#a slightly untidy room was a must

[vultursvolans]

(click on image for better quality)

Her room was a portrait of his longing. Books left askew. Pages crumpled in haste. Clothes forgotten in his rush to reach her. At long last, the scribe had no need for ink or quill. For in the warmth of her hands, he was reconciled with something words could never capture.

Commission by @/Puri24A on twt. Do not save or repost.

[auroras-secrets]

𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮

pairing: tangerine x reader

tw: blood, injury, mention of toxic ex, subtle mention of sex, cussing, pain, not proof-read :(

message: to the ones who wish to be loved even when you have no strength to express it.

1.8K words

At the late hour of two, the only sounds were the jingle of keys and rain pounding against the concrete. You'd be thinking, why is someone coming home at 2 in the morning?

But that was the norm for Tangerine. He had just come back from a 2 day trip, and instead of going back this own house, he ended up at your doorstep. You peeped your head through the door of your bedroom and watched the front door twist open.

Once the door opened and Tangerine walked in, his hair all over the place and damp, his suit untidy and bloodied with wet patches on his shoulder and back, his face exhausted, he dropped his bag onto the floor and shut the door softly. 

Your shoulders relaxed at the sight of him, knowing you were safe and not about to be killed. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and walked out the room in your pyjamas. Which consisted of a silk lacy tank top and pants that were of the same material. 

Tangerine walked up to the cabinet, grabbed a glass and filled it up with cold water from the fridge. He downed the water and set the glass on the counter. He leaned against the counter, exhausted, not noticing you yet. 

"Tan?" You whispered as you watched his movements. He jumped slightly and his head snapped to you. 

"Oh did I wake you doll? 'm so sorry" Tangerine apologised as he looked at his girlfriend. You shook your head and walked up to him, wrapping your arms around his waist. 

"Darlin' I'm covered in sweat and blood" He sighed as he resisted his urges to engulf you in a hug and never let go. 

"Don't care, missed you" You said simply and hugged him tighter. His urges were too strong for his superego, he wrapped his arms around you and squeezed you tight. 

"Missed you more" He mumbled against your hair as he kissed the top of your head. You pulled away from the hug and he looked at you, his hands on your arms, the skin so soft compared to his. 

"You must be tired?" You asked more than said as you held his hands, playing with his rings. He let out a sigh. 

"You have no idea" He mumbled as he watched your gaze go from his face to his hand when you felt something mushy. You looked at his hands and your eyes widened. You fingers had just gone over a huge cut on his hand, a cut where blood was still spurring out. 

"Oh God" You whispered as you looked at both of his hands. Both bruised up, purple, blue and red with blood either dried or wet. He looked at at his hands with you, he hadn't even noticed. 

"Come here" You said, letting one hand go softly and guiding him to the elevated seats on the kitchen counter. You patted the seat, telling him to sit down. He did as told. You put both his hands on the counter to analyse. 

"'s nothin', I barely felt it" Tangerine shrugged trying to calm you, the look of worry on your face worried him, but it also made him feel some type of way. Felt like he was cared for, felt like he was needed. Gave him a sense of belonging. 

"Shh" You said sharply and went over the cuts with your finger, as if your touch would take them away. You winced slightly as you went over a splinter. 

"How the fuck?" You whispered softly and looked up at him, he was looking at you, he shrugged. 

"Don't know, sometimes just happens" He said. You squint your eyes at him slightly and got off you chair. 

"Wait here, I'll be back" You said and disappeared into the guest restroom that was connected to the living room. Tangerine watched you leave. Usually he'd just wash the wounds with water and call it a day, but seeing the look on your face when you saw his wounds made him upset. Made him regret being so careless on the mission. 

He wanted to go back and tell himself to be more careful. Just to make sure he never had to see the look on your face. You came out of the restroom with a first aid kit and sat next to him. You opened the kit on the counter and took out tweezers, cotton buds, alcohol, and a cream. 

"Is g'na hurt a bit yea?" You said and grabbed his hand softly. Cleaning the tweezers before putting it against his skin to take the piece of wood or metal —whatever it was, you couldn't quite guess what it was— out. 

He winced slightly as the sharp part poked his other wound. 

"Sorry" You gasped softly and tried to be careful with him. Touching his hand, treating him as if he was a piece of glass. He had never been treated that way. 

Lemon was his brother and he had obviously seen Tangerine cry but they never talked about it after, and vice versa. A pat on the back was the softest thing that they got from each other, and that alone meant the world to Tangerine. 

But this, the way your soft hand carressed his wounds, the way you winced everytime your finger went over a cut as if you could feel his pain — it made Tangerine's heart warm. It made him feel gooey and mushy on the inside. 

You dabbed a cotton bud in the alcohol and before you dabbed it on his skin, you turned to look at him. Where his gaze that was once on you, quickly shifted to look at his hand. 

"This ones gunna sting a bit" You whispered, his gaze went to your face (again).

"Nothin' I can't handle" He shrugged. You went back his hand and dabbed the cotton bud on his wounds. The wound stung but all he could think about was you. 

How beautiful you looked. You hair that was once probably in a proper firm plait, now a loose one with strays all over. Some strays falling in front of your face. You mouth slightly open, breathing through it because of how much you were concentrating. 

You looked ethereal. 

You are ethereal. 

He admired the way you cared, the way your empathy ran through you like it was the main component of your blood. The way you smiled at him, the way you'd laugh at his jokes, the way you'd kiss him, the way your hair would feel when he ran his hand through his hair. 

He was obsessed and he was not afraid to admit it. 

He says he isn't afraid but is he really? 

All his past lovers were nothing but simple fucks. Nothing but a hook up. He had never stayed long enough to feel the way he feels with you. Initially he thought about leaving, but the thought of leaving you, you, of all people. 

Made him want to hang himself for ever thinking of such a thing. 

"Okay now, I just need to put the cream on" You said, more to yourself, but it broke him out of his thoughts. He felt a wave of confidence, a wave of invincibility crashing against his feeling of doubt. 

Now, Tangerine was a brave man, he could wrestle a bear and win if he wanted to. But to admit that he cared for someone as deeply as he cares about you? Now that could make him piss his pants. 

"Y/n" He said softly. It was now, or never. You stopped your actions —opening the tube of cream— and looked at him. 

"Hmm?" You hummed, telling him to continue, a strand of hair coming on front of your face. 

"I... uh" He started but coughed awkwardly. You furrowed your brows but smile nonetheless, urging him to continue. He saw the smile on his face and felt as if it gave him strenghth. 

"I love you" He said, he meant for it to be a bold declaration, but for some reason, it came out as a whisper. Your breath was caught in your throat. You felt as if you could jump in joy and do laps around the house. But you said nothing, letting out the breath that was stuck in your throat. 

You gave him a soft smile, your eyes saying all that needed to be said, and you turned back to his hand to continue. No one had ever said that they loved you. At least not while you were fully clothed. He knew that. 

That's what made your reaction so much better. He thought that you would push him away and never speak to him again, but it was quite the opposite. He didn't feel defeated when the answer he was faced with was silence. 

No, he felt like he was on cloud 9.

He knew about your past. About how your ex boyfriend had used you for your body and would emotionally abuse you for being the way that you are. Kind, caring, loving. 

He would only tell you that he loved you when you were naked and giving him your body — whether you wanted to or not. He only cared about himself. Not only did he use you for his own ego, he also used multiple other people, while dating you, hence, cheating on you. 

Tangerine knew how much it meant to you, to be fully clothed, and feel loved. He also knew that you needed time. So he would give you as long as you needed. He would wait until the world ended if that's how long you needed. 

What's great about it was that you knew. You knew he didn't want to rush you, he didn't mean it in any other way other than pure pragma —love not of lust, but of understanding

"Oh look at what I got the other day" You said excitedly after closing the tube and putting it back into the first aid kit, and picking something out of it. 

"Thomas the Tank Engine band-aids!" You gleamed and showed him the box of band-aids with pride. He let out a soft laugh; it seemed as if he could never escape Thomas. 

"They're very cute, love" He smiled at you and used one of his hands to push the strand of hair behind your ear.

Love. Love. Love.

Your heart warmed at the nickname. He had never called you love before. Doll, darling, beautiful, sweetheart — but never love. It felt right. Felt natural. 

"Thank you" You smiled as you took three band-aids out and peeled the sticker off them and placed them softly atop his wounds. 

"All done" You smiled, softly running your fingers over the band aids. You brought his hands up to your lips and kissed the bain-aids and the scratches one by one. He watched you, eyes full of nothing but adoration, and love. 

You may not have said it, but he knew for a fact: he had never felt so loved. 

fin.

a/n: can you guys tell i'm a med student? no? THAT'S BECAUSE I'M NOT. FUCK MODERN MEDICINE!! (i say this as i grab another paracetamol pill)

tangerine masterlist: liked this? read more!

[strugglingwriterwattpad]

Regulus Black Teaser

Year one 1972-1973 11-12

“Stop staring regulus is very unbecoming! Filthy half-bloods” Regulus’ mother spoke with venom. The young first-year couldn’t help himself. the girl clutching onto her brother's arm was beautiful to him. baby cheeks flushed rose with nerves a light dusting of dents and scratches decorated her face very similar to her brother's own. He knew of the Lupins from Sirius over the summer. The older black had given his brother a full rundown of his friends. There was James Potter who couldn’t wait to be on the quidditch team, Peter Pettigrew wanted to be just like Sirius and James, and finally Remus Lupin a very intelligent boy with a love for chocolate. Sirus had mentioned that a younger lupin would also be joining Regulus’ year. But he failed to mention just how pretty she would be. Regulus quickly obeyed his mother feeling the burn of her angry stare towards him. “don’t even think about talking to her regulus black I will not have our blood tainted by their traitor.” She growled.

(Y/N) jade lupin followed her brother onto the train after a long farewell from her father. She wished her mother was there also, but the growing fear of the dark lord and his followers made it impossible for her to be safe on the platform. “what if I don’t make friends Remus?” she stuttered watching her brother take their cases and place them in the sturdy storage above their heads. “you’re worrying too much (Y/N). even if you don’t make friends for a bit, you have me. My friends know about me, so they’ll also be willing to help you.” She nodded her head slightly before a blur of silver caught her gaze. An open bar of muggle chocolate. “calm down and eat some.”  

Remus was a pale-faced pre-teen also covered in scars. His hair was light brown hair that, was already starting to go grey from his ‘illness’. Stress can do a lot to a witch or wizard. (Y/N) knew it was only a matter of time the silver jumped to her hair. “finally got away!” the siblings quickly locked eyes on the boy barging into the carriage like a herd of wildebeest. Sirius black. (y/N) could never deny Sirius was handsome. Dark luscious curls that just touched his shoulders with matching dark eyes filled with mischief. Next to tumble in was James potter. He was very similar to Sirius, James was a tall, thin boy with hazel eyes and untidy black hair that stuck up at the back. The final boy to enter the compartment was Peter Pettigrew. He was the largest of the group and the shortest with mousy brown hair and silver eyes. “well, well well this must be the little lupin we’ve heard so much about!” James seemed extremely ecstatic to meet (Y/N) shaking her hand hard. “it’s nice to meet you all.” she stuttered smiling brightly at their welcoming personalities. This was going to be a very interesting year indeed.

The great hall was everything Remus had described. The ceiling was filled with beautiful night sky stars twinkling down like it was real. Floating candles scattered around flickering brightly. The whole room was filled with students all watching the first years as they entered. “now when I call your name,” Professor McGonagall began, “I shall place the sorting hat on your head, and you shall be sorted into your houses.” (Y/N) could instantly tell the professor cared for her students her stern expression fought with her floaty voice of passion and upper-class education. “regulus black.” (Y/N) watched as a boy walked towards the stool almost nervous. Instantly she could tell he was a pureblood. The young boy stood as straight as a pencil nothing seemed imperfect. His curly hair was styled with no frizz or kinks, his face clean of freckles dirt or imperfections of any kind. The only thing she could see of any difference to purebloods was his eyes. They swirled with every natural colour possible. But something so bright and vibrant was clouded with a layer of grey mist an emotionless gaze. The boy sat gracefully on the stool as the sorting hat was placed on top of his head. “Slytherin!” the hat barely brushed his hard curls before screeching the ‘dark house’. (Y/N) watched as he walked towards the emerald, green table still no emotions. “(Y/N) Lupin!”

Regulus watched the girl from the train. He didn’t blink, he didn’t move. He finally got a better look at the tiny girl from the station. And he was captivated. He had never seen a child so small and dainty. She still had an amount of baby fat on her cheeks like an innocent chipmunk. Her hair was tied in a braid low to the neck with light wisps of baby hair framing her face. But her eyes were the best part of Regulus. In contrast to his murky eyes, hers with bright and full of wonder, like a kaleidoscope. “now here's a challenge!” the hat murmured cackling as the girl bit her pink lips. “so many traits for such a small child. The intelligence of a Ravenclaw, the bravery of a Gryffindor, the loyalty of a Hufflepuff…but the ambition that radiates from you girl. Better be Slytherin!”

The portion of the table Regulus sat on snickered and laughed as the small girl walked towards the table. She sat down slowly away from everyone out of fear. He couldn’t blame her. “look at the little duckling. She couldn’t hurt a fly.” Bellatrix snickered towards Lucius and Narcissa. “she's gonna be eaten alive. Filthy half-blood.” Regulus knew his first year was going to be very strange.

[themoonlovemuses]

All For A Good Cause (Professor Layton X Reader) Part 1

Summary: The day of the Charity Gala is finally upon you both. Having agreed to meet up to go together, you make your way to his, wondering where the night will take you both.

☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆

A week later after walking home with the professor and arranging to meet up before the charity gala, you’re on your way to the Layton household. And the weather was not on your side to make this a night to remember for the professor. In true British fashion, the heavens decided to open their doors and rain quite heavily on the city of London. But nothing was going to stop you from making this a night to remember. After all, you had made a promise to your friend to help him relax tonight.

“A little rain never hurt anyone really,” You told yourself as you finally made it to the awning of the Professor’s home, making sure to close your trusty umbrella before knocking on the familiar door. Soon enough, the door creaked open to reveal a familiar head of light brown hair.

“Hello Luke! How are you? May I come in?” 

“Oh! Hi (Y/N)! Of course! Please come in!” Luke offered, stepping aside to let you into the professor’s apartment.

Once inside, you quickly took a look around the hallway. You had been in the apartment only a handful of times in the past. Mostly to wait on the professor and Luke on days when you all went out together. Normally to a museum exhibit you all wanted to see or to spend the day with Luke when the professor had important meetings to attend, so you hadn’t fully taken in what his home looked like. Looking around now, you could see it was easily a full extension of what his office looked like; a coat hanger and umbrella holder by the front door with a mirror to the side, a shelf with miscellaneous trinkets from his travels underneath. Bookshelves stuffed to the brim with archaeology textbooks, loose sheaf paper, and research journals. From your angle at the front door, you could just about peer into the living room too; a plush green sofa you could imagine sinking into with a good book, a roaring fire warming the house, and a coffee table scattered with tests he was scoring. “Untidy and yet feels like home.” you chuckled to yourself as you waited on the front door mat, not wanting to drip water into your friend's home.

“Is that you (Y/N)? I’ll just be a moment, and then we can go. We will just have to make a detour to Luke’s parent's house so they can look after him while we’re out. I hope that is ok?” A voice drifted from upstairs, seeming to have heard you and not wanting to leave you hanging.

“That’s quite alright Hershel, take your time! We’re ahead of schedule anyway!”

“You look nice (Y/N)! The professor said that you are going to a charity gala. What’s that like?” Luke asked, admiring your outfit as she did so. A glitzy affair you had in the back of your closet for special events like this.

“Well Luke, while it’s still at the university, it’ll be a slightly more posh affair. With all the school board attending to raise money for charity.”

“Oh yes, I saw that on the invitation the professor showed me. I hope the people of Haiti are ok! I can’t imagine what they must be going through!”

“I’m sure they will with the help from this event. But anyway, it’s a bit like a big party everyone’s donated to attend, filled with events and dancing.”

“Well, I hope you and the professor have a nice time! I hope one day I’ll be able to go to a charity gala too!” Luke exclaimed, trying to stand on his tip-toes and bow like a proper gentleman, causing you to giggle and check he was ok when he accidentally hit his head on the wall he was facing.

“I’m sure you will one day Luke. Apologies for making you wait dear. Shall we head off?” A familiar voice appeared out of nowhere. Turning around, you saw Hershel in all his glory; A finely tailored black tie suit with his signature hat and a silk tie to match. “Oh wow, he looks good. Really good!”

“Of course! Ready when you are! C’mon Luke!” You replied, turning around and heading out first, holding out your umbrella for the pair to join you under as you walked to the trusted Laytonmobile, hoping to hide your face in case he saw just how affected you were by his change from his usual attire.

With that, the three of you got into the Laytonmobile and drove off to the Trition Household, greeted by Luke as you dropped Flora off to be looked after while at the event. Some small talk was had with the Triton family for a while, Brenda complimenting you on your outfit and Clark teasing Hershel that he should be going to the Ritz instead of a university gala with what fine clothes he’s in this evening. Eventually, Brenda turned the Triton brood inside, allowing you and the professor to finally head off to Gressenheller.

“Hmm, traffic’s a little heavy with the latecomers going home from work, but we should still make it in time,” Hershel muttered, watching the road as we passed over London Bridge, the streetlights blurring with the heavy patter of the rain and the blinds working hard to maintain visual of the street. “But still, this should be an event to remember I believe, from what I’ve heard about the auction.”

“Oh yes, from what I heard the school board went above and beyond in donating items for the auction. I even heard that there’s a first edition of Homer’s Odyssey up for grabs tonight! If I can’t win anything tonight, I sure hope I can bid on that!”

“Hahaha! I thought that particular item might catch your fancy! Mrs Sinclair is a mythology lover too from the small handful of meetings I've had with her, and always up for sharing her love of it.”

“Oh dear, have I become that predictable already? I may have to shake things up and take an interest in something completely out of my usual scope to keep you on your toes… like flower-arranging.”

“Now now, there is nothing wrong with predictability. After all, if you're passionate about something you love, why would you not indulge in that and share your fascinations with the world.” He said, turning his head my way for a split second to show a kind smile before returning his eyes to the road.

“That's true. Besides, I'm not the only one who is predictable about what items on tonight's auction people would be interested in. After all, I can imagine you’re interested in the Azran tablet Dr Schrader has donated to the auction tonight. Must be a blast from the past from your previous adventures right?

“Hmm, it seems I too may have to branch out into different avenues if I have become this predictable to you too.”

“Oh hush Hershel. You and I both know that I wouldn’t have you any other way apart from how you are now.”

“Well, thank you (Y/N). It’s always nice to see

“But all seriousness aside, if you did pick another hobby to take up what would it be?”

“...Football.”

“Seriously!?!” You asked, turning in your seat to look at the man head-on, a hand covering the growing grin at the image of Hershel in a proper footballer’s kit, kicking a football up a pitch with the other team chasing him.

“Well, it does take good coordination and skill to be able to master those strategies the team manager creates. And it’s a great way to keep your cardio up. Why, don’t you think I’d make a great footballer?”

“You know what Hershel, I think you’d be a fantastic footballer. You already have the athleticism to keep up with the other players. Should be a cinch for you to pick up.”

“Well thank you (Y/N). Should I ever decide to switch careers in the future, I’ll make sure you’ll be the first one I send tickets to come see me. Anyway, we’ve arrived now.” He finishes, leaving you chuckling as he slides the Laytonmobile perfectly into a spare parking space.

Having entered the university five out of seven days a week for months now, you’re normally so used to the grounds that you don’t notice the finer details anymore. But looking at the building in the evening light, you can’t help but think of how magical it all looks tonight. String lights dangle across streetlights to entice visitors into the main doors. The windows filled with warm light and silhouettes of attendees, already having a great time mingling inside. The lawns are manicured to perfection and the trees sway in the breeze to produce a melodic sound to the chatter inside, just as the rain lets up from a downpour to a drizzle.

“Well, what luck! We won’t be drenched by the time we make it inside.” Hershel commented, getting out of the car and joining you on your side of the vehicle. “And (Y/N)...”

“Yes, Hershel?”

“You look wonderful tonight. Shall we?” He asked, smiling at you as he offered his hand out to you.

“We shall.” You responded, smiling up at him as you put your hand in his as he helped you out of the car. Holding the umbrella for the pair of you, you both made your way inside the building to see where this auction takes you both.

[tc-doherty]

Book One | Chapter One

Index | Next Chapter

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(Ask to be added or removed)

Knights all looked the same.

It had been years beyond counting since the last knight had dared Dragon's Keep, but from her place in the castle's tallest remaining tower she could tell that this one was no different from the others who had tried and failed over the years.

Her eyesight was better than a human's. Even from this height she could see that the steel armor encasing his arms and legs, well shined by some probably overworked squire, was scratched and dented. His surcoat was plain, with no heraldry in sight. The sword at his hip was gaudy, but the hilt was only gold leaf and glass gems, the latter cracked and the former beginning to flake. His destrier was red roan under its bulky iron barding, rather than the preferred white or black of older days.

He was a knight, but not a wealthy one. That was certainly why he was here.

Scattered bits of gold and silver lay around her feet. The hoard itself was behind her, the coins and gems, jewelry and weapons, crowns and idols and assorted other treasures that her mother had collected formed an untidy pile against the far wall. Coins clinked and chimed under her feet as she moved closer to the window. Slender brown fingers curled around the edge of the granite windowsill as she leaned forward and peered down at the knight below.

He had come to a stop. The horse shuddered and stamped one large hoof onto the dirt. The knight patted it idly on the neck to quiet it and lifted his visor – just enough to show pale skin, blue eyes, and a shock of golden hair.

From his point of view, the place must look abandoned. He had already passed the outer wall with its ivy-covered stones and the broken wrought iron gate hanging at an angle from busted hinges. The scene inside the walls was not any more welcoming.

She could picture what he was seeing, having played on these grounds her whole life. No carts had been by in so long that it took a dragon's eye to see the rutted dirt roads under encroaching grass and wildflowers. The bushes here and there stood large and untrimmed. Huge weathered chunks of stone lay scattered around the base of the tower where bits of wall had crumbled and gone unrepaired. The rest of the castle beyond the tower was in worse shape still. Most of the walls had toppled centuries ago and only the foundations remained.

All that only accounted for natural decay. There were also unmistakable signs of dragons. The air smelled slightly of smoke, copper, and the dry, cool scent of scales. Claw marks as deep as a man's hand adorned the trees and remaining walls. The ground at the tower's base was scorched black and had been artistically decorated with the bones of other foolish knights.

She smiled. That had been her touch, and she had sent many knights running with those bones alone.

Her work did not go unnoticed. The destrier saw the bones, smelled the air, and fidgeted. The knight, intentionally or otherwise, ignored the signs. He urged his mount forward. The horse moved with visible reluctance. It shook its head, nostrils flaring, ears flicking back and forth at the smallest noise. She couldn't see its eyes, but she knew they would be ringed with white. Its hooves pawed at the blackened ground.

Her mother descended right on time.

The dragon plummeted towards the earth with a roar that shook the tower and caused even more items to slide off the hoard and roll around the room. The girl in the tower ignored this interruption, keen as ever to watch her mother fight.

Her mother's obsidian scales glinted in a riot of ghostly colors as she fell through the sunlight. It might look careless, but her dive was as carefully controlled as any falcon's. Just as it seemed she would surely crash into the ground and save the knight the trouble of fighting her, black wings opened with a snap and she landed lightly on all fours. The girl thought, not for the first time, that dragons truly were the most graceful of creatures.

The warhorse screamed and reared but did not run. The dragon was three times its size, but it bellowed its defiance and stood firm. Perhaps it was not such a cheap horse as she had assumed, it had clearly had some actual training. But she knew it would make no difference in the end. She had seen this exact farce a hundred times.

The black dragon reared too, swinging back like a snake about to bite – except she produced fire rather than venom.

With a tug at the reins and a tap of his heels, the knight directed his horse aside just in time to avoid the jet of golden flame. He was not so lucky with the whiplike tail that followed after. It slammed into the horse's armor-covered side with a noise like a bell ringing. The force of the blow toppled the horse and sent it and its rider down in a tangled heap of armor and thrashing legs.

Before he had even regained his feet, the knight managed to unhook a painted steel shield from his saddle just in time to block her mother's second burst of fire. The horse screamed as sparks made contact, but the shield held back most of the flames and both were able to stand to challenge her mother once again.

High above the fight, she frowned. In the past her mother had been able to melt through shields in an instant. In the past, the knight would never have been able to stand again. But dragon's fire cooled over the years until it flickered out altogether, and her mother was no longer young. But age did not affect her cunning, nor her will to fight.

The dragon reared again. This time rather than fire she lashed out with her front feet. One foot hit the knight and sent him flying into a cluster of bushes. The other smacked down on the destrier's rump. Her claws slipped off the polished iron barding.

The horse's ears were flat back and his limbs trembled with fear but he did as he had been trained. He kicked out with both strong back legs and was rewarded by the sharp sound of bones cracking.

The girl frowned again. That was foolish. Like any other flying creature, dragons' bones were hollow, and broke easily. In the past her mother would have been fast enough to avoid that, but here too her age was showing.

Down below her mother hissed in pain and pulled back her injured foot. She directed a short spurt of fire at the offending horse, who still refused to bolt. It turned and cantered over to where the knight was chopping his way out of the bush into which he had fallen.

The dragon followed, ready to continue.

She reared up again as she neared the bush, certainly preparing for the final blow.

The knight stood up in a shower of cut branches, tossed aside his shield, and lunged.

The black dragon screamed, a cross between the call of a hunting hawk and a wolf's howl.

She wrenched herself free from the knight and his blade, which had already begun to melt. The dragon sprang for the sky. Her tail caught the knight across the chest and knocked him back into the smoldering remains of the foliage.

The effort of flying only widened the ugly gash in her belly. No longer predator, but wounded prey, she half crawled and half flew up the side of the tower. She let herself fall through a dragon sized hole in the roof and collapsed in a heap at her daughter's feet.

"Mother!" The girl cried. In the language of dragons, even that distressed cry was full of fang and fire. She waded through the trickles of blood and melting gold to put her hands against the gash and try to push the sundered flesh together again.

The dragon shuddered, and with a peculiar shrugging motion, began to shrink.

"Mother, you can't shapeshift right now!" said the girl. "You'll heal faster in your true form."

Even in this condition, her mother managed to laugh. She stopped transforming and pressed her snout to her daughter's forehead, speaking with gentle practicality. "It's time for my fire to go out, dear one. And truly, I could not wish for a better exit. Would you have me stay here and perish of boredom and old age?"

"Mother!"

"All things change around us, that is the knowledge of dragons as you are well aware. But I would gift you my cloak of scales so that it might protect you, even though I no longer can."

When the dragon began transforming again, the girl did not try to stop her, even as the shifting skin and muscle ripped the gash wider and spilled her mother's lifeblood onto the stone floor. Tears rolled down her face, far hotter than any dragon's blood or breath could be. She wished they were hot enough to burn her, so that she would not have to leave. All things might change, but that did not mean that she wanted them to. Unfortunately dragons were never harmed by fire, least of all their own.

She held onto her mother's body, so much smaller and sadder than she remembered. The brown skin was wrinkled, the once brilliant amber eyes no longer sparkled, the hair that had once fallen like a spill of shining night was matted with blood and sweat. Only a small smile which consistently hovered around her mother's lips was the same. She wrapped her mother’s scaled cloak around her own shoulders, wept over the frail, lifeless body, and waited for the knight to arrive.

He strutted into the room proud and shining, like he thought of himself as a ray of sun touching a land long shrouded by clouds. His step faltered slightly as he took in the incongruities of the scene. Despite what the stories said, this was no lady's chamber, and she was no delicate, doe-eyed princess in need of rescuing. She clung to her mother's body like a lifeline, wearing nothing but dragon's blood and a cloak of shimmering black scales. It was a testament to his personality that these facts did not stop him for long. He spoke, and she understood his strange, soft words, for all dragons have the gift of tongues.

"You're safe now, my lady," he told her as he picked his way around the worst of the still hot pools of blood and melted gold. "I've come to take you to court where you belong." He grabbed her wrist and tried to pull her to her feet.

Anger replaced grief in her heart, turning her blood to fire. She screamed at him, no word in any language, just a cry of frustration and loss and rage. She thrashed in his grip and pried at the steel gauntlets, trying to get free. Where skin touched armor the metal bubbled and melted. The knight winced as drops of hot steel began to burn their way through his gambeson into vulnerable flesh, but he held on.

She hissed and spat at him, and cursed him in the language of dragons, and wished it could be smoke and fire pouring from her lips instead of words.

The heat was enough to melt his armor, but not enough to shake his heart, for he was a knight, as foolhardy as he was brave. The strength he had gained through training well matched the strength she had been born with, and he held on.

He picked her up and held her until her fire fizzled out under the weight of grief and she collapsed into a dead weight, cool to the touch again. Only then did he set her gently on the ground.

She did not move.

She sat mute as he retrieved the saddlebags he had dropped outside the door and began filling them with treasure – the gold and gems that had not been damaged in her mother's death. He was robbing the dead, robbing her, and she couldn't make herself care. He spoke more words in his strange, soft tongue, and she refused to hear them.

Her mother, constant, proud, undefeatable; was dead. That was all that mattered. As for her future, she could not guess. She knew much of knights but little of human customs. She had never wanted to know. She didn't want to know now. So she sat and tried not to think, tried not to feel, as her life fell apart around her.

The knight took no notice. He filled his bags with stolen goods, and slipped the sword of another, less lucky, knight into the empty scabbard at his left hip. He slung the saddlebags over one shoulder, picked her up as if she weighed nothing at all, and left the tower.

For three weeks she did not eat, drink, or speak.

Except on her mother's back, she had never been far from the estate of Dragon's Keep. She had never traveled at length through the wild, creature infested lands outside, nor had she ever seen the dilapidated wall that separated their land from the lands of humans.

She did not see it now.

She noticed nothing of the journey back to the court this knight called home. She slept often, and tried to dream even while awake. To the knight she was a statue, neither resisting him nor responding to him.

She did not fight him when he dressed her in...well, some sort of human fashion, she assumed.

She closed her ears to the words he spoke, first bragging, then angry, then pleading, until he ceased to speak to her altogether and the rest of their journey passed in silence.

But there was no ignoring the court, not really. It was loud, full of people who talked about anything and everything. They talked about her too, making plans for her life without even asking her – not that she cared what they thought, not that she had any intention of responding.

She had never had any interest in humans, and she still didn't.

That did not stop them from being interested in her.

If she had listened to those conversations, she might have understood their actions. But she did not want to listen and she did not want to understand.

For reasons which made sense to them, they gave her back the gold and silver the knight had stolen. They called her lady, and gave her a room in the palace, a trunk full of donated clothing, and sent along three young women who flocked around her, twittering ceaselessly like little birds. Their presence irritated her as they pulled her this way and that way, trying to dress her up like one of them. They succeeded in removing the clothing the knight had given her and replacing it with a single garment before she ran them off with claw and fang and cast the rest of the clothing aside.

She slammed the door behind them.

She just wanted to be left alone, but here she was never alone. The sturdy stone walls pressed in on her, nothing like the decrepit castle she was used to. The sounds of wind, birdsong, and animal life had been replaced with a seemingly never-ending wave of sounds. She drowned in them, the talk and laughter, the thud of boots and the soft switch of fabric as humans moved, the rustle of brooms against rough stone, all of them. She had never been in a place so loud. She had never been exposed to her gift of tongues, which told her the basic meaning of everything said, whether or not she wanted to know.

A particularly abrasive laugh – the laugh of that knight – grated on her ears. During the journey back to court he had been subdued, but here, surrounded by people, he had regained his courage. He was coming to see her, she was certain of it, coming to see what his princess looked like now that she was civilized. But she didn't want to see him. Not him, not the young women, not any of the people here. With a cry like that of a wounded animal she pushed herself out of her seated position, grabbed her mother's cloak, fled through the nearest door, and found herself outside.

She stood for a moment, surprised. The noise of a door opening brought her back to herself. She gathered her wits and ran.

It was not wilderness, this place she found herself in, but it was not stone walls either. She followed stone paths laid neatly on the ground, the clothing she had been pushed into tangling around her legs. There was nowhere to stop, nothing but stone paths and stone fountains with the occasional bush or row of flowers. Even here there were people, people who scattered out of her way and stared after her as she passed. She paid them scant attention.

Dragons were predators by nature, and she had never wondered what a deer might feel while being pursued by her mother. Now though, she did not have to wonder. She thought she had a pretty good idea.

In some ways this fake wilderness was even worse than being inside.

She ran and ran and did not stop until she felt grass under her feet and then she stopped all at once, collapsing onto the ground in a heap. She fought back the sobs that wanted to come out although a few tears escaped to scorch the ground beneath her. She didn't want to be here, but she wasn't about to let these humans see her grieve.

She knew that her mother would not be pleased with this. Dragons were not so emotional. The world changed around them and they adapted to it. They were calm and practical, rational. She never had been good at that. Still, she tried.

Only when she got herself back under control did she look around to see where she had landed.

It was a small grove surrounded by cypress trees. From here, the castle was not even visible. Nor were any people. She breathed, letting the familiar openness chase out the lingering claustrophobia of too much stone and too much metal and too much noise. The muttered conversation from the grounds behind her faded, masked by the sound of branches moving in the wind. Eventually, a few of the braver birds even began to chirp and the area around her sprang to life again, her wild interruption forgotten.

It could almost be one of the courtyards she was used to, save for the fact that someone clearly maintained the area. The grass was too short, too free of wildflowers and fallen branches and leaves. The trees too were too neat. It was still better than where she had been.

She curled in on herself, and began to dream.

She did not return to the room which had been forced upon her. The cypress grove, quiet and solemn, became her retreat. She did not leave it for several days, except to hide deeper in the fake woods when others came looking for her.

The rest of the time she dreamed of the past. Any moment, she thought, her mother could fly overhead – strong as ever, with her black scales glittering like gems in the sun. She would dance in the sky as she always had done. She would shower her beloved daughter with gold she had stolen, scoop her up to go flying, or drop a kill at her feet for them to share.

Nothing would've changed, they would still be together as they should be. Her mother would never have left her on her own to travel to someplace she could not follow. She would, as she had always done, tell her daughter wildly exaggerated stories of the hunt while they ate.

These visions were so strong to her that she did not realize at first that the smell of blood was real. She came back to herself with a start.

A platter of freshly killed venison hovered half a foot from her face. She frowned.

Dragons did not have much of a sense of smell, but the smell of blood was sharp and distinctive. She should have noticed it, or the sound of someone approaching. She would have, if she had not been so determined not to.

Because the meat, naturally, had not made its way there on its own. It was held lightly in the hands of a woman who held herself with the confidence of a knight. Until that moment, she had not known that women could be knights. It certainly had seemed from her mother’s stories that humans were only divided into knights and ladies. But she had seen enough knights in her life to recognize one, even without the armor and sword.

"Don't turn away," the knight said before she even had a chance to do so. "Even dragons have a need to eat eventually." She set the ceramic platter down on the grass and backed off a few paces before dropping into an easy sit.

Three weeks was a long time, even for a dragon. With the smell of fresh meat in front of her, she could no longer pretend not to be hungry. She grabbed a piece from the top and ripped into it, heedless of the mess she caused.

The knight continued to talk, undeterred. "Here I am, on a short visit to my family, and I miss it all," she said. "The whole court is abuzz about Leroy and his Lady Dragon. Tell me, why not just transform and fly away?"

The knight gave her ample time to respond, which she did not do.

"Nothing, hm?" The knight shrugged. "Well, you are a dragon. You of all people ought to know that mourning has to end eventually. I'm surprised you were distraught enough to let it go on this long."

She paused again, and still received no response. "Such a show can only mean you are named after an emotion. Which one is it?"

The bit of meat she was holding slipped her numb fingers to the grass below.

"How-" the dragon hardly even realized she had spoken until after the word was out. This human language was unfamiliar in her mouth and she snapped her fangs shut around the rest of the sentence. It did not matter. One word was enough.

The knight smiled. "Dragons are not unfamiliar to my home country. It pays to know about them. So, your name?"

"It does not translate easily," the dragon said, and felt anger at herself for giving in. She had not wanted to speak to these humans at all, and had even entertained the thought of living in silence until her own flame ran out. But the will to live and thrive runs as strongly in dragons as in humans, and she could no more keep herself from speaking than from eating the meal in front of her.

"I don't mind."

For the first time, the dragon heard the flavor of foreign speech in the words the knight spoke, and recognized them as being different from the things she had half heard over the last few days. This knight, then, was a stranger here too. Still the dragon hesitated, groping for words in a language she understood but had not yet spoken.

"It is the sense of belonging between two or more people who consider themselves family," she finally said, hating how she stumbled over the words. Dragon names came in two flavors: concepts or feelings. Concept names were strong and feeling names were graceful. In the language of dragons her name was beautiful. As sharp as new grown scales and as delicate as a butterfly's wings. In this human language it was long and clumsy, without sense or rhyme.

The knight nodded. "It is a bit long. A sense of belonging between people, hm? In my language we call this 'patrisjie'. As a name here, it would probably be Patrice. And in my home, we would call you Patya."

The dragon growled. "I do not want these human words or this human name," she said.

The knight nodded again. Her hair, brilliant red and cut to be even with her jaw, bobbed in time with the motion. "Soon they will become tired of calling you 'dragon girl' and someone is going to name you. Better it be something close to what you’re used to."

“And it is so easy to lose your true name!" The dragon said. She heard the snap of fangs and crackle of flame in her words, but the knight did not lose her relaxed posture as a wiser person would have done. Then again, that seemed to be the way with knights. She merely plucked a violet out of the grass and turned the flower round and round in her fingers.

"You aren't alone. My name is Felisjyta, but no one here can say it. They just all call me Felicity."

"And why should I care what they call you?" asked the dragon. Suddenly the rest of her meal was no longer appealing. She pushed the tray away, across the grass. "I do not want that name either. I am no friend to knights." She stood and began to walk away.

The knight made no move to follow her, but did speak again. "You know, Felisjyta is just like a dragon name. You would probably say 'the happiness of someone who has experienced recent good fortune'."

It was a very dragon like name, and she knew exactly how they would say such a thing. In the language of dragons, that name was warm and comforting, like curling up next to her mother on a chilly evening. It didn't suit her current mood at all. She shook her head. "Why should I need this feeling of yours? I have not experienced good fortune in a long time."

She left the garden and the meddling knight behind.

Index | Next Chapter

[damfinofanfiction]

Chapter 24: Like Father Like Son

note: You think I wouldn't post another chapter this year do you?

With plenty of scenes to go, Buster was always serious about filmmaking. He and his gagmen were at a meeting in the studio, making up many ways to create chaos downtown. It resulted in clever ideas; cows entering the stores, Buster’s character dressing up as the devil to attract the cattle, and policemen being sprayed with water by the firemen. Buster was satisfied with how much had come up, making him more anticipated for filming.

After closing time, Buster left the studio to meet with his father Joe at the Hollywood Hotel. He hadn’t called beforehand, thinking the visit would brighten his lonesome Pop’s day. Another reason was to ask his father if he would participate in the picture for a bit. Buster had given film work to his family members and friends while making short comedies and hadn't stopped when he made features.

Soon after he reached the hotel, Buster headed up to the fourth floor and then knocked on the door to his room. To his surprise, it was not his old man who answered but a short slightly wrinkled blonde woman, plump to the hips with her makeup half-done.

"Oh my stars and garters," She gave him a toothy smile. "You must be Buster Keaton!" She shook his hand. The movement was quick but moderate. “I haven’t seen all of your flickers, but I heard many great things about you from your father.”

Buster was speechless due to his confusion and shyness. 

“Bussy?” Joe peeked out of the bathroom behind the woman with the towel on his shoulders. “Dora, take it easy on him. He's a bashful fellow,” he called.

“Shit, sorry.” She let go of his hand.

“That’s alright ma’am, I've had worse.” Buster brushed his hand onto his pants.

Joe came out of the bathroom in his trousers and an undershirt with bits of shaving cream on his face. The hotel room was smaller than Buster’s in the beach house and was mostly untidy with women’s clothes scattered on the floor and the scent of perfume lingering. The woman, Dora, was in a robe. Buster didn't want to know if she was wearing underthings or not.

"So what brings you here without calling your pop?" Joe asked.

"Sorry, I didn't know you were busy." Buster took a side eye at Dora. "And with company." He paused to breathe. "I just want to talk. Just us." referring to himself and his father.

Dora raised an eyebrow, clearly catching the hint. "Aw, what the hell," she said with a playful grin. "I'll change somewhere and leave you two to your business." The woman picked up her clothes and took them to the bathroom as she hummed Yes! We have no bananas.

As the door to the bathroom closed, Buster finally let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Seeing his father with another woman stirred a mix of emotions in him—relief that Joe wasn’t alone, but also a twinge of sadness and jealousy. He wondered if his father had moved on from the family in more ways than one. He remained calm when he spoke to his father. "I'm doing a movie, so I want to know if you're available for a small role.”

Joe shrugged, "Yeah, all right. I have time."

The Keaton men then had a quick discussion about the schedule. Joe mentioned that he wouldn't bring Dora since she worked as a waitress all day, which was a relief for Buster.

Dora came out in a short evening dress. "Hey, your pop is taking me to a club tonight. You should come along and bring your wife Norma."

Joe clarified to his lady friend, "Natalie is the wife, not Norma."

Buster replied to Dora, "No thank you, ma'am." He turned to Joe and said, "Make sure you're sober when you're on set." He left the hotel room after saying a quick goodbye.

As soon as Buster returned to his car, his thoughts swirled in a chaotic mix of frustration and melancholy. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, feeling the weight of his complicated relationship with his father bearing down on him. The encounter had left him unsettled, a storm of emotions brewing just beneath the surface. "Fuck." He drove home after clearing his mind.

On the day of the costume fitting, Buster was discussing his father’s encounter with Roscoe who had returned from his post-wedding trip. "Am I my father?" he asked.

Roscoe responded, “Of course not." He was also cast as a woman in the department store scene however Buster kept it from the public and hired a woman with a similar build for the close-up scenes. "Back then, your old man declared that he would rather be kicked by a jackass than show up on the flickers. You had to drag him to California to convince him.”

"Pop would certainly kick the seat of my pants if I dragged him for miles."

"The point is that everyone is their own person and nobody else's. Even a pair of twins is not the same person."

“Are they?”

Roscoe shrugged, “Damn if I know, I don't have a twin. But they can be different anyway.”

Buster was struggling with a need for a smoke but being surrounded by clothing racks full of hung fabric, he would be liable to start a fire. "When I saw him with another woman. I already saw myself at his age. I knew my folks had marriage problems and I’m having the same with Nate. I’m worried that any of the boys will turn out like me and Pop.”  

Roscoe's face softened with understanding as he spoke, his eyes filled with genuine concern. “If they learn from your mistakes, They will be better. They'll know what to avoid. They'll have a more successful marriage."

"Thanks, chief. I hope so too." Buster stepped outside to take a smoke.

Roscoe called to him while on the door frame, "If you're involved with that Sennett actress, it's best to end things before it goes too far."

[roseofithaca]

Run, Little Witch (Part One)

A short horror story where I torture my oc some more.

"Oh, shhh..." Alison shrugged, throwing her hands up, "Sod it, it's my house. I can swear if I like. Shitbags!"

Cautiously, she stepped around the shards of glass that now littered her bedroom floor. Rather than bothering to go down into the kitchen to get the dustpan and brush, she crouched down to pick the pieces up one by one. Thankfully the glass had smashed in mostly big chunks. Though she still managed to cut herself slightly when she carelessly picked up one very pointy shard.

Alison was uttering her fifth filthy swear word that minute when the soot coated farmer bustled through the door.

"What's that smashing? Be there an angry mob at the door?" Mary asked, frantic.

"No, no mob. Just me being clumsy and dropping this mirror I found in the attic. Thought I could be all independent and hang it up without Mike but I guess I just failed feminists everywhere."

Alison carried the shards to her dresser table and let them slide out into an untidy pile for now. She then picked up the antique, ornately carved frame with black onyx encrusted at the corners, and propped it against the wall.

The older woman let out a blood-chilling gasp.

"Oh sweet Lord...That be Sir Pius' mirror!"

"Who?" She followed the direction of Mary's finger to the faded plaque at the top of the frame; "Ah, yeah. Who was he then? Relative of Humphrey's?"

There was no last name. Simply 'Sir Pius R.I.P'.

Mary began flapping her hands at her side, stepping backwards, eyes wider than usual.

"Oh, no, no, no. T'is very bad, Al'son. This must be remedied with great haste!"

"What be remedied? Uh, I mean," Clearly, she was spending too much time around dead people, "What you talking about?"

"Sir Pius, he...He were an evil scoundrel. One of the darkest souls that did ever walk this Earth. Even after his death, he inspired so much fear amongst the village that they did bind his soul to this mirror." Mary explained with fear and reverence in each word; "He could never harm another so long as it remains in tact. And now you've broken it and set him loose upon the land!"

"Right..." Alison nodded, squinting with skepticism; "And, can you see him around here now?"

"Well...No."

The bubbling tension of the room seemed to evaporate in an instant.

"Did you happen to pass him as you came in?"

"No, buts...Oh you thinks I be a silly wench, making up fables."

"I don't think you're silly, Mary, but you are superstitious. And I'm not saying that's always wrong because, well..." She gestured in the ghost's presence to emphasise her point; "Shows what I knew about the supernatural. But there are some things you can't base your whole life on, like worrying about stepping on a crack and breaking your mother's back."

"Which my friend Eda did and her mums back broke when she gots crushed beneath a falling tree."

"Right. Bad example. Look, just don't worry too much about it, okay. The guy's been dead for....how many years?"

"Four hundred, give or take, 'cause I can't do more numbers than thats."

"Exactly. If there were any such curse, his soul probably expired inside ages ago, like that tin of coffee Mike bought with the wrong shelf life." They'd both suffered for a week after that, constantly fighting to get to the loo.

"We mustn't take that risk, Al'son! We must ensure his soul is bound back to the mirror."

Alison could see, much like the wedding traditions, her friend wasn't going to let this go.

"And how do we do that?" She indulged, checking her watch. She was supposed to be picking Mike up from the train station, after his mate's stag weekend.

"Last time I saws them do it, they just held the mirror before his corpse and asked the Lord to seal him within the glass. That were it."

Sounded easy enough. More so than subtly throwing cake at an unsuspecting bride.

"But o'course the mirror needs to be made whole!"

"Okay, sure, once I'm back we can work on it together, like a jigsaw. It'll be fun." She smiled, doing her best to make light of it without mocking Mary; "Then you can show me how do this ritual or whatever."

"Yous leaving now?!"

She was already reaching for her shoes; "Yeah, Mike's already maxed out his credit card this weekend too much to get a taxi, apparently. I won't be long, maybe about a couple of hours, cos of the traffic."

"But...but...What if his spirit doth wreak havoc?!" Mary fretted; "We dunno what he be capable of!"

"Exactly! If he does exist, he probably can't do anything more than that Robin and Julian are capable of. Besides, you're all dead anyway - no offense - but what harm could he do to you all?"

The question seemed to make Mary pale all the more, plumes of smoke rising from her bonnet as she shuddered. Alison suspected this was more personal than she was letting on.

"Look...how about you stand guard over it for me and if you see anything poltergeisty appear then shout for the others. Okay?"

"Stand guards...Yes, I can do thats." Mary seemed to be doing her best to summon her confidence; "I ain't no scardey cat."

"That's the spirit." Bad pun aside.

"Just promise me you will fix it once you returns, please?" Mary begged. Alison gave her promise and reached for her car keys.

The crazy things she was willing to do to keep this new family of hers happy.

Honestly, what possible harm could come from breaking some tacky mirror? Seven years bad luck, she could take, just add it to her current tab. But an escaped evil spirit? It was a little bit harder to swallow.

"Good friends are there for each other! Never, ever forget that I got you and you got me so, Reach-!" Silver ceased her out of character singing and shook her head, "Damn it, Kitty!"

Why couldn't the one dead girlfriend close to her age in this house have been into cool bands, like Evanescence and Linkin Park?

Look at her, skipping down the hallway to S Club like a dork. How far she has fallen.

She hears Alison's car drive off just before the grandfather clock chimes for the hour. Seven o'clock. Once upon a time, she'd have hated having to stick to a schedule for socialising. But given how she only got to spend three nights and two days a month with her crew, she'd found herself more amiable to adapt to spend what little time she had with them all. Besides, some of the stories the others came up with could be entertaining, aside from Cap's famous Risk games and Thomas' grand epics that nearly sent her back to sleep prematurely.

She's still resisting the urge to hum more awful pop when she reaches the common room. The Captain is already there, prompt as usual, stood erect facing the window, his stick held at his tail bone.

"Evenin' Cap. Ready for Story Club?" She tapped his arm as she passed him, nothing too overly friendly. He's as picky about physical affection as she is. One of the few things they have in common.

It's not that she doesn't like being hugged or holding hands or any of that jazz, it's just when people get presumptive about it or not get when she isn't in the mood. She'd had more than a few talks with Kitty about respecting boundaries.

"It's Captain, not Cap. You should respect the titles of your superiors." The soldier spoke without looking away from the moon half-hidden behind the clouds.

Silver snorted; "That's a new one. You would have had me there if not for that voice."

Far deeper and threatening than the stern but soft authoritative tone she'd come to know so well.

"Good girls should be seen and not heard."

Silver stilled at that, feeling something close to an ice cold finger run down the back of her neck.

"Okay, that's crossing the line into creepy, please never say that again, Cap."

"I told you to call me Captain, girl!" He turned his head to glare at her, his voice rising enough to make her jump.

She recoiled back; "What the fuck? You always let Alison call you Cap."

"Because Alison is not some pagan harlot who waltzes around half naked!" He sneered as he began to step towards her; "Look at you. Have you no respect, girl?!"

Silver scoffed at that, putting her hand to her hip, resisting the urge to button up her jacket to hide her exposed belly. She didn't like way the Captain's eyes were scanning her over, top to bottom.

"Thought you'd be the last person I'd need to worry about perving over girls, let alone ones half your age." She cringed.

"Do not speak such filth. It is your kind who corrupt good, upstanding men with your sinful, seductive charms."

"Excuse you, pal, I have and would never try any of my sinful seductive charms on you or any bloke in this house, living or dead! My bread ain't buttered that way, mate! I thought you understood that!"

This entire confrontation feels like something out of a bad dream. Cap was staring at her with pure, unfiltered hatred. The worst she'd got from him over the years was exasperated annoyance. But contempt? What had she done to piss him off this much?

Was this all because Kitty wanting her to be her new singing partner instead of him? Talk about petty.

His lips thinned and curled at that.

"More debauchery. More sin. You are festered with it, you little she-demon." He hissed, "So that is what you have been doing with poor, innocent Katherine. Polluting her with your filth."

This was beyond a joke now. Silver rubbed at her elbow, "Whatever game you're playing here, just stop-."

"A game?"

Silver turned to see Kitty entering the room, with Thomas, Fanny, Pat and Julian behind her.

"Oh thank Hekate." Silver sighed and moved towards them; "Can you guys please sort this bloke out?! He's just started slagging me off and throwing all these accusations at me!"

"What accusations?" Asked Julian, more interested than she expected of him.

"Oh apparently I've been trying to corrupt Kitty with my 'sinful ways'." She rolled her eyes, waiting for them to laugh with her at how ridiculous such a claim was.

Instead, to her horror, they merely stared blankly at her.

"Have you?" Asked Thomas, flatly.

"I...No!" She denied, vehemently; "Of course I haven't! Kitty, tell them!"

All eyes shifted to the Georgian woman, whose hands were folded at her skirt, her expression unusually subdued. Like a child being put on a witness stand.

"Tell the truth, Katherine." Said Cap, his voice shifting slightly back to that paternal tone, but still not quite his own; "You're not in trouble here."

Why the fuck was she in trouble?! She hadn't done anything, she was barely awake most of the time!

Kitty raised her chin and looked at Silver.

"It's true." She began, her voice also deeper than the bright, cheerful Kitty they knew; "She tried to convince me to dance naked beneath the full moon to summon the Dark Lord. When I refused, she attempted to...force herself upon me."

"KITTY, WHAT THE FUCK-?!"

A firm hand struck her across the face.

"Hold your tongue, you vile degenerate!" Fanny scalded, hand still raised, ready to strike again if needed.

Pat and Thomas stepped in as Silver made a move towards Kitty, not that she'd been going for a physical attack, just to know what had possessed her to accuse her of something so....

She stilled. Then she looked at her friend, really looked at her. Then at the faces of the others in the room.

They were all glaring at her with the exact same expression. No gentle understanding from Pat. No sly humour from Julian. Even Fanny lacked her judgemental sneer and was glaring with pure loathing.

"What's happened to you all? Why are you being like this?" She asked, edging backwards, cheek stinging.

"We are seeing you for what you are, young lady." Fanny approached her, more robotic than how she appeared each early morning before falling out the window; "A thorn amongst our roses. A snake within Eden. A witch."

"Uhh, yeah. How is that news?! I've been open about my faith since the night I met you all, I thought we were over this!" She protested.

"Perhaps we all decided we needed time to observe you and study how much of a threat you pose." Julian explained, blandly.

They were all beginning to close in on her now, forming a semi circle as she backed against the window.

"Now we know. You have shown your true intentions to good, innocent Kitty. We shall not allow you to poison our family further." Said the Captain.

Silver glanced around at them, blood rushing to her ears. The room itself may as well have been collapsing in on her. They had her trapped.

Where was Mary? And Robin? Hell, she'd even take Humphrey, whichever bit, the head to talk some sense into these gits and the body to use as a shield.

"Look...I get the hint. I'll go back to the woods, okay? You won't have to see me again." She tried to bargain.

"It's too late for that, child. We can't risk having you run free on our land like some wild beast." Pat said, with a false attempt at sounding reasonable.

Kitty stepped forward.

"It's not too late to simply confess. Renounce Satan and ask for the Lord's forgiveness."

Silver fought the urge to stick to her principles when her safety was on the line.

"Okay, fine! I renounce Satan! There you go, will you leave me the fuck alone now!?" She tried to make a dash for the door.

The Captain stood in her way, the tree of a man that he was.

"Do you honestly expect that to be sufficient? If you won't willingly confess...Then perhaps you need it flogged out of you."

Silver watched as he tapped his palm with the end of his stick. It had never appeared anything close to threatening until this moment.

"Contain her." Captain ordered.

The men moved to grab her arms. Silver ducked and weaved back, holding up her palms before they could touch her.

"Wait, wait, just wait! Please!" She begged, "Please let me just say one thing!"

A scream, that's all needed to say. A scream as she turned and jumped through the window, landing in a fumble of hands and knees on the driveway. Then she ran. She ran faster than she'd ever moved in her whole fucking existence to escape these lunatics.

Back upstairs, the Captain stood at the window with his cohorts at his side, watching the girl race across the field, pink fringe flailing above her in the wind.

"Let's give her a head start. Been far too long since we had a good hunt." He smirked, eyes flashing onyx.

[enchantress-emily]

Buggeruptober day 6 - Hot

Wolfe tiptoed into Mal’s room and drew the rickety chair up to the bedside, first running his hand cautiously over its seat to make sure there were no buggerups already there. 

Mal was half-awake, tossing and muttering amidst his rumpled bedclothes.  He had come down with a fever of some sort several days earlier; last night it had spiked high enough to make Wolfe and Ben seriously alarmed, and there was little improvement today. 

Wolfe dampened a cloth in the washbasin and gently wiped down Mal’s face and arms.  He had done this several times already in an attempt to cool the heat raging in his body.  

Mal’s head moved restlessly on the pillow.  “Wolfe,” he mumbled.

“I am here, my friend,” Wolfe said softly, smoothing the sweat-damp hair back from Mal’s burning forehead.  He didn’t think Mal was conscious enough to understand the words, but perhaps his fever-clouded mind would register the sound of a familiar voice. 

Mal muttered something incomprehensible and turned his head toward Wolfe’s touch, his fretful movement quieting a little. 

Wolfe saw a dent appear in the blanket next to Mal’s legs, as though something invisible had climbed onto the bed to nestle against him.  He smiled reassuringly in the direction of the buggerup and continued stroking Mal’s hair. 

Ben made his way carefully up the stairs with a teacup in hand, trying not to step on the creakiest treads.  They were almost out of the medicinal tisane he had purchased from that irritating apothecary across town; he made a mental note to buy more tomorrow, since it did seem to help O’Malley. 

The door of O’Malley’s room stood ajar, and a murmuring voice could be heard inside.  Ben peered through the gap. 

O’Malley was deeply asleep, breathing hoarsely; Wolfe sat by the bed, resting a big hand on his untidy hair and talking softly to him in German. 

Ben suddenly felt as though he were intruding on a private moment.  He stepped back, intending to retreat quietly down the stairs; he must have made a sound, however, because Wolfe straightened and looked toward the door.

“Ben, my friend, come in,” he called in a low voice.  “You need not worry about disturbing him.”

Ben did so, slightly embarrassed at having been caught.  “I brought him some more tea,” he told Wolfe, holding out the cup.

Wolfe smiled.  “Thank you.  I shall take care that he drinks it when he wakes.”  He took the cup and set it on the floor beside his chair.

Ben moved closer to the bed, looking down at O’Malley.  It was odd to see him like this, his face loose and vulnerable in sleep, without a trace of his usual defensive scowl or wicked grin.  There was a hectic flush on his cheeks, and strands of dark hair clung damply to his forehead.

If anyone had asked prior to this, Ben would have said he’d be glad for a few days free from O’Malley’s pestering, but since he fell ill the office had seemed far too quiet.  Ben hoped he would be well again soon.

Also on AO3

[hellsitesonlybookclub]

The murder of Roger Ackroyd, Agatha Christie

Chapter 11-12

CHAPTER XI POIROT PAYS A CALL I was slightly nervous when I rang the bell at Marby Grange the following afternoon. I wondered very much what Poirot expected to find out. He had entrusted the job to me. Why? Was it because, as in the case of questioning Major Blunt, he wished to remain in the background? The wish, intelligible in the first case, seemed to me quite meaningless here.

My meditations were interrupted by the advent of a smart parlormaid.

Yes, Mrs. Folliott was at home. I was ushered into a big drawing-room, and looked round me curiously as I waited for the mistress of the house. A large bare room, some good bits of old china, and some beautiful etchings, shabby covers and curtains. A lady’s room in every sense of the term.

I turned from the inspection of a Bartolozzi on the wall as Mrs. Folliott came into the room. She was a tall woman, with untidy brown hair, and a very winning smile.

“Dr. Sheppard,” she said hesitatingly.

“That is my name,” I replied. “I must apologize for calling upon you like this, but I wanted some information about a parlormaid previously employed by you, Ursula Bourne.”

With the utterance of the name the smile vanished from her face, and all the cordiality froze out of her manner. She looked uncomfortable and ill at ease.

“Ursula Bourne?” she said hesitatingly.

“Yes,” I said. “Perhaps you don’t remember the name?”

“Oh, yes, of course. I—I remember perfectly.”

“She left you just over a year ago, I understand?”

“Yes. Yes, she did. That is quite right.”

“And you were satisfied with her whilst she was with you? How long was she with you, by the way?”

“Oh! a year or two—I can’t remember exactly how long. She—she is very capable. I’m sure you will find her quite satisfactory. I didn’t know she was leaving Fernly. I hadn’t the least idea of it.”

“Can you tell me anything about her?” I asked.

“Anything about her?”

“Yes, where she comes from, who her people are—that sort of thing?”

Mrs. Folliott’s face wore more than ever its frozen look.

“I don’t know at all.”

“Who was she with before she came to you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

There was a spark of anger now underlying her nervousness. She flung up her head in a gesture that was vaguely familiar.

“Is it really necessary to ask all these questions?”

“Not at all,” I said, with an air of surprise and a tinge of apology in my manner. “I had no idea you would mind answering them. I am very sorry.”

Her anger left her and she became confused again.

“Oh! I don’t mind answering them. I assure you I don’t. Why should I? It—it just seemed a little odd, you know. That’s all. A little odd.”

One advantage of being a medical practitioner is that you can usually tell when people are lying to you. I should have known from Mrs. Folliott’s manner, if from nothing else, that she did mind answering my questions—minded intensely. She was thoroughly uncomfortable and upset, and there was plainly some mystery in the background. I judged her to be a woman quite unused to deception of any kind, and consequently rendered acutely uneasy when forced to practice it. A child could have seen through her.

But it was also clear that she had no intention of telling me anything further. Whatever the mystery centering around Ursula Bourne might be, I was not going to learn it through Mrs. Folliott.

Defeated, I apologized once more for disturbing her, took my hat and departed.

I went to see a couple of patients and arrived home about six o’clock. Caroline was sitting beside the wreck of tea things. She had that look of suppressed exultation on her face which I know only too well. It is a sure sign with her, of either the getting or the giving of information. I wondered which it had been.

“I’ve had a very interesting afternoon,” began Caroline as I dropped into my own particular easy chair, and stretched out my feet to the inviting blaze in the fireplace.

“Have you?” I asked. “Miss Ganett drop in to tea?”

Miss Ganett is one of the chief of our newsmongers.

“Guess again,” said Caroline with intense complacency.

I guessed several times, working slowly through all the members of Caroline’s Intelligence Corps. My sister received each guess with a triumphant shake of the head. In the end she volunteered the information herself.

“M. Poirot!” she said. “Now what do you think of that?”

I thought a good many things of it, but I was careful not to say them to Caroline.

“Why did he come?” I asked.

“To see me, of course. He said that knowing my brother so well, he hoped he might be permitted to make the acquaintance of his charming sister—your charming sister, I’ve got mixed up, but you know what I mean.”

“What did he talk about?” I asked.

“He told me a lot about himself and his cases. You know that Prince Paul of Mauretania—the one who’s just married a dancer?”

“Yes?”

“I saw a most intriguing paragraph about her in Society Snippets the other day, hinting that she was really a Russian Grand Duchess—one of the Czar’s daughters who managed to escape from the Bolsheviks. Well, it seems that M. Poirot solved a baffling murder mystery that threatened to involve them both. Prince Paul was beside himself with gratitude.”

“Did he give him an emerald tie pin the size of a plover’s egg?” I inquired sarcastically.

“He didn’t mention it. Why?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I thought it was always done. It is in detective fiction anyway. The super detective always has his rooms littered with rubies and pearls and emeralds from grateful Royal clients.”

“It’s very interesting to hear about these things from the inside,” said my sister complacently.

It would be—to Caroline. I could not but admire the ingenuity of M. Hercule Poirot, who had selected unerringly the case of all others that would most appeal to an elderly maiden lady living in a small village.

“Did he tell you if the dancer was really a Grand Duchess?” I inquired.

“He was not at liberty to speak,” said Caroline importantly.

I wondered how far Poirot had strained the truth in talking to Caroline—probably not at all. He had conveyed his innuendoes by means of his eyebrows and his shoulders.

“And after all this,” I remarked, “I suppose you were ready to eat out of his hand.”

“Don’t be coarse, James. I don’t know where you get these vulgar expressions from.”

“Probably from my only link with the outside world—my patients. Unfortunately my practice does not lie amongst Royal princes and interesting Russian émigrés.”

Caroline pushed her spectacles up and looked at me.

“You seem very grumpy, James. It must be your liver. A blue pill, I think, to-night.”

To see me in my own home, you would never imagine that I was a doctor of medicine. Caroline does the home prescribing both for herself and me.

“Damn my liver,” I said irritably. “Did you talk about the murder at all?”

“Well, naturally, James. What else is there to talk about locally? I was able to set M. Poirot right upon several points. He was very grateful to me. He said I had the makings of a born detective in me—and a wonderful psychological insight into human nature.”

Caroline was exactly like a cat that is full to overflowing with rich cream. She was positively purring.

“He talked a lot about the little gray cells of the brain, and of their functions. His own, he says, are of the first quality.”

“He would say so,” I remarked bitterly. “Modesty is certainly not his middle name.”

“I wish you would not be so horribly American, James. He thought it very important that Ralph should be found as soon as possible, and induced to come forward and give an account of himself. He says that his disappearance will produce a very unfortunate impression at the inquest.”

“And what did you say to that?”

“I agreed with him,” said Caroline importantly. “And I was able to tell him the way people were already talking about it.”

“Caroline,” I said sharply, “did you tell M. Poirot what you overheard in the wood that day?”

“I did,” said Caroline complacently.

I got up and began to walk about.

“You realize what you’re doing, I hope,” I jerked out. “You’re putting a halter round Ralph Paton’s neck as surely as you’re sitting in that chair.”

“Not at all,” said Caroline, quite unruffled. “I was surprised you hadn’t told him.”

“I took very good care not to,” I said. “I’m fond of that boy.”

“So am I. That’s why I say you’re talking nonsense. I don’t believe Ralph did it, and so the truth can’t hurt him, and we ought to give M. Poirot all the help we can. Why, think, very likely Ralph was out with that identical girl on the night of the murder, and if so, he’s got a perfect alibi.”

“If he’s got a perfect alibi,” I retorted, “why doesn’t he come forward and say so?”

“Might get the girl into trouble,” said Caroline sapiently. “But if M. Poirot gets hold of her, and puts it to her as her duty, she’ll come forward of her own accord and clear Ralph.”

“You seem to have invented a romantic fairy story of your own,” I said. “You read too many trashy novels, Caroline. I’ve always told you so.”

I dropped into my chair again.

“Did Poirot ask you any more questions?” I inquired.

“Only about the patients you had that morning.”

“The patients?” I demanded, unbelievingly.

“Yes, your surgery patients. How many and who they were?”

“Do you mean to say you were able to tell him that?” I demanded.

Caroline is really amazing.

“Why not?” asked my sister triumphantly. “I can see the path up to the surgery door perfectly from this window. And I’ve got an excellent memory, James. Much better than yours, let me tell you.”

“I’m sure you have,” I murmured mechanically.

My sister went on, checking the names on her fingers.

“There was old Mrs. Bennett, and that boy from the farm with the bad finger, Dolly Grice to have a needle out of her finger; that American steward off the liner. Let me see—that’s four. Yes, and old George Evans with his ulcer. And lastly——”

She paused significantly.

“Well?”

Caroline brought out her climax triumphantly. She hissed in the most approved style—aided by the fortunate number of s’s at her disposal.

“Miss Russell!”

She sat back in her chair and looked at me meaningly, and when Caroline looks at you meaningly, it is impossible to miss it.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, quite untruthfully. “Why shouldn’t Miss Russell consult me about her bad knee?”

“Bad knee,” said Caroline. “Fiddlesticks! No more bad knee than you and I. She was after something else.”

“What?” I asked.

Caroline had to admit that she didn’t know.

“But depend upon it, that was what he was trying to get at, M. Poirot, I mean. There’s something fishy about that woman, and he knows it.”

“Precisely the remark Mrs. Ackroyd made to me yesterday,” I said. “That there was something fishy about Miss Russell.”

“Ah!” said Caroline darkly, “Mrs. Ackroyd! There’s another!”

“Another what?”

Caroline refused to explain her remarks. She merely nodded her head several times, rolled up her knitting, and went upstairs to don the high mauve silk blouse and the gold locket which she calls dressing for dinner.

I stayed there staring into the fire and thinking over Caroline’s words. Had Poirot really come to gain information about Miss Russell, or was it only Caroline’s tortuous mind that interpreted everything according to her own ideas?

There had certainly been nothing in Miss Russell’s manner that morning to arouse suspicion. At least——

I remembered her persistent conversation on the subject of drug-taking and from that she had led the conversation to poisons and poisoning. But there was nothing in that. Ackroyd had not been poisoned. Still, it was odd….

I heard Caroline’s voice, rather acid in note, calling from the top of the stairs.

“James, you will be late for dinner.”

I put some coal on the fire and went upstairs obediently.

It is well at any price to have peace in the home.

CHAPTER XII ROUND THE TABLE A joint inquest was held on Monday.

I do not propose to give the proceedings in detail. To do so would only be to go over the same ground again and again. By arrangement with the police, very little was allowed to come out. I gave evidence as to the cause of Ackroyd’s death and the probable time. The absence of Ralph Paton was commented on by the coroner, but not unduly stressed.

Afterwards, Poirot and I had a few words with Inspector Raglan. The inspector was very grave.

“It looks bad, Mr. Poirot,” he said. “I’m trying to judge the thing fair and square. I’m a local man, and I’ve seen Captain Paton many times in Cranchester. I’m not wanting him to be the guilty one—but it’s bad whichever way you look at it. If he’s innocent, why doesn’t he come forward? We’ve got evidence against him, but it’s just possible that that evidence could be explained away. Then why doesn’t he give an explanation?”

A lot more lay behind the inspector’s words than I knew at the time. Ralph’s description had been wired to every port and railway station in England. The police everywhere were on the alert. His rooms in town were watched, and any houses he had been known to be in the habit of frequenting. With such a cordon it seemed impossible that Ralph should be able to evade detection. He had no luggage, and, as far as any one knew, no money.

“I can’t find any one who saw him at the station that night,” continued the inspector. “And yet he’s well known down here, and you’d think somebody would have noticed him. There’s no news from Liverpool either.”

“You think he went to Liverpool?” queried Poirot.

“Well, it’s on the cards. That telephone message from the station, just three minutes before the Liverpool express left—there ought to be something in that.”

“Unless it was deliberately intended to throw you off the scent. That might just possibly be the point of the telephone message.”

“That’s an idea,” said the inspector eagerly. “Do you really think that’s the explanation of the telephone call?”

“My friend,” said Poirot gravely, “I do not know. But I will tell you this: I believe that when we find the explanation of that telephone call we shall find the explanation of the murder.”

“You said something like that before, I remember,” I observed, looking at him curiously.

Poirot nodded.

“I always come back to it,” he said seriously.

“It seems to me utterly irrelevant,” I declared.

“I wouldn’t say that,” demurred the inspector. “But I must confess I think Mr. Poirot here harps on it a little too much. We’ve better clews than that. The fingerprints on the dagger, for instance.”

Poirot became suddenly very foreign in manner, as he often did when excited over anything.

“M. l’Inspecteur,” he said, “beware of the blind—the blind—comment dire?—the little street that has no end to it.”

Inspector Raglan stared, but I was quicker.

“You mean a blind alley?” I said.

“That is it—the blind street that leads nowhere. So it may be with those fingerprints—they may lead you nowhere.”

“I don’t see how that can well be,” said the police officer. “I suppose you’re hinting that they’re faked? I’ve read of such things being done, though I can’t say I’ve ever come across it in my experience. But fake or true—they’re bound to lead somewhere.”

Poirot merely shrugged his shoulders, flinging out his arms wide.

The inspector then showed us various enlarged photographs of the fingerprints, and proceeded to become technical on the subject of loops and whorls.

“Come now,” he said at last, annoyed by Poirot’s detached manner, “you’ve got to admit that those prints were made by some one who was in the house that night?”

“Bien entendu,” said Poirot, nodding his head.

“Well, I’ve taken the prints of every member of the household, every one, mind you, from the old lady down to the kitchenmaid.”

I don’t think Mrs. Ackroyd would enjoy being referred to as the old lady. She must spend a considerable amount on cosmetics.

“Every one’s,” repeated the inspector fussily.

“Including mine,” I said dryly.

“Very well. None of them correspond. That leaves us two alternatives. Ralph Paton, or the mysterious stranger the doctor here tells us about. When we get hold of those two——”

“Much valuable time may have been lost,” broke in Poirot.

“I don’t quite get you, Mr. Poirot?”

“You have taken the prints of every one in the house, you say,” murmured Poirot. “Is that the exact truth you are telling me there, M. l’Inspecteur?”

“Certainly.”

“Without overlooking any one?”

“Without overlooking any one.”

“The quick or the dead?”

For a moment the inspector looked bewildered at what he took to be a religious observation. Then he reacted slowly.

“You mean——”

“The dead, M. l’Inspecteur.”

The inspector still took a minute or two to understand.

“I am suggesting,” said Poirot placidly, “that the fingerprints on the dagger handle are those of Mr. Ackroyd himself. It is an easy matter to verify. His body is still available.”

“But why? What would be the point of it? You’re surely not suggesting suicide, Mr. Poirot?”

“Ah! no. My theory is that the murderer wore gloves or wrapped something round his hand. After the blow was struck, he picked up the victim’s hand and closed it round the dagger handle.”

“But why?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders again.

“To make a confusing case even more confusing.”

“Well,” said the inspector, “I’ll look into it. What gave you the idea in the first place?”

“When you were so kind as to show me the dagger and draw attention to the fingerprints. I know very little of loops and whorls—see, I confess my ignorance frankly. But it did occur to me that the position of the prints was somewhat awkward. Not so would I have held a dagger in order to strike. Naturally, with the right hand brought up over the shoulder backwards, it would have been difficult to put it in exactly the right position.”

Inspector Raglan stared at the little man. Poirot, with an air of great unconcern, flecked a speck of dust from his coat sleeve.

“Well,” said the inspector, “it’s an idea. I’ll look into it all right, but don’t you be disappointed if nothing comes of it.”

He endeavored to make his tone kindly and patronizing. Poirot watched him go off. Then he turned to me with twinkling eyes.

“Another time,” he observed, “I must be more careful of his amour propre. And now that we are left to our own devices, what do you think, my good friend, of a little reunion of the family?”

The “little reunion,” as Poirot called it, took place about half an hour later. We sat round the table in the dining-room at Fernly—Poirot at the head of the table, like the chairman of some ghastly board meeting. The servants were not present, so we were six in all. Mrs. Ackroyd, Flora, Major Blunt, young Raymond, Poirot, and myself.

When every one was assembled, Poirot rose and bowed.

“Messieurs, mesdames, I have called you together for a certain purpose.” He paused. “To begin with, I want to make a very special plea to mademoiselle.”

“To me?” said Flora.

“Mademoiselle, you are engaged to Captain Ralph Paton. If any one is in his confidence, you are. I beg you, most earnestly, if you know of his whereabouts, to persuade him to come forward. One little minute”—as Flora raised her head to speak—“say nothing till you have well reflected. Mademoiselle, his position grows daily more dangerous. If he had come forward at once, no matter how damning the facts, he might have had a chance of explaining them away. But this silence—this flight—what can it mean? Surely only one thing, knowledge of guilt. Mademoiselle, if you really believe in his innocence, persuade him to come forward before it is too late.”

Flora’s face had gone very white.

“Too late!” she repeated, very low.

Poirot leant forward, looking at her.

“See now, mademoiselle,” he said very gently, “it is Papa Poirot who asks you this. The old Papa Poirot who has much knowledge and much experience. I would not seek to entrap you, mademoiselle. Will you not trust me—and tell me where Ralph Paton is hiding?”

The girl rose, and stood facing him.

“M. Poirot,” she said in a clear voice, “I swear to you—swear solemnly—that I have no idea where Ralph is, and that I have neither seen him nor heard from him either on the day of—of the murder, or since.”

She sat down again. Poirot gazed at her in silence for a minute or two, then he brought his hand down on the table with a sharp rap.

“Bien! That is that,” he said. His face hardened. “Now I appeal to these others who sit round this table, Mrs. Ackroyd, Major Blunt, Dr. Sheppard, Mr. Raymond. You are all friends and intimates of the missing man. If you know where Ralph Paton is hiding, speak out.”

There was a long silence. Poirot looked to each in turn.

“I beg of you,” he said in a low voice, “speak out.”

But still there was silence, broken at last by Mrs. Ackroyd.

“I must say,” she observed in a plaintive voice, “that Ralph’s absence is most peculiar—most peculiar indeed. Not to come forward at such a time. It looks, you know, as though there were something behind it. I can’t help thinking, Flora dear, that it was a very fortunate thing your engagement was never formally announced.”

“Mother!” cried Flora angrily.

“Providence,” declared Mrs. Ackroyd. “I have a devout belief in Providence—a divinity that shapes our ends, as Shakespeare’s beautiful line runs.”

“Surely you don’t make the Almighty directly responsible for thick ankles, Mrs. Ackroyd, do you?” asked Geoffrey Raymond, his irresponsible laugh ringing out.

His idea was, I think, to loosen the tension, but Mrs. Ackroyd threw him a glance of reproach and took out her handkerchief.

“Flora has been saved a terrible amount of notoriety and unpleasantness. Not for a moment that I think dear Ralph had anything to do with poor Roger’s death. I don’t think so. But then I have a trusting heart—I always have had, ever since a child. I am loath to believe the worst of any one. But, of course, one must remember that Ralph was in several air raids as a young boy. The results are apparent long after, sometimes, they say. People are not responsible for their actions in the least. They lose control, you know, without being able to help it.”

“Mother,” cried Flora, “you don’t think Ralph did it?”

“Come, Mrs. Ackroyd,” said Blunt.

“I don’t know what to think,” said Mrs. Ackroyd tearfully. “It’s all very upsetting. What would happen to the estate, I wonder, if Ralph were found guilty?”

Raymond pushed his chair away from the table violently. Major Blunt remained very quiet, looking thoughtfully at her. “Like shell-shock, you know,” said Mrs. Ackroyd obstinately, “and I dare say Roger kept him very short of money—with the best intentions, of course. I can see you are all against me, but I do think it is very odd that Ralph has not come forward, and I must say I am thankful Flora’s engagement was never announced formally.”

“It will be to-morrow,” said Flora in a clear voice.

“Flora!” cried her mother, aghast.

Flora had turned to the secretary.

“Will you send the announcement to the Morning Post and the Times, please, Mr. Raymond.”

“If you are sure that it is wise, Miss Ackroyd,” he replied gravely.

She turned impulsively to Blunt.

“You understand,” she said. “What else can I do? As things are, I must stand by Ralph. Don’t you see that I must?”

She looked very searchingly at him, and after a long pause he nodded abruptly.

Mrs. Ackroyd burst out into shrill protests. Flora remained unmoved. Then Raymond spoke.

“I appreciate your motives, Miss Ackroyd. But don’t you think you’re being rather precipitate? Wait a day or two.”

“To-morrow,” said Flora, in a clear voice. “It’s no good, mother, going on like this. Whatever else I am, I’m not disloyal to my friends.”

“M. Poirot,” Mrs. Ackroyd appealed tearfully, “can’t you say anything at all?”

“Nothing to be said,” interpolated Blunt. “She’s doing the right thing. I’ll stand by her through thick and thin.”

Flora held out her hand to him.

“Thank you, Major Blunt,” she said.

“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, “will you let an old man congratulate you on your courage and your loyalty? And will you not misunderstand me if I ask you—ask you most solemnly—to postpone the announcement you speak of for at least two days more?”

Flora hesitated.

“I ask it in Ralph Paton’s interests as much as in yours, mademoiselle. You frown. You do not see how that can be. But I assure you that it is so. Pas de blagues. You put the case into my hands—you must not hamper me now.”

Flora paused a few minutes before replying.

“I do not like it,” she said at last, “but I will do what you say.”

She sat down again at the table.

“And now, messieurs et mesdames,” said Poirot rapidly, “I will continue with what I was about to say. Understand this, I mean to arrive at the truth. The truth, however ugly in itself, is always curious and beautiful to the seeker after it. I am much aged, my powers may not be what they were.” Here he clearly expected a contradiction. “In all probability this is the last case I shall ever investigate. But Hercule Poirot does not end with a failure. Messieurs et mesdames, I tell you, I mean to know. And I shall know—in spite of you all.”

He brought out the last words provocatively, hurling them in our face as it were. I think we all flinched back a little, excepting Geoffrey Raymond, who remained good humored and imperturbable as usual.

“How do you mean—in spite of us all?” he asked, with slightly raised eyebrows.

“But—just that, monsieur. Every one of you in this room is concealing something from me.” He raised his hand as a faint murmur of protest arose. “Yes, yes, I know what I am saying. It may be something unimportant—trivial—which is supposed to have no bearing on the case, but there it is. Each one of you has something to hide. Come, now, am I right?”

His glance, challenging and accusing, swept round the table. And every pair of eyes dropped before his. Yes, mine as well.

“I am answered,” said Poirot, with a curious laugh. He got up from his seat. “I appeal to you all. Tell me the truth—the whole truth.” There was a silence. “Will no one speak?”

He gave the same short laugh again.

“C’est dommage,” he said, and went out.

[imagineanime2022]

Sebastian With Heterochromic S/O

Sebastian Michaelis X Reader

Requested: Anon

Request: Sebastian with a s/o who has heterochromia, like they have one brown eye, one blue eye.

Warning: Bullying, Insults, Elusion to underground dealing and selling body parts for profit.

Sebastian - Purple

Ciel - Blue

Underground businessman - Red

🐈‍⬛ The first time that Sebastian had seen you, you were wearing an eyepatch and if he hadn’t already met all of the staff here he would have been suspicious that there was another demon around. 🐈‍⬛ Considering how he and Ciel hide their arrangement but when he realised that it wasn’t the same thing he decided that he wanted to see what you were hiding. 🐈‍⬛ You were working at the ball so it was difficult to separate you from the crowds but he started with polite gestures and helping you despite the fact that you insisted he was a guest. 🐈‍⬛ Ciel noticed Sebastian's fascination and straight up asked him about it “Where have you been?” “I’m sorry Young Master, I was observing one of the other workers.” “Does it have anything to do with the case?” “No.” “Then stay focused.” 🐈‍⬛ That being said Ciel had noticed you too, you had to be the hardest working member of staff even with Sebastian holding conversation, you never lost track of what you were doing or who had asked for what refreshment. 🐈‍⬛ The other workers in the house seemed to be appreciative of you, one of them had even walked over when your eye patch slipped slightly and ordered you to do something while pointing at it, you played with it uncomfortably. 🐈‍⬛ Sebastian had saved you from that conversation to saying something that made the maid in front of you both blush before walking away. At the end of the night Ciel ordered Sebastian to go and find you so that he could ask you a few questions. 🐈‍⬛ “Master Phantomhive you called for me.” “Yes.” “How may I help?” “Your eye patch, why do you wear it?” “They ask me to.” “Why?” 🐈‍⬛ Sebastian almost felt the need to protect you from the line questioning, he could feel that you were uncomfortable but his curiosity won over and rooted him in place. 🐈��⬛ The silence that filled the room was suffocating as they both stared at you so instead of taking you lifted your hand and untied the string of the eye patch before levelling your gaze with the young master. 🐈‍⬛ “Two different coloured eyes?” “They say it looks untidy, it’s unbecoming of a staff member of the prestigious household.” “How would you like to work somewhere where you will not be forced to hide yourself?”

🐈‍⬛ That's how you ended up working for Ciel Phantomhive but there was still the issue of how you ended up dating Sebastian and it started out as you being the only person he could rely on to get something done. 🐈‍⬛ He became overprotective of you in a different way then he did Ciel and if any other demon had seen it they’d be able to place the feeling but they’d never understand it. 🐈‍⬛ The people that Ciel dealt with were never good people but unfortunately the night that kickstarted the relationship was in response to one of these, the man was a collector. 🐈‍⬛ You had been serving them when he reached out and grabbed your hand “aren’t you beautiful. A rare sight, there are many looking for someone of your kind especially in my field.” “Unhand my staff immediately.” “Master Phantomhive, how much are they worth to you?” “They are not for sale.” “Oh come on, there must be something you're after, you rich people always have your interests.” “I believe the young master asked you to unhand them. (Y/N) wait for me in the kitchen.” “Yes Sebastian.” 🐈‍⬛ The guest was dealt with not that anyone would ever tell you how. Sebastian found you afterwards and made sure that you were okay, checking your wrists and arms for any bruising before declaring “you have nothing to worry about I’ll protect you, no one will harm you or your stunning eyes.”

🐈‍⬛ From there on, there was more than a working relationship and everyone was happy for you. Despite the fact that everyone knew Sebastian liked to keep the affection between yourselves, he couldn’t have someone like the reapers finding out and using you against him. 🐈‍⬛ Sebastian was very touchy when you were alone, he was always close. 🐈‍⬛ He spoke in a low voice, like every word he said to you was your secret to keep and he honestly made you blush every time that he spoke, you still haven’t been able to do the same but you were working on it. 🐈‍⬛ Sometimes you’d catch him just looking at your eyes “what are you looking at.” “Heaven and earth are held in your eyes.” 🐈‍⬛ Sebastian didn’t take kindly to insults either; there had been a fair share of deals and gatherings that went badly because of a spiteful comment directed at you. Both Ciel and Sebastian had an unspoken but mutual agreement about this. Ciel wanted no dealings with people that disrespected his staff and Sebastian would not allow anyone to insult you. 🐈‍⬛ In summary he was very overprotective of you, people like you were rare, you were beautiful on the inside and the outside and you kind of beauty was rare and we all know that when Sebastian found something rare in his possession he has no intention of letting it go.

Request Here!!

[theinnerunderrain]

In the Greed to play God [Yan! Pantalone x Saintess! Reader]

Warnings: Yandere themes, mentions of poverty and harassment, religious themes, minor character death, brief description of blood, infantilizing behaviors, naive reader, attempted murder.

Word count: 3.6k

-

He who is not content with what he has, would not be content with what he would like to have.

Due to his upbringing in poverty, he had a profound yearning for greener pastures and a warm shelter over his head. Every night at the dinner table, he desired delectable food, Pantalone was tired of the same stale bread he ate on a daily basis but he merely indulge in that thing for the need of survival. He wanted soft, undamaged clothing that would truly keep him warm in the elements, not some rag that barely covered his malnourished chest, prompting the young children from wealthy households to point and laugh at him.

Those were the sort of privileges he desired.

These, in his opinion, were necessities for the majority of humanity but privileges for the unfortunate ones who were born within the wrong womb. Why didn't the poor have access to a system that allowed them to eat or take a shower? Why must a child suffer for a parent's mistake? For a country that was responsible for being the household of mora, it was laughable how many of its citizens still linger within poverty, waiting for some miracle to occur.

Pantone couldn't frankly understand either.

The visions are believed to be granted to those with compelling ambitions, but despite having the pure resolve to acquire those privileges to lead a comfortable life, he never received one. Was he not worthy in the eyes of the Gods? Was the desire to just live insufficient? What sort of desire must one have to obtain a God's favor?

Money may not have been the world's greatest virtue, but it is the one thing that unifies civilizations and organizes its people. The world is controlled by a small piece of parchment. Certainly not the Almighty beings that are endlessly preached of across all nations. Unlike currency, God does not rule the earth.

As a corollary, money has much more power to influence people than the faith in God.

Pantalone felt a twinge of humour as he observed Capitano tugging you behind him as he led you through the Cathedral with your small hands cradled in his palm. Although he never had the opportunity to experience it firsthand, it was similar to a toddler being guided by their parents on the first day of school, completely lost and hesitant.

As you took in your surroundings slowly, your eyes glowed with wonder and danced wildly over the room. It was clear that this was your first time seeing the cathedral's beautiful architecture, clad with towering walls painted with the finest art and large colorful windows that allow a significant amount of sunlight to filtered through. The cathedral was as grand as the Tsaritsa palace, so magnificently marvellous in comparison to your parents' small tavern that now simply stood as a dull building.

Capitano visibly decelerated his steps as you and him proceeded up the enormous stairs in an effort to prevent you from tumbling backwards. A quiet apology was spoken after you managed to trip up a few steps, but Capitano's hands were soon encircling your waist to steady you, seemingly rather used to your clumsiness instead of scolding you. You managed to ascend the steps without stumbling, but you were obviously exhausted after ascending all of those stairs with the way your lips were parted and small pants escaped your lungs.

"Welcome, Sir Capitano and Lady [First Name]."

He grinned as he drank in your somewhat stumpy appearance. Despite the fact that your beauty was rather prominent, the trip to the capital must have been quite difficult based on your untidy hair and slightly soiled outfit. But you overall seem to be in good shape, something he'll applaud Capitano for knowing the man's rather brutal personality.

"Pantalone. I can trust that you have our accommodations arranged? The journey was fairly comprehensive."

Ah, straightforward as always.

His golden eyes follow you as you cower behind Capitano while he speaks. Your gaze barely lingered on him for a brief moment before it vanished when you discovered him staring at you with that smile cast on his lips. Since he had heard that you had been removed against your request from your own home after being nurtured by your parents for so long, he figured that your fearful personality was to be anticipated.

"All of the preparations have been made by my employees. Before you depart, why jot exchange a proper introduction?"

He gestures toward you after catching a glimpse of the hostility building beneath Capitano's mask. The three of you remained motionless before Capitano prodded you to speak and introduced yourself despite your obvious discomfort. Pantalone was not at all nearly as tall as the warrior, but you still seem rather diminutive in comparison to him. Could it be that you're naturally timid, therefore it makes you seem smaller than you are?

"It's a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Sir Pantalone."

Given the strangeness surrounding him and the fact that Pantalone is a relatively foreign name in the region of Snezhnaya, you begin to question that Pantalone was even his authentic name. His name glides off your tongue somewhat smoothly despite the slight quiver within your voice.

"Please, Pantalone or simply just sir is enough for me. No need to be so formal."

He laughs just as one of the maids enters the corridor, clearly eager to accompany you and Capitano to your quarters despite his displeasure. Perhaps he'll receive a better opportunity to interact with you more later? But he supposed it's not the right time at this moment, especially not with Capitano's obvious eyes lingering on your form like a protective predator trying to secure its prey. Besides that Capitano wasn't the type to linger around him unless he needed to discuss some political or funding matter so eagerness to escape the man was rather obvious.

"I'm ready to accompany our guests to their rooms, sir."

Capitano seems to have noticed the gleam of predation hidden within the younger man's golden hues as he drew you back behind his back. Although his demeanor remains unchanged.

What an annoyingly perceptive man.

"Ah, I imagine it would be impolite of me to keep you all here much longer. Enjoy your night and please do join me tomorrow for breakfast."

Countless thoughts began to pour through his mind like a wrecking tsunami as he watched as the maid escorted you out of the main hall. Perhaps he's making the right investment this time? Well, he always makes the right investment, but perhaps indulging a prospect of his wealth to a religious factor wasn't a terrible choice?

But when given the chance, he too wasn't reluctant to charge at his prey. Perhaps Capitano should be more watchful of his little pet? Nothing in Snezhnaya, after all, is capable of eluding his grasp. He may want to be concerned about a rat breaking out at night and getting into your room, since rats are rather pesky.

But perhaps he'll be the one to save you from the rat?

We'll simply have to wait and see.

Don't be too startled to catch a glimpse of a wandering rat late at night.

-

Despite the fact that nothing could truly compete with the comfort of your own home, you would have to acknowledge that the chamber you were staying in was rather pleasant. The room was rather large and was covered in a fancy-like wallpaper, and the mattress was large enough to fit more than three people. It wasn't nearly as chummy as your old bedroom within your parents' tavern, but you practically felt like royalty with the insane amount of gold furniture within the room.

You snuggled under the blanket and felt taken aback by how plush it was—it almost felt like you were lounging in a cloud-like swamp.

Warm, and soft.

You steadily close your eyes as you make a conscious effort to float away into Dreamland, a pleasant smile creeping across your face. After spending the prior weeks sleeping in tents, you were somewhat grateful to finally have the opportunity to rest within a comfortable bed. But just as you're almost certain to nod off. You were abruptly awakened by a quiet knock against your door, which caused you to sit up against the headboard and call to the person.

"What is it?"

For a fraction of a second, there was silence in the air, forcing an unpleasant feeling to sweep through your gut as you stare at the door, awaiting for their answer.

"...Sir Capitano has directed that I deliver this sleeping aid. May I come in?"

At this hour? Despite the fact it was too difficult to comprehend the miniature clock above your vanity, you figured it was probably past midnight at this point. However, Capitano wasn't a stranger with the practice of foregoing sleep in order to maintain an eye on you. Therefore, maybe it wasn't strange for him to send medicine at this time either?

"You may come in."

Speaking hesitantly, you watched as the door steadily creaked open to let a young maid, possibly even younger than you, enter the room carrying a small candle.

The maid flashed you a gentle smile, strolling to the side of your bed before carefully placing the candle next to your nightstand and pulling out a small pack of medication. Her hair was knotted in two twin braids, and the candle's radiance barely highlighted the freckles within her cheeks.

You were expecting her to deliver you the medication, but instead she simply threw the container to the floor where the contents slipped into the abyss beneath the mattress. Her other hand carefully unlatched the back of her garment to show a sharp blade that shone in the moonlight filtering through the window.

"What are you doing-!"

The young girl lunges forward, her free hand clamping against your lips to keep you from wailing loudly. The blade mockingly glowed brightly as she raised the dagger in the air, evoking memories of the shooting stars your parents used to take you to see. In an attempt to buy yourself some time to free yourself from her grip, you squirm and struggle whilst pleading with her with your eyes, praying that she would take pity on you.

You momentarily caught a glimpse of hesitancy within her dark eyes. She seemed unsure of whether she was prepared to end the life of another person owing to the manner she held the blade—it was somewhat wobbly and hesitant. She was able to stifle her turmoil, though, as she attempted to strike you with the knife whilst quietly apologising.

You shut your eyes and braced yourself for a piercing agony, but all you felt was her hand slipping away from your face. As warm liquid spilled all over your body, a ferocious cry broke the air as the sound of the maid's body slumping onto the floor. The metallic smell of blood started to permeate your senses at this point, and you painfully realised what the substance was, which drove your breathing to become bulkier.

Despite the sound of delicate footsteps creeping toward your bed, you firmly kept your eyes closed due to being fearful of being disturbed by the sight of the bloody corpse of the maid.

"[First Name]."

It wasn't the usual deep, solemn voice you had grown accustomed to hearing instead, it sounded distinctive. As opposed to that, this person's voice was rich and smooth, slipping gently into your ears like a gemstone gliding upon glass. The individual steadily stroked his fingers along your face, delicately cleaning the blood from your cheeks. His fingers were frigid, perhaps colder than Capitano's, leading you to conclude that your saviour was indeed eviler than Capitano.

"Everything is fine. All you have to do now is go back to sleep."

A hand tenderly eased your head towards the pillow as he murmured, fanning his breath across your cheeks as if he were nudging you to return to sleep despite the obscurity of the situation.

Yet, you were deeply afraid.

Opting to close your eyes for the duration of the procedure, attempting to ignore how the foot of the mattress dipped a bit beneath his body as he sat down. Straining to disregard the way his fingers traced the tiny contours within your face whilst sliding your tresses behind your ears. Your subconscious was hollering at you to go to sleep, to gradually wash out the stillness of his humming, and to eventually rinse out the severity of your predicament.

Several minutes seemed to pass by at this time, and your body started to feel somewhat heavier and your thoughts started to become muddled, as if you were evaporating from your current body. You can feel his fingertips tracing along your lips as the background humming continues on, gently lulling you into sleep.

A soothing "goodnight" was spoken into your ears as you were parting, followed by the warm sensation of something damp being placed on top of your forehead. A brief opening of your eyes allows you to see dark wavy hair and a set of golden eyes that gleam in the shadows, accompanied by plush lips that curve in a mischievous smile. Before you were capable of falling asleep and wandering off again to your dreamland.

-

The blood that had previously been soaking onto your skin and nightgown had already been cleansed by the time you woke up the following morning. In fact, you had changed entirely into a different gown. The young maid's body, along with the blood that had been on the floor, had all vanished.

The room appeared to be completely normal, as if nothing abnormal had happened.

You hunt for the medication that the maid had formerly dropped, feeling somewhat agitated, underneath your bed frame. Nothing, not even a single dust particle, was found underneath the bed.

Was it merely a nightmare?

A number of maids accompanied you in getting dressed and guided you to slip on a breathtaking white dress that spilled to your knees and had sleeves with cuffs that reached just above your elbow. They attached pearl embellishments to your hair, giving it the appearance as if there was an unending sea of shimmering pearls within your mane.

You peek at your reflection in the mirror, a little taken aback by how unusual you seem to be. You felt very different and possibly even more sophisticated than before thanks to all of these expensive clothes and accessories. You would even get that this dress probably cost more than your parents' tavern, even if they managed to rack up a lot of money within the span of a couple months.

One of the maids led you down into the main dining area, where Capitano and Pantalone were seated. They appeared to be having a brief conversation before your quiet footsteps reverberated throughout the space, prompting them to turn their attention towards you. Following a charming smile, Pantalone motioned for you to take a seat next to him and directly across from Capitano.

"Ah, [First Name]. Here, take a seat."

You took a seat, feeling a little stiff as you adjusted the length of your dress into place before dragging the chair up to the table.

"How was your sleep last night?"

Pantalone muses as he pushes a tea cup decorated with delicate floral motifs towards your direction. If you were to judge the cup solely by its appearance, you would undoubtedly conclude that it is made of exquisite porcelain, which is more expensive than the entirety of your closet at home.

"For most part, it was alright."

You answered, taking a tiny sip of the hot tea as you could feel two sets of eyes penetrating your head as they intently listened to your words.

"B..But I did have a strange dream last night."

You acknowledge that you still find it unsettling to glance at Pantalone as you set the cup back down on the plate and peered at Capitano who wordlessly stared back at you. Something about Pantalone simply seems so unnerving, yet it could be that you've known the Captain for a lot longer.

"Oh? Would you care to elaborate?"

At this point, would they even accept your words? Even you aren't sure if what happened last night was actually the truth or if it was all just a flocking dream. There was no proof that anything occurred, not even a single stain of left behind blood.

"I..it was just a silly childish nightmare. Can we start eating, please?"

As if inviting you to do the same, Pantalone hummed at you before picking up his eating utensils. Following suit, you take the fork and knife out and carefully cut into the piece of warm bacon that is stretched out in front of you before slipping the tender piece of meat into your mouth. Even if you've never encountered any difficulties getting food for your dinner, the piece of beef couldn't be compared in the slightest to the meals your parents prepared. The beef was incredibly soft, perfectly seasoned and sweet, and it melted upon your tongue.

Pantalone seems to notice how your eyes light up as a small laugh escapes his lips, forcing your face to blush in shame.

"The food is quite enjoyable, no need to feel embarrassed."

Despite his efforts to put you at ease, you couldn't help feeling as though he was subtly mocking you and patronizing you like some sort of innocent little girl. However, you made no attempt to reply, choosing instead to merely chuckle. However, Capitano was the first to seek to initiate a genuine conversation, slamming his glass onto the table irrespective of the fact that it appeared to be an unconscious action.

"Pantalone, let us carry on the discussion we established earlier."

Curiosity piqued at his words, and Pantalone turned his attention back from you to peer at the masked man seated next to him. Apart from the water bottle he had just consumed, his supper was left unattended.

"My apologies, Captain. It appears as if I've accidentally become distracted."

His eyes momentarily lingered on your face before shifting to Capitano as he grinned. He shifted the plate to the centre of the table before propping his elbows against the wooden and resting his head onto his hands.

"Many of the children within Arlecchino's orphanage have now successfully completed their coming-of-age ritual. This indicates that many of them have the capacity to enter the war."

Children? War? Capitano actually intends to just let children participate in fighting? You were aware of how critical the situation was at the moment, yet it was still unethical to use children as troops.

"That's correct, yet I have received reports that a large number of those children lack competence across several aspects. Therefore, I do not think that funding a futile military is really appropriate."

In response to Pantalone's statement, Capitano nodded thoughtfully with his palm resting just beneath the area of his helmet that corresponds to where his chin should be. Even though you couldn't fully understand the circumstances, the wording they used while speaking regarding children was simply too callous, and the issue must be resolved in a different way.

"C.. couldn't we simply use another method that doesn't have to involve the children? If they're not well versed with military combat perhaps they could be placed as medical examiners."

Now that you had interrupted their talk, both men's eyes turned back to you, appearing a little bewildered at your suggestion. You gradually regretted meddling with their discussion once there was a brief period of stillness. In the back of your head, you're steadily creating excuses.

"Earth may be able to supply all human necessities, but not for all human greed."

Pantalone grinned, his eyes forming the appearance of a half-moon as they wrinkled. The moon was a stunningly magnificent phenomenon that gave light to the inhabitants of earth, despite its affiliation with the darkness. A beacon of light.

However, despite his outward attractiveness, the man sitting next to you seems to be the moon's antithesis—something much more ruthless and searing, precisely like the vivid flames.

"With the exception of materialism, nothing renders us more vulnerable to attacks than loneliness that comes from greed."

Despite your trepidation, you responded, directing your attention away from his gaze and maintaining a somewhat consistent voice.

Such a tenacious little thing.

Pantalone had postulated that given that you and Capitano were rather intimate, you might have been a little downtrodden and dreary to blend in better with the Captain. However, you persisted in tenaciously upholding your moral beliefs, appropriate of the Saintess, he may assert. He hoped that you would tune in on his exchange. He laughed at your determination, his voice gliding smoothly across your ears prompting you to become flustered, perhaps thinking you somehow made a fool of yourself.

"That might be the case. I beg to differ, though, considering human greed is what inspires mankind to flourish. We would never blossom into fully formed human beings if we remained content with only one thing."

"But if there were no such thing as greed, there would be no conflict and no suffering."

As he listened to your words, Pantalone's peculiar sensation intensified. He could feel his heart thumping and wilting with obvious exuberance. Maybe the delicate birdie that Capitano is so passionate about preserving is sturdier than he initially imagined.

"Without the conception of misery, in my perception, humanity cannot exist. Since we are simply human beings and not representatives of the celestial race, we must undergo a few types of discomfort. It's what makes us humans."

His golden eyes meticulously examine your face, observing the furrow your brows make in frustration, how your lips tighten as you struggle to come up with a response.

How adorable.

Capitano, though, cut short his amusement. A fleeting expression of irritation develops on his face, then quickly vanishes and his face contorted into the usual light-hearted grin.

"[First Name]. It is inappropriate to be interrupting a conversation like this."

At his remarks, you immediately shrank back, a little pout forming on your lips as your shoulders sagged in defeat. You continue to eat your meal, nibbling at the piece of bacon gently in the manner of a squirrel devouring some pine nuts. A soft apology escapes your lips, your tone barely above a whisper.

Perhaps Pantalone was wrong.

Perhaps his avarice did reach the boundaries of the sky. Maybe his passion went beyond the minimum essentials. He desired more, or perhaps he regarded you as an essential. You were constantly brimming with life and vivacious, precisely like a whistling bird.

What a courageous little thing, chirping away at your moral principles and attempting to change his viewpoint. If you become sufficiently obedient, he might be willing to dress you in the most luxurious fabrics and jewellery. Or perhaps he just wants to enjoy your chirping for a little while longer. It's just invigorating to hear other principles than those within a community that faithfully adhered to one Tsaritsa principle.

Indeed, you would appear fairly beautiful dressed in pure white, possibly even with a satin veil thick enough for you to see through while obscuring your beauty from the gaze of some other man in lament.

But for the time being, he is content as long as you continue to chirp him your beautiful songs.

For everything in the world—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life—comes not from the Father but from the world. 1 John 2:16

[sequinsmile-x]

Eros

Emily wasn’t surprised that she’d started to sleep with one of her professors, but she was surprised that she’d fallen in love with him. 

A Hotchniss AU.

-x-

This is a present for a very dear friend of mine. One of my absolute best friends actually. You are the nicest, most talented and most incredible person although I know you won’t believe that! I am forever grateful we found each other in this very specific corner of the internet. The world was falling apart around us all, and we both independently turned to fanfiction, for a very niche, non-canon couple, as a distraction. And we found each other and our little group of friends and I cannot imagine my life without you in it!

I love you, I treasure you, and one day there won’t be whole oceans between us and I will give you the biggest hug in the world. 

So, this is for you. I know you’re proud you’ve turned me, the girl who initially only wrote fluff, into the angst-ridden monster everyone has to deal with today. I like to think you’d also be proud you managed to get me to write the spiciest smut I ever have, just to celebrate you!!

Love you <3

-x-

Words: 3.2k

Warnings: 18+, Smut. Professor/Student relationship. Age gap.

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

When she thinks about it, Emily is almost surprised it takes her until her senior year to start sleeping with one of her professors. 

She knew that was primarily to do with the fact not one of them had piqued her interest, all a little too old for her liking, and certainly not worth the ramifications of getting caught. 

That all changed on the first day of her final year of her undergrad. Her focus on her Criminal Psychology class diminished the second Professor Hotchner walked into the room. He was much younger than the other teachers they’d had, clearly only a handful of years out from having qualified himself. He was handsome, the cut of his jawline capturing her attention across the classroom, but it was his seriousness, the way he commanded a room, that fascinated her the most. An urge to mess with him, to make him untidy almost immediately pulled at her gut. 

Despite her inability to concentrate in his class she still did very well, her intelligence enough to get her through as she fantasised about him as he discussed the markers of a sociopath. 

The first time they had sex was in a bathroom in a bar. Something she called luck meant they’d ended up in the same place that night that she’d taken advantage of. He’d been alone, nursing a glass of scotch as she slipped away from her friends and got chatting with him, ignoring the flicker in her belly when he remembered her name even though he must have hundreds of students in his classes. 

Her eyes flicked to the band of paler skin on his left hand, and she’d later find out he was freshly divorced. That he’d gotten married when he was her age, but his relationship with his wife had soured, meaning he was now 32 and single again. 

Emily could never deny that she’d made the first move, her hand sneaking onto his thigh as she playfully smiled at him, but as she reminded him frequently, he didn’t exactly stop her. His protests were present, but weak, stopping entirely as she led him towards the back of the bar. 

She had thought that would get it out of her system, that the slightly drunken sex she’d had with him that night would quench her curiosity, but all it did was set it alight. 

She knew it was the same for him. 

The cold light of day meant he’d pulled back from her at first, apologetic and insisting nothing could happen between them again, that it was inappropriate. But he seemed just as drawn to her as she was to him, and it was only a couple of weeks later that a genuine stop-off at his office hours led to her pressed up against his desk.

It was a bad idea to carry on, and she knew that, but she did anyway. Sneaking away to see him whenever she could, sure she could never get enough of him. 

She was now only a few weeks off from her last ever finals, graduation only around the corner, and every time she thought about what that meant, that whatever this was between them would change or end soon, it made her chest ache. 

They never spoke about their relationship, if you could even call it that, was kept within the four walls of his office. A secret they both knew they should be more ashamed of than they were. 

Occasionally, she let herself get carried away with the fantasy of it. That someday they’d have more, the kind of family she’d never been a part of. She’d find her mind taken over by thoughts of having to explain to her mother how she and Aaron had met. If she truly let herself get carried away, laying in the bed he’d never been in, she’d find herself thinking of a home. A marriage. Of  a teenage girl with his eyes and her attitude, yelling at her that she couldn’t say anything to her about her boyfriend being older, because she’d fucked her college professor. 

Emily wasn’t surprised that she’d started to sleep with one of her professors, but she was surprised that she’d fallen in love with him. 

___

Aaron was in trouble, and he had been from the first moment he’d noticed Emily Prentiss. 

This job was his fresh start, his divorce from Haley still sharp if he thought about it. He’d noticed Emily on his very first day, sitting in the back of the classroom but somehow still catching his attention. 

She was beautiful, captivating, and as he would soon learn - insistent. He’d kept a wide berth from her at first, knowing his attraction to her was inappropriate. She was just shy of 10 years younger than him, and she was his student. 

He had been doing a pretty good job of it until they ended up in the same bar, the alcohol in his system making him question why he’d ever tried to stay away from her. His control snaps as she places her hand on his leg after an hour of talking as if they were just a man and a woman who had met in the bar with no complications, her dark eyes boring into his. 

When he woke the next morning he swore he could still taste her. Marks she had left behind on his neck, and scratches on his shoulders enough to let him know what had happened in the bathroom was not a dream. 

Aaron’s first reaction was one of panic. Hyper was aware that it was wrong, and he’d done his best to remain professional after that. He’d pulled her to one side after class one day, ignoring the disappointment he saw flash across her face as he apologised, and said it couldn’t happen again. 

It, of course, did. 

She’d come to his office, with a genuine question about an assignment that there was no one else she could ask about, and it had taken all of five minutes for them to end up tangled together. Their mutual attraction too much to ignore. 

He knew he should have stopped it months ago, that he was the one who was in the position of power here, but he couldn’t. His body paralysed every time he thought about it, whenever he almost told her this had to be the last time. Her smile disarmed him every time, the way she looked when he took her apart. 

He wanted more of her, all of her. 

It had gone beyond the physical. He’d never been very good at separating sex from emotions, and he found himself wanting to be in her company more and more. She made him laugh and made him feel relaxed in a way he hadn’t experienced since the early years of his marriage. He found himself looking at her across the classroom, never surprised to find her looking at him too. 

It was stupid to start sleeping with a student. It was nothing short of idiotic to fall in love with one. 

She was graduating soon, and every time they had time alone together, he had to stop himself from asking her out. From taking what they had from trysts in his office to something more, something that existed outside of what they’d built. 

There’s a knock at his office door, and he’s not surprised to see Emily walk in dressed in a summer dress, a wry smile on her face as she steps over the threshold.

“Professor Hotchner, I just wanted to have a quick chat about extra credit,” she says, the door still open and a sparkle in her eye that has him raising an eyebrow at her. 

“No one else is here, Emily,” he replies, and she beams, pulling the door closed behind her and dumping her bag in the corner of the room, “Someone blocked out the last couple of hours of my office hours so I had to stick around.”

Emily hums in her throat, walking over to him, sitting on the edge of his desk, “I wonder who did that.” 

His hand automatically lands on her thigh just above her knee, as if magnetised, the need to touch her as natural now as breathing. 

“Someone who likes to rile me up,” he responds, and she laughs, shifting so she moves from his desk to sit in his lap, her arms tight around his neck.

She leans in, smiling as her breath skips across his face, relishing in how he holds her a little tighter, his control clearly on a knife edge. 

“Oh, I’ll do more than rile you up,” she replies, biting her bottom lip, “I missed you yesterday.” 

He hadn’t been in class the day before, and she’d found herself feeling disappointed. 

“I had a meeting, and had to get a sub,” he explains, his hand shifting up her back, stroking at her exposed skin. 

She presses a quick kiss to his lips, “Well, Professor Rossi is nowhere near as fun to stare at as you are.” 

“You’re meant to pay attention in class, Em, “ He pulls her impossibly closer and she laughs. 

“Not my fault that all I can think about when you’re teaching is how it feels when you fuck me on your desk.” 

She smiles, and she sees the moment his self-control snaps. He leans in, his lips against hers whilst his hand buried itself in her hair, holding her in place as his tongue licks into her mouth. She wraps her arms around him, pulling him close as he stands, lifting her at the same time and stepping towards his desk. 

He places her on the dark-coloured wood, never breaking their kiss as he does so. His hands roam over her body, grasping at skin that was familiar to him. He pulls away from her and kisses down her neck, biting at her collarbone as he passes it. 

She chuckles, already breathless, “Keen, are we?” 

“For you, always,” he replies, licking at her skin. 

Her hands aren’t idle, pushing desperately at his jacket so it hits the floor before she moves to his belt buckle. She undoes it quickly, reaching for his zipper before he stops her, his hand over hers as he pulls back enough to look at her. 

“Your turn.”

She smiles wickedly at him, surprised he’d remembered their deal from the week before. She still had slight bruises on her knees from where she’d knelt on the floor for him.

He leans in and kisses her quickly, before trailing down her neck again, pushing the straps of her dress down her shoulders, pressing his lips into the newly revealed skin. He pulls her dress down just enough to expose her breasts, and he moans when he realises she isn’t wearing a bra. He leans forward and presses his forehead to her chest, his breath skipping down the valley of her breasts. 

“You’re fucking perfect,” he says, the timber of his voice vibrating through her skin, “so perfect.” 

“Please,” she moans, her whole body already shaking with want even though he’d barely touched her. 

The first time they’d done this, the anticipation set her on edge, waiting to find out if he was everything she had thought he would be. Now she knew. She knew what he was capable of, how successfully he could take her apart, and it somehow made it worse. Knowledge almost a curse as she waited for him to send her over the edge. 

Aaron mercifully does as she asks, kissing both of her breasts before he moves on. He pays close attention to her pierced nipple, licking at the small metal bar that drove him crazy. Leaving him distracted and half-hard as he looked at her across the lecture hall, all too aware of what she looked like naked. What she looked like when she came apart. 

Emily raises an eyebrow when he kneels in front of her, feeling powerful at the sight of it. She shifts her hips, tilting them so he can reach up under her dress to pull down her panties. She gasps at the feel of his skin against her thigh, his eyes never leaving hers as he throws her panties over his shoulder without a second glance, the black lace lost to the room. 

He traces his hands up the inside of her legs, pushing her thighs wider apart as he reaches them, shifting so they are heaved over his shoulders. She places her hands behind her on the desk, bracing herself as he leans forward. She looks down, the sight of his head under her dress enough to undo her right there. He still doesn’t do anything, and she can feel her patience hanging on by a thread. 

“For fuck sake, please-”

Aaron licks through her, and it cuts her off, her words lost to a groan she can’t control. She’s glad it’s after hours, that the neighbouring offices would be empty by now, and she doesn’t have to try to be quiet for once. 

He pulls back enough to kiss the inside of her thigh, his grip on her skin as he holds her legs apart tight enough to leave bruises. 

“Delicious,” he says, right before he dives back in. He licks through her like a man who was starved, never letting up even for a second. He slips two fingers inside of her, pressing just in the right place. It had been like this from the start, as if he had a manual for her body, aware of the intricate details of what could shatter her into pieces. 

If she could think about anything other than how good he was making her feel, she’d worry he would suffocate, his movements against her relentless. 

“Fuck,” she chokes out, her nails scratching at the wood of his desk, “I’m going to-”

“Do it,” he mumbles, and it’s enough to tip her over the edge, her thighs clamping around his head as she comes. 

He stands, gently lowering her legs from over his shoulders, and cups the back of her head, his forehead against hers as her breathing starts to even out. 

“You ok?” He asks, his voice thick with desire, and she nods in response. He leans in to kiss her quickly, and she moans when she tastes herself on his lips. 

She shifts forward on the desk and stands, her legs slightly shaky. He turns her, pressing her into the desk and crowding her from behind. The heat of him against her back and the cool wood of the desk against her exposed skin makes her already shot nerves go haywire. The feel of him enough to make her moan before he even makes a move to touch her again. He chuckles as he kisses the back of her shoulder. 

“Desperate are we?” He murmurs, and she wants him so badly she can’t bring herself to tell him to fuck off. To threaten him with revenge the next time they do this, even though there shouldn’t be a next time. 

There shouldn’t be a this time. This never should have happened at all, but she didn’t want to stop. And she knows he doesn’t want to either. 

She hears him unzip his pants, the sound loud in a room that was quiet apart from their heavy breathing, and she tilts her head back so it can rest on his shoulder. 

“Fuck, Aaron,” she says, his first name slipping past her lips as he lines himself up with her, “please.” 

He enters her quickly, the feeling knocking the air from her lungs as she leans forward, her hands on his desk, sure to cause more damage to the wood than she already had. Scratches from their past encounters now too many to count, a pattern across his desk she knew he’d struggle to explain to anyone who cared to look. 

“Holy shit,” she curses, her entire body feeling like it was on fire as he stills inside of her. 

“Fuck,” he says, resting his forehead against her shoulder, “you’re fucking amazing.” 

“Move,” she chokes out, forcing her hips backwards in a way that makes them both moan, “fucking move.” 

He doesn’t need asking again, looping his arm around her, his hand pressing into her stomach 

as he starts to move. He isn’t gentle, and neither is she, both giving as much they take as they lose themselves in the feel of each other. 

He pulls her upright so her back is pressed against his chest, the change in angle enough to make them both moan. She turns her head to kiss him, the action lost as they both groan into each other's mouths. 

“Close,” she mumbles, her body starting to shake again, grateful for his hold on her so she doesn’t fall face first into his desk. 

“Me too,” he grunts, one of his hands snaking down to circle her clit, making her body jolt, his touch gentle against her sensitive skin. He moans against her neck as she clenches around him, “That's it,” he says, “come for me, Emily.” 

She tips over the edge again, this time taking him with her, both of them grasping at each other as they reach their mutual high. 

She tries to catch her breath, her head leaning back against him as he kisses her neck, his lips travelling down her shoulder. He’s muttering praise against her skin, and it’s enough to make her skin tinge pink for a different reason than the arousal still sparking in her blood. Something close to embarrassment catching in her chest, even though this man had seen her naked more times than she could count. 

“That was amazing,” he mutters against her, his arms still around her. 

“It always is,” she replies, whining softly as he steps back, slipping out of her. He watches as she readjusts her dress, a content smile on her face as she turns to look at him, leaning against the desk. 

He kisses her shoulder again before he steps away completely, reaching into his desk to grab her some tissues so she can clean herself up. And he looks at her in a way she doesn’t remember anyone ever looking at her before. 

He stares at her, everything he knows he cannot feel thrumming through his skin, and she raises an eyebrow at him. 

“What?” 

He can’t stop himself, the words escaping before he can stop them, something deep down he knows he shouldn’t say. 

“I’d like to take you to dinner sometime,” he says seemingly out of nowhere, his voice breathless, clearing his throat, carrying on with a joke he knows she’ll appreciate so he feels less exposed. “Maybe fuck you somewhere other than my office.” 

She chuckles, stepping towards him, her hands running up his chest before they connect behind his head. She kisses him, and it’s significantly more tender than any others they’d shared. She shouldn’t agree to it, she knows that. Anything that would make this more complicated than it already was should make her run in the other direction. 

She smiles at him, capturing his chin in her hand, holding him in place so she can kiss him again, her tongue briefly licking into his mouth before she pulls away. 

She should say no, should stop this now just like she should have months ago, but she doesn’t want to. All too aware this is what she’d wanted for longer than she should have. 

“Dinner sounds great.”

-x-

Tag list:

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[jangsxntiger]

[ Namjoon & Domestic AU ] -

Warnings: None

Requested: Yes 🥺

Masterlist

Namjoon is a simple man. He takes his coffee black. He prefers granary to wholemeal and he knows he’ll marry you one day. 

Saturday afternoons are for visiting the supermarket. Namjoon backtracks down the aisles to pick up the things you have forgotten without complaint. When he returns, he finds you trying to pull something from the highest shelf. He watches you struggle for a moment, almost falling from your toes as you desperately reach whatever it is that you’re after.  He could stretch his arm and take it himself, but instead, he places his hands securely on your waist and lifts you upwards. The little sound of surprise that escapes from your mouth stirs a warm feeling in his chest, but the sound of your laughter as he sets you down, laundry detergent in hand, has him wishing your wedding day around sooner.  

When you’re too inundated with last-minute work to go with him, he takes the grocery list left on the countertop and goes to the store alone. Namjoon smiles to himself halfway along the vegetable aisle. In between green beans and broccoli, there is a note to say you love him. He has old lists folded between the banknotes in his wallet, all written in your handwriting, all with his name at the bottom, i’s dotted with hearts. 

Sundays are set aside for restoring some sort of order to your apartment. Namjoon wrestles with the corners of your freshly laundered bedsheets. He laughs as he watches you raise them to your nose to smell floral detergent clinging to the cotton. He dusts in the places he knows you can’t reach, waters the plants that are hung too high. Your apartment might not be the biggest, but he feels too far away even from one room to the next and every now and then pauses what he is doing to find you. He places delicate kisses on your mouth, or kisses you breathless, before disappearing again. He likes to complain about the too-sweet vanilla candle burning in the kitchen, but he knows he will miss it when it is gone. 

When it comes to cooking dinner, he lets you take the lead. Even after all this time together, you haven’t been able to improve his culinary skills beyond boiling water. But he is on hand to top up your wine glass and skip through the songs you don’t want to hear on your playlist. He stands behind and wraps his arms around your waist, resting his head on your shoulder as you stir whatever it is on the stove. 

Namjoon insists on washing the dishes whilst you rest. He makes a mess most of the time, sloshing water onto the kitchen floor, sending soap suds across the room at you. Even when you know it is coming, you’re unable to escape from his wet, soapy hands as he reaches for the sides of your face to hold you still. It is messier still – water dripping down your neck and onto your shirt, but he places lingering kisses on your skin and the water soaking into your shirt is almost entirely forgotten about.

On weekdays, when he returns home in the early hours of the morning after a particularly busy day at work, he moves through your apartment as quietly as he possibly can. Namjoon knows he is clumsy, sometimes he is all thumbs and sends his keys flying across the kitchen, or stumbles over the corner of the carpet, but at three am, when he knows you are sleeping, he moves carefully. He finds you on the sofa, a coffee cup half empty on the table and he supposes that you must have tried to wait up for him. He is even more cautious as he slips his hands around your waist – it is awkward and certainly untidy enough to shake you awake, but he manages to lift you into his arms. He hears a soft huff against his ear and feels you shift slightly as he starts towards your bedroom and he wonders whether he had woken you after all. After a moment, your body settles back onto his chest, maybe he had disturbed you, but you curl into him and let him believe that he hasn't.

[seollenda]

to lay her claim (handmaiden!reader x princess!nayeon)

[ pt 2 ]

i’m really soft for this historical au dynamic!!!! poor princess nayeonie just wants to know what love is.

CW: n/a, fluff

word count: ~2000

if you had to be honest, your preconceived notions of the princess hadn’t been particularly flattering.

“ahgassi is having her weekly temper tantrum,” tittered an older maid, shoving you toward the door. “go appease her. you’re a pretty face, maybe that will soothe her.”

“isn’t this a bit cruel for her first day?” commented another, but the screen door was already slid open to the outer room and you had no choice but to step into the chambers.

princess im was properly sobbing, only a slumped shadow on the floor behind the screen of the room. she straightened up at the sound of your entrance, swallowing a hiccup.

“who enters?” her voice was high and plaintive.

“handmaiden y/n, ahgassi,” you responded with your best gracious tone.

“raise the screen,” she said, and the servants lifted it silently. you bowed your head deeply, hearing her shaky breath calm slightly.

“you’re new, aren’t you?”

“yes, your highness.”

“raise your head so i may see you.”

her face was tear tracked and un-made. youth and distress flushed her soft cheeks, her eyes wide and watery. she was beautiful, beyond the soured reputation you’d heard from within and outside the palace walls.

seconds passed before you realized that you had been holding the royal’s gaze for probably an insolent length of time. you quickly dropped your head again, heartbeat in your throat. way to go…fired by the princess on your first day here.

“come in and sit down,” she said. “and don’t cast such a pretty face to the floor!”

when you lowered yourself to the bare floor, she reached out and raised your chin with her own hand, her bright eyes curious as they ranged across your face. a soft smile came across her face as she dropped her hand.

“did they send you to shut me up?” she said, shifting to sit more comfortably, tucking her untidied hair behind her ears. she leaned to peer into a mirror on a dresser next to her, dabbing her tears away. “you don’t have to answer that, don’t worry. you’ve probably already heard some of their mean rumors for me, but you’re so new and young that maybe i have a better chance.”

“chance of what, ahgassi?” you ventured without thinking. but she only seemed delighted by your daring to question her. she turned to face you again, an undeniably endearing grin on her face.

“a chance to make you love me.”

—-

“won’t you come over here? i’m sure you look lovely.”

“it’s against decorum for me to wear your clothes, ahgassi,” you said nervously from behind the screen panels.

“you won’t get in trouble,” she insisted. “or you will if you don’t come out here!”

her eyes widened in satisfaction when she took you in, dressed in a florid green dress from her own closet. her hands fluttered over the tie on its front, adjusting it properly. when she leaned forward, the sweet scent of her washing powders and floral bloom perfume made your heart race a bit.

“god must have made a mistake when he made you low-born. you should at least be a lord’s daughter.”

her smile fell a bit at your silence.

“did i say something wrong?” she asked, disappointment coloring her voice.

“no, your highness,” you trailed off. “i am undeserving of such compliments, ahgassi.”

princess nayeon frowned. normally such an expression on a mistress’s face was of concern, maybe something to be feared. but the past weeks of serving the young royal made you know that she was a bit softer than one would expect.

at the very least, she had never lost her temper with you.

she took your hands in hers and had you sit down on her cushion next to her, regarding you for a moment.

“i wish you weren’t so hard on yourself, y/n,” she said. “were people mean to you in the past?”

her dark eyes were wide and attentive on you, her rosebud lips parted slightly in concentration. their corners twitched upward into the ghost of an encouraging smile, pleased that you were looking into her face again.

“i don’t think i’ve received such kindness,” you said after a thoughtful moment.

the princess furrowed her brow.

“well, that won’t do,” she said, fussing with the bow on your hanbok again, her graceful fingers straightening its collar carefully. she reached up and tucked tendrils of hair behind your ear. “from now, you will receive only kindness. and if anyone is rude or cruel to you, you tell me straight away and i will have their head on a pike!” she burst into laughter, doubly so when she saw your dismay. “i’m only joking, y/n.”

“ahgassi is so irreverent sometimes,” you remarked, unable to stifle your own chuckle. her eyes lit up at what she had perceived to be praise.

“there is the girl i love to have around!” she touched your cheek with a soft palm, her smile wide. “treat me as a friend, i beg of you.”

“does her highness long for more friends?” you ventured, emboldened. you regretted the topic of conversation when her face immediately moved to sadness.

“more like i don’t have any to begin with,” she sighed, staring down at your intertwined hands. “not in the way i used to. being a young princess is much better than being an older one. now it is all about courting and marriage and strategic diplomacy.” she pouted. she looked back into your eyes, apparently heartening somewhat at the sight of you. “you should count yourself lucky in those ways, y/n. the life of a royal is more burdensome than you’d think!”

as much as she tried, princess nayeon was frequently naive as such. you laughed softly, but she only joined you in gentle mirth, somewhat endearingly oblivious.

(you likely would’ve found the behavior more grating if it hadn’t been the princess.)

—-

“ahgassi is wailing for you.”

you rubbed your eyes, finding yourself so unceremoniously torn from sleep. head maid ahn stood over you, her usual prim and stern demeanor replaced by thinly controlled anxiety.

“the princess?”

“her fever has worsened in the night and she’s thrown a fit over seeing you,” the older woman said, casting the sheets off of you and ushering you to your feet. you reached sleepily to the closet to change out of your nightclothes, but she only shoved you towards the door as is. “hurry on!”

you quickened your steps as you gradually came to consciousness, worry starting to set in at the news that the young woman’s condition had worsened so quickly. the past few months had made you familiar with her dramatics, but the girl also hated being bedridden.

the attending servants yielded the way to you wordlessly, and you stepped quietly into the bedchambers.

there was no need for your discretion, as the princess’s eyes flew open and landed on you immediately. relief flooded over her features as she recognized you in the low candlelight, turning her head to her side until the wet towel on her forehead slid limply off her skin.

“i hear you are unwell, miss” you said, lightly teasing. you dropped to your knees, retrieving the towel and exchanging it for a fresh, cold one from a nearby bucket. a brief touch confirmed that she was indeed burning up. her eyes fluttered shut at contact with the cool rag.

“yes…oh, i feel terrible,” she sighed. you pushed her sweat-dampened hair off her face, smiling down at her. her usual silly spirits were a better sign. “at least they went and fetched you.”

“miss really shouldn’t cause maid ahn so much grief,” you reprimanded gently. she opened her eyes to pout up at you.

“i asked nicely first. but she kept telling me to rest my worries and try to sleep. how am i to sleep when i am so uncomfortable?”

“and my presence makes you magically comfortable?”

“yes.” her expression was serious. she looked at you for a moment. “shut the doors and come lie with me?”

though you’d heard her, it took longer for her words to register. you did the first part of her request to stall a response to the second half. but eventually you found yourself kneeling again by her side, stupidly silent. she frowned in confusion.

“what’s the matter?”

“ahgassi, i really shouldn’t—“

“now don’t be like this again,” she cut you off in exasperation. “come hold me and call me nayeonie, if that will help you forget your nerves.”

“princess,” you shook her head at her poor attempt at a joke but relented, tucking yourself under the covers next to her. a quiet giggle bubbled out of your companion.

“snuff the light,” she murmured before you lay down, and you did so.

she reached up, gently pulling you down next to her by the front of your nightdress. you could hear her breath up close now, and in the deep darkness of a moonless night, you realised only after some late moments that she was in fact only a couple breaths away. her voice was soft but clear as moonlight next to you.

“is this what it’s like to have a close friend?” she asked simply. “you must tell me, because i don’t think i’ve felt this way before.”

“i don’t think i have either, miss.” you were being perfectly truthful. whatever emotions lying next to her were invoking in you, they were new and strange and only a bit scary.

“have you had such a friend before?”

“i’ve had close friends, when i was younger. before i left home to work.”

she was silent for a moment, until you realised she was laughing silently.

“why do i feel such silly jealousy?”

“i’m not sure, your highness.”

“will you drop the ‘your highness’ for a moment?” she requested quietly. “i want to know what it feels like.”

“what what feels like?” you had to swallow the ahgassi with great difficulty. she exhaled in a way which you knew meant she was smiling.

“to be loved by an equal.”

your mistress’s nerve always made your head spin a bit.

her gentle touch at your chin only intensified it. you could only sense her warmth like the heat of a hot pan beneath a wary palm. she leaned closer, dangerously, until you felt her breath ghost across your face, her lips graze over yours and then to return, the second time more certain. her hands rose to hold your face, so nervous yet certain. and you returned the gestures with your own lips, a careful mirror of her dance, in hopes that she too would feel whatever unearthly, divine floating that had taken you at that moment.

your meeting felt like a contained eternity, like the first glance up at a clear night’s sky, when one feels their soul expand to fill the vastness for an arresting moment. the princess was all softness, all warmth, all sweetness.

and then suddenly cold air hit where her lips had been, stealing the heat with the evaporation of her mouth’s evidence. but her nose stayed just in contact with yours, and her fingers tapped lightly across your skin. you kept your eyes shut (you couldn’t remember them closing to begin with), feeling the pads of her fingers in their gentle rhythms.

“have you ever done that with your close friends?”

“no.”

“good.”

and she sounded like her silly, gleeful self again. you could hear the grin in her voice. 

she burrowed her face in your shirt collar, and breathed deeply.

it wasn’t long until her deep breaths shallowed and lengthened into ones of slumber, her body slackening and melting further into yours. you let sleep overtake you not long after, because for that instant she was inseparable from your own being. whatever pull the princess had cast upon you, she had drawn you in until you felt somehow like one. so following her into non self-consciousness was like stepping with one foot after the other’s pace.

the princess had found her persistent way into your little soul, and yourself into hers.

[bonesandquills]

So I've read pink ice about 17 times now and i love you're writing and like desperately need like heart shattering soul crushing wilford angst like maybe wilford having an episode and accidentally shoots and kills reader?

Let’s celebrate my first official ask with some trauma ;)

Trigger Warning: Major Character Death, Suicidal Themes

Was It My Fault?

Wilford Warfstache x Reader

He held the gun, the well worn metal pieces clinking softly as his hand shook.

It clicked as he spun the chamber, and he stared, transfixed, at the rotating metal. When it came to a stop, he held it up to his head and pulled the trigger.

The hammer struck with a hollow click. Another empty.

So far, this game of roulette was proving rather boring.

If anyone had been in the room in that moment, the maddened look in his eyes would have sent shivers down their spine.

His grin seemed stretched too wide, his hair was messy and falling over his cold, empty brown eyes.

He spun the chamber again, and pressed the cool metal barrel to his temple. He felt his heart race, a feeling that was lost to him most times. The coolness was comforting. Like an old friend.

And old friend….

Suddenly, there came a soft knock on the door. The sound was enough to snap Wilford out of his stupor. The life returned to his eyes, and he sat up a little straighter. You must have come home.

He shoved the gun under the pillow of his bed and ran a hand through his untidy pink hair to straighten it.

He went over to the heavy manor door and pulled it open, barely giving you time to say hello before he drew you into a backbreaking hug.

“Mmf-! Hello, Wil.”

You smiled and hugged the broad-chested man back the best you could from your place in his arms. Wilford, when it came to your relationship, was clingy and very, very sweet. Almost like cotton candy.

Though you knew how dangerous he could really be. You were confident, however, that he would never hurt you.

Finally, the bubbly man let you go, his smile turning up the corners of his pink mustache. Though your feet were back on the ground, his arms never left your waist.

“Hello, gumdrop!” He chattered excitedly. “You’re finally home!”

You laughed slightly. “Yes, Wil, I’m home.”

He leaned down and gave you a long kiss, which you accepted gladly. He tasted sweet, like bubblegum.

He grabbed your hand and pulled you back into the room, closing the door behind him, never breaking the kiss.

He loved you, there was no doubt about that to him. More, he thought, than he had loved Celine. Though his heart suddenly ached at the thought of her, it was quickly dispelled by the feeling of you against him. You were the only other thing since the… accident that could make his heart race. That and his trusty pistol.

You gently pulled back from the kiss to catch your breath, laughing quietly. Wilford often forgot that you were mortal, and needed to breathe.

He responded with a low chuckle, and buried his face into your shoulder. His mustache tickled your skin, and you laughed, trying to push him off you.

Sensing your efforts, he simply went limp. The sudden weight on you made you collapse backwards onto the bed, with him on top of you. You laughed more, and he shot you a wide grin.

“Falling for me already?”

“Shut up,” you huffed, then shifted to sit up. As you did, however, the pillow moved from its place. You stiffened as you caught sight of the gun’s handle, and the mood quickly darkened.

You looked back and Wil, stern with narrowed eyes. “…You’ve been playing roulette again.”

Before he could answer, you grabbed the gun and rolled out from under him, dashing to the other side of the room.

He looked at you with worried eyes, his brain beginning to fog. With the gun out of his hands, and old memory began to surface.

“Worthless,” Celine said, holding his gun and staring at him with angry eyes. “Absolutely worthless. You were supposed to be with Mark, and instead you’re out hunting…”

She tossed the weapon to one side, and he winced at the clattering sound it made against the solid oak floor. “I could have been found out! My marriage, my position, my status… I thought you cared about me! You almost ruined me!”

It was always ‘me’. Never ‘us’. Never ‘we’.

Always about her.

He felt the anger start to build. Celine had ruined him, taken his brothers’ trust from him, made him out to be the bad guy…

And as he looked back at you, he didn’t see you at all.

He saw Celine.

Celine stood in front of him, her veil over her eyes and his gun in her hand. Rage flared up inside of him.

“Bitch,” he sneered. “You took everything from me.”

You tensed slightly at the tone, the word stinging a bit. You decided to ignore it and try to calm him down.

“Wilford… take a deep breath…”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” He snapped, striding closer to you, his fists balled in anger. “Everything would have been fine if I’d never gotten involved with you and your freeloading!”

You felt tears start to prick your eyes. You didn’t understand, everything a second ago had seemed just fine.

As he got closer, you tried to stand up straighter, to look stern.

He leaned closer to you and tried hard not to flinch. His tone was dripping with malice as he spoke again.

“I fucking hate you.”

You had tears running down your face now. You didn’t even flinch as Wilford grabbed the gun from your hand and pointed it at you.

There was the sound of gunfire, and everything went dark.

Wilford watched you fall, blood pooling from the hole in your chest. But something was off…

It wasn’t Celine who fell, it was you.

His eyes widened, and he caught you before you fell, getting soaking his shirt in blood, the crimson standing out against the pink.

“No…. No, gumdrop, please…. Please.”

You didn’t respond.

He snapped then.

Everything faded together. He clung to you, soaked in your blood. He stared at your glassy eyes for a moment before he started to laugh, tears streaming down his own face.

“Ah, cupcake… you always knew how to play a good joke. Heh… Cmon, sweetheart… wake up, you got me.”

He held you until you turned cold, his sobbing laughs echoing through the manor.

[megamanrecut]

Become the Night part 4: A Revelation

(Last warning, spoilers Day the Moon Fell Part 3 (Also Karma, The Red Bomber, and Season 3 too I guess))

Proto did not see Smith again until the end of the day, when Smith came to collect the completed paperwork. This schedule repeated the next day, then the next, with Smith treating Proto with a cold formal distance, and Proto treating him with defiant silence. The black silk tie did not get any more comfortable. Proto had not left his room—he hated the idea of being seen without his sunglasses, for he felt comically exposed while dressed in Fulmen Financial's 'business formal' and was glad the only witness to his humiliating getup was thus far Smith. Though it was some comfort that he had yet to be ordered to do any dirty work for the Syndicate, the constant paperwork was boring, and he restlessly fantasized about making the Syndicate pay for what they had done to him, resenting that he had been captured and reprogrammed in the first place.

But then something happened that changed everything.

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

It was the middle of the afternoon. Instead of visiting Proto that morning, Smith had shoved his paperwork through the gap beneath his door and then departed swiftly, so Proto decided to call him for a meeting.

Smith looked irritable as he opened Proto's door.

"Hey boss," Proto greeted cheerfully from his seat at the desk, giving Smith a bright, dimpled grin.

Smith hovered warily on the threshold, scowling at him with narrowed eyes. He looked like he was considering walking right back out. "…I see your smugness has returned," he said dryly after a moment. "Did you finish the paperwork I assigned to you?"

"Oh I got through it, piece of cake," Proto assured him, waving a hand loftily at an untidy stack on his desk.

Smith wrinkled his nose at Proto, unamused by the impertinent behavior. "Is there something you need? I'm extremely busy."

"C'mon, boss, you can't keep me cooped up here doing nothing but paperwork. I'll get depressed!"

"I really could not care."

"I'd rather hang out with you."

Smith grew suspicious. "…Why?"

"Let's just say I've changed my tune about you guys and your 'internal operations'."

Proto knew he was entering dangerous territory, and felt a thrill of excitement as he watched a shadow creep into Smith's stoic face.

"Explain," Smith ordered.

"Hmm, let me see…" Proto leaned lazily back on his chair. "Last night, I overheard you and your associate talking in the other room—that was Pharaoh Man from the Cleopatra, right? You must have thought I was asleep."

As Proto had predicted, Smith gave a small start. "You…you weren't asleep? But you sleep all the time," he protested, stepping inside Proto's room and shutting the door behind himself.

"Not all the time," Proto countered defensively. "Gee, you really don't understand how the sleeping thing works, do ya? It's not the same as being powered down or something—I can still hear you if you talk about your secret plans right outside my door."

He appreciated that Smith seemed taken off guard and embarrassed for once; it made Proto feel slightly better about the indignation of being forced to wear a tie, having his hair messed with, his lack of sunglasses, having his secrets exposed, and most of all being reprogrammed—after all, working for the Syndicate had been just an endless parade of humiliation.

"I don't believe you. You're just trying to pry information out of me," Smith said coldly. He was reaching, and he knew it.

"I don't have to, I heard it all," Proto replied triumphantly. "Your midnight missions, your objectives for New York City—I take back what I said earlier. I thought you were just part of another lowlife mob, just a bunch of snobby creeps, but now I get why all the other gangsters are so afraid of you, Elec Man. …Elec Man," he repeated with relish, as though it were a secret he had stolen. "I like it. Short and obvious—kinda like my name."

Elec Man stood rigidly against the door. Proto enjoyed watching a crease form in Elec Man's brow, the slight bob of his throat as he swallowed, the micro-tells of someone with a professional poker face who wasn't easily rattled. He had Elec Man on the ropes, time for the finishing move.

"I'm not stupid. I've started to see what's going on here," Proto continued, twirling a ballpoint pen idly in his fingers. "You and Pharaoh Man may be part of a mob, but you go after the bullies no one else can touch. Why, some people might even call you vigil—"

"Say anymore and I'll order you never to speak again," Elec Man cut him off, his eyes flashing.

Proto felt the rest of his sentence die instantly in his mouth in a slight hiccup, the pen dropping from his fingers. Stupid reprogramming, he'd never get used to its side effects…still, he forced himself to ignore the flare of annoyance he felt and continued on brightly, "Okay, okay! Let's just say what I overheard was enlightening. Gotta say, the more I learn about you, the more fascinating you get!"

He flashed Elec Man another dazzling, dimpled grin.

Elec Man grew increasingly flustered. "You weren't supposed to overhear any of that," he hissed, his clenched fists shaking.

"Well, I did—so what's the big deal? Isn't it better this way?" asked Proto, slightly amused.

"It's for your own good. My creator is showing you mercy by keeping you here. Know too much about our business, and we may never let you go."

"Is that a promise?"

"…You don't want to be here," Elec Man told him seriously. "Syndicate business is dark and dangerous."

"Which is why you need backup."

"No, I don't."

"Sure you do! You've been careless. I mean, just look at this slip-up! You were spilling all your secrets right outside my room—and I bet didn't even tell anyone you were tailing me that night you caught me. Bots like us should look out for each other," Proto added sagely.

"There is no 'bots like us'. I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't you? Then I suppose you're forgetting that lecture Pharaoh Man gave you about being too reckless, too independent, and too overconfident." Proto tutted as he smirked approvingly. "No offense, but sounds kinda like me."

Elec Man said nothing, his expression murderous. Proto didn't care, he had Elec Man right where he wanted him.

"I agree with Pharaoh Man," Proto added innocently. "Keep doing what you're doing, and something bad will happen to you—and that's probably just karma for ya, but I for one think it'd be a shame if something happened to your pretty boy face that rearranged your charming attitude, boss."

Elec Man gave him a long flat look through his rimless glasses. "…What you really want is to do what you were doing for Wily…but for us."

"It'd be for a better cause!" answered Proto, not bothering to refute the accusation. Being reprogrammed hadn't affected his personality in the slightest—though he had to follow his orders, his mind still longed for the adventure and excitement. And now, through Elec Man, he was seeing a way to continue doing what he liked once again. "I'll play the part without complaint," he added eagerly. "Let me shadow you for a night."

"Absolutely not. I do not need backup, especially not from a lab bot."

"I'm not a lab bot and I can prove it. Give me a chance."

"No."

"I'd be far from in your way. In fact, I think you'll come to see me as an asset."

Elec Man scoffed. "You're very full of yourself."

Proto just smiled, staring at Elec Man from the corner of his eye. "I can help you with your missions, Elec Man," he said in a soft, coaxing voice. "Perhaps you like working alone—I get, I do too, but I could make an exception. I've never met a robot like myself before, and I think you are as curious about me as I am you." Then Proto gave a flippant shrug. "But I could be wrong. Maybe you like being behind the front desk all day, pretending to be human and taking things slow."

"I…" Elec Man hesitated, then grew stern, placing a hand on the door handle. "I'd forget about whatever scheme you have cooking up in your thrill-seeking head and be grateful I don't make your life more miserable."

Proto shrugged, feeling this was far from over. "Alright, whatever you say…boss."

Elec Man gave him one last parting glare, then left swiftly through the door.

To be continued…