it. He’s always found Helga’s antics to be amusing, but not quite as amusing as your exasperation after catching her getting into mischief.

“Those are–” Helga starts, looking at the handful of purple vetch and cornflowers “–your sister’s favorite,” Eivor finishes with a smile. He kneels, offering one of the flowers to Helga, tucking the stalk of vetch behind her ear. “Can you keep a secret?” Eivor asks, already knowing she couldn’t —the quickest way for Ravensthorpe, and even Fornburg, to learn of something was to tell Helga and tell her it was a secret too. Leaning closer, he whispers at her ear, smiling as her eyes and smile widen. Eivor rises, looking down at your sister with a glint of mischief in his eyes too. “Where should I meet you and your friends, Helga?” He asks.“

“Under the tree near the waterfall by Valka’s,” she answers, scurrying back to find her friends and tell them the good news.

SIGHING, YOU SIT down a small pot of stew under the tree where Helga said to come —only your sister and her friends are nowhere in sight. You pinch the bridge of your nose, not believing you’d fallen victim to another one of her ploys. You’d been up since the crack of dawn to make a pot of pork and leek stew to pair with a loaf of Tarben’s brown bread and apple preserves. Hands on your hips, you glance around, searching for Helga and her friends up in the tree, or hiding in the bushes, but it’s just you, birdsong, and the soothing calm of the waterfall.

The low croak of a raven perching on a branch above startles you —Sýnin. The raven looks down at you, croaking again, but this time it sounds as though he’s laughing at your folly. You scowl at Sýnin, jumping when you feel someone tap on your shoulder. Turning, you find Eivor standing behind you, holding a bouquet of wildflowers with an oddly bashful look about him as he rubs the scar on his neck. “Eivor?” You ask, heart racing and stomach-churning with butterflies —you hadn’t expected to see him so early in the day, especially in your current state. Eivor doesn’t care if your hair isn’t plaited or the apron you wear has a few stains. To him, you’re just as beautiful now as you are dolled up for feasts.

Remembering the flowers, he pushes them forward. Smiling, you take the bouquet. Vetches and cornflowers are among your favorite, but Eivor already knows that. You inhale the peppery sweet scent of both flowers —smile widening and mood improving after being caught up in another of Helga’s games. “Be a pity to let this go to waste,” Eivor remarks, gesturing to the pot of stew.

In agreement with that, you and Eivor sit beneath the great tree. You ladle out two bowls of stew while Eivor slices into the loaf of brown bread. “I think we’ve both been deceived,” you mutter, still glancing around the pool and bushes —expecting to see Helga hiding somewhere.

Eivor laughs, knowing it to be the truth. Helga had orchestrated the perfect moment —the perfect opportunity— for him to confront and confess the feelings he’d kept locked away for years now. Eivor decided quite some time ago he’d prefer to love you in secret to protect the precious friendship you shared, then speak of his heart’s desires and risk everything. He sets aside his bowl, shifting. “I don’t mind if it means time with you,” he smiles, reaching for one of your hands. It’s instinct to curl your fingers around his —thumb running over his scarred knuckles. Eivor whispers your name, leaning toward you.

He kisses you —without warning or permission— lips brushing against yours, only just. A chance for you to pull back, but you don’t. Smiling, you press your lips against his, chasing away any doubt he could have harbored of if his sentiments are returned. You lift a hand to his scarred cheek, loosely combing through his golden beard. There’s a pause, where you both draw back, just barely, letting out shaky breaths. Eivor slips his hand from yours, cradling the back of your head as he takes another kiss, this one firmer —confident— taking the breath from your lungs yet calming the racing of your heart. “Eivor,” you breathe upon parting, still cupping his cheek. His smile is wide, and his eyes clearer than you have ever seen before. He leans back in, kissing the corner of your lips and then your cheek, knowing these kisses are just the first of many more.

Glancing over his shoulder, Eivor sees Helga and her accomplices peeking out from behind Valka’s hut. “You can all come out now,” he calls, laughing. Your sister and her friends come forward, unable to hide their victorious grins. You wish to scold Helga for the deception, but you cannot find it within yourself to be upset with her, especially not when Eivor takes your hand, kissing your knuckles before he begins ladling out stew into the remaining bowls for the children with a smile. No, this time, you may even have to thank her for her antics, for she had just brought you together with the man you love.

[taglist: @angstygunslinger @vanillabeanlattes @withered-poppies @ananriel @itseivwhore @maximalblaze @dynamicorbit @theelvenvalkyrie @xxdearlybeloved @elizabethroestone @elluvians @letsloveimagines @finick94 @wallsarecrumbling @kitkitvm @thedragonqueenfan @callmemythicalminx @edelaen ] if you’d like to be added to my Eivor taglist, just let me know!

#Eivor #Eivor Wolfsmal #Eivor x Reader #m!Eivor #m!Eivor x Reader #male Eivor #male Eivor x Reader #Eivor Imagine #Eivor Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Valhalla #Assassin's Creed #my writing

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precisemuseum · 4 years ago

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Puyo Puyo PC-98 Manual Translation

Once upon a time, in the age when the power of magic was bestowed upon the world, a powerful sorcerer created a great spell named "Owanimo." One of the strongest spells of all, it could banish monsters to a space between dimensions, but he sealed it away, recording it only in his "Book of Magic."

Not because it was forbidden knowledge or incredibly hard to use, but because to him, it seemed useless. And thus, the spell entered a dormant state, awaiting a day when a new sorcerer would come forth...

Years came and went until finally, the seal came undone with the appearance of a great sorceress: Arle Nadja. One day, this auburn-haired girl with golden eyes came across the Book of Magic.

"Owanimo...?" Arle studied the chapter on forbidden spells for what seemed like hours. "When four monsters of the same color are in your sights, chant this spell loudly. The Goddess of Time shall listen, and whisk the monsters away to a space between dimensions."

Arle continued to read, learning the Owanimo spell, but then closed it with a heavy sigh once she finished.

Why set it aside like that? Well, Arle had never seen "four monsters of the same color" as the spellbook described.

"I spent so much time reading, and it's not even a spell I can use for anything..."

But just as fate brought the Book of Magic into Arle's hands by chance, so it brought from the world of darkness the very monsters she had read about.

And thus, a great battle awaits. With her great magic abilities, and the newfound power of "Owanimo," Arle Nadja sets out to protect the world.

CHARACTERS A・C・P

Arle Nadja The protagonist of the game and the (aspiring) sorceress who released the spell "Owanimo". Nobody knows how she ended up this way, but despite looking like she wouldn't hurt a fly, she's actually a merciless girl that slaughters innocent Puyo. She currently attends a magic school, but she's already too scary for anything to stand in her way. That's my opinion, anyway.

Carbuncle During the game, when you find your eyes moving towards the center of the screen... Awww~! He's sleeping!!! This is Carbuncle. When he's lying still, he almost looks like a loaf of bread, but as he sings and dances he shows off a wide range of movement and facial expressions. A truly profound deuteragonist.

Puyo Puyo Despite their fate as short-lived, jelly-like monsters who are stacked and popped, they have managed to secure a leading role this time around, and even get to dance on the title screen. They're sure to enjoy this special opportunity to perform on a grand stage in five different colors. Looking at them with an empty stomach will reveal their appetizing nature and make you hungry. Hehe.

Arle, the protagonist, is brimming with curiosity.

PRACTICE STAGE ENEMY MONSTERS

Skeleton T While he appears as the epitome of a tea-loving Japanese man, he is a fine monster as well. He will be the first opponent you face during your trials. But you'll find that in a rather endearing way, he's a miserable fool who doesn't even know how to rotate his Puyo. Boohoo. Sipping bitter green tea during battle will instantly make you one of his tea-drinking buddies.

Nasu Grave An eggplant. Specifically, a Kamo eggplant. On top of that, he makes for a rather strange presence. Just what the heck is this thing? Despite appearances, his defensive power is high, so novices might find themselves struggling a bit. You'll have no choice but to keep at it and apply a steady technique. But in the end, your opponent is still just an eggplant. A regular talking eggplant. …Heh.

Mummy Even though it's called Mummy, it isn't a mommy. It's a mummy. What? You already knew that? Oh, deary me, I'll wrap it up then. (←One-man comedy routine.) Mummy is an opponent that makes you want to bully it because the crying face it makes when it's about to lose is just too cute. Sorry, Mummy.

The Goddess of Time whisking the monsters away.

BATTLE STAGES 1-6

Draco Centauros As you might expect from someone who shouts "Rawr", this half-dragon being takes pride in those sharp horns. Appearing as the first obstacle of your quest, this opponent has top tier judgment and piece precision but takes forever to think things through. Because of that, she's a pitiful lass who is only ranked as a third-rate monster girl... You heard me right! Draco is a girl. I'm sure someone around you thought she was a boy...

Suketoudara A pollock who has an aura of coming from some far-off sea. However, he seems to have the character of an Edokko. He's an athletic-type who tends to err on the side of caution. However, he's also arrogant. When he wins, he makes a face that screams "You're no match for me!", which is truly aggravating. Many say they especially don't want to lose to him.

(TL Note: Literally meaning “Child of Edo”, Edokko is refers to a person born and raised in Edo (renamed Tokyo in 1868). It implies personality traits such as being assertive, straightforward, cheerful, perhaps a bit mercantile.)

Sukiyapodes Let's just get this out of the way; he has a giant foot. It measures about 16 mon. Even though he has a complex about it, he directs that frustration into bettering himself. Well, we're not sure if that last part's true, but he always has a cheerful expression on his face as he slowly and steadily builds precise chains. He's a bit of an unpleasant guy.

(TL Note: mon is a unit of length for measuring the size of one's foot. 1 mon is equivalent to 2.4 cm. His foot is 38.4 cm, or 15.12 in.)

Harpy Now then, it is time for Miss Harpy's song. She loves singing more than she loves having three meals a day. She could sing for ages if no one stopped her. If there was something like a "Puyo Puyo World Karaoke Tournament", she'd win for sure. But unfortunately, this is only Puyo Puyo.

Sasori Man “How d'ya do, partner? I’m a famous Naniwa salesman known 'round these parts as Sasori Man. Put 'er there! Huh? Yer askin' for my secret to success? I ain't spillin' the beans no matter how much ya beg. That's somethin' to look forward to when we do battle. Till then, happy trails.”

Panotty A flute-playing boy. But honestly, he's nothing more than a noisy, mischievous brat. He disrupts his opponent's chains by dropping large amounts of Nuisance Puyo on them. Everyone has fallen victim to his antics at least once. What a truly ruthless Puyo technique. For when his last flute sounds, the dead shall be raised. Just kidding.

BATTLE STAGES 7-12

Zombie A zombie. All of his lines are stuff like "Ugheeee." This zombie is quite the formidable trickster. Sometimes he will be swiftly defeated, and other times he will take you by surprise and suddenly pull off a huge chain. If you don't take him seriously, you'll find yourself in a tough spot. Battle with caution.

Witch In the forest stands a grand mansion. Living there was a very ordinary family whose lineage can be traced back hundreds of years. The family's only daughter was born and was raised in a very ordinary fashion. But there was one thing that was not so ordinary...That young lady was a haughty witch. Ohohoho! Ohohohoho... *fadeout*

Zou Daimaou Pawoo! The mammoth mogul has arrived! A young aristocrat who comes from an ancient and distinguished line of royal Indian elephants. An irritating fellow who likes bad puns, gives his words an elephantine quality, and casually rhymes. He also enjoys Puyo Puyo. Plus, he's strong. An aphant-garde aristocrat whose ground-shaking chains are as sharp as his tusks.

Schezo A silver-haired man with deep blue eyes. Schezo, the embodiment of picturesque beauty. However, he's been deemed a pervert thanks to Arle, and strives to restore his honor by challenging her.

B-E-A-U-T-Y! Perfection won't pass you by! P-R-I-N-C-E! Of the Puyo Puyo World, it's meant to be! Go now! Go forth! Show us what you're really worth!

...Well, this has turned into something rather silly..

Minotauros Risking life and limb for his duties, a bull who lives by the code of chivalry, leaving a flurry of cherry blossoms in his wake. That is Minotauros. Ever since Rulue rescued him long ago, he has served as her devoted attendant like a faithful dog. Seeing him like this brings some to tears. For Rulue, he'd go through hell and high water. He's giving it his all today, and his one-eyed look is as cool as ever.

Rulue A woman truly worthy of the title of "Fighting Queen". The queen of the Puyo Puyo world. There's nothing that she can't obtain... Oh wait, there is something — Satan's love. Possessing a very jealous nature, Rulue is always lying in wait, ready to obliterate anyone who gets close to Satan. It's rumored that her true strength is even greater than Satan's.

BATTLE STAGE 13

Satan He is the king that rules over heaven and earth. He soars the skies with wings that slice through wind. His two horns point towards the heavens. His sharp eyes are like glistening gems. Cloaked in the veil of night, his devilish hand beckons you in. He is darkness’s cherished protege. It seems playing Puyo Puyo is a guilty pleasure of his. His true strength is unknown. It's said he's won the Puyo Puyo World Championship a countless number of times. In any case, he's obviously a bigshot. Can you truly defeat Satan, who boasts of elite skills in speed and chaining?

(You can download the PDF here)

#puyo puyo #translations #tl acy #text #puyo puyo pc 98 #source florek #photo

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hiraemy · 4 years ago

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Lumine and the Goblet of Fire [part 2]

[part one]

word count: 2.7k

Act Two: Lumine and the stupid rumors

For some reason, it seems like Hogwarts students liked to gossip. A lot.

Really. It hadn’t passed a single week since the champion announcement, but it seemed like they had already traced a rough profile on all three competitors.

According to rumors, Albedo was the incredible handsome prefect of Ravenclaw. He was nothing but polite to teachers and creatures that lived in the school, however, he didn’t seem to be interested in anything that didn’t catch his attention, and liked to keep himself at a safe distance from other people. He did have a little sister named Klee, a Gryffindor first-year infamous for her pranks and for being at detention constantly. Also, some people claimed that Albedo was secretly Miss Lisa and Miss Jean’s secret love child(?)

In contrast, the rumors surrounding Childe were more… Disturbing, per say. Everywhere he went he attracted a bunch of girls who thought that could stalk him without anyone noticing— including the guy himself. Those girls, in turn, were the responsible for telling the whole school that Childe had some scars in his arms and back and trained his body a lot (not the magical kind of training though), and that he was part of a delinquent gang. Also, he apparently had at least three siblings, all of them taking their studies in Durmstrang and visiting Hogwarts for the time-being. When asking other students from their academy, it was confirmed that Childe’s best subject was the Dark Arts. Not the classic Defense of the Dark Arts, the one that was teached in Hogwarts and Beauxbatons, but the Dark Arts itself.

How reassuring.

However, when it came to rumors about herself, Lumine was lowkey salty. Not that she wanted to have a bunch of creepy stalkers following her into the Beauxbatons chambers, like Albedo and Childe probably had to deal with, but it was some kind of disappointing that the only thing that people could gather about her was her name, Paimon and Aether’s names, the fact that Aether was her twin and that Paimon was a half-fairy. Not even her favourite subject was discovered! How... disappointing.

“As cute as you are when you’re upset, stop pouting.” Aether shoved a finger in her cheek playfully, a teasing smirk gracing his lips.

“I’m not pouting!” Lumine glared at him, pretending to bite at the offending finger pettily.

“Yes, you are,” Paimon chipped on her twin’s other side, stuffing her mouth with the delicious breakfast offered by the school. “Shouldn’t you be more upset? Paimon is really glad that you’re not angry about the Tournament anymore, but—”

“And who said I’m not angry?” Lumine bickered, narrowing her eyes and chewing the bread with a pissed look. She gathered all the sarcasm she had in her body to rant. “I’m the only one in this group that has the brain cells to actually know that getting angry with you two will take me nowhere, especially that now I need to beat down god-knows-what fucking creature because certain someone made me enter this shitty competition and now I need to win against the genius of the century, which coincidentally, comes from the Hogwarts house that is clearly known for being full of prodigious geniuses, not to mention the smiling psychopath that comes from a school who teaches the uses of Dark Magic and also specializes in that same art, so the chances that he could curse me to the point that I drop dead in the blink of an eye makes me really confident that nothing could ever go wrong—”

Aether shoves another loaf of bread into her mouth, interrupting the stressed rant and earning himself a hateful glare from the blonde.

“Just go and say that you’re jealous” He said nonchalantly, Paimon nodding along. Lumine felt her cheeks flare up in anger, her eyebrows shooting upwards

“What? No! I’m not upset about that! Why the hell should I be mad about not getting enough attention for my skills?” Immediately after the words escaped her mouth she regretted them, Aether sending his best deadpan look.

"There you go. See? Wasn’t that hard, was it?”

Lumine sighed.

Two weeks passed in a blink. Really. At some point, Lumine learned that she was terrible at controlling her thoughts— even more when she went to sleep. It was like a switch was flicked on her head, allowing her brain to go downhill with each possible way things could go wrong. An Abyss Mage invading her exam and burning her to death, a Whooperflower blooming out of nowhere and killing her with ice spikes or the air currents suddenly blowing her off her broomstick while in air. She felt like she woke up breathless too many times in those last weeks.

A bit too soon for her liking, the day of the first trial came.

The three Champions were led into a tent at the back of the arena with Mr. Alberich. No visitors were allowed, meaning that Lumine didn’t have Aether or Paimon to soothe her nerves— even if outside her face was still as stone, she felt like screaming on the inside. Albedo and Childe didn’t seem nervous, although she could notice Albedo messing with his fingers like a nervous tick. The Durmstrang student, however, seemed more bored than anything else.

At some point, there was a reporter trying to make her give a statement about how she felt about the tournament and what she did think about her peers— no, no way in hell she would ever admit being intimidated by them, thank you—, but her quiet answers probably made her quickly uninterested, so she went to snoop on Childe and Albedo. Did she feel guilty? No, they had seen it coming. That’s on them for being attractive, right?

“Enough talking, let’s take our draws for now.” Mr. Alberich interrupted the woman with a sigh, saving Albedo from his torture and showing a dust bag in front of Childe. “We’re going in the order decided by the Goblet—so, Mr. Childe, then Mr. Albedo and then Miss Lumine.”

The reporter left the tent after being shoed away and Childe put his hand on the bag. The way Kaeya held it made it impossible to see what was inside. His arm went deep until his elbows, and then he pulled something in his closed fist. Opening his fingers dramatically, it revealed a pretty heart-shaped crystal that was slightly transparent as water itself.

“Mr. Childe, your opponent is going to be Rhodeia of Loch, also known as Oceanid of Qingce. I’m expecting a good demonstration from you” He stated with a slight smirk, moving quickly so he was in front of Albedo. Lumine didn’t miss the satisfied look from Childe, but she preferred to not overthink too much.

Albedo repeated the same action from the ginger boy, pulling a dark blue fang from the bag. Kaeya’s eyes darkened slightly, before announcing, his shoulder tensing slightly.

“Mr. Albedo, you drew the Wolf of the North, Andrius. While I wouldn’t underestimate your abilities, I must warn you that this one is a particular feral beast. Wish you the best of luck” Lumine furrowed her eyebrows. The difference between Childe and Albedo’s speeches were so strikingly obvious that she knew that besides the magical abilities, the trial had a luck factor. She wasn’t happy with that.

Her luck nowadays was... Abysmal.

“Miss Lumine,” Mr. Alberich stood in front of her with the bag open, and she nodded, not wasting any time before shoving her arm down.

Her fingers brushed at the bottom, her mind providing that the bag probably was enhanced by a space spell, and she could feel various objects at the fingerprints, but wasn’t able to recognise any of them. Deciding to rely completely on her luck, she pulled the southwest one, rectrating her arm with a light-blue feather on it. Mr.Alberich’s eyes went wide at the sight before quickly recomposing himself, his shoulders heavy and lips pressed.

“This… Miss Lumine, this is Dvalin’s plume. Your opponent will be the dragon Dvalin, also popularly known as Stormterror, the Erstwhile King of the Skies. Good luck”

She shivered. Luck was never on her side, wasn’t it? Kaeya shifted, making the bag disappear from his hands with a flick of his wand, properly turning so he could address all of them with a professional tone.

“The goal in this first test is simple. You need to obtain those objects you drew from your opponent. It could be easily achieved when the beasts are dead or unconscious.” He explained, face stern. “Any questions?"

"Is it really necessary to defeat them?" Albedo asked, receiving a raised eyebrow from almost everyone in the tent.

"Not exactly, but I wouldn't count on that. I really doubt you convince the Wolf of the North to give you a fang, genius or not. However, if you can manage to collect, the trial will be considered a success even if you don’t take Andrius down. Is that all, Mr. Albedo?" When he didn’t protest any further, Kaeya proceeded, nodding to himself. "Okay. Now, we will shortly begin the preparations. There will be a screen on here so you can watch each other’s performances, but you won’t be allowed to leave the tent until the last champion completes her test, understood?”

“Yes!”

“Great. Now, give me a second. I’ll come fetch Mr.Childe shortly.”

"Hey, girlie"

Lumine flinched. A loud laugh came from behind her and she felt her cheeks redden in embarrassment, immediately correcting her posture so she could at least pretend that she wasn't daydreaming. Yeah, it didn’t fool anyone, but who cares?

"Calm down a bit, wont'ya?" The man, who she registered a bit too late as Childe, shot her a teasing smirk. "You look like a scared rabbit trying to gather their guts. It makes me uneasy, like I’m throwing you into the fire pitch or something,"

"Shut it!" Lumine glared at him, making the ginger haired man let out a laugh. From that angle, she almost could forget that he exhaled some dark vibes. Almost. She liked to think that she was a rational woman, not one to be allured by some good looks, and she trusted her gut enough to suspect when things were shady, even if it came from a pretty boy like him.

Yeah. She wasn’t going to be charmed by a smirk. Even if Childe was handsome.

Yeah, no way.

"You shouldn’t worry too much." He continued, obviously ignoring how Lumine glared at him.

"And why do you say that?" She crossed her arms in her chest, her hand palming the wand hidden in her clothes. Just by precaution.

"Because I heard of you, Lumine. I know who you are, a rough profile of your brother and your strange fairy. I also know a lot about your habits, the subjects you like the most, your strengths and weaknesses, the things you’re allergic to, and even some psychological analysis."

"...you realize how disturbing that sounds, right…?"

"I'm a kind of a bad guy, but I won’t give you that kind of trouble" He laughed again, ignoring the way she squinted her eyes.

"So you admit you're suspicious." Lumine deadpanned.

"Let's say that I just happen to have a really good network. Naturally I know a lot of things, especially from you and from that other Hogwarts champion." Childe dismissed smoothly, waving his hand.

"That doesn't help at all"

“Hm… What about this? It seems like Albedo has something like a girlfriend. Or not. Everyone knows that they like each other, but for some reason, they aren’t together yet. Also, his little sister is a little terrorist who goes around the castle bombing everything, so the teachers are pleading for him to do something about her—” He mindlessly rambled with a shit-eating grin, making Lumine raise her eyebrow in confusion.

“And why you’re telling me that?” She interrupted Childe before he could go on something more personal about the blonde boy.

“If I prove myself to not be interested in you in a creepy way, just a professional, rival-like way, would you cut me some slack? I mean, you always look at me like I’m going to cut your head or something, so—”

“Can you blame me? This is the first time we’re talking and you admit you have been stalking me— or at least you made someone do it for you. That’s not a good first impression”

"Well, I—"

"Not to mention that you probably sent someone after Albedo's little sister. Isn't she in her first year? Yikes…"

"Now you're just making me feel bad…"

"Yeah, you should—"

"Mr. Childe, it's time to go." Mr. Alberich entered the tent, interrupting Lumine. She sent Childe a look, expecting him to just turn and go, but he stood there with a glint in his eyes. She raised her eyebrow questionably.

"Aren't you going to wish me good luck?" He tilted his head, smirking.

"Why should I? You're my opponent." Lumine pressed her lips stubbornly.

"You got me there" Childe giggled unaffected by her dismissal, turning around and giving her a lazy wave.

"You probably don't need it anyway." Lumine muttered, not expecting him to hear it. The ginger haired man smiled.

A sincere one.

"What is this…?" Lumine frowned, looking at the suspicious looking vase. Kaeya gave her an amused look, raising his visible eyebrow.

"Never seen an abode portkey before?" He smirked, standing in front of the vase. "It's an adeptus technology, Miss Lumine. It allows the existence of a pocket size alternative dimension, with different laws regarding time and physics. We can watch you from the outside, but you can't see us from the inside. The ministry provided these portkeys exclusively for the Tournament, so each Trial could be held safely, without any risks for the viewers and reducing the collateral damage."

"That's lowkey terrifying." She deadpanned, earning a laugh from the older wizard. "So, how do I use it?"

"Touch the vase and you'll be pulled into it. The abode will reveal it's exit once you defeat Stormterror and collect his plume. Worst-case scenario, you'll be teleported outside if you forfeit the challenge." He explained cooly, crossing his arms above his chest.

"And what if I can't forfeit?" It was Lumine's turn to tilt her head, golden eyes analysing carefully the older man's face. He narrowed his eyes and his lips pressed together.

"Let's hope it doesn't reach that point, right? As stated in the Triwizard Tournament's rules, outside interferences are not allowed, even if it is to guarantee the Champion's safety. So, unless you give us the go to rescue you, there's nothing we can do about the trial."

"... got it." She grimaced, ignoring the mental images the warning gave her. Kaeya gestured to touch the ceramic, guiding her hand so her fingertips touched the ceramic.

"Good luck, Miss Lumine."

She opened her mouth to thank him, when everything spun. She felt her hand glue itself into the vase, the sheer force of it sucking her limbs into a dark hole until all of her body parts folded into each other and flew into oblivion. Lumine felt her insides shake, wanting to puke her lunch, but as fast as it came, the sensation left.

When Lumine finally felt her toes touch the ground, she builded the courage to open her eyes(when did she close them?). Instead of the tent she was before, now she stood on a stone platform that seemed that it could be destroyed with a few hits. She couldn't see the ground from there, a lot of clouds and fog covering her view from how high it was. The winds blew aggressively, making her hair whip in her face leaving a bit of a sting in her cheeks, and her clothes couldn't be tamed on her body. She was suddenly glad that she chose a more practical outfit for this trial instead of the blue skirt from Beauxbatons uniform.

Her thoughts were rudely interrupted by a roar. A loud, excruciating cry that echoed in every bone she had in her body. She couldn't exactly place it, but somehow… It was familiar. A painful and lonely sound that fell deaf to the void. From the deep bottom of the abode, Stormterror charged upwards, his wings cutting through the clouds and leaving behind harsh currents of pure power. Lumine covered her eyes with her arm, but even so, it was impossible to ignore the sheer beauty of the King of the Skies.

Fuck. She had to fight it.

#genshin #genshin impact #childe #lumine #aether #paimon #chilumi #albedo #kaeya #hogwarts!au #tartaglia

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spiderman-homecomeme · 5 years ago

Text

day five - the baby-sitters club

ROOMMATES AU

A/N: DAY FIVE WOO!!! get ready for some softness!! This fic was very strongly inspired by the fact that for quarantine, I’ve been watching my sister’s two kids for her while she works from home. But instead of giving MJ a two year old and a nine month old, I thought I’d give her a baby and Peter. So two babies.

Thanks @spideychelleweek again!!

Enjoy 5.1k of FLUFF, BABIES, and oh my GOD they were roommates

Read here or on AO3

come home

baby

The text messages stare back up at him, taunting; the three words laughing maniacally as he tries to figure out what it all means, what his roommate of nearly two-and-a-half years MJ means when she sends him something so straightforward, yet still so cryptic.

There’s no chance in the world that she means what he’s thinking she means… that the gutter his mind immediately swan-dives into is in any way the right place to be. MJ, blunt and honest as she is, isn’t someone who just puts herself out there so forwardly.

He’s seen her flirt, and frankly, she’s almost as bad at it as he is.

Granted, she’s been successful a few more times than he has, but still.

In the area of romance and relationships, MJ might as well have that same Parker-Luck.

He realizes mid-swing that he still hasn’t sent any reply. He responds with an appropriate amount of question marks—three to be exact—before his body seems to move on its own accord, cutting off his early Saturday-afternoon patrol short by about half-an-hour and swinging him home at an almost embarrassing speed.

When, his phone pings again.

please I need you

At that, he clumsily misses a shot, forgetting who and where he is, stomach flipping as he hits free-fall for a fraction of a second before catching himself.

His next thought is that this all has to be some accident. Perhaps it’s for someone else; perhaps she knows another Peter, another person she has under “Loser” in her phone. And, weirdly enough, the thought of someone else being so lovingly given that title brings with it a strange feeling in his chest.

Or maybe he’s just completely misunderstanding the statement, which wouldn’t be all that unusual for him. After all, it’s damn near impossible to get someone’s true meaning in a text message. Sarcasm can fall flat when read. The difference between a period and an exclamation point can be monumental. The list goes on.

Though, Peter likes to think in his years of being MJ’s friend, plus the two-and-a-half of being her roommate, that he’s come to know her pretty well, that he’s got all of her phrases and mannerisms tucked away in the “MJ” file in his brain.

Still, after years of friendship, he’d be dumb to think she’d have run out of ways to surprise him.

But what would he even do if a) MJ meant everything literally and b) it wasn’t some accident and she actually, honestly, truly meant it for him?

Really. What would he even do? He has no idea.

He starts to wonder if maybe it’s code for something else when he nearly splats face-first into his fifth-story window, almost losing himself completely in his thoughts. Sliding the window open as quickly as possible, he practically falls into his room, not caring about whether he’s being silent or not. (MJ found out his secret years ago, even before they were really even friends.) He nearly trips over his suit as it flies off, and he stumbles as he yanks on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from the night before.

Without another thought, he bursts out of his room, following the sound of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen.

What he finds, however, isn’t something he’d ever considered in a million years.

MJ’s there alright, standing in front of the open fridge, searching through the various fruits and vegetables. A perfectly normal occurrence. Nothing to be concerned about.

Only there’s a slight difference.

There’s a baby resting comfortably on her hip, one of its tiny hands reaching out to grab at the stray locks of hair falling from MJ’s ponytail as she ducks her head.

“Uh…” Peter starts, the confusion just coming right out of him. “Hi?”

MJ barely even registers that Peter’s even there. “Oh hey, man.” She’s the very essence of nonchalance as she places some deli-sliced turkey and pepper jack cheese on the counter, her other hand instinctively coming up to stop the baby from grabbing any of it.

At his bewildered silence, she finally meets his gaze, ignoring the infant in her grasp desperately trying to get its chubby hands on the jar of mayo. “What’s up?”

come home

baby

Peter opens his mouth to speak, but finds that nothing comes out at first. He blows out a puff of air through his lips. “I was—I was gonna ask about… your... text…?” He pauses again, his brow furrowed as he glances between her and the tiny human on her hip. “...But I think I understand now.” He huffs out a laugh.

“Oh,” MJ nods, adjusting her grip as she closes the refrigerator door with her foot. “Yeah. That.”

Peter eyes her expectantly. A beat passes.

“What?” She asks innocently, as if she wasn’t just holding a random baby in their kitchen.

“You wanna…” Peter gestures to her, his finger going back and forth between her and the infant. “Explain… The baby?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, my bad.” She goes to the pantry to grab the loaf of bread before turning to look at him again. “This is my son,” she deadpans. “I didn’t tell you?”

“MJ—”

“—you’re the father.”

Peter only returns with an unblinking, unimpressed stare.

“I adopted him this morning.”

Peter blinks.

MJ waits a moment before apparently giving up the joke. “Okay, fine.” She rolls her eyes. “This is my nephew, Oliver. He’s eight months old, and my sister asked me to watch him for the day. I thought the text I sent was pretty clear, though.” There’s a faint smirk on her lips as she says that last bit, an expression that never fails to make Peter’s face warm.

“I mean, it wasn’t,” Peter responds, returning her joking expression, his mind flashing back to the panic he was in not five minutes ago. “But it’s whatever.” He looks down at the baby in her arms, his smirk melting into a wide, easy smile. “Hi, Oliver!”

Little Oliver stares blankly for a moment before turning to bury his face in MJ’s shoulder.

And it’s the fact that Peter doesn’t immediately get a smile in return that makes him feel like literal human garbage.

MJ seems to notice his disappointment. “It’s okay,” She says, bouncing the little one slightly. “Oliver’s kinda iffy with strangers at first. He’ll warm up to you.”

Hmm, sounds familiar, Peter thinks.

A stretch of silence falls over the room, Oliver breaking it with a string of babbles consisting of only “guy” and the occasional “buh,” as he smacks at MJ’s shoulder, his other hand reaching for her hair once again.

“Need any help?” Peter asks, remembering her last text to him, and also seeing the pained expression on her face as Oliver successfully gets a fistful of her curls and tugs it toward his slobbery mouth.

“Um, yeah, actually,” MJ puts her sandwich makings down before walking over and holding her nephew out to him, simultaneously trying to free her hair from his tiny, vice grip. “Can you take him while I make my lunch?”

Peter pauses a moment, eyeing the two of them before carefully holding his hands out. “Uh, sure...”

MJ doesn’t miss the trepidation in his tone, but she also doesn’t seem to address it. Instead, she just hands him the baby, not waiting to see if he’s ready or anything.

Luckily, Peter’s reflexes are fast, and he’s able to hang on to little Oliver, even if it is slightly awkward. Both of his arms are wrapped around the small torso, the eight month old pushing back against his chest, letting out a frustrated whine. The pleading expression on Peter’s face as he turns to face MJ again causes her to huff out a sudden laugh.

Peter moves one of his hands to support the head, though he feels more and more that he’s losing control of the baby in his arms that desperately wants to look around the room.

Again, MJ puts her ingredients down, making her way back over. “Just… hold him under his butt.” Gently, she guides Peter’s hands with her own to a more comfortable position, a touch under any normal circumstances would make him question his sanity. “He’s old enough to hold himself up, so you don’t need to like, support the back of his head or anything.”

Having never had much experience with babies—no little siblings, cousins, or his own nieces and nephews—this is entirely uncharted territory for Peter. His only interactions with littles have been through his work as Spider-Man. While it’s true that he’s saved one or two from burning buildings, this is something entirely different.

And it becomes abundantly clear that Oliver can still sense the insecurity, even as Peter’s hold improves, when he starts letting out quiet, fussy whimpers. “Ahhh,” Peter panics for a moment, eyes wide as he looks to MJ for help, before adjusting his grip again, allowing the baby into a more natural position.

“See? Super easy,” MJ says as she cuts her sandwich in half.

Neither boy seems completely at ease with the other.

“I guess,” Peter replies, lightly bouncing on his feet. “Need any more help besides this?”

“Sure.” MJ looks up from her lunch before taking a bite. “But don’t think this means you’re getting any of my paycheck,” she jokes through a mouthful of turkey sandwich. “This isn’t some Baby-Sitters Club shit, alright?”

Peter gives a firm nod. "Understood."

“Okay, well. Here’s the rundown,” She says as she finishes her lunch and begins to make her way into the living room. “My sister will be back tonight at 6:30. Before then, he needs to eat and sleep about every three hours. Last bottle was… thirty minutes ago? So he’ll need another one at about… two-ish, and then a nap right after.”

While she’s talking, rattling off the to-do list, the softest smile forms on Peter’s face as he listens and follows her.

“And then, of course, we’ll have to change his diaper a lot, give him a new one before and after his nap and…” She notices her roommate staring, his eyes tinted with humor. “What?”

Peter coughs, clearing his throat, the tips of his ears turning an embarrassing shade of pink, though his smile never leaves. “Oh, uh, nothing. You just… you seem to have this down to a science. Like you care. A lot.”

She jerks her head back in mild surprise. “Well, yeah. He’s my nephew. And I told my sister he’d be back in one piece.”

“That’s fair,” Peter concedes.

“Plus, I’m not you,” she teases. “I don’t half-ass jobs.”

“Hey!” Peter’s eyes narrow at her, and he brings a hand to his chest, wounded, but he can’t seem to drop the dopey little grin her teasing brings.

“In the meantime—” MJ sits down on the ground, motioning for Peter to follow suit. “—we can just play with him.”

Peter nods, though he struggles to find a way down that’s comfortable for both him and Oliver. He wonders if he should put the baby down first? Or if it’s completely safe to just sit. And again, his hesitation is clear, both to Oliver and to MJ.

“Dude, just put him down.” She says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“Yeah—Yeah, I—” Peter shifts on his feet. “I got that part.”

Oliver lets out the beginning of an anxious cry.

With another awkward side-step, Peter seems to figure it out, either from actually piecing it together or from not wanting the tiny human in his arms to start screaming, he’s not sure. He gently—and perhaps with an overwhelming amount of caution—places the eight month old on the ground. Oliver, still crying, glances around frantically. His wails stop almost immediately, his face lighting up, positively beaming when his eyes meet MJ’s.

Michelle only gives him half-a-smirk and there’s a big, happy grin on his chubby face.

Oliver’s eyes move from hers after a beat, darting around the room curiously before landing on Peter.

Peter puts on a silly smile. “Hey, buddy!” He greets in his best impression of a baby-talk voice.

Though Oliver seems to be mildly fascinated by this new stranger, his expression shows that he’s less than impressed at the attempt.

And looking up, Peter sees the same look on MJ’s face.

Michelle, however, seems to take pity on her poor roommate, swooping in to rescue him from further embarrassment in front of a literal eight month old child. “He really likes when you blow raspberries at him,” MJ offers. “He’ll either laugh or do one back. It’s cute.”

Peter nods, though he doesn’t try.

MJ sits forward, getting her nephews attention, sticking her tongue out and letting out a harsh puff of air. As if on cue, Oliver lets out one of quite possibly the cutest sounds Peter’s ever heard. The baby’s eyes widen first, mouth forming a tiny little circle before he breaks into giggles, eyes barely open, his smile wide and gummy. When she does it a second time, his hands fly to his face, curled into tiny little fists.

Peter has to physically hold back the audible awwww that threatens to just come right out of him at the sight.

It takes a third time for Oliver to blow a raspberry back at MJ. It’s clumsy, and a bit of his drool flies out everywhere, but even then, Michelle’s unable to keep the small grin from tugging at the corner of her mouth.

It’s when Peter tries, tongue stuck out with some forced air, that little Oliver’s smile slowly fades, his tiny features now fixed into a calculating expression.

Almost instantly, Peter deflates.

MJ starts to stand, putting a toy in front of the baby before giving Peter a gentle pat on the shoulder. “It’s okay, tiger. You’ll get ‘em next time.” She stretches her hands high above her head, the action earning another squeal of delight from Oliver.

Oh, come on! Bare minimum, Peter thinks.

In fact, almost everything Michelle seems to do gets the same reaction. She’s not a particularly sunny, bubbly person—far from it—but even her blank, impassive stares seem to incite rounds and rounds of uncontrollable giggles from her nephew.

“Hey, can you watch him while I run to the bathroom?” MJ asks, already walking in that direction.

“Yeah—yeah,” Peter nods, pressing his lips together. “Totally.”

Oliver doesn’t immediately notice when she’s gone, and he sits there, happily chewing on the soft toy that Michelle had placed in front of him. Though, when he realizes that he’s been left alone with the stranger, he grows restless.

Peter sees his opportunity. “Hey! Hey Buddy! Hey Oliver!” He says with an overdramatic excitement. Again, he blows a quiet raspberry at the little one, feeling just slightest bit of success when one of the corners of Oliver’s mouth quirks upward for the briefest of moments.

But the feeling quickly dissipates when Oliver’s attention goes back to the clearly more interesting toy.

It does rattle, after all.

Peter sits back on his hands, his mouth pressed into a thin line as he tries to come up with another way to get this dang baby to smile. If he could get him to laugh, bonus points. But now, all he needs is the teeniest, tiniest smile, and maybe he’ll feel like he can actually succeed in life.

He doesn’t take a second to think about how he’s banking all of his future self-worth on whether or not a baby thinks he’s funny enough. Much less likes him.

But something catches Oliver’s curious eyes, and he turns to look at Peter—or rather, Peter’s hands. Turning his gaze downward, Peter sees that the simple bands of his webshooters—though the ‘shooty’ part of them is put away—are still on his wrists, and the dark silver metal is shining in the pocket of sunlight on the living room floor.

Oliver lets out an excited, intrigued coo. He leans forward, tiny little noises of exertion coming from his as he starts army crawling to Peter’s place on the floor.

And really, Peter can’t help himself. He picks Oliver up again, placing him back in a sitting position before taking one of the bands off his wrist. “You wanna see this, buddy?” Peter asks in a gentle tone, holding out the webshooter to the infant. “It looks cool, huh?”

Oliver takes the metal band into his tiny, chubby hands, his mouth set into a little circle, his eyes wide as he shakes the new toy furiously.

“You like ‘em, little dude?”

Oliver answers with a loud, excited “Ah!” In the same breath, he brings the webshooter to his mouth.

And although Peter’s reflexes are fast, he can’t stop the eight month old from chomping on the cold metal between his gums.

“Oliver!” Peter says, surprised that there’s a laugh underneath his tone. “You’re not supposed to chew on it!”

“What is he chewing on?” MJ’s voice is behind him again as she walks back into the room.

Peter barely turns around to look at her as he responds. “My webshooter.”

“Oh, my God! Peter, I leave for one second—” Michelle instantly moves to her nephew, taking the metal band from his tiny grasp, setting it on the coffee table before joining them on the floor. “You let him put that in his mouth?”

“He seemed interested in it!” Peter defends.

“He’s a baby, dude.” MJ stares at him. “He’s interesting in literally everything.”

“Not me…” Peter mutters under his breath before speaking at a normal volume again. “All I did was hand it to him!”

She blinks at him. Once. Twice. “You let him—a baby, who you saw earlier trying to eat my hair—hold your webshooter, not thinking he was going to want to chew on it?”

Peter tilts his head, bottom lip poking out as he shrugs. She has a fair point. He did not think that through. Upon this moment of realization, he flinches, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry.”

And at that, at his evident regret, she seems to soften. A sigh escapes her. “It’s fine, dude.” She laughs. “I’ve definitely let him chew on things that were just as bad before I learned. It was one time, but… I’ve been there.”

“Thanks,” Peter says, holding his head back as he looks at her from the corner of his eye.

Her gaze shifts around the room, avoiding his for some reason. “No prob.”

The moment, tiny and seemingly insignificant as it is, is ending with another excited, incoherent, attention-demanding yell from the baby in front of them.

They play with Oliver for the rest of the early-afternoon, Peter still never getting anything more than a half-smile, if even that. Michelle always getting them effortlessly, without even trying, her nephew clearly smitten with her.

And it’s not like Peter’s stopped trying. In fact, he might even say—or rather, he might be influenced by MJ saying—that he’s trying a little too hard maybe. He has tried everything though, it seems. Once he’s more comfortable holding the baby, he tries swinging him up into the air, but that only gets a few, ever so faint, single laughs. Nothing like the giggles that MJ gets out of him.

Oliver’s even grown to be more comfortable around Peter, no longer glancing around frantically, looking to be rescued when placed in his arms. The baby even holds onto him, something MJ says is one of his little signs that he does indeed “like you.”

So, in theory, Peter should be able to make this baby smile. Make him laugh.

But, it’s much easier said than done. At least for him.

When one-thirty rolls around, MJ gets a call from her boss. Nothing to worry about, she says, but one she needs to take outside.

Peter being much more confident, thinks nothing of it. In fact, he finds it to be the perfect opportunity to really master this whole baby thing. Even with no experience, he’s finding this easier than he’d ever thought. It just comes more naturally to him the more time he spends with Oliver.

It’s weird in the coolest way.

There are various, multi-colored blocks on the floor in front of Oliver, one of them between his drooly, chubby hands and in his mouth. He spares a few glances at Peter, once again, only a corner of his mouth quirking upward, though this one does seem to reach his eyes.

Peter will take that as one of the many steps of an actual win.

But nothing else seems to come out of it, Oliver just chewing on his block while Peter sits there in silent contemplation. Not wanting to try anything new, Peter goes back to the initial method. The classic, farty raspberries.

Peter blows one at him, Oliver taking the block out of his mouth to flail his arms the slightest bit.

Now, that’s something, Peter thinks.

Peter does it again, earning the same, cute reaction; arms waving a little harder this time. At the third time, he doesn’t get the giggle he’s looking for, but an energetic squeal before Oliver sticks his little tongue out and blows a raspberry right back at him.

In Oliver’s excitement at the fourth time, he flails a little too hard, losing his balance and tumbling over to the right and onto the soft carpet. His head just barely bumps the bright green block, and at first, his expression is blank and slightly confused.

And then, there’s a second; one where Peter hears the sharp, deep intake of breath.

Oliver lets out a scared, long wail. It trails off, hiccuping as he lets out another scream. Peter instantly moves to him, taking the baby into his arms and holding him to his chest. His hand rests at the back of his small head, and he softly shh’s him, murmuring gentle, if not a little bit panicked, words of reassurance.

“It’s okay, buddy! You’re okay!” Peter’s attempt at comforting the crying baby is valiant, but it doesn’t pay off. His voice comes out too shaky, no matter how quiet it is.

When the door opens, MJ shutting it behind her, Peter looks up as if to thank whatever higher being that graciously decided to take pity on him.

MJ’s brow is pinched together, her expression concerned. “What happened?”

Peter’s heart seems to have fallen into his stomach, and his stomach into his butt. “Uh…” He takes a breath. “He—he fell and... hit his head on—on one of the blocks.”

MJ holds her hands out to take the baby that’s too distracted by its own crying to even notice. “It’s okay,” she says to Oliver (and to Peter). “It happens sometimes. That’s how he learns to keep his balance.” She rocks back and forth, speaking softly to little Oliver as he clings desperately to her shirt, crying into her collarbone. “Auntie MJ, I fell over,” She speaks for him in a gentle tone, quiet enough that Peter probably wouldn’t be able to hear without his super senses. “It was so scary!”

The crying soon turns to quiet whimpers that line up perfectly with her rocks from side-to-side; it’s almost as if he’s telling her all about what happened.

Peter watches, a smile forming on his lips at the gentleness coming from his friend before him in spite of the near-crippling fear he’d just experienced moments before. He’s never really seen MJ this soft before, speaking with such tenderness. A few times, maybe, when she’s seen an animal; a dog, a cat, a bumblebee, a dragonfly, even the wayward spider, but nothing like this before.

The crying eventually stops, and little Oliver looks up at MJ. She smiles down at him, lightly squeezing his sides under his armpits, and a tiny grin breaks across his features as he reaches his chubby hands out to her cheeks.

MJ can feel Peter’s eyes and smile burning into her.

“What?” She asks, perhaps a little defensive.

“Nothing!” Peter says immediately, eyes wide, hands raised in surrender. “Just… Interesting—Nice, I mean, seeing you… with him.”

She raises a curious, almost judging brow, still rocking on her feet.

“I mean—” Peter huffs out a laugh. “You don’t really like people all that much.”

“I mean… I don’t know. When you think about it, babies aren’t really people yet?” MJ reasons, scrunching her face playfully at the baby in her arms. “Like, of course they’re physically people, but… They aren’t terrible, yet. And I think they should be rewarded for that.”

Peter laughs again, not able to stop the fond shake of his head as MJ blows another raspberry at her nephew.

Not long after, two o’clock comes. MJ once again leaves Peter to watch Oliver while she goes and heats up a bottle. Thankfully, nothing happens this time around. In fact, it’s pretty uneventful. Peter sits across from the baby, showing him how to stack a set of colorful rings on a wooden stick.

Of course, he still doesn’t get a smile, but… it’s fine.

MJ returns just minutes later, Oliver’s eyes going wide, cooing in excitement, when he sees what’s in her hand. He seems to dance in place, his limbs flailing about when she goes to pick him up. “Alright, my dude, let’s get you some milk and then a nap.”

“He doesn’t seem super tired, though?” Peter asks rather than states.

Again, as if on cue, even amidst his sheer excitement, Oliver lets out a yawn, bringing his tiny fists up to rub at his eyes.

MJ raises a brow that speaks volumes.

Peter shuts up.

Peter gets a much need break as MJ feeds her nephew, both of them scrolling on their phones as the little one practically inhales his meal. But soon, as he gets to where there’s about a fourth of the bottle left, his small eyelids seem to grow heavier and heavier, and he struggles to keep them both open. And even sooner after that, as he finishes the last drop, little snoozes can be heard as he falls fast asleep on his aunt.

Peter looks up then, just a few moments later, having not been paying attention, seeing that MJ’s shifting to laying down on the couch, her nephew cuddled up beside her. Her own eyes are closed, her arms above her head as she starts to drift off.

And at that, he takes a chance, moving as quietly as he can to go stand above the slumbering duo. He pulls his phone out, swiping to the camera, taking a single picture, when MJ cracks an eye open, feeling his presence.

“What are you doing?” She asks sleepily.

Peter barely looks up from his phone, lips pulled back into a mischievous grin. “Getting blackmail. In case I need it.”

“Oh?” MJ questions, unable to keep from closing her eyes again.

“Yeah.” Peter puts his phone away. “Imagine what everyone would think seeing big, tough, mean Michelle Jones cuddling with a baby.”

MJ rolls her eyes. “Come on. You’ve done way more embarrassing things. This is nothing.”

Peter nods. “Fair.”

“Plus,” MJ continues, though she can’t stop the playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “I can just murder you if you ever show that to anyone. No biggie.”

Peter covers his mouth as he lets out a surprised snort.

“Thank you so much for watching him!”

Peter hears a new voice from the living room. He steps over the threshold, seeing Michelle’s sister standing in the front doorway, empty baby carrier next to her feet, Oliver happily on her hip.

MJ shrugs. “No problem.” Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Peter. “Oh, Lara, this is my roommate, Peter. He helped out.”

Lara’s smile widens as she reaches her free hand out to shake his. “Hi Peter. Thanks for helping my dear sister take care of this little monster.” She punctuates that statement with a tickle in her son’s side, earning a hiccuping giggle.

Peter can’t help but grin. “Anytime.”

“But just because he helped doesn’t mean you should pay him,” MJ cuts in before throwing a teasing wink to her friend.

Lara ignores her sister’s comment. “Peter, just find me on facebook, send me your venmo, we’ll figure it out. Simple.”

“No, no.” Peter waves her off. “That’s really—that’s okay,” he chuckles nervously, gaze flitting between the older sister and his roommate.

Lara shrugs. “We’ll figure it out,” she repeats. She takes one of Oliver’s hands in hers. “Alright, Oliver. Wave bye-bye to your Aunt MJ and… Peter.” She shrugs again, this time more apologetic.

MJ waves back at her nephew, moving forward to give him a little boop on his chubby cheeks. “See ya later, bud. Till the next time.”

The baby grins, wide and happy.

Peter waves, too, putting on his best, biggest, most genuine smile yet. “Bye bye, Oliver!”

And finally.

FINALLY.

The wonderful, adorable, gummy little grin of validation that Peter wanted so badly stretches across the little one’s features. Oliver turns his head, bashfully burying his face into his mother’s hair. She smiles, putting her son into the carrier.

“Thanks, guys,” Lara offers with a final wave, closing the door behind her.

The apartment is quiet, the click of the shutting door echoing between the two roommates as they stand there. Peter’s the first to look over; he doesn’t turn his head, sneaking little glances from the corner of his eye.

And he sees MJ do the same once.

“Well, that was fun,” he offers lamely, rocking back on his heels. “We made a good team!”

“Yup,” MJ agrees, pressing her lips together.

He turns to her. “For real, though. I had a blast,” he says earnestly.

She turns to him. “Me, too,” she replies, and he swears he can detect a hint of shyness to her tone.

And for a moment, they just stare at each other, neither one of them saying anything. The words unsaid hanging between them like a thick blanket.

Peter clears his throat. “MJ… Today… Kinda got me thinking—”

“—Oh my, God. Yes. We should have a baby together.”

Her words nearly knock him right out of his head and into the astral plane. If he were a cartoon, he’s sure he’d have those damn stars and cuckoo circling his head like a giant anvil had just landed on top of him.

“What?!”

She breaks, her laughter filling the apartment. “Dude, I’m kidding. I’m kidding. Geez.”

Peter breathes out a laugh, nodding slowly.

He really had been right, he thinks as she playfully ruffles his hair and walks past him into the kitchen, asking what he wants to do for dinner; he’s right that even after all the years he’s spent with MJ, she never fails to run out of ways to mess with him.

“Yeah…” His mouth twists as he tries to hide his smile, glancing briefly at the door, then at the toys that had been left at their apartment just in case there was another day of babysitting. He laughs, mostly to himself. “We’d be horrible parents anyway.”

#spideychelle #spideychelleweek2k20 #petermj #peter parker #michelle jones #mcu #spider-man #fic

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patricia-von-arundel · 5 years ago

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Of Boar & Beast: Part I - The Lucky Charm - 1

Rating: T

Summary: “As though there’s finally someone who understands how I truly feel” - words Marianne never dreamed that she would say; words Dimitri never dreamed that he would hear. Theirs should have been the perfect ending to a perfect love story. But in the inferno of war, endings are so rarely happy ones…

Crimson Flower Route

The land was barren, endless, and frigidly cold. Rocky, uneven hillocks gave way to expanses of scrubby plain, colorless and shelterless, which in turn rose again: up and down. Up and down. There was no longer a beginning - days long since blurred together in the pulsing, dizzy remains of her mind. A twisted wasteland of twisted trees and twisted reality - and would there ever be a more appropriate place for her twisted soul to remain trapped for all eternity?

The hubris of coming here at all - she had defied the wills of those who had sacrificed so much for her, and in doing so, likely defied the will of the Goddess herself. Why would the Goddess have placed in her such circumstances, if she was not expected to obey? Here was her proof: disobedience had brought her here, where she would eventually lose what little strength remained. She would curl up against one of those grotesque, stunted trees, and wait to die like an animal.

“Like a beast.” Even her own voice sounded battered by this land - raw and weak. But she could not deny, even to herself, the truth of those words.

And how often, in the lost expanse of days past, had she longed for such a clean, simple end? How many mornings had she blinked her way from a cold, stiff, trembling doze, and wondered how long she might last if she remained there, rather than once more staggering to her feet and stumbling onward? She could not even be sure she was still going the right way - the map she had stolen from her father showed roadways, not how to traverse the mountains and hills and barren wasteland she had foolishly believed might be the quicker, safer route - so why disappoint herself at the end of another day? Surely the Goddess would not see it as taking her own life, if she succumbed to the cold, the wind, and the desperate emptiness in her belly? The Goddess, of all creatures, would know her incapability of finding success in anything but death.

More foolishness, and right from the start - her frantic attempt, late in the night as the house slept around her, to gather enough provisions for her journey. She had already taken the map by then, and made clumsy, amateur attempts to figure out just how long she was likely to be traveling. Two or three days, no more, she believed, so she gathered enough food for five - just in case. Two hundred gold from her father’s study - and a solemn, silent vow to him and to the Goddess that she would see it paid back, with extra for the food and for the map, just as soon as she was able.

She would. She would.

She had left before dawn, not sure how to secure a place on a coach, but determined to do so. Something almost like confidence - until the driver told her the journey she wished to take would cost almost three times the money she had brought. There had been sadness in his eyes - or perhaps it was merely pity. “Sorry, little miss. Never know when the roads might shut down, thanks to the Saints-bedamned Emperor and her war. I got to make a living while I still can, y’understand?”

She tucked the gold back into her bag, looking down and feeling rather ashamed of herself for her assumption. “Yes. I… I understand. I’m sorry.”

It seemed, at the time, only a very small setback. Surely, she could find another option? She considered trying to pay for a ride on a merchant’s wagon - something she knew she had read of in storybooks, as a child - but she wasn’t certain anyone actually did this, or of how to find where a particular merchant was going. She couldn’t very well ask all of them. And if a coach cost almost 600 gold, how much might a merchant charge - more, or less? She didn’t want to risk all the money she had brought.

So she had decided to at least begin the journey on foot - it was late spring, almost summer, and the air breezy and warm, the sky cloudless. Looking at her map, it seemed possible in the first day to pass through Derdriu and into Daphnel territory, where she could perhaps find a town or village with an inn with a room for the night? Inns were for travelers of all stations, so they must have rooms for a pittance - she would only require a small one, for a few hours’ rest.

That tiny confidence was with her once more as she set out, then still following the road that began above the Margravate, snaking down the Alliance from the fisheries and textile factories of the north, through the major cities of the central territories, and then all the way to Garreg Mach. The same road she had traveled with her father over a year before - on her way to the Officers Academy. There had not been even this shred of confidence then - only cold, clawing terror, sharp as the talons of the Beast she might become. No matter how many times her father assured her that her Crest would be kept secret, she knew he could not truly guaranty it. If she was lost to the essence within her blood, there would be no way at all to hide it.

It had not happened. By the goodness and will of the Goddess, it somehow still had not happened.

But it still could happen. It was time to leave.

She stopped by an apple orchard for lunch. The trees were just beginning to blossom - she had always liked the little pink-and-white flowers: silken, delicate, and falling so soon. Already, they littered the ground where she sat cross-legged to eat: half a roll, some cheese, and a bit of a little cake. There was a blackbird nest in the crook of one of the trees, and she crumbled the other half of the roll and tossed it where the parent-birds might gather the crumbs, reassuring them softly to take as much as they wished, and see that their babies were well-fed. She smiled, watching them hop and peck. She liked to be able to share.

But once on the road again, she was faced with the niggling of her first true worry since sneaking into her father’s study the night before: the sun had begun its slow afternoon descent, but she had not yet reached Derdriu, much less gotten through it to the landholdings that would bring her to the border with Faerghus.

She was going the right way - she knew that much. She had passed things she could remember seeing on the journey to Garreg Mach: an abandoned farmhouse slowly, haphazardly in the process of collapsing to ruin. A roadside tavern with an inexplicably detailed picture of a bright green horse painted on its swinging sign. A field of tulips - only buds, the last time, but now, later in the season, they were in full bloom: like a painting, all vivid reds and purples and yellows.

But by carriage, the distance from the Edmund lands to Derdriu could be traveled in less than three hours - so why, after twice that, was there no sign of it? A horse was faster than a person, of course, even when pulling a carriage, but a person could keep up with a walking horse at a jog.

Had she truly miscalculated so badly, already?

She had. She failed to reach even Derdriu, that first day. She finally stopped at an inn in a tiny hamlet of a community, her feet dreadfully sore from exertion, and her head from her growing worry. The cost was a relief - only 30 gold - and the room, though drafty, was comfortable enough. Still, she slept little. She found herself lying still, late into the night, trying to picture the map in her mind, as if that might somehow tell her just where she had gone wrong. It seemed to warp and grow, morphing and twisting against endless darkness, until it bled into sleep, where she dreamed of reaching desperately for the lines of roads as they wiggled away, only to realize they were ropes, and the map was tilting, and she was sliding - sliding towards a bottomless nothingness, no matter how desperately she clawed for purchase against the waxed surface.

She woke with a startled little gasp, her hands clutching the bed’s threadbare quilt. She gulped down shaky breaths, her eyes blinking rapidly before seeking the meager comfort of the shuttered window, the wan, grey light of dawn seeping through.

But that second day remained grey, clouds hanging low and heavy, though fortunately the rain held off until late afternoon. By then, she had finally reached Derdriu - just barely. Her legs hurt now as much as her feet, as did her lower back, and her shoulders from carrying her bag, though all it contained, besides the map, money, and food, was a single, warmer change of clothes and her thickest cloak - because she had heard summers in Faerghus could be chilly and damp, and spring still like winter for much of the rest of Fódlan.

She sought out a room for the night as rain began to fall in earnest - it quickly turned heavy and hard, soaking her through, and when the innkeeper quoted her 120 gold, dinner included, she could not find the physical strength, much less the mental, to venture back out into the gloomy, growing darkness and the rain. Stringy beef, mealy bread, and beans that tasted oddly fishy - this was the last hot meal she had had.

The last, she now realized, she was likely to ever have.

It was drizzling the next day; her clothes still damp despite a night laid out as close to the fireplace as she had dared. That was the first time she had put on her cloak - she had not removed it since - and the day she had decided to leave the road in favor of traveling due west. She used 10 gold to buy a compass from one of Derdriu’s markets - she had a rough idea of how to use it. It would have to be enough. The last of her money went to a bit more food - a loaf of crusty round bread, more cheese, and some dried fish.

She had hesitated, for the first time, at the last bridge leading from the city; it crossed a wide, lazy waterway whose name she did not know. She looked to the north - back towards the way from whence she had come. There was a harbor - one of so many scattered around Derdriu - and she watched men jump from a fishing boat, tying it to the mooring with quick, expert ease. One shouted to the others, words she could not make out, or perhaps a foreign tongue, but there was no difficulty understanding their shared laughter.

Where was home, for them? Here in Derdriu, or elsewhere in the Alliance, or Almyra, or even Sreng? People came from all over the northern lands to Derdriu to sell their fish, their crabs and shrimp and clams. But they had homes.

And… did she? Margrave Edmund had been kind to her, even if stern, and never particularly warm and affectionate - not that she could hold such disinclination against him. He had taken her in despite the distance of their blood relationship, and despite - an even greater burden upon his good name - the cursed Crest that dwelt within her. For four years, he had seen her fed, clothed, educated. He had paid the considerable expense for the Officers Academy without a word of complaint.

He would have said he had offered a home. More of his generosity and his kindness. But she had chosen to squander her right to call it so when she had silently refused the one thing he had asked of her in return:

To side with the Empire.

She had been lying to herself. But she knew the truth of it. This time - and perhaps it would be for the only time in her life - she had been using her Crest as an excuse.

If her Crest was the culprit, why had she left for Faerghus?

The chaotic day before Edelgard returned to Garreg Mach: she and Lysithea were to leave with Hilda’s brother Holst. Lady Rhea had ordered all the students to leave, but some - those already well-seasoned in battle - had remained to see the others off. Among them…

“Dimitri.”

He was at one of the smaller side gates, where students might head north or west along the side roads, far from the advancing army. There were none there yet, when she found him - it was early still, cold and foggy, the dawn no more than a bright smudge within the mist. There had been a solemn, dark mood clinging to the monastery for several weeks, and the chill of late winter morning did nothing to dissipate it.

Dimitri, in cloak and thick gloves, his hair in even more disarray than usual, wore an expression as dour and bleak as the weather - until he turned at the sound of her voice. Surprise, then, in his eyes - but a smile on his lips.

How would he respond, if she were to find the courage to say she felt as lucky to see his rare smiles as he claimed to feel to see hers?

She would never find that courage - and certainly not now, when their time together would be so short. There was something far more important she needed to say.

“Marianne!” He took a step, as if to approach her, then seemed to think better of it. “I thought surely you would have left long before now. Is everything well? Do you have safe passage back to the Alliance?”

“Yes - please don’t… don’t worry about me. I leave later today.”

A strange expression, very briefly, crossed his face - something almost dark. Then it was gone, and he gave a curt nod. “Good. I am glad to hear it. Please, stay safe on your journey.”

She knew the reason for the darkness and conflict in his eyes - she had come to understand where his attention truly lay many months before. It was no surprise recent events had left him in such turmoil. And this was the other reason she did not mention the joy she found in his smile - she feared it might only make the tumult within him even worse.

But there was surely no harm in attempting a smile for him - just a friendly one. “You as well, Dimitri. The Goddess will watch over her home.”

He nodded again. “As she will. And I will be gone soon, I assure you - as soon as the others are safely away. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Um…” This was the awkward part - she was not used to asking things of others, except that they keep far away from her. “I… I have something for you. And… there is something… would you really… do something for me? Well… not just for me, but…” Her voice trailed off and she looked down, embarrassed at her own presumption, despite all the time she had spent convincing herself it was acceptable to ask.

“Anything,” he said - sure. There was no hesitation. “Anything at all it is within my means to do for you, I give you my word that I will do it.”

She fumbled from the pocket of her cloak the tangled, soft, familiar strands of leather. “Please - would you… take this?”

She managed to look up again as he did as asked. He turned it over in his hands, his expression curious. “A bridle?”

“It’s…” Feeling foolish again. Ridiculous. A flush rising in her face. “It’s Dorte’s. He’s still here. I… I’m worried for him.”

“No harm will come to him.” Again, Dimitri spoke without hesitation. His hand reached out - stilled - then brushed, very softly, against her cheek. “I can swear that to you.” There was red in his cheeks now too, though perhaps it was just from the wind beginning to pick up.

You’re a good friend, Dimitri. But even that felt a presumption too far. “I… Thank you. I, um… I asked Dorte to… to keep you safe, as well.”

“That was very kind of you. You have my thanks.”

She bit her lip - this was the hardest part. The part she had dreaded even more than the asking. “I should go. Lysithea already warned me - not to be late. I…” For just a moment, her eyes met his. “Goodbye, Dimitri.”

She had to force herself to turn and go - such an alien feeling! Her heart was beating too quickly; it was difficult to catch her breath.

“Wait - Marianne!”

Another alien feeling - she stopped. She looked back.

Even at a distance, she could see Dimitri swallow hard. “If you ever have need of anything else, anything at all, please - come find me. Please.” He was holding the bridle, still - both hands almost seeming to clutch it.

She attempted a smile. It would not come. “Thank you, Dimitri.”

She had not seen him since. Some small, practical part of her had tried hard to accept she never would again. The alliance as a whole had yet to declare a side, but the Kingdom had not been so cautious - they had offered sanctuary to the Church and issued a proclamation of war against the Empire almost immediately after the fall of Garreg Mach. Dimitri would head the army. Of course he would - it was the kind of leader he was, no matter the turmoil within him.

Standing on the last bridge heading west from Derdriu, all these months later, there was as yet no sign of war. But it was here - it was everywhere. She would soon be joined by many, many others with no place to call home.

This was not home. The Margravate of Edmund was not home. Perhaps she had no home. Perhaps she never would. Perhaps it was only to be expected.

Perhaps home was more than she deserved.

She crossed the bridge. She left the wide, meandering road.

She finished the last of her food as the fields of the western Alliance gave way to the forested mountains that separated Leicester and Faerghus. Already, it was becoming harder to keep track of the time since she had left - five days now? Six? It was hard to focus on anything besides the throbbing pain in her legs and back; the blisters on her feet. However long it had been, however far she had traveled, it seemed a lifetime since she had eaten beef and beans that tasted of fish, or slept with a blanket wrapped around her and a pillow beneath her head.

There would be food in the woods, surely? Berries, wild fruit - acorns? Had she once heard someone say it was safe to eat acorns? And water, at least, would be plentiful; there was always water to be found in the Alliance. Water would also mean fish, but she wasn’t sure how to catch one, and even if she did, she very much doubted she would have the nerve to kill it, and if she somehow managed that much, how was she to eat it? She did not much fancy a raw fish, but she lacked any ability to start a fire - even if she’d known how to use a flint, she had none.

Berries she did find, initially - small, sour strawberries and blueberries, but food was food. Rhubarb, as well: even more sour. She always tried to remember to save some, only to gorge herself as soon as she had tasted it. Her stomach felt often as if it were completely hollowed out, beginning to collapse in on itself. She shoved blueberries into her mouth by the handful, ignoring the stains on her hands, the juice running down her chin.

Like a beast, like a beast, like a beast.

She still truly slept then, some; the nights were growing colder as the land began to veer upward, but wrapped tightly in her cloak, she could find a few hours of dreamless oblivion: no pain, begging her not to take another step. No hollow, echoing emptiness in her belly. No fear of herself, and all the mistakes she had once again made. No Beast.

The map was useless now, though she kept it - it did not belong to her. She used the sun to make sure she continued to go toward the west and the north, when she wasn’t sure of the compass.

Everything, not just days, blending together - trees and mountains and trees and now… nothingness. Eternal nothingness.

There was no food.

There was no sleep.

She spent the darkness huddled against the base of a tree, shivering desperately, closing her eyes, and sure she could hear the whisper of clawed footsteps.

The Beast.

Her bag was gone. She had no memory of losing it.

Her feet stumbled. And again. She had fallen - more than once. Yet still, she walked. She couldn’t remember getting up. The cold was like needles, penetrating her fingers and toes. It made her cry, and the tears froze on her cheeks. One of her gloves was gone - when?

This was the Beast. There was none of her left.

This was death.

“Goddess…”

One step. Another one. Swaying, her head weightless, and yet leaden. Another step.

“Goddess forgive me…” Hardly a sound.

But there was another.

A sound that she knew.

Horses…?

“Stay where you are!”

One of the horses was chestnut brown, the other piebald. Pretty. They were pretty. She reached out. She wanted to pet them. There was shouting, but it was just babble-babble-babble. The piebald horse snorted, nervous. Of course he was nervous. All that noise.

“What is going on? What are you -”

She stilled. She blinked. Something…

“Your Highness, wait!”

She blinked again. Slowly - slowly - she raised the heaviness within her head.

He wasn’t in uniform. She’d never seen him not in uniform.

Her eyes blurred. Burned. Lids heavy as her skull.

“Marianne?!”

His voice. His voice.

She opened her mouth, but had no sound left within her. None at all.

Her eyes found his.

When she collapsed, he caught her.

#dimimari #marianne von edmund #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #crimson flower route #fire emblem three houses fanfiction

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yeet-or-be-hawed · 5 years ago

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Arthur’s Adventures- “Contemplation”

I’m not sure how much attention this will get, but I wanted more content of just Arthur himself. Arthur’s Adventures will be non-linear stories, based on little interactions and ideas I’ve had for him. No romance, just good ol’ Arthur being Arthur. I’ve got a few more ideas, and depending on how well they go will depend on how many I write.

After a gunfight, Arthur gets himself a bath and reflects on his past actions and how its beginning to negatively affect him. After encountering someone he had once saved, his heart feels lighter and begins his transition into being a good man.

Masterlist

Arthur didn’t make eye contact with the man at the front desk, he barely muttered his request for a bath-being covered head to toe in blood and grime made his request apparent had the man not heard him properly. He was quick to remove his clothing, the cold winter air penetrating every cranny, slipping between every groove between boards and into the steamy room. His muscles were sore, his whole body ached as his skin hit the hot water in the tub. He could feel his age seeping into his bones.

He frowned at his forearms as he scrubbed the furiously. The dried blood was stubborn, clumping his arm hair and staining his skin. Memories from earlier that day flashed in his mind: a shootout, men falling, the smell of gun smoke and blood. He was the cause of the brawl, and he was the cause of the deaths of the men who would not return to their beds. It used to not bother him so much, in fact he used to take pride in his actions. He was a killing machine, a damn good one at that.

What had changed him so? When did the feeling of pride and accomplishment get replaced with the feeling of damnation and shame? He scrubbed some more, the blood was gone but he could still feel it on his hands.

A knock pulled him from his thoughts, “need some help in there dear?” A kind voice called from behind the door.

“No!” He cried, immediately embarrassed by the insecurity in his voice. He cleared his throat, “no, I’m fine.” He said calmly.

“Okay then, have a nice day.” The voice responded, he waited until he could no longer hear her footsteps before returning to scrubbing himself. The water was tinged with the color of rust-the color of blood.

He wondered what she would’ve said had he allowed her to bathe him. Would she have held her poker face as she scrubbed the dried blood with her hand towel? Or would the color drain from her face as she made tried unsuccessfully to let it not phase her?

He grunted as he looked over his own body, he didn’t even feel human anymore. He felt like a monster, wrapped in the skin of a man. How many families had he robbed of their fathers? Or their brothers? How many wives would crumple are the corpse of their husbands after he made his escape? These were people he was killing, people with lives and families and responsibilities. He couldn’t deny himself anymore, he couldn’t tell himself every man deserved it- how many lawmen had he killed over the years? Men just doing their job.

He splashed himself in the face as his chest began to seize, he longed for a bottle in his hand to drown out the horrific thoughts that had invaded his mind space. He leaned his head back into the water and scrubbed his scalp. His eyes were closed, but he could feel what he couldn’t see. His hair was matted and clumped with sweat, mud, and more blood. With his eyes closed, he could escape to a secret fantasy that he seemed to yearn more for with every passing day.

He imagined the tub to be his own, in a cozy homestead nestled between the flat cliffs of New Austin. The cabin would be small- he didn’t need much as he never had much to begin with. He would have a bed- a real bed, not some worn out bedroll, a real mattress with sheets and a quilt- and a nice fire in the hearth. Sometimes there was a woman there, sometimes not depending on how he felt about himself. Today he saw himself as a monster, a wolf wearing his prey’s skin so there was no woman today. After his bath he would put on his day clothes, grab his bow, and roam the plains looking for pronghorns and white tails for supper. After a successful hunt, he would go into the nearest town and sell the carcass and skins to the local butcher. Everyone would wave to him and ask him about his day- his bounty would be paid off and he would make great friends with the townsfolk. He would have casual, honest conversation with the butcher like normal people do, without the fear of saying too much. He would then leave town without the fear of having the law on his tail. He would make his way home slowly, never in a hurry to get back, never worried about being ambushed by bounty hunters or someone needing him to do something when he returned home. He would cook his venison over an open fire, or maybe make a stew in the stew pot- he did learn quite a bit watching Pearson. After dinner, he would sit down with a book, or maybe his journal and relax in front of the fire. When he would get tired, he would make his way to his bed and sleep comfortably through the night. No nightmares, no drunken idiots waking him in the middle of the night, no one waking him at first light and sending him off to god knows where to do god knows what. He would wake up on his own, open his eyes, and do it all again the next day.

Except, when his eyes opened he was still in the hotel. His bath water was turning lukewarm, and he could still feel the blood of innocent men on his hands. He would not be returning to the cabin he could see so clearly in his mind, he would return to a camp of lost souls and when he laid his head down tonight, he would be tormented by the night terrors that haunted him everytime he closed his eyes.

He sighed heavily, was it normal to feel his heart break over the simple idea of a normal life? Or maybe the clenching feeling in his chest was reality kicking in- his logical side overriding and telling him it’ll just never be.

The water was room temperature now, his time was up and his body wasn’t comfortable in the tub. But he didn’t want to get out yet either. Getting out of the tub meant facing reality- his reality. He is not a normal man, he’s an outlaw. He doesn’t have a cozy bed to return to, but a caravan and a bedroll. And even though she wasn’t there this time, there wouldn’t be a beautiful woman waiting for him with open arms.

When he pulled himself from the tub, a shiver made its way down his spine, but he wasn’t as quick to pull his clothes back on as he was to get them off. He looked over himself as he placed the hat on his head- the mirror reflected a man, but he felt like a monster. The man looked at him with sad eyes, as if he knew something Arthur didn’t.

Again, a knock at the door pulled him to reality. “Everything alright in there?” This time it was the man from the front desk. His time was up and it was time to go.

He turned away from the sad man in the mirror, the longer he faced him the heavier his heart felt. When he opened the door, the man had returned to his post at the front. Arthur tipped his hat to the man and slipped him an extra two dollars, “sorry I ran ya behind.” He mumbled as he turned toward the door. The man tried to argue but Arthur kept going.

His horse was still tethered just outside the hotel, waiting patiently. “C’mon girl,” he said as he mounted and gave the reins a whip. She trotted slowly, the town was heavily congested in the midday rush.

“Mister, hey mister!”

Arthur turned his attention to the young girl walking towards him. She looked familiar, but he just couldn’t place why.

“Howdy mister,” she said when she reached him. His cheeks were pink and her smile was shy. “I thought what was you, I caught glance of you goin’ into the hotel but when I saw your face I knew it was you.” She twirled her hair around her finger as she spoke, her eyes would dare to look at him and then dart away quickly. “I don’t know if you remember me, but my horse went and twisted it’s ankle on me bout a month back. I had no one and then you showed up.” When she looked at him again, even he could see the admiration behind those eyes. “You got me home safe and sound, I don’t have much money but I promised myself I would properly thank you if I ever saw you again.” She reaches into her basket and pulled out a loaf of bread, wrapped in brown paper. “It was freshly baked this morning, I wish I could give you more. I was out there for hours and so many passed me by and you- you stopped with no hesitation. If we had more people in this world as good as you, it would be a better place.”

He opened his mouth to argue- him, a good man? Of course not, but it felt wrong to argue with such a kind face.

“I really should go,” she said as she handed him the loaf. Her small hands caught his and she held his gaze fiercely. “I’ll never forget you.”

Although she turned away quickly, he could see the rosy flush of her cheeks and his hands ached when hers left his. His heart felt lighter somehow, and he felt a little more human. He knew he wouldn’t be on this earth forever, but is it really too late for him? Damnation felt like a wild hound, nipping at his heels as he fled his own past but what if he stopped? What if he faced the bloodthirsty hound and changed it? He was out of excuses now, he was tired, and he wanted to change. He had been lying to himself for so long that he had convinced himself he wanted this- this life on the room with no guaranteed future except for death. He thought of the wad of money stuffed away in a hidden place only he knew- he had close to three thousand saved up now. He never knew what he was saving for but it felt clear now: his freedom. He would talk to Charles and Sadie, maybe John too. He didn’t want to be the bad man on the run anymore, he wanted to be the hero that girl thought he was- he wanted to be human.

#arthurs adventures #arthur morgan #arthur morgan fan fiction #rdr fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #van der linde gang

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poptod · 5 years ago

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The Story of Golden Fish and Red Duck (Ahkmenrah x Reader, Ch. 2)

Ch. 1

Word Count: 5.1k AO3 Link: The Story of Golden Fish and Red Duck

"I cannot begin to tell you how irritating he is," you moaned to Unas, who mostly ignored your complaining in favor of his newest toy. Outside the sun sat low upon the distant mountains, thin clouds adding texture to a smooth, purple blue sky. A gentle breeze blew through the arches built into a wall in his room, billowing silk curtains in soft shapes. Unas had somehow managed to become your friend, which was a rare thing considering your status, but his own father was a scribe, thus the social status was level.

He was, suffice to say, an acquired taste. In fact, he hardly had any friends at all besides you due to the fact that he was far too eccentric in his decisions and, speaking honestly, a little feral. You didn't mind - you'd spend the day at his house, help him tinker away at his art and inventions, tell him a little about your life (and be unsure if he's hearing you the entire time), and end the day with inviting him to yours. Every now and then he took up the offer, showing up at your doorstep in the morning and following you on your trips around the city.

One of the things he adored was, unfortunately, looking through trash. It had confused you at first, as it would most likely do to most people, but, waist deep in torn baskets and cloths, he told you, "if you look through what's broken, you'll find what people need."

From that day forth you realized Unas was far more intelligent than most people gave him credit for.

"This is still the prince we're talking about here, right?" He asked, biting his lip as he carved a very delicate line into the wet tablet.

"Yes. His face makes me want to punch him," you said, leaning back till your head fell off the edge of the couch. Unas tsked, shaking his head, still concentrating deeply on his work.

"Isn't that a little treasonous?"

"Maybe, but it doesn't mean he doesn't deserve it. You agree with me, right? I've told you what he's like," you said, getting up off your back and crouching beside him, your hand on his shoulder. Glancing at you he laughed, ruffling your hair.

"I think I'd have to meet him first before forming any opinions."

"Trust me, you don't want to meet him."

"Perhaps not," Unas said, tapping the end of his utensil on his chin. "Care to go diving?"

"Every time," you said with a grin, the two of you standing up together.

As per usual, people flooded the market, flitting about looking for various spices and cloths. The occasional food carts were always swarmed, massive lines of people queued up for the famous delicacies of Memphis' high markets. Overhead the sun sent cascades of heat down upon the backs of the crowded streets, and at the center of everything, a fountain stood, filled with pristine water that glittered in the light of day. As delightful as the high markets were, you and Unas had a far different destination, which was fortunately rather close to the market.

In a corner of the city that not many ventured to, a good deal of people had taken up the habit of dumping their old and unused playthings and tools into a broken down house. Why, exactly, this had come to be neither you or Unas had any idea, but you were nonetheless thankful for the little treasures that could be found there. On the walk there you fondly recalled finding an entire chest in almost pristine condition, the only fault being the broken hinges. Unas solved that quickly, and from then on that chest was filled with the various things you'd found.

"Anything in particular we're looking for?" You asked as you neared the house, turning the street to see the familiar broken down door.

"I need smooth sticks, and round things," he said, looking a little too excited, rubbing his hands together discreetly.

"Alright then," you said with a shrug, numb to his odd requests in searches.

"While we're doing that," Unas said, opening the door for you, "you can try to tell me about any good traits the prince has."

"Good traits?" You scoffed, doing a quick survey of the bottom floor. "I think that's a little impossible."

"Nothing's impossible," he sang, already dropping to his knees and thoroughly searching through the first section of the house. Grunting your acknowledgement (though not agreement) of his statement, you continued upstairs, letting your eyes drag slowly over the many heaps of broken things. Your method of searching was different from his, much faster and less precise, but the both of you got the job done either way. Downstairs, you heard him mumble a quiet exclamation, smiling to yourself knowing he'd just found something.

Out of the corner of your eye, an object reflected the sun into your eye, catching your attention with squinted eyes. You knelt, fondling the object between your hands. It was jewelry - that or a part of a machine you couldn't even begin to fathom.

Unas would like this, you thought to yourself, before quickly thinking, I like this too. The gold in your palm was malleable, fitted onto a string that would allow it to hang delicately from the neck. In the center of it, an amethyst the size of your nose sat, encased in a silver that held a mass of smaller, blue gemstones.

Another exclamation from downstairs, this time louder, caught your attention, and you quickly pocketed the treasure. Running down the stairs, you stood beside Unas, who was still knelt in the dirt.

"Look at this! A perfectly good mirror," he said, his smile wide and toothy. With a chuckle you sat beside him, taking the mirror from him when he offered and tracing the delicate carvings made into the silver of the handle.

"You could just buy a mirror, you know," you said thoughtlessly, still examining the mirror. Besides some decay and dents, it was in perfectly good shape, though your reflection was foggy at best. "Just needs some cleaning," you murmured to yourself.

"I know, but this one's free, and I think it's real silver," he said excitedly, taking the mirror back from you and putting it in his bag.

"Could just be encased in silver, but, let's keep hope. I found something too, actually," you said, remembering the necklace in your pocket. As you took it out, a soft gasp left him, his thumbs swiping over the gold.

"Besides being ugly as all hell, this has to be worth something," Unas laughed, nodding in a pleased way as you pocketed it once more.

"I suppose you are right," you grunted as you stood, "but you can't deny today was a good haul."

"Ah, ah," he tsked, shaking his head. "Not over yet."

He sent you back upstairs, where you proceeded to find several bits of metal and, to his great appreciation, a few smooth sticks that must've been part of a toy once. Downstairs, though more plentiful, had less things of actual value, but when compared to your different searching methods, the work was split evenly.

At the end of the search you convened at the front door of the house, leaning on the door frame and showcasing your different findings. It had been an excellent day to go - Unas even found a door hinge, which was a rather rare thing to find without an entire door attached to it. Hinges were great for toys, though you had a hard time thinking of any other use for them. That's where Unas excelled; his imagination towards objects and their uses was nearly astronomical, and you had a great confidence that he would grow up incredibly successful.

"Feel like celebrating?" You asked, letting him take what you'd found and put it in his bag for easier carry.

"Absolutely. I vote Nizism's place," he agreed with a smile, leading the way through shortcut alleys and into the marketplace.

Hidden away in the busy crevices of the streets, Nizism owned a bakery that was a secret treasure to you and Unas. Not many people knew about him and his shop, despite the fact that he was probably the best baker out there, and as much as you and Unas wanted him to do well in life, it felt good to have something not many people knew about. It was, perhaps, the same reason you never told anyone about your 'dumpster diving,' as the general populace referred to it as. Nizism knew every customer by name, which was easy since his regulars numbered few, and just like every other time, it was mostly empty when you entered.

The building itself was small, the furnace inside visible to all customers, a loaf of sweetbread slowly baking away inside it. You weren't an especially tall person (in fact, you were a rather short person), but even to you the ceilings were a little low - that made it easy to climb up to the roof, which you always kept in mind in case you needed to hide. Sitting in the corner, absently filing different sheets of papyrus, a man you'd seen a few times before sipped at his beer, the frothy drink coating his upper lip when he set the mug down. Nizism stood behind the counter, smiling at you when you entered, his hands balancing his weight against the firm stone of the counter. On several different plates, his menu sat beside him, the many versions of his breads and pastries on display for you to pick from.

"I'll have a date loaf," you told him, keeping your tone polite and happy. Unas, on the other hand, spent a good deal of time deciding what he wanted to have. By the time you'd paid and taken off a chunk to eat (the rest of it was for your family), he had narrowed it down to two options.

"Um... I think.. yeah, I'll have three tiger nut sweets," he finally decided, pulling coins out of his bag and paying.

"Sounds good," Nizism said, putting the three small dumplings into a bag, taking Unas' coin and wishing him a good day.

The two of you walked back into the sunlight, wandering aimlessly through the busy market as you nibbled away at your congratulations treat, which wasn't very hard at all to earn. One of Unas' favorite activities, besides looking through the dump house, was going from stall to stall and getting inspiration for what he might want to build or make. He favored toy stalls, the different mechanics of them always interesting him. Oftentimes he'd take up a good deal of time just talking to the owner of the stall, discussing how they were made, where they were from, the technology and skill required to craft such things, and by the time Unas was in the middle of a long speech, the merchants always looked tired. At that point you would hint to him that the owner needs to sell these things and you're not buying, which would make him leave fast enough, always adding a thank you onto the end of his speech.

This time his attention was caught by a hygiene cart, filled with mints, toothbrushes, mirrors, razors, and more, all of which you already had at home. Unas, being Unas, was far too interested in how the right formula had come about for a breath mint.

"So you use cinnamon to flavor it?" He asked, picking up one of the mints and examining it.

"No, well - yes, but I don't make them, as I said earlier. They're from Tanis," the shopkeeper explained, already looking a little weary.

"Tanis? That's a long way to travel just for breath mints."

"I live there. A family friend of mine makes these things and I bring it here so it'll sell better," he said, pinching at his skin.

"Unas? I think it'd be best if we go now," you whispered to him, a gentle hand on his back leading him away from the stall.

"Right, sorry," he mumbled, thanking the man for his time as you took him away.

"You need to work on that a little more," you said, back in the bustle of moving from stall to stall.

"But I want to learn more about what they do," he whined, his shoulders sagging as he followed you, eyes darting yearningly towards each newfangled thing.

"Then just ask them simpler questions. I'm fine with you talking my ear off, but not everyone is."

He agreed in a murmur, his mood obviously dampened, but he kept his energy up as you continued on your way. It was a great thing you appreciated about your friendship - one could bring up faults in the other, and the situation would be handled in a mature fashion in which no one's feelings got hurt.

"Oh, death totems!" You exclaimed when the sight of them caught your eye, dangling from the window and doorway of a shop building. You hadn't ever seen it before, which was a little confusing, considering something so attuned to your tastes was rare to come by. Almost leaving Unas behind, you drove through the crowd, slipping between people till you came to the front of the store.

"You know," Unas said, panting at the exertion, "you could at least tell me when you're going to run off."

"Hm? Oh, sorry, I... got a little caught up. Look at these," you said, marvelling at the craftsmanship. Hanging at the end of the long line of dolls lay a figurine of Medjed, who had been your favorite god for as long as you could remember. Unfortunately he wasn't a very well known or heavily worshipped god, meaning anything in dedication to him was scarce to come by - this was the exact reasons your eyes lit up the way they did, gasping as you rushed towards it, taking the doll off the hook and handling it. Medjed the Smiter he was called, though in such a small form it was hard to imagine him hurting anyone.

"Look at that!" Unas said, almost impressed as he nodded. "You should definitely get it."

You agreed easily with him, and a few short minutes later you had Medjed dangling from your finger, Unas leading the way to your next stop. The two of you found a brief respite from the blazing heat overhead in the next store, which happened to be a clothing store, stocked to the brim with different skirts, shawls, shendyts, and various bracelets.

"What's so special about this place, then?" You asked quietly, looking down the various shelf aisles.

"Did you see the green skirt lining?" He said, gesturing with his head in the general direction. Casting your gaze that way, it quickly caught your attention, the color brighter and more vibrant than any other you'd seen.

"Wow," you commented.

"Yeah, I have questions too," he said with a chuckle, coming up to the counter and starting his usual long conversation with the teller. This time the shopkeeper looked interested, happily telling Unas about his techniques, even adding in extra information Unas didn't ask about, which delighted him. Deciding that the two of them would be fine together, you meandered through the shop, soon coming across a sight you wish you hadn't seen.

"Goldie," you gritted out, your gaze instantaneously turning from neutral to pissed off.

"Oh, hello," Ahkmen said cheerfully, grinning and waving at you. "What are you doing here?"

"Like I'd tell you," you said, letting your angered glare follow him as he walked past you.

"Mm, that's fine since I don't really care."

"You're an ass, I hope you know that."

"You tell me that every time we see each other, of course I remember," he said, still smiling, something that's always managed to throw you off. Several items of clothing sat on his arm, a stack almost as wide as your face and drooping down to his knee.

As he went through the aisles, he took shirts off the shelves carelessly, tossing them onto his arm or over his shoulder. Confused, you followed after him, not even bothering to look like you weren't doing it. Looking back at you he smirked, somehow satisfied that you were intrigued enough that you didn't leave.

"What in the hell are you doing?" You finally asked when he put four bracelets onto his arm.

"Aw, are you starting to care about me?" He said in a baby voice, his lower lip pouting as he turned to you.

"I swear to god, just -" your anger, combined with the urge to punch him in the face, dissipated in a split second when his face fell from joking to terrified.

"Hey! Put those down!" The shopkeeper yelled over the quiet murmur of the store, instantly catching the attention of everyone inside it.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, grab everything and run!" Ahkmen said in a panic, handing you everything in his arms and grabbing all that he could get his hands on, haphazardly collecting it in his arms as he bolted out of the store.

"What the -" Unas said, just as confused as you were, but you had little time to debate his reaction. The shopkeeper leapt over the counter, going straight for you as though you'd done something wrong, and then it hit you - it definitely looked like you were in cahoots with Ahkmen. As much as you hated the idea, you hated being in trouble more, thus set out in a dead sprint, following Ahkmen through the crowd.

Behind you followed Unas, who was a much faster runner than the shopkeeper. He caught up quickly, helping you carry the load without question as the shopkeeper pulled a dagger out of his sheath.

"Oh my fucking Gods," you murmured to yourself as you kept running, trying to keep up with the golden robes Ahkmen wore, whipping around the corner when you saw him turn.

I'm going to get stabbed because of this idiot, you thought to yourself, still watching Ahkmen.

You almost ran past the bakery, the one you had been peacefully eating at only an hour or two ago, grabbing the back of Ahkmen's cape to get his attention.

"Up this way," you said, throwing the clothing up on the low roof and using your adventuring skills to scale the wall and get on the roof.

"I didn't know you could do -"

"Fucking move, he's right fucking there!" Unas yelled, pushing Ahkmen up the wall. Glancing quickly to find the shopkeeper barreling towards him, Ahkmen threw his clothes up on the roof, grabbing your extended hands to escape from the mans' wrath, immediately helping Unas up once he'd gotten safely up.

"Come on, it doesn't take much to get up here. He'll follow soon," you said, grabbing the clothes and using the little time alloted to you to stuff a good chunk of the clothing and bracelets into Unas' bag, giving a fair amount to Ahkmen and carrying the rest in your arms.

With a quick nod Ahkmen set off, you and Unas behind him as the three of you continued to scale several different buildings, ducking behind barrels and alleyways until the shopkeeper was in the distance, far, far away from you. Gasping and panting you sat on the ground, Unas kneeling beside you just as exhausted. Ahkmen let his head fall back, laughing towards the sky, weary but delighted.

"What just happened?" Unas asked quietly, his voice breaking.

"You just helped me," Ahkmen said, laughing as though it was a great achievement.

"I will reign hell upon you, Gold fish," you said, trying to get your breathing under control.

"Wait - wait, wait, this is the prince?!" Unas questioned, recognizing your nickname for him immediately.

"I'm Ahkmen, nice to meet you," Ahkmen said with a polite smile, shaking Unas' hand as he introduced himself.

"Unas. I've heard a lot about you."

"Good things I hope, though, knowing Ducky..." sly eyes turned to you, and you had to press your lips together to stop yourself from yelling at him.

"Ducky?" Unas said, breaking out into laughter at your nickname.

"Shut the fuck up," you grumbled, letting your head relax against the shaded wall behind you. "Now tell us what the hell we just did."

"Only for a kiss," Ahkmen said, puckering his lips.

"I'm serious! We just stole from someone, why?!"

"Oh fine. You're no fun," Ahkmen said, sitting down across from you, Unas sitting in between the two of you. "That man you were talking to, the shop owner, his name is Kek. He doesn't make a thing in that store. He 'hires' a bunch of immigrants and doesn't pay them enough, they hardly have enough money to wear the cheapest of the clothes they make. These," he grabbed one of the skirts, holding the white cloth out in front of him, "are for them."

You paused, unsure if you were to believe him or not. On one hand, he hadn't ever really lied to you before, but on the other he was a prince. People like him weren't ever interested in the wellbeing of those they deemed lesser than themselves, too absorbed in their own self image and pleasure to see the suffering of others.

"You... stole.. for immigrants?" You murmured, wondering if you were hearing him right. He nodded, confirming that yes, your ears were in fact working.

"Couldn't you have just bought them clothes, or gotten them out of that situation? You're a prince," Unas asked, his brow furrowed in his confusion.

"It's more poetic like this, and I can't really remove them from the situation unfortunately. That type of power is reserved for my father," Ahkmen explained. "I'd love to help more, but I can't without alerting my father, and he doesn't like immigrants. Well, he does, but for the wrong reasons."

"Why does he like them?" Unas asked.

"He likes them to work for him. For free," Ahkmen said with a grimace, his eyes dull as he thought about his father's political views.

"Ah," Unas mumbled.

"I don't know if I believe your story," you said, voicing your worry, one that Ahkmen was quick to deny.

"Come with me, then. I'm taking these to them now, then you never have to see me again," Ahkmen said, almost smiling as he picked up the clothes he had dropped.

Unsure, you glanced at Unas, who seemed fully on board with the idea. With a sigh you gathered your own pile of clothing, following Ahkmen down uninhabited streets and alleyways, staying as hidden as it was possible for a young man dressed in gold fiber.

"You could do with more discreet clothing if you're off doing reckless shit like this," you mumbled to him, the three of you crammed into a tight space between hay carts.

"Yes, but I look so much better like this," he said with a wink, settling his cape over your shoulders. You grumbled, shaking it off of you and scooting as far away from him as you could without revealing your position to the drivers.

Continuing on your way, you managed to escape the sights of several palace guards who apparently knew Ahkmen well, evaded general capture and had what could be classified as a good time (you loathed to call anything with Ahkmen a 'good time') all the way to the slums.

Despite how much you and Unas got out and wandered around Memphis, one place you basically never ventured to was the slums. This was for a variety of reasons, most of which were rules your fathers had put in place; sick stirred on every street, the mess was apparently horrid, kindness was alien to them, and no one had self respect. That was what your father told you, at least - what Unas' father told him was a mystery to you. What you found was a little surprising, though you should've put it together long before then; there was far more humanity in those with little than in those with everything.

"It's... different, than what I expected," you murmured, mostly to yourself, but the words caught Ahkmen's ear. Unas was far too engrossed in a little boy showing him his toy ox to pay any attention to you.

"What were you expecting?" Ahkmen asked, for once not teasing or prodding you.

"I don't know," you said, knowing full well you both knew what you were expecting. Trash. Stewing sickness. Instead, it was tired mothers and children who worked too hard for too little, still wearing smiles as they ran around with their friends. From inside one house music came, the sound of beats against wood, the vocalizations of an entire family humming in harmony with one another. Ahkmen smiled, just barely, as he watched your near amazement.

"This way," he said softly, grabbing your wrist and leading you along. Caught up in the moment, you didn't think to rip yourself away from his grip, letting him carry you past the many houses till you came to large tent shelters near the city wall.

It was warm inside - that was the first thing you noticed. Unbearable, sweltering heat that dampened your clothes and stuck heavy against your skin. You almost remarked about it, but Ahkmen was focused, and any word you might've said would've slipped past him. What must've been hundreds of people filled the area, many of them children with babies in their arms. In each place you looked there were makeshift beds, containers of communal foods laying about in a disorganized manner. Following him, you came to the back of the large tent, where a very stressed-looking man stood, pacing back and forth as he mumbled to himself.

This had to be something you'd been warned about; people who talked to themselves, who weren't connected with the real world. Your father warned you that they were dangerous, but when Ahkmen got his attention and he smiled pleasantly at the prince, your worry faded into nothing.

"I brought you these, um..." he grabbed your arm, hauling you away from watching the population in the tent to showcase the clothes you were carrying. "There's another coming, I'm not sure where he is but he's got lots more."

"Thank you. Thank you," the man said, an unidentifiable accent heavy on his tongue as he bowed his head.

"I'll see what I can do about getting you unionized. That way you'll be able to really fight for your rights," Ahkmen said, smiling as he patted the man's shoulder, who looked like he didn't fully understand what Ahkmen was saying, but was nonetheless grateful.

"You're a very kind boy," was what he said, a phrase you could hardly believe was about Ahkmen, but considering the course of events that day, your image of him was swaying.

"Not really. But thank you anyways," he said.

Turning back to you, he smiled curtly, leading the both of you out of the tent in search of Unas. He acted as though everything was normal, still making tiny jabs at your self esteem as the two of you scanned the streets for your friend. It didn't take long till your curiosity broke loose, unable to take a second more without knowing the truth behind his actions.

"Why are you doing this?" You asked, stopping the both of you from walking and stepping to the side, out of the main road.

"What do you mean?"

"You know, helping these people. It's such a noble thing, but you're... I didn't... I don't know, you don't really seem like the saint type."

"I guess I don't really know either, but it is fun to be fair," he said, and your new image of him shattered. Of course he was doing it for fun, why else would a prince help the poor?

"Let's just get this done and never talk to each other again," you grumbled, sighing as you resumed your search. With a shrug he joined you, and in a few minutes you found Unas exactly where he was before, discussing the dynamic between Nephthys and Isis to a seven year old.

"But, you see, even though their separate marriages were -"

"Unas? What are you doing?" You asked, mildly amused but mostly horrified.

"Hm? Just talking to this kid, her name is Tabia, say hi," he said as he made to stand, brushing the dirt off himself as he stood beside you.

"Hi, Tabia," Ahkmen said, grinning as he knelt to her height. "I like your doll."

"Thanks," she giggled, her cheeks tinting rose as she pulled at the edges of her ratted dress.

"Come now, we're taking the clothes to this tent up here," you mumbled to Unas, not wanting to watch Ahkmen. Your idea of who he was kept changing rapidly, and you were getting pretty sick of it - it should've been simple. He was an asshole, he would always be an asshole, and that would never change.

"Good, this bag's been weighing me down," Unas said, following you to the tent.

By afternoon you were trying to say your hurried good-bye's to Ahkmen, trying to get Unas to speed up his farewell. Unas didn't feel the same way you did about Ahkmen, which you convinced yourself was due to the fact that Ahkmen was acting strange all day. More kind than he usually was. Still, you couldn't control Unas, and thus you remained in Ahkmen's presence until sunset, which by that point you were fully irritated with the man.

"By the way, don't mention any of this to my father, should he ask. I'm not technically allowed outside the palace. Until we meet again, Ducky," he said, shooting a playful wink in your direction, earning him a middle finger from you.

"I don't know what you dislike about the man," Unas said, shaking his head as the two of you walked back to his house.

"You don't know? How about all the times he teased me, and that awful nickname? Plus, he's just annoying, you know that vibe you get when someone's really, really annoying but you don't know why? That's him. He's the embodiment of that emotion," you ranted, gesturing harshly with your hands while you spoke.

"I've had more fun today than I do most days with you," Unas said.

"That's because I don't do illegal things," you hissed, poking his chest with your finger as you stood outside his door.

"Well then. Maybe you should start," he said with a smirk all too alike Ahkmen's, entering his house and shutting the door before you could yell at him.

#ahkmenrah x reader #ahkmenrah x male reader #Ahkmenrah #ahkmenrah x female reader #rami malek #Night at the Museum #rami malek x reader

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theonceoverthinker · 5 years ago

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When Will My Life Begin? (Fair Game, 3/?)

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Summary: Tangled AU. Clover Callows has been confined to a tower for all of his life, and given the threat that his Uncle Tyrian says his semblance poses to his safety, he accepts that fate. It’s the only life he’s ever known, after all. But when he’s offered the opportunity to fulfill his greatest dream after a chance encounter with a thief -- or bandit, as Qrow Branwen insists there’s a difference between the two -- both Clover and Qrow will discover joys that they never knew life could offer them before. AO3

A/N: By some Passover/Easter miracle, this chapter is actually on time!!!! Wahoo!!! I don't know what it was, but this chapter was both super easy and super hard to write! Here’s hoping it’s decent!

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Qrow Branwen always considered himself to be a...complicated man.

That was the easiest explanation he had for why he was preparing to scale the walls of the most celebrated general in Remnant’s home at seven thirty in the morning.

Thankfully, while so much of his life was complicated, this plan would be nice and easy.

There was a brooch all but asking to be stolen and he was a bandit, all but asking for something to steal.

Really, nothing could be simpler.

And once this heist got going, that simplicity would play out nice and smoothly.

Now where the hell was Mercury with that distraction so it could start, already?

Remnant’s streets were as busy and noisy as they ever were. All around, shopkeepers were making deals with their customers, friends were visiting friends, children were playing all manner of games, and street performers were singing for their supper. For most of his typical goings ons, a situation like that was a good thing. More people out and about meant more things for people to balance keeping an eye on, and if a trinket, a loaf of bread, or some coins got lost in the shuffle of the usual crowds, they wouldn’t be missed until it was far too late to do anything about it.

However, while that business often made for a good environment in his line of work, in a case like this where he was scaling walls in broad daylight, discretion was key to success. So, for an occasion like this, he needed a more artificial way of pulling the attention of the masses away from him, and that way came in the form of a distraction by one Mercury Black.

Still, even though he was sure the distraction wouldn't fail, he was annoyed that they had to rely on one in the first place. Qrow had wanted to do this heist last night -- “you know, when people are asleep,” he argued -- but his accomplice insisted they wait until the morning to start. He had no idea what could’ve possibly been more important than completing this heist, nor what had to have possessed him to agree to forego his nighttime plan. It certainly would’ve been easier than what they were doing now!

This, Qrow reminded himself, is why he preferred to work alone.

Yes, it wasn’t common for Qrow to work on a team -- he was a good enough bandit on his own and less people meant less profit splitting -- but when there was a brooch encrusted with Remnant’s purest emeralds as primed for the taking as was the one situated in General Ironwood’s heavily guarded home, there were suddenly all sorts of things Qrow Branwen found he was willing to do.

That brooch…

With the money he could get from a brooch like that, Qrow would never have to worry about money ever again.

In fact, with the money he could get from a brooch like that, he’d never have to worry about anything ever again.

Now that would be just the kind of break he so desperately needed.

All he had to do to get it was just wait for the signal and then do what he did best.

From the shadowed portion of the alley he was hiding in, Qrow glared in the general direction he knew Mercury’s distraction would come from, as if that glare would somehow will the distraction into existence.

And suddenly, as if the universe itself were abiding by his request, a loud and messy boom of a sound made itself known from the other side of the alley’s wall -- the far-too-long-for-Qrow’s-liking sought after signal.

It was about damn time.

Qrow counted off the seconds as panicked noises emerged in droves, crescendoing, only to then gradually soften as they moved further and further away from Qrow to investigate the strange noise. When Qrow reached fifty, he slowly started climbing up the house’s walls. He checked to make sure the coast was clear and upon seeing that everyone’s attention -- even including most of Ironwood’s guards, with more exiting the house -- was elsewhere, he continued climbing, now daring to speed up, knowing he wouldn’t be noticed.

He had to hand it to Mercury: the guy and those boots of his were pretty effective as a distraction, and Qrow knew as he hastened to finish his climb up the house’s wall that that very distraction would hold well until their job was done.

The top floor window of the General’s home was closed tightly with a decorative piece of stained glass depicting the brooch with a glowing sunset behind it.

To call the stained glass beautiful would be an understatement. In truth, it was a masterpiece, with every detail of the piece so intricately crafted, and though Qrow was by no means an art critic, even he knew that the glassblower, whoever they were, had certainly outdone themselves here.

It was a shame though that such a magnificent piece stood in his way.

Quickly, Qrow took the satchel at his side, pressed it up against the glass, and punched it as hard as he could at different angels three times.The first time cracked most of it and even sent a few shards of glass tumbling down the other side of the window. The second time shattered much of the glass on the other side, just enough to create a hole he could feasibly get though. And the third time left the window completely destroyed, ensuring that his exit would leave no room for complications.

Again, Qrow was a complicated man, but that didn’t mean his schemes had to be.

Qrow climbed through the window and examined the room. Despite the bright, pale green colored walls of the room and how full it was, there was a certain moroseness to it too that couldn’t be ignored. It was enough to even give Qrow pause for the barest of seconds before he started to look for the brooch.

The room had quite a lot of things in it -- toys, old furniture, crates full of supplies and the like. To anyone else, finding the brooch in here would’ve been as easy as finding a needle in a haystack.

However, Qrow wasn’t just anyone. He was a bandit, and a damn good one.

Qrow looked to the floors of the room. There were messes all along them. However, one section of the room directly to his left was spared a mess in front of it and it just so happened that that one section gave way to a wide drawer.

He was starting to wonder just how Ironwood managed to become a general with a hiding spot as transparent as that.

It almost felt unfair taking the brooch under such easy circumstances.

However, ‘almost’ was the key word in that sentiment.

Qrow made his way over to the drawer and looked at the three brass handles that each drawer held. The top and middle drawers were a dark copper color, but the bottom had a hint of shininess to it, implying it was used more often than the others.

Honestly, he’d opened lockless doors more challenging than that deduction was.

And speaking of locks...

There was a lock on the top right side of the bottom drawer, clearly a final obstacle between anyone and the brooch. It also likely served a second purpose -- notifying Ironwood if the brooch’s hiding spot had been discovered by thieves. Whithout the help of a key, whatever thief who had made it this far was likely to make noise trying to open the lock with a whatever they had on hand, or if they were truly dumb enough, they might try to go deeper into the house to try to find the key’s location.

But Qrow wasn’t noisy, nor was he dumb, and he certainly wasn’t a thief.

From his belt, Qrow reached for his weapon, Harbinger and removed it from his sheath. Once in his hand, Qrow flicked Harbinger, unfolding it.

Qrow was a complicated man -- it only made sense that his weapon would be too, and Harbinger was nothing if not complicated all the way from its inception to its design. Much like the bones of an arm, Harbinger was a scythe able to fold and unfold itself thanks to metal screws that acted as joints, and both of its forms served a different purpose. When it was folded, it ensured stronger blows and made for a handy makeshift shield, acting as almost more of a sword than a scythe, and when it was unfolded, it served the purposes of giving his attacks and abilities range and flexibility.

But while quite the wondrous weapon in its own right, Harbinger had an additional secret ability in the tip of it in its unfolded state.

In that state, its tip was just the perfect size to use as a lockpick, and Qrow wouldn’t even have to bend down to use it.

Really, this was too, too easy.

All the same though, Qrow wasn’t about to argue with an easy victory. He swung Harbinger back and forth in just the way he knew would unlock the drawer. The resulting click when it did was music to Qrow’s ears.

Qrow took Harbinger out of the drawer’s lock and used it to pull open the drawer at the handle.

And there, just as he knew it would be, was the brooch.

Folding and putting Harbinger away, Qrow looked at the brooch. The little bits of sunlight that reflected off of the broken stained glass shards on the floor made the brooch’s emeralds shimmer, making it look even more priceless than it already was.

All it took was one long look for Qrow to know that that brooch was going to make him a very rich man.

And it was all so easy...that is, until it wasn’t.

“Step away from the brooch now.”

Without saying a word, Qrow turned around to see the room’s new occupant and spotted a young woman, about his age, standing in the actual door to the room’s open frame. She had a steely gaze, hair that formed the abstract, yet still present shape of two bunny ears, and two large gauntlets in her hands.

He recognized her immediately -- Harriet, General Ironwood’s oldest daughter.

And she recognized him. It was obvious and not at all surprising. After all, one didn’t become the greatest bandit in all of Remnant without gaining something of a reputation. Apparently, that reputation had spread all the way to the top of the pecking order.

He almost had to wonder now if the king knew about him. Wouldn’t that be funny?

“You’ve stolen more than you ever should’ve from our kingdom, Branwen,” Harriet continued, eyes flaring and tone hitching up slightly, still firm but also somewhat desperate too, “but I swear, on my honor as a knight of the royal guard, that you will not get this brooch!”

A smirk crossed Qrow’s features as he mapped out his next moves. “Oh, I think you’ll find that I will,” he said, and with not a single beat passing between him and his pursuer, he grabbed the brooch in one fluid notion. “You know,” he continued, swiftly making for the room’s window, carefully avoiding every piece of broken glass in his path, “you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”

And as soon as Qrow’s final words left his mouth, he jumped out of the window with an air about him so casual that one would almost believe he was just visiting for tea if not for his unorthodox exit.

Qrow grabbed onto the house’s outer wall, just as he did on his climb up, and turned his head to look behind him. The roof of the next house over was a simple jump over, and Qrow wasted no time taking the leap. He continued rushing across the rooftops one by one.

As Qrow ran ahead, shoving the brooch into his satchel, he took notice of the multiple sounds following him.

There were the gasps of people who had now noticed his presence from atop the roofs of houses he now ran on.

There was the boom of what Qrow could only assume was another explosion courtesy of Mercury’s boots in an attempt to keep the attention of those who hadn’t seen him yet.

But the worst -- not to mention, the loudest -- came in the form of Harriet’s shouts.

“Come back here, Branwen!” she cried.

God, was she annoying.

He had a feeling when he and Mercury first came up with this plan that she’d be the worst part of his day.

And with any luck...he’d be the worst part of hers.

Qrow looked behind him, back at the window, and much to his lack of surprise, he could see Harriet glowing yellow.

It didn’t take a genius to know what that meant.

In all his time stealing his way through Remnant, Qrow had been fortunate enough to not have a direct run-in with Harriet before, or those siblings of hers, for that matter. Like himself, they had a reputation of their own as specialized knights all apprenticed directly under General Ironwood himself. Because of General Ironwood’s renown and his children’s talents, they were considered to be Remnant’s top knights, and many took to calling them the Ace Ops.

However, just because Qrow never had the misfortune to meet them, it didn’t mean he intended to go about his days in their territory blind to his biggest threats.

And of course, learning about them meant learning about their semblances too, and Harriet was just about to use hers.

In the two seconds Qrow spent looking at the window before turning his attention back to the roofs, he saw Harriet rush out the window and in his direction, getting closer and closer by the second.

Speed semblances...what a pain in the ass they could be…

But Qrow also knew quite a lot about pain in the ass semblances, and now felt like just the right time to use his.

Thinking quickly, Qrow took a sharp right turn and leapt onto an adjacent rooftop, running in a direction that was very familiar to him.

Harriet was catching up fast, but Qrow kept his lead.

All he had to do was go a little bit further.

There were just two houses to go.

A shout from Harriet boomed just after he got across the first one.

More gasps sprinkled his path as he passed by the second one.

Then, as Qrow reached the roof he was looking for, he was met with a very welcoming creak. He listened wholly to the sound, looked closely at its qualities, and spent the two seconds he had with it focusing all his energy into everything he had gleaned about the wood in that short time. When he was finally done with the step, a smirk crossed his face.

She was done for.

Without stopping, Qrow ran past the rooftop and onto the next one. When he arrived at that rooftop, for the first time since he began, he stopped running and turned, looking backwards once more. Harriet was just two houses away from him.

“It’s over, Branwen,” she growled as she ran across the first rooftop. Qrow simply stood there and watched, his smirk staying perfectly in place.

Harriet smirked right back at him and she ran onto the next rooftop.

But that smirk, just as quickly as it appeared, jumped off her face as the rooftop she stood atop caved in on itself.

Qrow released a dark chuckle and slowly approached the wrecked scene. Harriet struggled under the wood of the roof, her torso trapped under a large support beam. She looked like a turtle stuck on its back, and it was all Qrow could do not to laugh...so he didn’t even try not to.

Still, Qrow knew from experience that the support beam of that roof was quite rotted and clearly not big nor strong enough to kill or even seriously injure her. That said, he also knew that it was all the same more than enough to keep her occupied under it for a nice, nice while.

“You’re right!” Qrow called. “It is over, just not for me. Must be your unlucky day.”

“Branwen!” Harriet shouted.

“Hey! Not my fault the kingdom doesn't invest enough into local infrastructure!” Qrow replied, the now devilish smirk on his face still present, betraying any innocence his mocking tone may have had. “Let’s just thank the Gods that no one lives there, and that you’re safe and secure under that beam!”

Harriet’s eyes flared at the jests. She glowed yellow, clearly trying to use her semblance to free herself, but to no avail. “Stop him!” she then yelled, likely to her guards, but from the view Qrow had of the town, it looked to be towards no one in particular.

This was almost going to be too easy.

But still aware that guards would be on his tail soon, so as not to tempt fate any more than he already had, Qrow gave the sight below him a final snort before taking off on his current course once more.

With a moment to take for himself at last in his gras, Qrow lowered himself from the next low-to-the-ground rooftop he could find and landed in another deserted alleyway. He placed a hand against one of the alley’s walls, taking laborious breaths only kept quiet thanks to years of on-the-job training. In his line of work, too much noise was the difference between a full belly and a jail cell.

A few minutes passed as Qrow calculated the rest of his escape. He still had at least a mile’s run to get out of the town and into the forest, and of course, distance wasn’t the only thing he had to take into consideration, not by a long shot.

As if on cue, one of those things made themselves known. The sudden sound of metal clashing with stone from behind him had Qrow freeze in place.

“Finally,” a voice spoke from out of his line of sight. “Managed to catch up to you.”

Qrow remained frozen, but only for another half a second as he realized who he was speaking to.

When he finally did, all he could do was roll his eyes and remind himself that this was why he worked alone as he turned around and greeted his accomplice.

“Gods, can you run,” Mercury continued, taking deep breaths of his own, though completely devoid of the hushedness that Qrow had long since mastered.

“Well, if we did this at night like I said we should, you probably wouldn’t have had to run like that. But no. For some asinine reason, it had to be done in broad daylight, and I cannot for the life of me understand why.”

Mercury grunted and shrugged. “I was busy, and we’ve all gotta do what we’ve gotta do. Even a thief like you understands that, right?”

“A thief like me,” Qrow mocked through a scoff. “I know this wasn’t your first time doing this either. And I’m a bandit. There’s a difference.”

“I don’t have your reputation,” Mercury shot back. “And no, there isn’t.”

“As I’ll remind you, it’s thanks to that reputation that we’re about to make enough money to buy our own thieves to argue over this stuff. And yes, there is.”

Suddenly, Qrow grew quiet and signaled to Mercury to do the same as he listened to the sounds coming from the streets. He could hear a number of footsteps stepping in a way he knew well.

Guards were approaching.

“We have to get out of here, and fast,” Qrow whispered. He looked ahead, and upon finding their best option, gestured to Mercury to follow as he headed in that direction.

For three brief minutes, they were able to retain their anonymity and walk through the streets innocently-seeming enough.

However, at the sight of one of the general’s knights and the gleam of recognition she held in her eyes, Qrow knew that anonymity was as good as gone.

The knight called for backup and the sound of hastening footsteps had Qrow and Mercury once more rushing through the streets.

While the whole affair should’ve had Qrow terrified of being caught, it was a sense of anticipation and well-earned confidence that he found himself to be stricken with as he ran away from the guards.

This was one hell of a way to spend a morning, and in just a few hours, he’d be out of this village, at the black market, and swimming in money.

And maybe then, he could actually do something worthwhile with his life for a change.

...Well, Qrow wasn’t lying when he called himself a complicated man.

#fair game #rwby #qrow branwen #mercury black #tangled au

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breadbythehour · 4 years ago

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Same-Day Artisan-Style White Bread

Check out my new Same-Day Artisan-Style White Bread recipe!

For those in a rush, I’m re-posting the basic recipe here on my Tumblr. But if you want the full picture-by-picture instructions, nutritional information, and secrets to success you can go to my website.

Here’s what you’ll need…

Ingredients

500 Grams (4 Cups + 2 1/2 Tablespoons) All-Purpose Flour*

375 Grams (1 1/2 Cup + 1 Tablespoon) Warm Water

10.5 Grams (1 3/4 Teaspoon) Fine Sea Salt

1.5 Grams (1/2 Teaspoon) Dry Active Yeast

*If you don’t have whole wheat bread flour, you can make your own with this substitute:

475 Grams (3 3/4 Cups + 3 Tablespoons) All-Purpose Flour

25 Grams (3 Tablespoons) Vital Wheat Gluten

Strong bread flour or vital wheat gluten are essential for a recipe like this one. The extra gluten keeps your bread together and helps it keep its shape.

Additional Equipment

Kitchen Scale

Measuring Cups, Bowls, and Spoons

4 to 6 Quart Container with Lid

Bench Scraper/Dough Cutter

Banneton Basket

4 to 5 Quart Dutch Oven

High-Heat Parchment Paper

Bread Lame

Wire Cooling Rack

Oven Mitts

Instructions

10:00 AM – Mix flour and water by hand in plastic container until just incorporated. Cover and let rest for 1 hour.

11:00 AM – Add salt and yeast and mix thoroughly. Cover and let rest for 30 minutes.

11:30 AM – 12:30 PM – Stretch and fold the dough three times with 30 minute rests between each session.

12:30 PM to 2:30 PM – Bulk ferment the dough until it has doubled in volume.

2:30 PM to 2:45 PM – Shape and pre-shape the dough into a round.

2:45 to 3:30 PM – Transfer dough to a floured banneton basket. While the dough proofs, preheat the Dutch oven in the oven to 475° Fahrenheit (246° Celsius).

3:30 PM – 4:00 PM – Turn the dough out onto parchment paper. Score the dough, and transfer the dough to the Dutch oven. Replace lid and bake for 30 minutes.

4:00 PM – 4:15 PM – Remove lid from Dutch oven, and bake for another 15 minutes.

4:15 PM – 5:00 PM – Turn loaf out onto a wire cooling rack and allow it to cool completely.

Slice, serve, and enjoy!

#Bread #White Bread #Artisan Bread #Bread Baking #Baking Bread #Baking from home #baking from scratch #baking tips #bread recipes #recipes #yummy #yummyfood #yumminess #beginner recipes #beginner baker

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l0chn3ss · 5 years ago

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Knee the Bread

Mastar, brotp friendly content, Childhood best friends Maka and Black Star attempt to bake a loaf of bread. Maka was inspired when she saw them do it on a TV show, so what's stopping her and Star from doing the same? They can knee bread and rise it from the dead, easy peasy. AO3.

Maka hoisted a 5-pound bag of flour to Black Star’s feet. He took one look at it before he rolled up his sleeves and said, “Ok, so we doin’ regular rules or house rules?”

She stomped her teeny foot— the power rangers twinkled on the side of her shoe. “No! We are not throwing it. We already did it three days ago. It’s boring now.”

Insulted, Black Star wrinkled his nose. “Well, what are we doing then?” His nine year old mind couldn’t comprehend what could be more fun than making a mess and winning a flour fight.

“We’re making bread!” Maka grinned.

She enlisted his help to carry the bag into the kitchen, but that was as far as he wanted to go with it. Eventually, she enticed him with allowing him to have the first taste once they succeeded.

“Are we allowed?” Star asked nervously. He looked around the room as though his mom—or worse, her dad—would come out of the cupboards and yell “you got pranked!”

Scoffing, Maka assured him, “We will be once we give them a loaf! Plus, I know exactly how to make it. I saw it on PBS while I was waiting for cartoons to come on.” She puffed out her chest. “I watched the adult part.”

He rested his chin on a fist and tilted his head to the side. “Maks, that’s even more boring than what you said.”

“Don’t you wanna be a big boy?” she taunted. “Or are you a baby?”

A brief memory surfaced of his dad from the night before. Black Star had been scolded for mixing milk and Coca Cola together and chugging it. Papa Sid said, “Only babies do that. Are you a baby now?”

Black Star shook his head. “What do we do first?” His resolve was strong as Optimus Prime.

After some few minutes of fumbling with the bag, they both had finally mixed together the ingredients into a bowl on the ground. Maka said that the adults said that the recipe said that the main ingredients were water and flour. Then they needed a pack of yeast—which Star found in a cupboard— and finally some salt.

Just after Maka sprinkled in a literal pinch, Star handed her the pepper shaker.

“The recipe didn’t say to use it, dummy.”

He frowned. “No, you’re the dummy. Mira said that we always salt and pepper our eggs. You can’t have one and not the other.”

Maka hesitated, “I knew that. Give it to me.” She shook the bottle once, then looked to Star expectedly.

“More.”

She shook it again, this time allowing some spice to fall from the top.

“Don’t you know how to make bread?” he said, reaching for the pepper.

Maka swatted his hands away. “Of course I do!” Do not question her eight year old smarts! She finally vigorously emptied the bottle into the bowl. There wasn’t a lot, but it was a larger pinch than the salt she put in before. The black specks dotted the surface of their concoction.

“Ok, now we have to mix it all together, and then knee it.” Maka explained to Star. “The dough is supposed to not be sticky anymore, so we have to be careful.”

“What happens if it’s sticky?”

“Then we can’t eat it, duh.”

“No! I mean, how do we fix it?”

Maka thought back to the Martha Bakes show. “You put flour on everything. Like on your hands and stuff. And the table and stuff.”

He grumbled, “We should’ve had a flour fight before we made bread.”

Once the dough was mixed together—Maka knew exactly when that was because she had baked cupcakes before—she took it out from the bowl and onto their pre-floured kitchen table. She used her hands to roll the bread around, but she was unsure what to do next because she ran into her room to get her neopets stuffy during that part in the show.

Sensing her slowing down, Black Star peered over. “Is this the part where you knee it?”

“Yes,” she said with faux confidence, secretly thankful for the reminder. “I trained for this with Papa. I know how to knee it.”

She summoned the announcer’s voice from WCW Saturday Night and remembered how her Papa cried when his wrestling show was canceled. If she could just do it right, her bread would be perfect. Maka brought up the ball of dough to her face and looked its lumpy, speckled surface squared on. Then, she yelled, slamming the dough down and nailing it in the center with her knee.

It bent like a boomerang. It did not recover from the impact.

Maka let it drop onto the floor and panted heavily. That was the secret move that she would practice with pillows and stuffies all of the time after all. She nailed it.

“Oh snap! You go, girl!” Black Star cheered.

With his encouragement, Maka picked up the lump from the floor and knee’d it again. This time, she dug into it even deeper, holding it against her leg with both hands and rubbing it in for good measure.

“No wonder Papa Sid bakes all of the time,” Black Star nodded, understanding at last. “Can I try?”

“Yeah,” Maka allowed, rolling the bread back into a ball before handing it to Star.

He taunted, “I only have to do it once. I’m stronger and older than you.”

“Nuh uh. My legs are longer and I’m taller.”

As proof, Star screamed out, “Hi ya!” and brought the dough down to its doom. The ball flattened against him, but did not wrap itself around him like he imagined it would. It wasn’t like when the cartoons did it.

“I was better,” Maka confirmed.

“That’s because you did it two times!”

“Wrong! It’s because I was so good at it that I could do it twice!”

Grumbling, he returned the knee’d dough to her. “What next? Can we bake it now?”

“We let it rise, doofus.”

Confused, he said, “But it’s not a zombie.”

Maka shook her head. “Why else do we have zombie bread. Every bread is a zombie bread. We have to let it rise. The show said so.”

“Ok, how do we do it?”

“I think the show couldn’t tell us because it was a ritual. My Mama said that evil magic makes for bad TV. She made me watch Scooby-Doo Zombie Island instead of a PBS grown up show.”

“That sucks. I bet to make bread, we have to chant to it, huh? That’s what they do for zombies.”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

Placing the ball on the table, Black Star clapped his hands together to create a poof of flour. “Let us begin the ritual.” He chanted, “Rise. Rise. Rise. Rise. Rise.”

Maka joined in, “Rise. Rise. Rise. Rise. Rise.”

A chorus of two children’s voices eventually summoned someone. It wasn’t the zombie, but it was Maka’s Papa.

“Maka, baby? What on earth are you doing?”

“Making bread, Papa.” She allowed him to pick her up and brush flour from her dress. “We’re making it rise.”

“Ah,” Spirit said, as though it was perfectly reasonable for his daughter and her friend to be doing that on a Saturday afternoon. “Is it ready yet?”

“Yeah,” Black Star responded proudly. “All we have to do is bake it now.”

As a good parent does, Spirit pre-heated Mira’s oven and placed the dough onto a pan with wax paper. He told the kids to wash their hands and then help him clean the kitchen. Only then would he bake their amazing bread.

Once they had their dirty clothes changed, they ran back into the kitchen just in time to hear the ding of the timer. Spirit called Sid into the kitchen who then took the hot and ready bread out of the oven. Maka and Black Star held their thumbs up; Spirit took their picture with their first baked treat. Though both dads didn’t ask to taste it, they made their kids promise to not bake without permission again.

“Are you mad, Papa?” Maka asked with her wide eyes, knowing that trick always got her out of trouble.

“Of course not, baby.” Spirit assured her. He knew full well that his little girl could smile her way out of jail.

She asked again, “Are you going to punish us?” Spirit shook the camera slowly in his hand. “All I want is to take pictures of my cutie pie and Staru eating their bread.”

Laughing, Sid agreed. “Yes, I do wonder what it will be like.” He cut it in half, sawing the baked loaf with a bit of effort.

Black Star squinted, but Maka was too blinded by her success to realize how flat… and hard their creation was. She turned to him. “We will eat it together at the same time right?”

“You know what, Maks? I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.”

“Nuh uh! You said that you were starving when you were changing your shorts.”

She tugged him to the table and planted herself in her usual seat. Star took his spot nervously, and his worries were well founded when his dad placed a plastic Hercules plate in front of him.

“Maka,” he whispered. “This is a rock cookie.”

“Smile, Staru!”

Spirit’s camera flashed and he said, “Ok, now both of you bite at the same time. One—”

“Ma—”

“Shh, the picture!”

“Two—”

“I’m not—”

“Eat the bread—”

“Three!”

Their moment was preserved forever in Spirit’s photo album. Maka’s tongue stuck out; her face contoured in disgust. Her hands were reaching up to brush away the lingering taste. Black Star’s mouth was open with a piece of bread sat at the front; his tongue pushed far back and away from it. His misery and defeat showed in his slumped shoulders.

The aftermath was well documented, too.

#soul eater #makaxblackstar #maka x star #mastar #nessie spills #let me know what your fave parts are #cuz boy i had fun writing

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moonb-eam · 5 years ago

Note

the star or the high priestess for the tarot card inspired aus!! (it’s ok if u don’t wanna do these ones, no hard feelings!!) ahh I love your fics btw💕

the high priestess: magic, dreams, knowledge

“i had this dream, and now…”

possible AUs/settings: visions, sold fortunes, magic au

hello my darling, thank you so much!! 💛

it’s possible i got a bit carried away by this au (over 8k carried away) - but it’s inspired by one of my favourite books, and i had so much fun writing it 💫

i hope you like it! 🔮

ce destin est un marée (et nous sommes emportés)

read on ao3

Summer 1886

In the north end of the Paris, on the edge of the artist’s haven of Montmarte, sur le Boulevard de Clichy, you’ll find a man standing on top of a box in front of an old theatre. He’s strangely dressed, sporting a bright red suit and a top hat cast in shimmering gold. His beard is dark and neatly trimmed, a cane rests over his wrist, and a monocle dangles from his breast pocket. There’s an elegance about him that’s contrasted with a certain strangeness—it excites you. It makes you stop in your steady pace down the boulevard. It makes you perk your ears up.

“Venez tous! Venez tous!”

You listen as the man weaves a tapestry of words and images that floats over the gathering crowd, settles across their shoulders and tickles the backs of their necks with curiosity.

L’homme fort: the strongest man in all of France, capable of breaking apart stone with his bare hands.

Les acrobates: a death-defying act starring a pair siblings who have come all the way from the exotic south.

Les danseuses: no man alive is safe from the spell these young ladies weave as they move.

Then the man lowers his voice to a whisper. You feel yourself leaning forward involuntarily.

He tells of a new addition to their family, a young man plucked from the gutters of Paris like a rare jewel from the sewage—a young man of otherworldly abilities.

Le cartomancien.

Every secret you hold close to your heart can be found within the folds of his cards. He knows when you will meet the love of your life. He knows the last words you will say before you die.

The man raises his voice, spreads his arms out wide.

“If you are brave enough to discover your future, mesdames et meisseurs, you can meet this young man and his magical deck of cards for the low price of deux francs!”

This prompts scoffs from some of the crowd. They turn away, not wanting to spend their hard-earned money on such trifles. But you, you linger there in the boulevard, thinking about your present: directionless, bleak, your father’s unchanging disappointment a phantom pain between your shoulderblades. You feel a constant thrum under your skin, an unearthly restlessness waiting to break free from its mortal confines. Your future is as murky to you as the hazy mid-summer sky, and you wonder if knowing would ease the stress at all. Perhaps knowing what lies ahead in the future would give you purpose in the present.

The coins in your pockets are heavy with implication. Father’s money, the money of land ownership and property taxes and squeezing tenants until they bleed.

The thought of using that money for something Father would look down on with such distaste makes you smile. There is victory in the small revolutions, perhaps.

You consider it. You imagine sitting at a dimly lit table, watching cards fall to the surface like leaves in the autumn before some faceless, mysterious fortune-teller, and the idea is as enticing as the sweets you used to see in the windows of Le Bon Marché when you were a child.

But then you hear a clock chime in the distance, that dreaded mark of time passing, a warning that you are risking lateness to your meeting with Father’s business partners. And so, much like the sweets, you leave the man standing on the box, the theatre and the fortune-teller, because you know this is something that will forever be out of reach.

You take a hurried step back, turning to the direction you were first headed in, and nearly collide with a young man and woman coming towards you.

You step aside, lowering your hat in apology, but the pair barely take notice of you, talking excitedly amongst themselves.

You stare as they pass.

Not at the girl. She is pretty, yes, dark-haired and with a sweet smile, but the boy.

The first thing you see is deep, oceanic blue; eyes as alluring and freeing and terrifying as the Atlantic itself.

Then you take in more details in rapid succession: a straight, elegant nose, clear smooth skin, full lips curved into an inviting smile as he says something that makes the girl hit him on the arm in retaliation, his cheeks dimpling as he laughs.

You are late, you are squandering your final chance to gain Father’s trust as the minutes tick by, but you cannot move. You are fixed to the middle of the street because you have never seen a person so beautiful that they’ve caused such a violent reaction in you: a lightning storm roaring in your veins just from the sight of them, just from the thought of stroking your fingers across their cheek.

It scares you, this rush of instant attraction, for as exhilarating as it is, as good as it is to feel so alive you could soar, your heart is heavy with the knowledge that this is something else that is wrong with you. This is something else that makes you different. Something else that ensures Father will never approve of you.

So you merely watch as the beautiful boy passes you, as he disappears into the mouth of the old theatre and becomes nothing more than a memory. A dream.

You leave quickly, now inexcusably late to your meeting, and you will yourself to forget about possibilities and overturned cards predicting futures and fate lines that can be broken, or diverted.

You may have a strong will, young Monsieur Demaury, but you forget one thing: that just because you cannot see your own future, does not mean it isn’t already in motion.

Autumn 1888

Lucian de la Lune is sitting at a small table, across from a man with a perfectly-groomed moustache, waiting for him to pick a card.

He doesn’t know the man’s name—he never asks for names, in order to keep client privacy. He asks only for a word, something to identify them to him when they request appointments for readings.

This man called himself Oberon.

Oberon keeps fluttering his fingers across the fan of cards spread across the table, humming under his breath, but eventually lands on one, carefully picking it up from the fan spread across the table. When he turns it over, he raises his eyebrows, dropping it back down to the table as if the thick cut of paper is slowly catching fire, threatening to singe his fingertips.

The image on the card is a cloaked figure with a lantern, one skeletal hand stretched out to an unseen, unsuspecting person. The pale messenger. The dark omen. Death.

“Death, then is it?” Oberon says with a wry smile. “My time has come?”

Lucian de la Lune sighs, tugs the sleeves of his white shirt back over his wrists. It’s silk, one of Yann’s, and it swims on him, gapes open on his neck and collarbones in a way he knows they notice, the men and women who come into his small room inside the theatre—the one shrouded in navy blue and deep purple curtains, with tall, misshapen candles alighting every available surface. All of it—the eccentric room, the loose silk shirt, his perpetually messy hair—compounds to form the image of the pretty, mysterious boy with the magic cards and all-seeing eyes. The infamous Lucian de la Lune.

“It is not as literal as that.” He says to Oberon, waving a hand out over the table. His tarnished signet ring catches in the candlelight, a muted flash of light thrown across the ceiling. “The cards never are.” He picks up Death in his left hand, flipping its face towards Oberon. “What it means by death is rebirth. There’s a change coming for you, monsieur, whether you are ready for it or not. A necessary destruction in order for rebuilding.” He flits his gaze over to the man, who is staring back at him, rapt. “Choose two more, please.”

Oberon does, with more excitement, plucking two cards from the fan quickly and laying them face up between them.

The first is five thorn-stemmed roses, all cut sharply at the bottom. Unforeseen challenges approaching. But the card is inverted to Oberon, signifying a fall, of some sort. A price paid from dishonesty.

The second is a man, hanging by the foot from a wooden post. Also inverted. A possibility for change and self-reflection, but for Oberon more likely a stagnation of the self through materialistic pursuits.

“Ah,” Lucian de la Lune murmurs. It is becoming clearer to him. He lays a finger down on a card. “The five of wands, monsieur. It is reversed to you, signifying a coming challenge. Circumstances will change, and you will need to adapt to them.” He moves his finger to the other card. “The hanged man, which is also reversed. You are stuck in the habits you have created. These are selfish habits. They have led you to a life only concerned with profit, by any means, and if you keep in these habits,” he sweeps a hand across the three cards laying between them, “ there is a chance you will lose everything.”

Oberon stares at him, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows.

Lucian de la Lune sits back in his chair, satisfied. He’d had a feeling, when the man first stepped into his room, that there was an uneasiness about him; something he couldn’t put a name to, but gave a sensation like holding a stolen loaf of bread in your hand. A forbidden sort of feeling.

Caught. Which would imply breaking the rules. Which, in turn, could imply:

Exploitation. Criminality. Fraud.

It had only been a guess, but his guesses are usually right.

Always trust your instincts, Lucas, Maman used to tell him. Us Lallemants, we’re never wrong when we get a feeling about someone.

Now, the man across from him laughs, clapping his hands together in front of his chest.

“Well,” he says, grinning, chest puffed up with bravado, “that was very entertaining. But you’re not as good as they say you are, are you?” Oberon’s eyes glitter teasingly at him. “Because I can assure you, my business is secure, mon cher. I can assure you, I am very good at what I do.”

Lucian de la Lune shrugs, picking up the cards one at a time to place them back into his deck, their worn, fading edges smooth and familiar under his fingertips. “The cards only ever show one possibility, monsieur. One future.” He shuffles them with easy, practiced movements, letting the low hum of energy they hold seep into his hands, their hushed, ancient voices singing through his veins. “Each choice we make introduces a new future, or sends us careening towards the one we are meant to meet.” His fluid motions cease, suddenly, and he’s flipping a card over onto the table, face up.

Death.

He smiles sweetly. “You’re the one who made the appointment, monsieur. But then again,” he says, placing the deck down, “this is merely a game. Entertaining, as you say.”

An expression crosses over Oberon’s face as though he just bit into a rotten piece of fruit.

Lucian de la Lune’s smile only widens. “I believe you still owe two francs, monsieur.”

There’s a moment of silence, the two men staring at each other across the table. Then Oberon laughs, digging into his coat pocket for coins. “I think perhaps I underestimated you,”he says. “You are a rather fascinating creature.”

He slaps five down on the table. Nearly triple the usual rate.

“A little extra just for you,” he says, standing. “For giving me a great deal to think about.” He slips into his overcoat and smoothes down the lapel, gathering his cane and hat from the hook by the entrance. “I thank you for your time, Lucien. It was most enlightening.” He winks, tips his hat, and then disappears through the curtains.

It’s only when the curtains still, when Oberon’s footsteps recede into silence, that Lucien de la Lune exhales, rolls his shoulders away from his ears, and becomes Lucas Lallemant once again. It’s like shedding a skin, when he lets himself lose Lucian for a moment, when he doesn’t have to worry about being seen. Gone is the easy confidence, the lowered lashes and air of mystery. Instead there is only Lucas, with all of his scars and distrust.

(But here’s a secret. Lucian de la Lune is not magic, not really. Lucas Lallemant is.)

His Maman was. And her father, and his grandmother, and her great-grandmother, and so on to the very start of their name.

The Lallemants. There is a strange energy in their veins.

But it’s a volatile kind. An all-consuming kind. The kind that made Lucas’ father fall madly in love with Maman, then abandon her when Lucas was just a boy.

It’s the kind that, as the rumours go, drove Lucas’ Maman mad, the catalyst for her running away, for her leaving a thirteen-year-old Lucas behind. It’s the kind that made her disappear. It’s the kind that Lucas grew to see as a curse more than a gift—something for him to fight against, to repress.

He used it only a little, when he lived on the streets. Just enough to survive in the slums of Paris. He distracted shop owners so he could steal food, made a policeman fall asleep in an alleyway so he could escape and one time, saved a baby bird from being run over by a carriage with a well-timed gust of wind.

He wouldn’t use it any more than that. He wouldn’t let magic overtake him like it did Maman.

It’s with a touch of irony then, that he sweeps his gaze across his surroundings, lingering on all the trimmings and trappings that are put in place to say, magic. The energy he so fought against, the gift that is a curse, that is the thing he makes a living from now.

He could say it was pure chance that he met Manon one day on the street, how he was at the end of the little bit of money he’d made selling newspapers, was considering professional thievery, and Manon had taken one look at him and decided he would be perfect for Hercule Barnet’s Monde des Merveilles. He could say it was pure chance, but another cartomancien would scoff at such a thing.

Fate. That is what drives every moment in our lives.

Maman believed in fate.

Lucas picks one of the coins up from the table and rolls it between his fingers.

Was it fate that brought him to this place? To the theatre? This room shrouded in dark curtains? Was it fate that caused him to pull at threads of his magic every day, to tell husbands if their wives are faithful, to tell young women when they’ll meet the man of their dreams, to tell businessmen if their investments will prosper and to tell those sick in love whether or not their feelings will be reciprocated? The futures Lucas saw were rarely pleasing, and were often only vague notions of intent, possibilities as thin and fleeting as smoke. He’s had people break down into inculpable misery in his room. He’s had people react with violent anger. He’s been threatened. He’s been obsessively stalked. He’s had people try to steal his deck, convinced that the cards are cursed.

(But it’s not the cards that are cursed, it’s the boy who wields them.)

You encounter unbelievable faces of humanity, when you deal in the future.

“Lucas?”

He startles, stepping back from the table, and Daphné is poking her head between the curtains, her hair piled up messily on her head, with wildflowers braided sporadically into the strands. She smiles when she sees him.

“Do you have any more clients for the next hour or so?”

Lucas shrugs, rolling his shoulders back, trying to ease the tension at the base of his neck that’s bene plaguing him all morning. “No appointments, but there may still be some that wander in.” He knows what she’s going to ask, the same she does every Wednesday, and he gives a pre-emptive defence. “So no, I’m not coming to lunch.”

Daphné groans, waving a hand out at him. “Lucas. It’s the middle of the week! And it’s freezing outside. No one’s going to come in.” She steps through the curtains, her pale-pink dress brushing against the floor as she moves. “Come with us.” She pleads, bouncing on her toes excitedly. “The girls and I had a fabulous show last night, and we’re celebrating. We want to go to that new café by the park, the one with the incredible pastries.”

Her excitement is catching, her brightness a welcome change from Lucas’s dark curtains and low lighting. Lucas feels the stirrings of a smile, but he shakes his head.

“No. Another time, Daphy.”

Daphné huffs, blowing a stray strand of hair away from her face. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty of fun.” Lucas argues lightly, pocketing two of the coins from the table and holding the other three out to Daphné. “Look how fun I am: I’m giving you extra funds for your decadent lunch.”

“Oh my.” Daphné laughs, taking the coins from Lucas. She examines them in her own palm. “Where did you get these? Another admirer slipping you extra money under the table?”

“Perhaps.” Lucas says, busying himself with reshuffling his cards. “Use it to get yourself one of those pastries.”

Daphné eyes him over her flat palm. “Lucas, are you sure? You could keep this money for yourself.”

“I don’t want it.”

Daphné watches him intently for another moment, eyes dancing over his face, travelling down to his hands, to the cards rapidly flitting between his fingers.

“Alright.” She says eventually. She steps forward and presses a gentle kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Lucas.”

Lucas nods. He doesn’t tell her that he has no desire to take the money because it feels like being bought, in a way, like the man was attempting to stamp ownership on Lucas with a few extra pieces of change. Spending that money, to Lucas, would feel like solidifying that ownership.

He doesn’t say it, but he knows Daphné will understand anyway. They all would, all of them that perform for Barnet, who get pulled aside after their shows by wealthy patrons who bombard them with offers for lavish dinners and tickets to the opera. It’s a regular occurrence for them, and it gets all of their backs up.

Daphné squeezes his arm, the warmth and comfort in the gesture saying, It’s alright, Lucas, you’re still your own person. Lucas is at once infinitely grateful for her, for Manon, for everyone in the small family of strange creatures that populate Le Monde des Merveilles.

“You’re welcome,” he says quietly, the movements of his hands slowing as he returns her smile. “Enjoy your lunch.”

Another squeeze to his arm, and she’s gone, disappearing between the folds of the curtain with her pink dress trailing behind her. Lucas looks back down at his cards, his smile fading to something quiet and fond, and without thinking, he picks a card, setting it face-up on the table.

He blinks at what he sees.

A messenger with good news. A bringer of love and fortune. A romantic hero on a white horse.

The Knight of Cups.

Lucas snorts inelegantly, at the card that’s telling him a knight in shining armour is about to appear before him a sweet word and whisk him away, and places it back into the deck, shuffling the knight’s amorous eyes out of sight.

The best thing that has happened to Lucas in the last few years was being given a place in Le Monde des Merveilles. Steady income. A place to live. Food to eat. Friends. A certain level of fame that gives him access to most corners of the city. He does not consider wishing for more than that, ever. Wishing is for fools and romantics.

Lucas shuffles the deck again and focuses, letting the energy of the cards guide his touch. He pulls out one that calls to him, loud and desperate, begging to be seen. He lays it face-up on the table, and there, again.

The Knight of Cups.

Lucas scowls down at the table, at the knight’s eyes that are painted so full of hope.

“Enough,” he says aloud, to the cards, or to the universe, to the magic in his bones and the great magnet that tugs the chains of fate along the surface of the Earth. He says it to all of them at once, slamming the deck of cards down on top of the knight. “It isn’t funny,” he whispers, but he’s not entirely sure what he means by that.

It isn’t funny to make me look towards the door with hope, even when I know nothing will come.

It isn’t funny to promise on things you can’t deliver.

It isn’t funny to pretend that good things happen for no reason.

With a heavy sigh, Lucas pushes himself away from the table and out of his small room, the curtains blowing apart before him, a burst of magic erupting from the centre of his chest that’s unchecked, uncontrollable, and makes a door down the corridor slam shut.

He winces, but he keeps walking, turning a sharp right and making a direct line towards Barnet’s office, which he knows at this time of day will be unlocked, empty, and always has a fresh pot of tea sitting on his desk.

Lucas could really use a cup of tea right now. Preferably one with a strong whiskey in it.

He returns to his room slowly, balancing his cup of tea with a stack of stolen biscuits from the hidden cupboard in Barnet’s office, and he’s not paying attention to what’s in front of him. His eyes continuously drift from his cup to his feet to the biscuits and back to his feet, so Lucas doesn’t see him at all, at first. He has no idea he’s there until there’s a short clearing of a throat, a polite, “Excuse me—”, and Lucas’ head snaps up, his tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup.

He nearly drops the biscuits.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” There’s a young man stepping away from the thick curtains marking Lucas’ room, one arm stretched out as though he’s going to catch any tea that spills onto the floor, but seems to think better of that and snatches his hand back, eyes wide.

Lucas stares at him.

“I, ah…” The man fumbles his hat off his head in a clumsy grip, nearly dropping it with one hand and and catching it with the other, laughing at himself nervously. “I’m sorry,” he says again, bowing his head towards Lucas. “I was hoping to see you, but you were out when I arrived, so I…waited.”

Lucas is still staring at him. He’s staring hard, because the man before him is tall, young and handsome, very handsome, and he’s wearing a thick, expensive coat and perfectly-polished shoes, and Lucas hates it, but the first place his mind goes is to the amorous eyes of the Knight of Cups.

Fucking great magnet. Fucking universe. Fucking cards.

The young man looks like he’s struggling to find something else to say, but Lucas is also struggling, so they stand there, staring at each other for a moment that stretches itself too long, too intimate for strangers in a dim, empty corridor.

Lucas coughs and straightens slightly, desperately grasping at the edges of his Lucian de la Lune cloak, trying to pull it over his Lucas Lallemant face that is too open and honest, too taken aback by the appearance of the man before him, so sweet-faced and honey-voiced that he may very well be from a fairy tale.

“You…” He swallows the tremors in his voice down. “Did you want a reading?”

The young man blinks at him like Lucas woke him from a deep sleep. “A what?”

“The…” Lucas gestures with his pile of biscuits to the thick curtains. “The cards. A reading for your future.”

“Oh! Oh.” The man laughs again, light and warm like a ray of sunlight, and he nods. “Yes, of course. I mean, that’s what you do! Of course.”

“Alright.” Lucas steps around him to enter into his room, quickly dropping his biscuits on the corner table, snapping his fingers to re-light the candles that went out, and taking a rushed sip of his tea to fortify himself. The sip he gets is almost entirely whiskey, which he supposes is rather appropriate, but makes him give a strangled cough. The young man follows after him slowly, carefully, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to enter into Lucas’ little world.

Lucas watches as his eyes roam over the midnight blue curtains, the dripping candles and the round table at the centre, then his eyes find Lucas again, and stay there.

“This is a wonderful room,” the man says. “It suits you.”

Lucas raises an eyebrow. He thinks, that’s a strange thing to say when you don’t know me at all, but he bites back from saying it, swallowing the words down with another sip of tea, and heading right for his table.

“The price of a reading is two francs.” He says flatly, busying himself with straightening the tablecloth and shifting the candles around.

“Oh, of course!” The man plunges a hand into his coat pocket, and Lucas hears the sounds of coins rattling around in there. It’s a sign of wealth and a sign of carelessness, having so many in such an easy place to steal from.

So, wealthy yes, but perhaps newly wealthy. A recent inheritance is most likely, given how young the man looks—barely older than Lucas himself.

The man places two coins down on the table, two francs exactly, and he’s still standing awkwardly behind the other chair, his coat open and his hat in his hand. He looks like he’s halfway between sitting down and running away.

Lucas makes the choice for him. He walks around the table, hands outstretched. “Here, I will take your hat and coat. You can sit down.”

The young man nods, his nerves as palpable as the November chill in the air outside. His movements are jagged and uneasy, his eyes constantly shifting from the ground to Lucas’ face like he can’t decide where to look. Lucas wonders if the young man is looking for an answer to an illicit question. Maybe it has something to do with the beautiful coat in Lucas’ hands, with the money that bought that coat. Maybe this man makes his money like the man from this morning does: in the darkness. Maybe he’s unlucky in love, and he’s going to ask Lucas for help. Dozens of young Parisian men come to Lucas’s table every week with the same predicament.

Lucas is curious, and he’s rarely curious about the people that come to him.

“So,” he says at length when he sits again, reaching for his cards and giving them a quick shuffle, hastily turning the Knight of Cups back over the correct way, “what is it that you’re looking for?”

The young man shrugs, a movement startlingly contradictory to his fine coat, his elegant features and his nervous posture with its ease and insouciance . “I don’t know, really. I suppose I just…” he shrugs again, shifting in his seat, eyes fixed on the cards in Lucas’ hands, following them as they slip and fold into one another. “I suppose I’m curious about what you can see in my future. Or even in my present.”

“Hm.” Lucas sets the deck down on the centre of the table. He lays a finger on top of it. “If you have a clear question, it helps to give a clear reading. Is there anything specific you would want to know? Something to do with finances? Love?”

The young man smiles at Lucas. “Finances and love? Those are the most common inquiries you get?”

“Most people view them as the focuses of life.”

“But you don’t?”

“What I think does not matter.” Lucas replies shortly, and he removes his finger from the deck. “If there is nothing specific you’re seeking then it may dirty the waters of what I can see. Do you understand?”

The man nods. He’s still smiling at Lucas, more confidently now, his shoulders loosening from where they were sitting high around his ear, but his eyes are soft in the candlelight, pale grey-blue catching on the flickering flames.

“Very well.” Lucas murmurs. He gestures at the deck. “Shuffle those until you feel ready to begin.”

The young man inclines his head and he’s reaching forwards, ghosting his fingers across the top of the deck before touching them, as though he’s nervous to. As though he’s not sure if he deserves to touch them, just as he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to enter the room. Lucas shivers as though those long, careful fingers are hovering just above his own skin, mapping out the shape of his body.

When the young man does touch the cards, he touches them gently, reverently, his fingers smoothing across the worn edges, dancing along the intricately-patterned designs on the backs. He looks fascinated with them, as though each card is an entire world of possibility, and he would be right to think so, but he would also be the first person to sit at Lucas’ table who seems to think so.

Lucas shifts in his seat. He can’t stop watching the young man’s hands, listening to the sound of the paper under his fingertips, his own skin prickling with the phantom sensation of a touch on his own skin, and there’s a moment where his mind trips, stumbles on the thought of what it would be like to be touched like the man is touching his cards: so thoroughly and adoringly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the flame of a candle near the floor burst into a violent, bright orange, and he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, holding his breath until the flame returns to a low, pale yellow. He tastes blood inside his mouth.

This is not right. The cloak of Lucian de la Lune keeps slipping off of his shoulders, revealing too much of Lucas Lallemant to the confines of the small room, to the bright, piercing eyes of the young man across from him.

“I think,” he says softly, breaking into Lucas’ thoughts, “that I am ready.” He places the pile back down on the table.

Lucas takes one steady, calming breath. He avoids the young man’s eyes, focusing on the deck as he moves it to one side, then in one swift movement, spreads it into a fan across the table.

The young man makes an impressed noise, which really is unnecessary, and Lucas feels his lips curling into a pleased smile at the sound, which is equally unnecessary.

Focus, Lallemant.

“Take a moment with the cards,” Lucas orders, waving a hand over the fan. “Find one that is calling to you, in some way, one that you feel yourself being drawn towards. When you do, take it from the pile, and lay it face up on the table.”

He expects the young man to proceed how everyone else normally does at this point, taking their time to consider each and every card, to dance their hands across the fan until eventually picking one that is chosen, they believe, at random; what they think is a split-second decision, but really is an insert of fate into their hands, forcing a choice when making one seems impossible.

But that is not what this young man does. Without hesitation he sends a hand out, fingers touching down on a card off to the left of the fan, nearly at the edge.

“This one,” the young man says, and it’s said without any doubt, so confidently that Lucas feels his own mouth dropping open slightly in surprise. Out of all the people who come into his room, out of all the desperate, future-seeking people in Paris, Lucas would never expect this young man to be the one who knows his card right away.

Is fate forcing his hand so strongly? Or is it a blind choice, one made too quickly, without any thought at all?

Then, the young man is picking the card up, he flips it over on the table, and Lucas blinks down at it.

A hand, hovering in the air, holding out a single coin.

Wealth. Prosperity. A coming successful business venture.

“The Ace of Pentacles,” Lucas says, nodding down at it. “It seems that you have had some good fortune lately, monsieur. Perhaps you’ve come into some money. Or you made an investment that has paid off.”

The young man frowns. “I suppose you could look at it like that,” he says, and Lucas is about to tell him that he doesn’t need to say anything, that he can just pull another card, but the young man says, “My father died a year ago.”

Ah. So Lucas was right about an inheritance.

“I was left ownership of some properties,” the young man says. “A few tenements. A few theatres. I lowered the rent on them, straight away, which, according to all of my advisors was a terrible decision.” He laughs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “It would be a comfort to know I made the right choice.”

Lucas blinks. He heard about this, about some of the buildings he lives near, in the lower end of Paris, coming into new ownership. He heard about the rent being slashed in half, like magic. It’s one of the reasons Daphné, Manon and Alexia take so many luxurious lunches lately.

It doesn’t seem possible to Lucas, that the man across from him, young and nervous and with such careful hands, is responsible for that. It seems too good to be true, one of those stories they print in the papers to try and convince everyone that the wealthy really do care about the poor, that when they drop their spare change into a dirty child’s hand it’s because they want to end poverty. It seems like…Well, it seems like.

Like he’s a fucking knight in shining armour.

There’s an uncomfortable feeling in Lucas’ chest, something fiery and bright, like the birth of a star. He rubs at his sternum absently, and he doesn’t miss how the young man’s eyes follow the motion, dipping to the place where the shirt gapes open slightly on his collarbone.

Lucas flushes. “Choose two more cards.” He says, more sharply than he means to. “We’ll see how successful that choice will really be.”

It shouldn’t surprise Lucas, what happens next. It shouldn’t surprise someone who has magic, who wields the cards and knows that fate exists, that it is a tangible force at work in the universe. It shouldn’t surprise someone who, that same day, pulled the same card twice in a row.

But the young man turns over two more cards, finding them with the same confidence and speed that he did for the first, and Lucas is so shocked by it, that he thinks he can see that candle near the floor burst into a dark purple.

The second card: A messenger with good news. A bringer of love and fortune. A romantic hero on a white horse.

Then the third: a circle with archaic symbols etched into its surface, each corner of the card occupied by a winged creature with watchful eyes. An unexpected turn of events. Fate being pushed into motion.

Lucas both wants to laugh and cry.

The young is staring at him expectantly, hunched over in his seat with his hands clasped in his lap, eyes wide and earnest. Eyes that look so much like the knight’s when Lucas meets them.

“The, um…” Lucas coughs to break the hoarseness in his voice. “The Knight of Cups.” He points at the card in question. “A messenger bringing good tidings, or a symbol of love. Your…” He pauses, and bites down on his bottom lip, trying to gather his thoughts. “Your true love, as it were. Or if not love then a friend, someone coming to aid you. Someone with your best interests at heart.”

He keeps his eyes fixed on the cards as he speaks. He can feel his face growing warm, like the burning in his chest is travelling up through his bloodstream.

“Now, the, um…the next one is the Wheel of Fortune.” He points to it in turn. “There is a shift happening. A change in your life that you can only go along with. There is no point in fighting it. It’s telling you to let the events of fate unfold, as they are already in motion.” He tilts his head down, eyes scanning the three cards. “But usually it’s a good sign, that when the wheel eventually stops, you will find yourself where you need to be. Altogether, this is a very positive reading. It’s saying that if you stay on the course you’re on, then good things will come to you, monsieur. Very good things.”

Only when he finishes speaking does Lucas glance up, checking the young man’s reaction, and once again he finds himself shocked, because the young man doesn’t look smug, like many people who get a positive reading would be. He doesn’t look excited. He’s crying. Silently and reservedly but there it is, thin tears trickling down his cheeks to his chin.

He catches Lucas’ gaze, and he laughs at himself, something Lucas is realizing is a character trait of his, immediately going for self-depreciation whenever anyone takes notice of him. He wipes away his tears, smiling softly.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his eyes moving between Lucas’ face and the cards. His cheeks are a mesmerizing shade of pink. “I…don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s alright,” Lucas says softly. The cloak of Lucien de la Lune is pooling at his feet, fallen completely away from his body, and it is just Lucas Lallemant sitting there, fighting the urge to cover the young man’s hand with his own. To soother. To comfort. “Many people cry during their readings.”

“I suppose it’s that I haven’t had very much good news lately.” The man’s smile takes on a melancholic shape, his eyes low. “It is…a bit overwhelming, when you’re in the dark, to have someone telling you eventually you will find light.”

Lucas doesn’t know what darkness a man like the one across from him could experience. Born wealthy, coming into an inheritance, strangely beloved by his tenants, gifted with a beauty that makes Lucas’ breath catch. What darkness could such a person face?

The tenderness that was blooming in Lucas’ heart is battling with bitter argument, with the desire to bite out, Have you ever slept on the street, monsieur? Stolen scraps for your meals? Have you ever had to sell everything you own, then be faced with selling yourself?

But the bare face he’s wearing must say some of that for him, as the young man frowns, his brow furrowing.

“I am sorry,” he says again, rubbing a hand through his hair, mussing the neat strands. “You must have no wish to hear the worries of businessmen.”

“I hear them every day,” Lucas says. “It’s my job.”

The young man shakes his head. “It’s your job to tell people what they hope for, is it not? To give reassurance.”

Lucas leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “I don’t give anything,” he says, a touch tartly. “The cards are chosen by you. I only interpret them.”

“Well.” The young man runs a finger across the Wheel of Fortune card, tracing the edges of the image. “I think you are magic.”

The word makes Lucas balk for a moment, his fingers clenching at the sleeves of his shirt, but the man doesn’t look accusatory when he says it, doesn’t look like he means it any way other than innocent, the way a child might when they see a snowfall on Christmas.

Magic.

“Well,” Lucas says, propping his elbows on the table, mimicking the man’s tone. “I think you are a romantic.”

The man grins. “Is that a bad thing to be?”

Lucas tilts his head from side to side, humming. “It is not a practical thing to be.”

“But it’s necessary, don’t you think?” The man asks, his voice so soft it floats across the table like feathers. “To have love and beauty and romance in times like these? To have sweet things to live for?”

Lucas’ voice comes out as steel. “Many people can’t afford to live for sweet things. They live only to survive.”

The man is quiet at that, chastised, considering Lucas with those bright eyes. Lucas doesn’t shy away from his gaze. He lets his words hang between them, lets them resonate with this lovely, sheltered person, with his money and prophesied success.

“You’re right.” The man huffs a breath and leans back. “It is a naïve outlook, I know. One based only in privilege.” He squints down at the table. “And in ignorance. In not knowing enough about the world. But that is something about myself I’m trying to change.”

“The desire for change is good,” Lucas says. “But it’s the embracing of its reality that is important.” He picks up the three cards on the table and returns them to the deck, shuffling the fan together in his hands. He’s frustrated by how intrigued he is by this man, how his pretty words are piercing so deeply into Lucas’ head. He can’t remember the last time he wanted to get to know someone so badly, to uncover all of their secrets, to sink beneath their chest and see their heart for himself, to taste the heavy beating of it.

His hand slips, and a few cards spill onto the floor.

Lucas curses under his breath, and the man dives down, retrieving the cards from the floor. He brushes each one off carefully, stacking them back into a neat pile to hand to Lucas.

When Lucas takes them, his fingers brush against the man’s. Only for a moment, the briefest touch of skin against skin, but it’s enough to make Lucas’ skin flare up, the place they touched burning as brightly as that place deep in his chest. Lucas snatches his hand away, holding the cards close to himself like they can protect him from the dizzying sensation of those warm, gentle fingers pressed against his own.

Lucas is about to open his mouth to order the man to leave, because there’s only so much he can take of this enthralling, endearing young man who may or may not have been foretold as a knight in shining armour to Lucas, a literal romantic hero sweeping into his midnight-blue room with bight eyes and the outlook of a poet. It should be hilarious, this storybook person who has come to life, so completely different from everything Lucas is, but more than anything, it’s overwhelming. It’s exhausting to be in the same room as him.

“Can I ask you something?” The young man is standing at the side of the table, his fingers spread wide on the top of it.

Lucas narrows his eyes. “I suppose.“

“Lucien de la Lune. That isn’t your real name.”

Lucas snorts, setting the deck down again. “Of course it isn’t.”

“Will you tell me your real name?”

It’s not the first time someone has asked Lucas this, so he has his standard answer ready: a flat, apathetic, “No.”

The man nods like he was expecting this. He presses one hand against his chest, over the burgundy tie knotted there. “I’ll tell you mine.”

Lucas raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t ask for yours, did I?”

“No,” he says on laugh. “You didn’t, but I would like you to know it, if that’s alright.”

Lucas shrugs instead of protesting. He never asks for client’s names, ever. Because it makes them feel secure and he really doesn’t care, but he doesn’t tell this young man, not to tell him, because there’s a corner of his mind where he thinks he really wouldn’t mind knowing.

“It’s Eliott. Eliott Demaury.”

He says it nervously, as nervous as he was when he first entered the room, and Lucas bites back on a smile as he stands from his chair.

“Well, Monsieur Demaury,” he says pleasantly, “thank you for coming today. I hope your fortune was to your liking.” Standing so close to him, within the confines of his room, Lucas becomes at once aware of how much taller Demaury is than him. Lucas has to tilt his head back slightly to meet his eyes.

“It certainly was.” Demaury replies, just as courteously. “Thank you, Monsieur de la Lune.” He draws the name out with a smile, and Lucas shoots him a withering glance as he fetches his belongings from the rack by the entrance.

Lucas watches as Demaury slips into his fine coat, clasping his hat between his hands and looking all the part of a gentleman—the sort of man Lucas would expect to see at the opera, or dining at Foyot. He does not look like the sort of man who would cry from hearing there is good news in his future.

Demaury lingers by the entrance to Lucas’ room, scuffing one polished shoe against the floor and fiddling with his hat, and Lucas finds he doesn’t mind. He’s not sure if he wants him to leave either. He thinks he might want him to stay around, to discover if he really could be the knight in the cards. If there’s some part of him that could be meant for Lucas.

But there’s the sound of laughter at the end of the hall accompanying heavy footsteps, and Demaury startles, turning towards Lucas to make a clumsy bow, placing his hat back ono his head.

“Thank you,” he says. “Again. I…well, I hope to see you again. Sometime.”

“You could always return for another reading.” Lucas says, following Demaury outside of the room. He stops in the doorway, holding the curtain aside and clenching the thick velvet in his hand to centre himself, to make his voice even. “Perhaps your future will change.”

Demaury smiles, head tilting down towards the floor. He sticks his hands in his pockets, a boyish gesture at odds with his gentlemanly exterior. “I really hope it doesn’t change, actually. But…I suppose it is good to check, isn’t it?”

Lucas bites back a grin. “Yes, it is.”

“Alright.” Eliott takes a step backwards, turning on the spot. “Then I will, um…yes. Alright. Yes. Have a…pleasant day, Lucien.”

It comes out before Lucas even thinks of it, the desire to hear his own name in that honeyed voice overpowering the practical, rational side of his brain like an oceanic wave.

“Lucas,” he says quietly. Demaury whirls back towards him, mouth open in surprise. “You may call me Lucas.”

“Lucas,” Demaury says, and his mouth holds the letters are carefully and reverently as he held the cards, as though he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch such things.

Lucas is holding the curtain so tightly now he thinks there may be a real possibility he will rip it down. The burning in his chest has spread into his entire body, humming with something that feels a bit like magic, but also feels entirely separate from it.

“Have a pleasant day, Lucas.” Demaury whispers, and he’s smiling so sweetly at Lucas, his eyes crinkling, that Lucas lets one out in return. Just one small smile, only for one moment.

“Have a pleasant day, Monsieur Demaury.” He replies, and he watches as Demaury turns away, taking a few steps down the hallway before turning back towards Lucas, huffing a laugh when his eyes land on him and turning once again, towards the entrance of the theatre, and he disappears from sight, his footsteps swallowed up by the sounds of laughter and excited voices as people come and go within the theatre, searching for entertainment or searching for their future or searching for the very thing they did not know they would find.

Lucas exhales and steps back into his room. It feels different in there after Demaury, like the room itself is holding memory of his shape, of his presence. Lucas goes to the corner table and knocks back the rest of his tea, the remaining whiskey a welcome burn in his throat. He takes a large bite from a biscuit and chews slowly, thoughtfully, paces a circle around the room like he’s walking in a dream.

He stops in front of the round table, where the deck of cards sits like a northern star, pulling him forwards, leading him somewhere he cannot see.

He pops the rest of the biscuit into his mouth and picks the deck up, shutting his eyes and he shuffles, letting the energy of the cards guide every movement, every brush and slide of paper against paper. It’s a whirlwind of sensation behind his eyes, sounds and colours and feeling, but then there’s ah, there’s something, and Lucas plucks out a card, dropping it down onto the table.

He opens his eyes.

Not the Knight of Cups. Not what he was, possibly, expecting.

But the very thing he should have been expecting.

A circle with archaic symbols etched into its surface, each corner of the card occupied by a winged creature with watchful eyes. An unexpected turn of events. Fate being pushed into motion.

The Wheel of Fortune.

A laugh bursts out of Lucas, one that’s long and lingers and is full of wonder rather than spite, tapering off to giggles that shake his shoulders.

He sighs, running a finger along the card the same way Demaury did, as though touching the same edges of the wheel will feel like touching Demaury’s hand again.

“I see you’ve given up on subtlety altogether,” Lucas says. He says it to the cards, to the universe, to the magic in his bones and the great magnet that tugs the chains of fate along the surface of the Earth. He says it to all of them at once.

He lets out another laugh, at the impossibility of it all, at the wheel staring back at him so intently from the table, promising changes Lucas himself could never have predicted.

We are in motion.

#you're so sweet anon ily 💛💛💛💛#i loved working on this prompt so thank you for sending it in!!!#my research for the fic consisted of a solid hour of looking up paintings from la belle epqoue #which was amazing #but that being said if anyone catches any historical inaccuracies (there will likley be some let's be real) i'm happy to make edits!!#tarot prompts #prompt fill #fic tag #elu fic #skam fr fanfic #skam fr #skam france

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day-en-las-nubes · 5 years ago

Text

Run

Warnings: A very healthy dose of Angst in the beginning, Smut, Explicit, 18+

Bucky X Reader

The heat - implacable and sweltering - like only mid-days in Havana could be.

The streets that led to our meeting's location, loaded with street vendors, dilapidated cars, and colorfully cheerful natives.

Sweat pooled down my back - sticking to my shirt - as I followed our commanding officer through the crowded, sunny streets.

Our team was comprised of four. We didn't truly know each other too well. None of us had exchanged more than a wave here and there; a furtive glance in some hallway, perhaps. We all served under my fiance. Our shared unyielding loyalty toward him being pretty much the only thing we had in common when we were chosen.

Patrick was his name, and he would've been here if he weren't keeping us safe from a distance. His face too known amongst the opposite faction to join us in the field.

"We should be close now." Leandra, our curly-haired, beautifully dark-skinned leader announced. The smirk on her face so camouflaged, anyone would've guessed she was talking about any other matter; her garden, favorite pet...anything, except the high-stake operation to infiltrate the dictatorship we were currently on.

But any of us could pass for just a pack of clueless tourists, really. Well...almost any of us.

They called him Bucky and he stayed a couple of steps behind. His years as a soldier were too blatantly established in the unflinching expression he kept on his face. In his persona overall.

Even when he was out of his uniform and wearing a pair of your everyday worn jeans and a simple red T-shirt, his background prevailed so unmistakably, even the locals - who made eye contact with the rest of us often as we trekked down the broken sidewalk - avoided looking at him for too long.

Intimidating or not, a part of me felt safe with him trailing behind. All stoic and mysterious. Dark hair damped with sweat. Strong, yet gentle upon approach, and the more time I spent around him the more I understood the reasons why my fiance trusted him with his life. With all our lives too.

There was something in the way he kept watch - like a disciplined, dependable defender who would stop at nothing to keep his pack secure.

I. felt. Protected. Around. Bucky.

Or at least that's how my mind translated the relieved, yet agitated warmth inside my chest in regards to him.

Here at last.

My body welcomed the shade provided by the rundown loaf, located on the third floor of an even more rundown building. After drinking a gallon of water, we all scattered around, exchanging hellos with the troop that was housed there. The ones we were there to eventually replace.

Their commanding officer - a blonde, muscular, all-American strategist - stood by the old pool table that sat right across from the two equally worn leather couches in the living room. We hadn't been there an hour and he was already readying himself to put us all up to speed.

Everyone plummeted onto the nearby couches. Leandra joined her fellow leader by the empty pool table - smile still in place. This smile, however, wasn’t the kind she used in front of the locals. This smile held a guarded, adept connotation to it. Moments ago she had been the carefree tourist, roaming the streets of Havana, but now she was all business even if the same hints of friendliness were still very much present.

I grasped my still damp, long, blonde hair, and cast it over the back of the couch. The coolness of the leather relieved my scorching, sun-burned back.

My feet were also throbbing from the walk. My skin felt sticky; glistening as a result of dried-out sweat - a characteristic all of us had in common.

As I became more relaxed, my body began to sink in the soft leather surface while I waited for them to start. The little shift next to me alerted me about the presence of Bucky, who sat stealthily next to me.

Having anyone else so close would've been uncomfortable under such circumstances. There's was a lot of feelings of self-consciousness that came with being this stickily damp and oily.

But strangely, I didn't mind his proximity, at the very contrary. The strange urge to socialize with Bucky - show him some kindness even - was stronger than any insecurity I could harbor about my flushed appearance.

Attempting to greet him with a smile he seemed to have ignored I gave up hope and sunk my eyes to my fidgety fingers.

But when they finally started going over the assignment, I found myself discretely gazing back toward Bucky's profile. His chin was unshaven and his hair was shaggy - well past his ears. His eyes were blue and so focused I wondered if those eyes were capable of any tenderness. If they kept secret emotions in recondite corners. Was that mouth capable of softening for a kiss besides its usual hard-line state?

Inundated with so many questions. Lost in him like I was, my hand - guided merely by instinct - reached out to return a stray lock of black hair that has escaped from its place, behind his ear; the contact startling him in the process.

As soon as his bewildered eyes met mine, I got smacked with the answers to all my questions at once.

There was an inextinguishable flame in those irises. It was dark and raging, yet it was well hidden. Overlapped by something that evoked a sense of sincerity and kindness. With one glimpse he had me shuddering and stirring and even though I was fully conscious I had to push my attention elsewhere, I was utterly frozen. My will power buried under the shocking sensations his proximity was awakening in me.

Why did his eyes dip furtively to my lips?

Was he feeling all this too?

There was something so intimate, so lewd in the way we were just gawking at each other that tasted as wicked as if he were inside me at that very moment.... and in a way he was.

His eyes had taken me in a way I had never been taken before.

What was happening?

Was this case of 'curiosity got killed the cat,' and in my search for Bucky’s essence I had found more than I had bargained for?

It took the smack of our leaders' fist against wood for me to be able to untangle myself from Bucky's alluring gaze.

Something had gone wrong. By the look of their faces, our commanding officers seemed to have received an encoded message on the laptop that laid on the pool table behind them.

We found out later the orders consisted of us staying longer than anticipated, so we were ordered to stay put until further instructions.

For the time being, it was decided for us to work on sleeping arrangements for the upcoming weeks.

There were only three bedrooms in the old hideaway house. About ten of us in total. So we split into groups of three for each bedroom. One of us was to always take the night shift in case of a last-minute, major transmission during those hours. So we started a rotation system.

Leandra, Bucky and I were assigned to one of the bedrooms, while the rest split up and settled in the remaining ones.

There was only one bed in each bedroom, so Leandra and I decided to share it after Bucky volunteered to sleep on the floor, next to Leandra.

The following days I did the best I could to keep my distance from Bucky, an impossible feat in such a tight space.

I wouldn't allow myself to look at him in the eye again. Not after the couch incident. I was not available. I belonged to another man, and as much as my heart fluttered at night when everyone else was sleeping and I would hear Bucky's breathing I had to force myself to sober up.

I wasn't there to hook up, I was there because it was my job and because the man whose ring shone on my finger that entrusted me with it and keeping that in mind blocked everything else out during most of our stay, so I grew more and more confident on my willpower's endurance.

That was until the next time I came in actual contact with Bucky.

It was during one of our daily meetings, exactly four days after our arrival. He had sat in his usual spot - next to me on the couch. And I didn't move when he sat down because by then I was certain about my impending success.

I was leaning forward - body almost completely sticking out of the coach, except for my behind. Elbows secured on top of my knees. Chin propped on the heel of my hand while I held a pencil in the other.

I was confident, yes, but not dumb enough to risk reclining myself back there, in the intimacy of it all, where he was.

He kept his broad back sunken in the back of the couch. Legs stretched out in front of him and he must've found the very tiny sliver of skin between my jeans and my tank top, because his finger swept alongside it, making me break out in goosebumps unexpectedly.

I couldn't bring myself to move from it, nor turn my head back to look at him. The texture of his finger felt rough, yet its back-and-forward motions were delicate. With each stroke, the air became more and more difficult for my hyperventilating lungs to catch.

I scanned the room, paranoia taking the best of me, but everyone seemed enthralled in the dissertation. Too distracted to notice Bucky's finger gliding on the inch of bare skin.

Swallowing thickly, I finally dared look at him. His eyes were fixed where index met skin. My frail protests dying as soon as I discovered the sensual way his bottom lip was caught between his pearly white teeth. I envied them. I wished it were my teeth biting into those rosy, fleshy lips.

So when the gathering was over, I shot up from that couch so fast, I ended up drawing all eyes on me - on the abrupt manner I stood up and darted toward the bedroom, where I stayed until the embarrassment had almost worn off and I knew it was safe.

And on the fifth night, when it was my turn to stay up and keep watch I realized I was finally no longer jittery from Bucky's touch - I headed toward the deserted living room.

Wrapping my hair up in a lazy bun; jeans on - in case we were found out and forced to go on the run in the middle of the night. - and black tank top.

I made myself a cup of Cuban coffee and plumped myself on one of the leather couches - not the sinful, furthest one, where I had tucked Bucky's hair behind his ear and he had caressed the edge of my hip - but the 'safe' one. The one that was going to keep my mind focused and my thoughts chaste.

I checked for messages on the laptop, placing the cup of steaming liquid on the vintage coffee table carefully next to it. There was only one light on, the dining room light to my left. It offered all the brightness needed without disturbing the others.

On my right, the hallway that led to the three bedrooms remained pitch black. It was there in the shadows, where he stood.

I knew it was him because of the gravity of his steel-blue eyes. The aura of masculinity I had come to recognize whenever he entered a room.

If he knew how fragile my state of mind was when he was this close he wouldn't be here

...or would he?

"Can't sleep?" I busied my mouth with yet another sip of coffee and kept my eyes glued to the laptop screen upon his approach.

"Not at all," he answered. Simplistic as they were, his words concealed within them a secret chamber to very different interpretations.

Interpretations such as 'I knew you would be here and I wanted you' or 'I couldn't take this anymore and had to find you.'

Perhaps these were words I myself was projecting unto him. My own deepest, most reproachable urges. My aching yearning to descend into the abyss of his eyes again.

Had it all been in my head?

Maybe he was here for a glass of water?

Some companionship, perhaps?

After all, Bucky was a man of a few words, it was his eyes the ones that spoke volumes; so when he sat next to me and I felt brave enough to dive into them, the shadow of what would happen made itself known.....still I didn't flee.

I stayed.

"Have you heard from your fiance?" he asked. Testing the waters, perhaps?

I shook my head - my body coming alive the way it did when his fingers had graced my skin.

"We can't do this, Y/N. You know we can't," he continued without looking at me.

Was my face so easy to read?

"I know," I mumbled for lack of more eloquent things to say, but as he tried to stand up from the couch, our faces had come a little too close from one another.

Things could be manageable at a distance, but his mouth had been at a dangerous range, and my lips had launched towards his lips.

My hands clasped the sides of this scruffy jaw to keep him in place and there was such savagery to the kiss it wasn't even a kiss, but the merciless collision of two mouths against each other. There was no tenderness, no slowing down - only the need for his tongue inside my mouth and the urgency to swallow his flavor; to drink it viciously as if my own life depended on it.

There was no concern for being caught, no regard toward our fellow officers who laid, oblivious, in the adjacent bedrooms. There was just the overwhelming need for fulfillment, and nothing could get in the way of that.

Lowering my jeans with one rough, swift yank he exposed my creamy legs. A pause. Avid eyes followed the contours of them. I propelled my torso forward - fingernails scratching his hips as I slip his dark sporty pants down. He lowered himself to me allowing me to take a peek over his shoulder. My eyes followed the curve of his tan back, all the way down to the top half of his ass - an area that the fabric of his pants hadn't gotten to conceal.

He lifted one of my legs, then the other and after they were both secured on his shoulders, he plunged into my dripping passage.

I clung to his neck, taking him in. Pain and delight - the most potent cocktail I had ever ingested - one I knew after that day I wouldn’t be able to get enough of.

The raw angst that had been pushing us day by day into utter madness. Madness for each other's flesh, for each other's mouths. That same madness that had morphed into the force propelling his every movement - making their deliverance almost too impatient.

My hips matched his pace - just as eager - bucking unbridledly to engage him fully. The dense expanses of him sinking in the velvety depths of me, again and again... faster and faster.

And when his mouth came down on mine again, that's when I lost all footing with anything else around me except for him.

A rush from within worked its way down, tearing through all my senses and shaking me to the core; dampening him and the coach. I bit hard on his lip in an unconscious attempt to drag him toward the blissful wave. The same wave that had led me to the highest peak, and with his deepest thrust yet, he too came undone.

A few minutes had passed when he slipped out of me. His damp forehead rested on my chest and I found within me no guilt. No remorse.

The achiness between my legs the most delightful reminder of a moment my only ambition was to memorize.

Permeating my nose, his scent. The silkiness of his inky, plentiful hair slid between my fingertips as they glided slowly through it.

Perking his head up, he raised an inquisitive hand toward my stomach and lifted my tank top until my nipple was uncovered; his lips closed in on it, making my skin burn and stir. His cock hardened against my thigh - every nerve ending recharged by newfound flames as a response. My tongue wet my lips in preparation for yet another blissful fix. But the ecstasy was short lived.

The motions of his lips came to a halt when the incoming message's beeping sound emerged noisily on the laptop.

That damn laptop.

Its insistence forced us back to reality. He sat back up and throwing a concerned glance toward me, he transferred the device from the table to his lap.

"It's from Patrick," revealed Bucky as he clicked on the unread message. I joined him. My arm snaking around his waist, my mouth trailing his shoulder.

And upon the descend of my eyes toward the screen....I saw.

The message was composed of but a single word.

One that held enough power to send us both into the utmost panic.

Three little letters that would've meant nothing to other people. Three little letters that combined read:

"Run."

@dani11708 @kyber-hearts-and-stardust-souls @crazyxwritings @candlestudy @crazychaotic @solei28 @calwitch @yndaree @scuzmunkie @ryleejones0612 @lost-in-memories-and-space @agirlonline @littlestarkgone @sebbbystaaan @panicfob @lwtficrecs @imjustlaurafromholland

#bucky x you #bucky angst #bucky barns imagine #bucky barnes #bucky #bucky smut #sebastian stan #sebastian stan imagine #smut #explict

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