#all shot from the most unbecoming angles you could come up with like not even the quality of the footage is very good

[a9saga]

montage of unflattering footage of me doing the absolute worst dancing you've ever seen set to bamboo banga by m.i.a

[diamondsaregold]

“Unraveled” – Robin x MC

Pairing: Robin (M!) x MC (F!) The Nanny Affair, Choices

Rating: T Summary: After walking in on a private moment between Sam and MC, Robin is forced to make sense of his jealousy and comes face-to-face with an unbridled truth—his burgeoning affinity for her. A conversation between the two at the company picnic makes clear that their entangled feelings are more real than both of them could have ever imagined. A/N: Well, we saw a lot of Robin’s angry face in the last chapter—so much that I began indulging myself in the fantasy that seeing MC with Sam made him jealous. Somehow the fact that this is a “one-LI book” (fingers-crossed that this could change, although the fact that M! Robin is Bradshaw in a Wig makes this fantasy highly unlikely) only makes the idea of Robin more enticing. Please enjoy this introspective re-imagining of Chapter 10, starring a grumpy, jealous Robin coming to terms with all his feelings. Also, it’s been awhile since I posted on Tumblr, hello! I’ve missed you all. Life has been treating me well and I hope it has for you too. Sending virtual hugs your way.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25775095

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Robin knew he was being childish. 

The annual company picnic was a well-earned break for the team at Dalton Enterprises, a rare opportunity for his colleagues to enjoy the New York sunshine and decompress from their hectic work lives. At the park, flocks of employees gathered around gingham picnic blankets while chattering away; around the corner, a queue of people lined up at the stalls to pick up their complimentary lunch from the gourmet caterers, personally requested by Sam. On everyone’s face was a beaming smile.

Everyone, except for Robin.

Sitting on a blanket on the edge of the park, Robin stormily surveyed the chipper scene about him. After picking up his sandwich (some sort of fancible concoction of tuna and high-end mayonnaise) and grudgingly thanking the staff, he had stomped over to an empty picnic blanket. He did his best to swerve around employees looking to start a conversation with him and cut off any exceptionally friendly colleagues with terse one-word remarks. 

No doubt, his foul demeanor at the company picnic was drawing curious looks from his colleagues. As he unwrapped his sandwich, he caught the next group over murmuring in low voices while shooting surreptitious glances at him. He couldn’t blame them for gossiping. It was unusual for him to depart from his charming self, let alone at one of the most anticipated social events in the company. On an ordinary afternoon, he’d be walking through the park, darting in and out from different groups, trading jokes with all the employees he passed by. After a lifetime of being second-best to an over-achieving brother, Robin took care to maintain his sociable persona—it was the only thing he had going for him, after all.

But after what he had seen that afternoon, he honestly couldn’t care less about his image. It was a scene that had been burned into his mind for the past three hours. Robin stared down at his uneaten sandwich, losing his appetite as he recalled.

There they stood—just a few feet apart from each other, clothes slightly rumpled, faces flushed and breathing hard. Sam and his nanny, caught seconds away from (or perhaps seconds after) what appeared to be a secret rendezvous at work. Upon Robin’s incredulous interrogation, she had haltingly explained that they had been “discussing work.”

He couldn’t resist an eye roll. While he certainly wasn’t the genius that Sam was, Robin was no fool. He wasn’t blind to the flush on his older brother’s face, the way his body was angled towards hers even as they stood far apart and avoided Robin’s eyes. What gripped him wasn’t a smug glee that his uptight, perfect brother had finally gotten caught with a woman (his nanny, no less) at work—it was the stab of pain Robin felt.

Staring at her, with the collar of her shirt crumpled and hastily smoothed down (by who, he wondered), her lips slightly parted, Robin felt a coil in his stomach twisting and unraveling. It lasted for a second, before boiling away and leaving rage in his wake.

He had snapped at them, scolded them for their inappropriate behavior at work, before stomping off. The rest of the day Robin had spent stewing in his office, glowering at any employees who attempted to speak to him.

Now under the sunlight of a perfect New York afternoon, Robin was continuing to mope around at the picnic. He had a scowl etched into his face during all of his exchanges with her, as he made sure to throw out snide comments about the state of her relationship with his brother, much to the bewilderment of their colleagues. The flash of annoyance on his brother’s face almost made him feel better, until he saw the hurt on her face. 

Great. If his day couldn’t get any worse, now he was being a colossal asshole to her.

Why was he so angry? Robin bit into his sandwich, not tasting anything (guess those gourmet ingredients Sam loved weren’t doing their job; he gave a silent shoutout to his taste buds for tapping out). As he chewed on the tasteless lunch, he sifted through his memories.

It wasn’t like their flirting before had meant anything to him. It was just a game to both of them.

The first time he saw her at Sam’s apartment he was immediately intrigued—a bright-eyed graduate with a sharp tongue, shaking her head amusedly with a raised eyebrow as he introduced himself with his usual lilt and charm. It was a warm exasperation that sang, “I can handle you,” not a reaction Robin was used to receiving. When Sam wasn’t looking, he appreciatively took in her pin-straight, stylish attire, the gentle sway of her hips as she walked across the living room, the pucker of her lips when one of the boys said something unsavory. He found her attractive, incredibly so, but he also caught the heated glances she and Sam shot each other.

And so Robin shrugged off his crush. He wasn’t one to commit anyways, especially not to a woman he had just met. From a young age, he had lived by an unspoken rule that whoever Sam wanted was out of his bounds; any woman who liked his brother wasn’t going to like him anyways. He felt a snide joy too at the revelation that Sam, the straight-laced, faultless CEO, engaged to a woman he harbored no love for, was on the brink of jumping ship for his pretty nanny. Talk about tabloid perfection and PR disaster.

It was Robin who had continued to flirt with her for the expressed purpose of seeing that unbecoming scowl on his brother’s face every time he winked at her. They played the “Make Sam Jealous” game, a form of entertainment that Robin had enjoyed for as long as he could recall. This particular round with her, however, was far more pleasurable than any he could remember before. A breeze swept through Central Park, fanning across Robin’s steadily warming face, as he remembered that night.

At the engagement party, he had whisked her away onto the dance floor before suggesting teaming up to make him jealous. The rush when he slid his arms around her waist, hearing her tinkling laugh as he pulled her close and Sam’s distracted stumbling on stage, was more potent than any childlike glee at pissing off his brother. Robin found himself enjoying this secret plot as a treasured chance to drink in the little details of her—the smattering of freckles across her cheeks, the crinkle of her nose when Sofia began her drawling speech, the mischievous gleam in her chocolate eyes that he had learned early on was an indicator of a devious idea.

When she leaned in and whispered, “Kiss me,” Robin had frozen under the headiness of her gaze. For a split second he forgot that they were playing a game. That she, one of the most enchanting women he’d ever met, presently asking him for a kiss, wasn’t his brother’s nanny. That it wasn’t his brother, who was currently standing (glistening, like a goddamn vampire) under the headlights on the stage, that she wanted.

As Robin stared down at his sandwich, perfectly intact except for the single bite he had taken, he felt that coiling sensation return to his stomach. He shot to his feet, almost stepping on a neighboring group’s picnic blanket in his rush to get out. “Sorry,” he muttered, before hurrying off the lawn, dumping his mostly uneaten sandwich into the nearest trash can.

Weaving between the groups meandering about the food stalls, he made sure that he had jogged a safe distance away from the rest of the party, before pressing his hands into his forehead and letting out a groan.

What was he thinking? Falling for a woman that didn’t—couldn’t—want him. He couldn’t have entertained affections for any other single, available woman in the world? Robin scowled at the couple walking across the street from him, swinging their hands between them as they strolled.

Typical. He always wanted the things he couldn’t have.

The sound of a soft, familiar voice caught his attention. Robin turned around to see the woman that had been occupying his mind for the past few hours. There she was, standing several feet away from, presently ordering food from one of the stalls.

He watched as she read over the menu, scrunching her face as she read over each item. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, exposing the skin of her shoulders. She looks good in plaid, Robin mused, as his gaze trailed over her legs and her jean shorts, different from her usual formal outfits he saw her in. Usually, she looked so prim and serious; the only tell of her spunk was the flash in her eyes, which only appeared when he said something vastly inappropriate (and hilarious, so he thought). Here, in her casual attire, she seemed far more at ease. With her windswept hair and her summery top rippling gently, she looked like a vision—the perfect nanny, he thought wryly.

When she took her order—vanilla ice cream, he noted with curiosity—from the vendor, Robin shook himself out of his outfit-induced stupor. Vaguely, he considered that it might be a good idea for him to stay away from her, but when did he listen to good ideas? Raking his fingers through his hair quickly to smooth it down, he stuffed his hands into his jeans and strolled up to her.

 “You’re a hard woman to catch alone, you know?” He kept his voice as smooth as possible, trying for an air of friendly detachment.

When she whipped around, he caught the wariness in her face, for a second, before it dissolved. Ah. He supposed he couldn’t blame her, after the temper tantrum he had been throwing for the entire afternoon.

Her voice was careful, measured. “I wasn’t aware you had been trying.” Her eyes darted away, as if she wanted to escape his prying gaze—or, as if she were searching for someone else.

The thought stoked a lance of rage within Robin; he felt as if he were walking in on her in the lab again, clothes disheveled, only feet away from his brother. Crossing his arms, he stepped forward and met her gaze head-on.

"After what I saw at the lab, talking to you is all I've been able to think about." His words spilled out in an agitated rush, as he struggled to hold back the question burning in his stomach.

“What the hell is going on between you and Sam?”

Her forehead creased, but she didn’t look away. Robin noted that her eyes glowed hazel under the sunlight. “You want the truth?” Her voice was level and low, just as business-like as how she composed herself whenever Sofia was terrorizing the house or the twins were bickering again. "I admit I find him attractive. But that doesn't mean I can't respect boundaries." 

She was too calm. Far too calm. Robin swallowed the wave of bitterness, edged with a smoldering anger, rising in his throat. "It didn't look like there were any boundaries when I walked in on you two in the lab,” he bit back, ignoring the flush of heat spreading across his cheeks. “Care to enlighten on what precisely happened before I entered the room?”

At his snide remark, her face morphed into a scowl; she crossed her arms defensively (good, he preferred anger to the hurt on her face). Two could play this game, he supposed. “That is none of your business,” she retorted, as her cheeks flushed to mirror his own.

Unbelievable. “You made it my business when I saw you with Sam, alone, in the lab!”

“You know what they say about assuming, Robin.” 

God, even when she was angry, he loved hearing his name fall out of her mouth.

Robin stepped back, letting his hands fall to his sides. “Look.” He mulled over his churning thoughts and rubbed a hand over his forehead, exhaling heavily. “Sam is a great guy. Maybe, in another life, you two could’ve been great together.” He forced the admission out, despite the ache that accompanied it. “But in this life, he has a family and fiancee that he’s responsible to. Whatever is going on between you two needs to end.”

Her gaze drifted to the floor as his words reached her. “The last thing I want to see is you getting hurt,” he continued on, feeling a hitch in his voice as he attempted to steer away from the less gilded version of the truth. “I was onboard for making him mad when I thought he didn't want me sleeping with his nanny. I didn't know I was making him legitimately jealous.”

He swallowed, before continuing on. “I thought it was just some innocent flirtation between you two. But it’s not, is it?”

It was the realization—that there was a deeper connection between her and Sam, a bond that he was not privy to—that twisted the knife further into his side. Judging from her inability to meet his eyes and the slow hunch of her shoulders, he guessed that it was hitting her too.

This wasn’t a fantasy. It was real.

Robin’s words, for once, were all dried up. There was nothing he could summon up to dissolve the tension that had formed between them, an impenetrable barrier of “what-ifs.”

What if she weren’t his brother’s nanny? What if they had met first? The knowledge that Sam probably mulled over these possibilities before as well, that they were both pining after a woman that they couldn’t have, only left a bitter taste in his mouth.

At the lull in the conversation, her head hung down. They were silent for a few moments, before she spoke quietly. There was an edge of desperation to her voice he had never heard before. “I don't know what to do.”

“I’d make a suggestion, but I know you wouldn’t listen.” It wasn’t a snide remark—he meant it. Robin had seen enough of her fierce resolve to know that she made her own choices. Once she made up her mind, she would listen to no one. It was one of the qualities he admired most about her. Her hair slipped in front of her eyes, and he suppressed the urge to sweep it back for her.

She locked his eyes on him, and he suppressed a swallow. Gaze trailing over her collar and neckline, he took note of a gold necklace he hadn't seen before; he wondered if it was a gift from Sam. “I just wish I could go back to a few weeks ago,” she murmured, twisting her hands together. “Before this all blew up. Before I had all these things to consider.”

“Like last weekend’s engagement fete?”

She let out a laugh, a chiming sound that Robin tried to commit to his memory. “I have to admit that party was the highlight of my month.”

He grinned, besides himself, and leaned in closer. “What, conspiring with me to make my brother jealous?” He tried to hide the bitterness from his voice.

Clearly, it didn’t fool her. Her eyes softened as she peered up at him.

It was her eyes that first drew him to her—a gaze that never wavered. He was enchanted by the way she looked at people—at strangers, at the twins, at Sam too. How quickly her eyes shifted, from deep and reflective, to sparkling and joyous, to furious and flashing. She was never afraid to be vulnerable, to be honest, or to take a risk that might leave her reeling. She wasn’t like him; she didn’t have to hide behind layers of charming one-liners and flirty comments. She was real.

She took a breath. “Actually...I was thinking about dancing with you. That was my favorite part of the night.” His mouth fell open slightly, and she paused. “Thanks for kissing me, by the way. It was a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing. I didn’t expect you to play along.” Maybe it was his imagination, but he could’ve sworn that her eyes gleamed when she made the last statement.

For a guy who prided himself in easily making friends and charming the living daylights out of strangers, Robin had spent his entire life dutifully preventing people from becoming too close to him. He was accustomed to covering up his feelings when they became too strong for him to paper over with charisma. When a relationship entered serious territory, he’d hit the panic button—irritate his girlfriends enough to get them to dump him in public, to cause a scene that’d distract himself and the world from what was turning over inside of him. It was better to keep them away than to let them down eventually; it was inevitable, given his own history of dissapointment in his family. 

Robin had already accepted the fact that he would never be number one in anything—but he’d be damned if he would be last. He wouldn’t be made a fool by anyone or anything.

Yet standing in front of her, on a picturesque day at the park, Robin found himself questioning everything he believed in. Amidst the tangled threads of attraction, the rocky waters of company protocol and forbidden relationships, there was something pure about the moments he had spent with her. When he had whisked her away from Sam at the engagement party, murmuring conspiratorially into her ear, “You look like you could use a break,” he saw the visage of his honeyed words slipping away. Sam and the engagement party could have erupted into flames for all he cared. All he wanted, in that moment, was to hold him in her arms.

There was a yearning, growing within him, that he couldn’t hold back now.

“You know I didn’t kiss you just to piss off Sam, right?”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed, at his sudden admission. Robin should have taken that as a sign to bite his tongue, but the train couldn’t be stopped anymore.

Ever since Robin was young, his father had always chided him to slow down. An audio recording of him yelling, “Be more careful, Robin!” could have very well been the soundtrack of his childhood. Unlike the cautious Sam, Robin was naturally reckless, always seeking out thrills to the dismay of his image-obsessed family. Try as he might to tamper his impulsiveness though, his efforts were never enough for their father. 

The one time that Sam had ever been impulsive in life was when he had stolen her away for a private moment only hours ago—before being interrupted by Robin, no less. It was she who had driven his perfect brother to put his career and his livelihood on the line

Robin was beginning to understand why Sam had been so careless over these past few weeks, so apparently willing to risk everything he had ever worked for. It was her.

He stepped closer, gazing down at her. Breathing in her scent, he drank in the gentle curve of her face and her neck, framed by her windswept hair. He imagined Sam standing in the same position just hours ago, before his lust-addled brain banished that thought.

He was already standing on the edge of the cliff; he knew he may as well jump off.

“I kissed you because I wanted to.”

Her lips parted, and he was descending, diving, drowning into the pool of her eyes.

Leaning down, Robin brushed a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear, revelling in the softness of her skin. She was so close that he could count all of her freckles, see that her lips formed the shape of a heart. Perfect. 

Finally, finally. All he could register was the aroma of her soft floral perfume, the dim memory of their last kiss a week ago, an ache that Robin didn’t realize was throbbing in his chest for too long, begging for release.

He was a fool, but he didn’t care. Robin saw her eyes flutter close, before his followed suit—

“Hey, come see Mickey cannonball into the fountain!”

They leapt apart, putting an appropriate amount of space between them just before Mason came sprinting up to the pair. His hair was sopping wet, leaving Robin afraid to see the state of Mickey’s. The other twin in question came hurtling over only seconds later, his button-up shirt completely drenched, presumably from their antics in the water. Despite the storm of desire rattling his brain, Robin couldn’t help but stifle a derisive snort at the thought of Sam’s exasperation later.

The twins paused, suddenly taking in the two of them, standing awkwardly apart from each other. Mickey’s head tilted in confusion. Robin thought sheepishly back to how he had behaved likewise only just hours ago, when he had walked in on his brother in the same position that he was now in. Caught red-handed with the nanny.

“Hey, did you two get into a fight?” Mickey’s face was far too innocent to know the stabbing truth that his question held. 

Robin forced a smile, straightening his back. “Of course not, kiddo. You’ve got one of the best nannies in the world.” Both of their faces perked up at this. “I could never fight with her.”

His gaze flitted over to her, standing a few feet away as the twins reached up to grab her hands, ever the reaffirming picture of the perfect nanny. Her cheeks were still flushed and he read the tangle of confused feelings written all over her face. She was staring at him again with that shining gaze again, vulnerable and open as the first time he met her. Because of him.

His stomach twisted. So much for not wanting her to get hurt.

Robin took his leave before she could say anything in response—he didn’t want to hear what she had to say about him in front of the twins. He wasn’t sure if he could put on a smiling front any longer. “I’ll see you guys later. Be nice to your nanny.” He turned as his throat constricted, and hurried off.

Shortly afterwards, he called a limo to take him home, citing exhaustion as the reason for his early departure from the picnic. His colleagues told him to get some rest; his father, unsurprisingly, said nothing. Before he stepped into the car, he caught sight of her, next to Sam on the lawn. He ignored the lance of pain upon seeing them stand so close together. 

He caught her eye for a second, but before he could be drawn into the faint glimmer in her eye, he forced himself to walk away and get into the car.

As the limo pulled away from Central Park, Robin stared blankly out the window. His agony was laughable—it was Sam that was supposed to be held back by this forbidden romance with her; he was the one that was already engaged. Yet here Robin was, the perpetual second-best, always left behind, trapped within the same snared feelings. He found some cruel relief in the knowledge that both he and Sam shared the same predicament.

Was it love at first sight? For him, and for Sam, too? He laughed bitterly; what a twist of fate that he and his perfect brother had the same weakness—a woman they could not have. No matter what happened, Robin knew for certain that they were all going to be hurt.

Thinking of what she had said that afternoon, about her wish to go back to last week, Robin wished he could rewind time too. To not rejoice in the stolen moments where she wasn’t occupied with Sam and the twins, to not stay in the office alone with her as he inched closer and closer, to not pull her to his side on the dance floor as he felt the pit in his stomach sinking deeper. Maybe if he could have stayed away, he would be able to retrieve his heart from the snare of her bright gaze.

Or maybe—Robin could’ve charmed her first, before his brother got to her. Maybe then, she’d be sneaking away at the office to be in his arms, not Sam’s. Maybe they would be sitting on a picnic blanket together at Central Park, enjoying a perfect afternoon. Maybe, when no one else was looking, he’d be pressing her against the side of the stall, kissing her over and over again until he was intoxicated from the scent of her. 

As the sky darkened steadily, Robin watched the cityscape pass in a blur. He already knew where this fantasy would end. This wasn’t his story. But he was in too deep and there was no hope of getting out.

[skadventuretime]

Shadow Crowns

Welcome to Chibi!Reverb 2020! This is my piece with the incredibly skilled @drowsystar, who not only came up with this bomb-ass idea but drew incredible things for it, too. I only wish I could have written you the proper 70k fic this idea deserves.

Rating: T

Warnings: Cursing

Read: AO3

Art: Link

“Another glorious day for his majesty the shut in.” Star yanks the curtains just a bit so that a sliver of late afternoon sunlight shines directly onto Kid’s closed eyes.

The bedroom is cavernous. Stone walls and floors hold a damp chill in the air that no number of thick carpets or tapestries can really dispel, and wrought iron bookshelves line all of the room’s circular walls. They’re filled to the brim with well-cared for leather tomes of all shapes and sizes, but mostly their slightly acidic scent makes Star want to sneeze.

“Ah yes, my faithful knight, ever at my beck and call,” comes the prince’s muffled voice.

The curtains snap close and return the room to its former pitch darkness. Star feels the slippery tendrils of the prince’s shadow magic slide over his wrists, his back, his throat, a not-so-subtle reminder that his life could just as easily be snuffed out.

It was kind of hot, not gonna lie. Too bad business and pleasure don’t mix. 

“I will remind you not to disturb my slumber again,” the prince says. Star assumes he rolls over because that’s the sort of arch thing he’d say as a way to end the conversation, but he hears the muted sounds of feet hitting carpet instead. There are still no candles lit nor magelight summoned, but that’s because the crown prince is a master of shadow magic and likes to flaunt his perfect dark vision whenever he gets the chance.

“You shouldn’t be slumbering so late in the day anyway, your elevatedness.” Star inches back towards the curtains because if the prince thinks he gives up that easily, he’s got another thing coming. The sliver of daylight at the edge of the thick fabric cuts off abruptly, like the shadows were thick and solid. Whatever; his princeliness is probably just standing there to be stubborn. A little light will clear things up—

Sunlight stabs him in the eyes as the blinds fly back open. “How unusually perceptive of you,” says the prince, now across the room on an overstuffed low couch, a book cocked at an obnoxiously relaxed angle in one hand. He’s fully dressed and there’s not a trace of his night clothes; maybe that’s what all the dark was for. “What brings you here at this unusual hour? Isn’t it time for you to pester the palace guard about sparring matches again?”

Star waves his hand. “I got bored when nobody could disarm me. Hey, let’s go to the market today — there are supposed to be fireworks in the plaza after sunset.”

The prince looks up from his book with an eyebrow already bent at precisely ‘are you an idiot’ degrees. “The main plaza? In the center of the city?”

“Yup.”

“The one with traders from all over the world?”

“That’s the one.” 

“With huge crowds and unlimited rooftops for an assassin to spy from?”

“For the crown prince, you sure are pretty stupid about your own kingdom, huh?”

The book closes with a crisp smack. “For a bodyguard, you sure are an idiot. Do you really think you could keep me safe from the literal hundreds of possible angles a potential assailant could reach us from? I know father hired you on your merits as a swordsman, but he clearly didn’t give your head close enough scrutiny.”

“Come onnnn, it’ll be fine. You haven’t left this room since I was assigned to you three months ago. You need a little sun, get some fresh air.”

The prince exhales and recrosses his legs, a tell Star has learned means his patience is running thin, but in all honesty he doesn’t seem to have much to start with. “Ah yes, the shadow mage needs sunlight. Truly your minutes of education trump the years I’ve spent honing my craft.” To punctuate his words, the room fluctuates between grey scale and daylight, but each flash of the former has contorted figures that get closer in Star’s peripheral vision. 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a prodigy or whatever,” Star says, blinking away the grotesque afterimages. “But seriously, you really stay in here all day?”

“It’s for my safety,” the prince replies, his voice heavy with something Star can’t quite place. “I’ve told you this before. It’s why you’re here.”

Star walks over to the window and looks down at the city below. Neat stone buildings unfold like nesting dolls from the castle’s fortified walls, on lower ground than the castle proper. Another wall encircles the central part of the city on even lower ground, and in the distance straw covered roofs make up the final, outer ring. It’s on that level that the festival is taking place this evening, far from the imposing iron and tomb-like stone of the castle. 

It’s also where, if everything goes to plan, the prince will die. 

“Exactly, it’s why I’m here. You’ve been safe so far, no one’s tried to kill you at all since I’ve been around!” 

“I never leave this wing of the castle.”

“Which is why you need this. Come on, they’re going to have all kinds of great food and entertainment and—“ Star lowers his voice, “I heard that the work of that brainiac scholar you’re always crying about will be sold there.” 

The prince stands up abruptly. “Eibon’s work will be there?”

“Yeah, that guy. Heard it from some of the organizers themselves at the pub last night.”

He hadn’t, really. Star just knows that the prince will do anything to get his hands on work by the contemporary scholar Eibon, something to do with shadow and light magic protection. It’s all above his attention span and pay grade. 

Pain seizes his chest and a snarled HURRY UP BRAT rings in his ears for a split second. Though he knows it’s invisible, Star can feel the rune etched into his soul. The only reason he’s free at all, alive even, is because his loving father saw fit to give him one last chance to redeem himself in his family’s eyes. But like any dog, Star has to be kept on a leash, and over the last few weeks these intermittent pain reminders have gotten more common. Papa dear must be getting impatient despite the regular correspondence. 

Star tunes back into the prince giving him a critical look. “Sorry, indigestion. You know me and those firecracker skewers.”

The prince curls his lip. “Naturally. All right, if there’s a chance to procure more of Eibon’s writings, then there’s nothing else to be said. Meet me here in one hour with everything you need to be stealthy but effective in a fight. I’ll weave a shadow disguise of course, but the ones I’m worried about will be able to see through it. Am I clear?”

“As a mountain spring,” Star says. He leaves before the prince can add any other fussy demands to the list and walks along the stark stone hallway towards his chambers on the other side of the prince’s. 

Well, he finally did it. It’s taken months to get to this point, but tonight’s his first real shot at completing the mission and being freed from his father’s grip. It took him weeks of painstaking deception to lie his way into the right circles to get a pulse of the city’s underground, but it was worth it to become part of the whisper network of assassins. There will be a group of shadow mage trained assassins at and around the market tonight, and he already has an ironclad alibi lined up. 

It should be a happy occasion, but instead he feels antsy, like he didn’t do enough pushups before his morning run. Whatever, it’s probably excitement, even though excitement doesn’t usually leave him with a sense of dread. 

Star splashes some water on his face from the shallow bowl next to the bath for just that use, and spends the next hour sharpening and cleaning his sword. And daggers. And throwing stars. Sharp edges are a man’s best friend, after all. 

The sun is just dipping below the horizon when the two of them set out. Because the prince is technically not allowed to leave the castle, Star has to play lookout while the prince weaves a very complicated piece of shadow magic that allows them to pass the various entry guards without detection. 

The magic feels cool and slippery on him, like he’s veiled in silk. It’s strangely intimate, too, with echoes of the prince’s soul woven through. Magic is like a sixth sense, an extra way of knowing, and Star quite frankly doesn’t want to know anything else about the man whose assassination he’s recently planned. That his magic tastes like packed snow, for example, or makes Star’s own shadow magic crackle at his fingertips eager to be unleashed.

“Stop thinking so much, it’s unbecoming,” the prince whispers from a pace behind Star. Star makes a rude gesture over his shoulder and walks a little faster; whatever else this magic does, it’s a little too close for comfort.

They have passed the most heavily staffed guard towers and just slipped past the mid-tier gate into the lower circle. The crowds are heavier here and the buildings more tightly packed, leaving plenty of narrow alleys for them to slip into should they decide they’re ready to become visible again.

“Hey, do you know where you’re going?” whispers the prince. 

Something in his tone makes Star turn around. The prince’s eyes are wide and glittering with the reflected light from the many torches lining the street. He’s looking with such rapt attention that it’s almost like-- 

“Wait, you’ve been here before, right? Like before there was a bounty on your head?”

The prince blinks and it’s like a door closes. “No, of course not. I wasn’t allowed out of the castle proper. I was just making sure you knew because you have the attention span of a small rodent and I didn’t want us straying far from the event. Remember, we’re going in, getting some scrolls, and coming out.” 

“Yes, your supreme nitpickyness.” 

Star leads them down an alley a few blocks further in so the prince can undo his magic. They’re both dressed modestly in simple cotton cloaks so they don’t attract attention, and the prince has modified his features enough to look like a bad caricature of himself. Anyone without the ability to detect shadow magic will be none the wiser. 

Most of the crowd is gathered near a huge bonfire a few streets down at one of the openings to the market square, where scores of merchants and stalls are lined up. Star can hear faint music of at least three different varieties playing, and the smell of frying fat and savory spices hangs heavy in the air. A quick scan of the buildings around the square doesn’t reveal much, but his night vision is already ruined by the bonfire and a trained assassin wouldn’t be so easy to spot, anyway.

Not that it matters, he reminds himself. The whole point is for the prince to bite it.

“So where is the scholar with Eibon’s writings?” The prince has his cowl up despite the illusions he wove and looks distinctly out of place.

“Beats me, these sorts of things are never very organized. We’ll just have to find it!” 

The prince wrinkles his nose. “Fine. But let’s be efficient. We should start from the west and comb east, with the bonfire being the center point.”

“Ugh, do you ever relax? This is a festival, lighten up, go with the flow, have some fried food.”

“I have never once in my life ‘gone with the flow.’”

“And it shows.” 

The prince throws his hands up. “Fine. We’ll do it your way. Lead on, I cannot wait to see what unnecessary trials we must endure and how much ground we recross with your barbaric method.” 

Star grins. “Now we’re talkin’!” 

He leads the prince past the bonfire and into the market proper. The music is louder here, and the merchants manning the closest stalls begin to call out to them about the superiority of their wares. 

“Now we begin looking for your fancy ink on paper.”

Star knows the exact writings aren’t here, of course, but it’s strangely fun to lead the prince around like this. He’s like a baby goat, all leg and headbutts, but also kinda cute.

“Come with me this way,” the prince says imperiously. A booth with a giant mallet and a man asking to see who is strong enough to ring the bell has caught Star’s eye though, so he says, “One sec, let me just do this real quick.” He tosses a coin to the man, rolls his shoulders, and grabs the mallet.

The bell makes a satisfying ding when the slider hits it. “That’s right, I’m amazing. Hey pri--er, hey Kid, did you see that?” Star looks around for the person he’s ostensibly body-guarding to no avail. “Hey, where are you?”

He heads back down the closest stall walkway and scans the crowd -- nothing again. He does the same for the other two closest walkways and feels something like panic burning in his chest. Did the assassins get him already? Is his job over? Why does he hate the thought of that?

“There you are, you oaf,” calls a familiar voice from behind him. Relief floods his system; the prince is safe.

“Where did you go?” Star says, rounding on him. “You’re supposed to stay by me for protection, remember?”

“You’re not doing a very good job if you can’t even keep track of your charge,” the prince replies archly. “Here.” He extends a skewer of steaming, dripping meat that smells faintly of chilies.

“Uh.” Star accepts it and looks from it to the prince and back again. “You went and got…?”

“Firecracker skewers. Didn’t you say you like them? Unlike you, I remember what people tell me.”

Oh. Oh no. The baby goat brought him meat on a stick. This wasn’t in the assassination manual. “Yeah, I uh, I do. Very tasty.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” the prince replies and holds up a skewer of his own. 

“Wait, that might be a bit--”

The prince removes the top chunk of meat with a neat bite. He chews for a moment, swallows, and then starts coughing. “Pain--water--why do you like this?”

Star dashes over to the nearest food stall and gets a huge pocket of fried dough. “Here, take a bite of this, it might help.”

The prince pulls Star’s hand closer and takes a bite without grabbing the dough for himself. “Why would you subject yourself to this?” he gasps after a few more bites of fried dough. “I mean, I suppose the after burn is somewhat pleasant, and the flavor is acceptable once you can taste again, but really, there are more elegant ways to season meat.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s not up to your impeccable palette. Come on, we got scrolls to find.”

Star leads them around the western half of the market, laughing at the prince’s obvious fascination with it all. They try a few more food items and look at a few more booths before the hairs on the back of Star’s neck begin to stand up. He might not have done the kinds of hardcore training he was subjected to growing up recently, but his instincts are still on par. They’re definitely being tracked; looks like the fun is over.

“Hey, let’s look at the east side of the market,” Star says, his chest getting tighter. The east side has a few more quiet alleys the prince could be grabbed in. Better to get this over with quickly.

“Okay,” the prince says, and that simple word almost stops Star dead in his tracks. They’re having a civil conversation! The prince listened to him! The doubt in his gut twists his insides up.

They lightly browse a few stalls on the other side while Star becomes more and more conflicted. The more he thinks about it, the more he doesn’t want to kill the prince after all, consequences be damned. But what about his father? What about this thrice-damned soul window his father inflicted on him? If he can’t deal with that, he won’t be able to hide his treachery for very long anyway.

Any further deliberation is cut off by a cry of, “Scrolls! Scrolls! Get your scrolls here!”

The prince perks up and heads over immediately, making Star have to almost jog to keep up. The merchant is at the edge of the square, half wreathed in shadow, and -- oh shit, they’re walking right into an ambush aren’t they.

“You said you had some scrolls?” the prince says.

The merchant gives him an oily smile and says, “Yes, right this way, sir.” He gestures to a chest at the opening of an alley.

“I don’t think we should--” A hand comes around Star’s mouth and cuts him off. He reflexively bites down and slams his elbow back, freeing himself while his would-be captor grunts in pain. “Kid, look out!”

The prince jerks around just in time to see another man emerging from the alley behind him. With a flick of his wrist, he binds the man in coils of shadow and tries to jump away from the merchant, who has now revealed a wicked dagger.

“Don’t worry, this will all be over soon,” he croons before lunging at the prince.

Another coil of shadow stops the attack and it looks like the prince is in the process of doing something more complicated when his entire body goes rigid and the merchant snaps free.

“Another shadow mage,” gasps the prince. Star knows he could leave right now, escape himself and leave the prince to be murdered, but his heart isn’t in it anymore. It was the damn meat, he tells himself.

“I’m on it,” Star says, reaching in and down into his own shadow magic. Dark flames wreathe his blade from hilt to tip, blowing in a wind not from this plane. He focuses and sees the thin threads holding the prince in place. But before he can act on it, a third mage appears and begins preparing something nasty.

“Do something,” wheezes the prince, and if that isn’t a challenge, Star doesn’t know what is. He dives into a roll to dodge a thrown dagger and cut the first thread imprisoning the prince. This puts him in range to kick the merchant in the chest and send him flying.

“Chill out princess, I got this,” Star says with the cockiest grin he can muster. He dials up the intensity of his shadow flames and sends them in an arc to push back the two mages in the alley, and on the end of that stroke cuts the remaining threads binding the prince. “You good now, or do you still need me to do literally everything for you?”

There’s that glare that can boil ice. “I’ll take it from here, thank you.” The prince’s eyes seem to get blacker and the alleyway flickers in and out of grey scale. 

“No way, you’re not getting all the glory for this one.” Star leaps back in to punch one of the mages across the chin before the prince’s terror magic makes the others run screaming away from them.

“Well, that could have gone better,” the prince says. He sounds shaken, even though he doesn’t look like he has any big injuries.

“Yeah, I think it’s time we got back to the castle. Had enough fun for a week or so.”

“Remind me never to listen to your idea of fun ever again.”

“You say that now, your royal meat-on-a-stick-ness.”

The prince rolls his eyes and begins to reweave the invisibility illusion. “Shut up and lead us home.” 

“See now you’re talking sense, because I won’t lead us into an obvious trap.”

As they bicker on the way back to the castle, mostly in whispers and unconscious shadow magic pulses, Star’s worries about what will happen to him fade. He’s never been one for thinking too far into the future; for now, he’s got a grumpy prince and a belly full of meat, and there will be plenty of time for the rest. Later. Much, much later.

[the-darklings]

—𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 (𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆);

pairing: quentin beck x f!reader

word count: 9k+ (i’m a clown, don’t look at me)

summary: "He will be the death of you. He will love you to ruin.”

warnings: manipulation (of other people), love/hate-rivals relationship, swearing, questionable morality.

notes: Y’all this took me seven years but we’re finally here. Enjoy!

“unbecoming” mini-series: | 01 | . .

“It won’t work.”

“How do you know, you haven’t even tested it?”

“Your theory is sound but the application—”

Your fingers squeezed tightly around the stress ball in your hand, and you cast a dark look his way. Beck stood stiff and tense next to the whiteboard, listening to you intently as he held a black marker clenched between his fingers. He looked more dishevelled than usual. You would be surprised if either of you got more than a few hours of sleep last night. The prototype had as good as taken over your life—your life now melting into one rhythmic beat of trying to get this project ready for the demo. 

Time was not on your side. Your aim was to get the lead project right out of the gate, and you couldn’t waste time on petty arguments with him. When he actually listened, you bounced off each other with near frightening ease, coming leaps and bounds in the last two weeks alone. Still, the prototype was nowhere near ready because you could not hold a stable image for longer than two minutes. Not to mention a mountain of other weaknesses and instabilities plaguing it. 

You both knew that the problem was in the algorithm used to project the image outwards. Beck had been working on making it more stable for months now. While illusion tech was not your area of expertise, you offered more of a critical assessor role, questioning and throwing ideas right and left to see if anything would stick.

He hated it. But he loved it too.

It was impossible to escape the thrill of that sticky web of pure creation and problem-solving. The more you drilled him, the harder he reworked the technology, the more precise his calculations became. Together, you have effectively rewritten half of the base code used to project the holographic illusions in the last week alone. The image was twice as clear now. 

Often, he may have given you guarded, burning looks, but your mutual dislike for one another didn’t stop you from working unsettlingly well together.  

He still won’t allow you near enough though. 

“We have to try and apply it then,” you told him curtly, throwing the red stress ball with Stark Industries logo on it in the air. “Ultimately keeping it static will not work. It needs to be able to adapt to the subject’s perception and vision. That’s only if you want to take it to the next level though.”

“But,” Daniel’s voice broke carefully into what was previously an “intellectual argument” between you and Beck only. “If we don’t even have the prototype working, should we really be concerning ourselves with the next level?”

“Future visualisation,” Beck replied sharply, just a hint of condescending bleeding through his words, “Is key to the success of any project. It often inspires and unlocks different routes to achieve the end result. It’s less about adding pressure on yourself and more about finding effective ways to make the end product better. You have to have vision if you want to succeed.” 

Daniel fell silent after hearing that, and Victoria’s eyes narrowed, her pen stilling against the notebook where she was making notes on your brainstorming session. 

“What if we change the perception angle for the subject?” Daniel suggested after a moment, glancing your way. 

“No,” you and Beck both shot back without missing a beat, sharing a brief look between yourselves. 

Noting Daniel’s startled expression, you allowed your features to soften, adapting a milder, more soothing tone, “The problem with that,” you began kindly, catching his gaze. “Is that altered perception would tip the subject off right away. Ever gotten that little tingle at the back of your mind when looking at an optical illusion? That’s because your optic nerves are relaying a visual that does not compute in your brain. You can’t explain it but you know it’s wrong, and then your mind starts working overtime trying to pinpoint exactly what the problem is. Once that happens, you’re a goner because the immersion is gone. For now, we need immersion and stability in the illusion the most. Which is why we should try the new algorithm suggestion. If the hologram isn’t constantly stable it won’t matter in the long run.”

Beck’s jaw tightened somewhat upon hearing your pointed words but his gaze turned towards your colleagues. 

“Rerun test results from the last trial,” Beck ordered, but there was just enough politeness in his tone to keep even Victoria satisfied. “I want to do another trial tomorrow, and I need to know how far I can push the system without making the prototype explode in our faces.”

Daniel and Victoria nodded at once, standing together and moving toward their respective computers right away. Swinging your legs, you got up from your seat on the table to follow them, your stress ball in hand but Beck’s voice stopped you before you could so much as take a step.

“Not you,” he stated reluctantly, a faint smile lingering on his face, but his gaze narrowed when you peered at him with something close to surprise. “I need you with me and working on the grating light valve.”

You stared at him blankly.

On the other side of the lab, you heard Daniel and Victoria come to a standstill, the room suddenly falling suffocatingly quiet. 

“If I want another trial done tomorrow, I need another pair of hands,” he provided in a way of explanation upon noticing your puzzled expression. “If it fails, we will remodel the algorithm and try your idea instead,” he added tightly, voice thin. 

His dark, inscrutable gaze moved away from you after that and you had to force back a victorious smile. 

The traces of bitterness on Victoria’s and Daniel’s faces were impossible to miss though.

. . .    

The ball left your hand for the hundredth time that day, sailing smoothly through the air as gravity sank its nails into it, immediately dragging it down. 

Funny that. 

Everything that goes up must always come back down. 

“Question.”

You heard Beck exhale quietly as he shifted in his seat. It was an honest sound; a sound that betrayed his irritation with you, and it made you gleeful that he allowed these nastier parts peek out when it was just the two of you.

It was just after 1am, marking it yet another too long, too sleepless night stuck working in the lab. There was a dull ache of exhaustion pulsing near your temple but you had gotten very good at ignoring it by now. 

“Go on right ahead, sweetheart,” Beck intoned dully, eyes never leaving the prototype he was fiddling with in front of him. “I’m thrilled by the mere thought of having you question everything I do yet again.”

Scoffing, you threw the ball in the air again, catching it clumsily. At least you didn’t drop it, unlike the last four times. “Please stop acting like you’re not finally making tangible progress with this.”

His hands stilled, lowering the tools he held delicately onto the workbench as his eyes slid to you. 

He probably had a grand total of four hours of sleep in the last 48 hours. He looked like a mess. An attractive mess, but a mess all the same. 

His eyes were too wide, too cutting, as he stared at you for a silent moment. “Someone has a high opinion of themselves,” he murmured coolly. 

You grin stretched and you wiggled your fingers at him playfully, “Someone has to. Besides, you would have found a way to get rid of me if I was really such a burden to you. But, back to my previous point: question.”  

He leaned back, his chair creaking as Beck adjusted himself. 

“Go on, then.”

His expression was blank, closed off, but there was that unnerving glimmer of interest that he usually hid very well. But it was late—or rather early—and it was just the two of you with a table separating you, and a thousand questions you could ask each other. 

“Let’s say, for a moment,” you began pleasantly, rolling the stress ball between your hands as you leaned your elbows on the table, your eyes locked with his. “That we live in a perfect world where you will succeed and get this technology to work. Now, I don’t know if Victoria and Daniel didn’t ask you, or whether they did and you simply shut them down, but I have to ask: how will you handle the side effects?”

Quentin’s head tilted slightly to one side, and he grinned—sharp, menacing—while he leaned his chin against his open palm. “Side effects? What makes you think something as innocent as illusions will do anyone any harm?”

“Don’t play coy with me, sweetheart,” you purred lowly, mocking, voice dipping into something colder as you mirrored his position. “Your briefs make it clear that your end goal is to create technology that will alter someone’s perception of reality itself. I don’t think I need to sit here and explain to you what overexposure to something like that does to a person. But just to make it clear: a weaker mind will suffer from paranoia as well as disillusion with reality. Is that clear, or do you want me to go on, no? Now, please enlighten me how you will handle minds that can no longer distinguish between what’s real and what’s not. It’s more than dangerous it’s—”

“Godly.”  

A hushed breath slipped past your lips and you stared at him wide-eyed. Beck’s expression remained the same but the blue of his eyes almost looked black, the shadows under his eyes making him appear more than just dangerous. Somehow more and less than human all at once; a raw, terrible thing.

You forced your fingers to relax their deadly grip on the stress ball in your hand. 

And then you laughed, and laughed, and laughed. 

And you weren’t surprised to find him grinning at you from ear to ear when you were done. 

. . .

“I mean it’s kinda awesome.”

Yes, it would be if it weren’t for the obvious tinge of envy in Daniel’s voice. 

“Why do you think—?”

“Daniel,” Victoria cut in flatly, expression sour as she glanced at him. “It’s none of our business as to why.”

“I know,” Daniel insisted, but he didn’t sound as convincing as he probably would have liked. “But aren’t you curious? I’ve worked for him for over a year, and you worked with us for almost 9 months. Are we doing something...wrong?”

Okay, this could potentially become very problematic if you didn’t handle it with a certain delicacy. 

“Dan,” you addressed him directly, your expression arranged into something concerned, troubled, “I’m sorry. I—you know how he is. Stubborn, demanding, and overly dramatic about everything. I—I think it’s purely because I’m annoying him too much. Maybe he’s hoping that by allowing me to work on the prototype he can finally keep me quiet for longer than five minutes, you know? It’s not because you’re somehow less—god, you’re so smart. You both are. I think Beck just can’t handle me anymore.”

“You’re wrong.”

Much to your surprise, it was Victoria who answered you, frowning at you like what you were saying didn’t make any sense to her. 

You paused, genuinely surprised, and when she addressed you next, you realised that you may have underestimated her after all.  

“You’re brilliant,” she told you seriously, gaze set and jaw tense, “Just as brilliant as he is, and he sees it too. That’s why he lets you work on the prototype. If anything, watching you both work together is downright terrifying.”

. . .

“Why pretend?”

You didn’t bother holding back your disbelieving scoff. “Okay, first of all, pots and kettles,” you said flatly, “And second, what is it to you?”

“Curiosity.”

Chuckling, you glanced up at Beck and away from the lens you were fiddling with, “About?”

Much to your surprise, he was already gazing at you when you looked up at him. He rarely gave you his time or regard, choosing to continue working while you talked—and even then, you both preferred to work around each other rather than together. This meant most of these late-night work sessions were spent in tranquil silence. 

“What makes you tick,” he told you bluntly, not missing a beat, and your slight smile widened at the gleam in his eyes. “Why bother with trying to make everyone your friend?”

“Well in assuming that, you’re already wrong,” you disagreed casually, rolling a loose screw between your fingers and giving him a speculative glance, appraising. “It’s not about being friends with everyone. It’s about their belief that you are their friend. It’s unwise to commit to anyone or choose sides. Court attention at all times but never commit. By making people feel appreciated you make them depend on that positive attention. People are...simple. And it’s very easy to fool someone when they’re already fooling themselves. You would be surprised how disarming selective honesty and generosity can be.”

You could see him mulling over your words, and it was hard to ignore the shiver of delight at the ravenous look he was giving you. He ran his hand over his three-day-old stubble, thoughtful, astute. 

“But not with me,” he pointed out impassively, a treacherous smile twisting his lips to one side. “What’s the matter? Don’t want to be best buddies with me, honey?” he practically purred and you laughed shortly.

“Please,” you shot back with a gleaming smile, your eyebrows knitting. “It’s just the two of us here, so we can be as honest as we want. You can’t stand the sight of me because you hate the very idea of your authority being questioned. That’s fine, I don’t really like you either, to be honest. Why ask me though? You do the exact same thing, you just lack the patience—oh.” 

Scoffing, you leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms over your chest, “You think I manipulated my way into this position, don’t you?”

He gave you an innocent, almost playful look, and shrugged, leaning back in his seat as well. “You tell me.”

“As much as it would no doubt comfort you to think so, no,” you stated firmly, a touch irritated now, “I got here by pulling endless cramming nights in school and college. I got here by working double shifts after school to pay for my education because I had no help. From anyone. Even when I barely had enough to feed myself, I didn’t ask for help. Everything I’ve achieved, I achieved by myself.”

Beck exhaled slowly, fixated on you in a way that you knew would make most people uncomfortable. 

“It would seem we do have something in common after all,” his tone was light, but his eyes told a different story. “But you’re still unsatisfied with what you have.”

It wasn’t a question. 

“No, I guess I’m not.”

“Why is that?”

“The exact same reason you’re here,” you explained smoothly, watching his expression carefully. “Because I want something and I’m going to get it.”

A glimmer of that ferocious, mocking smile twisted his features once again and his head tilted to one side, “And the self-inflicted isolation is just part of the deal, sweetheart?”

Your laugh was hardly pleasant but you didn’t care, not with him, “Touche.”

. . .

“You just described your girlfriend, that’s not fair,” Daniel said with a laugh. “You’re making the rest of us feel bad with your fairytale romance.”

“I’m weeping for you, truly,” Victoria deadpanned, not even giving him a glance. “What about you then? What’s your perfect partner?”

Daniel sighed deeply, frowning as if in deep thought, and you almost rolled your eyes. The two of them were sitting opposite to you, busy with last trial results while you sat on the other side of the table with your feet propped on the gleaming surface. The tablet in your hand was warm from hours of use, and you pretended to fiddle with the data on screen, almost involuntary eavesdropping on their conversation. 

You weren’t about to pass up on free entertainment. 

“Someone smarter than me,” Daniel began, so serious a laugh bubbled up at the back of your throat, and you had to work hard to keep it in. “Someone kind and nice—oh, and someone with a great sense of humour too! Just someone amazing.”

For a second you felt his eyes rest on you, and you worked very hard to keep your concentrated expression in place.

“Wow,” Victoria drawled slowly, amusement bleeding through her dry exclamation. “That’s deep, Dan.” 

“Shut up.” 

Daniel laughed weakly, clearly embarrassed, and you had to bite your tongue to keep yourself from smirking too.

“Hey, what about you (Name)? Who would your perfect partner be?” he questioned and you paused, fingers stilling on the tablet screen.

You had been so preoccupied with enjoying their pointless conversation that you never took a moment to prepare an answer for them. For the first time in a while, you felt yourself draw blank. 

Before, premeditated words like “tall, dark and handsome” would have slipped out with a bashful smile and half-hearted shrug. Now—

Hmm. 

Moving your knees to one side so you could see them clearly, you felt your words bubble from someplace deep in you, “Someone with teeth.”

For a second they were both completely still before Daniel burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking from the force of it. Victoria, on the other hand, was giving you an odd look—almost like she could read deeper into your words. 

“Yeah, I’m kinda having a hard time picturing you with someone who has to wear dentures,” Daniel shot back with another snort, shaking his head. “It would be funny to see though.”

Your smile was indulgent, and you waited till Daniel took the lead, steering the conversation in a different direction before letting it slowly fade. 

It was almost impossible to escape the suffocating intensity of Beck’s stare across the room though.

. . .

The trial failed. 

The holographic illusion lasted a minute and fourteen seconds—a new record but nowhere near good enough if you wanted the lead project. 

Daniel was frustrated and expressed his disappointment loudly. Victoria was more subdued but no less dismayed. 

Beck took it calmly, but his fingers touched everything with a gentleness that told you he wanted to smash and grind everything in close vicinity to dust. 

His eyes lifted to yours. 

He didn’t say a word, simply stepping past you towards the whiteboard with the algorithm.    

There was no point in gloating right now, you both had work to do. 

Hours became a haze of suggestions, adjustments and recalculations. 

Neither of you noticed when Daniel and Victoria slipped out, far too focused on your work. 

It was some time after midnight, that Beck slammed his hand against the board in frustration, making it rattle and wheel back. He breathed deeply, calming himself, though you could see how tense the muscles in his neck were. He grabbed the edge of the board, pulling it closer and leaned against it for a moment, running his hand through his hair. 

Sighing, you bent down, picking up the fallen marker and walked up to him till you were standing side-to-side. 

“Breathe,” you instructed calmly, though your own eyes were aching from staring at the damn thing for countless hours. “You’ll figure it out,” you added firmly, offering the marker to him. 

Beck looked at you, gaze hollow, and loose strands of hair brushing against his forehead as he reached for the pen in your hand. His fingers locked around yours, scorching hot, and he gave you a thin, morose smile. 

“I know we will.” 

You only laughed at him softly. 

“That doesn’t work on me,” you tutted, your words deride, dry. “Keep your “you’re so special because I’m drawing exclusivity around you and myself” wordplay to yourself.”

His smile transformed into an almost pleased smirk, and you rolled your eyes. “Back to work.”

. . .

“A minute fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two—”

With every read, Daniel’s voice pitched like he was holding himself back from screaming the numbers out. Your nails cut into your palms as you stared at the solid, blue image of floating dolphins in front of you. You would be lying if you said you weren’t counting your breaths too, waiting for the image to break. 

It didn’t. 

A week and a half of working nonstop and now—

It stayed strong, steady, and you grinned widely when you heard Daniel scream that it’s been over two minutes. Victoria immediately chided him, reminding him to keep counting since the trial wasn’t over yet.

Through the happy chaos, your gaze found Beck’s who was standing on the other side of the hologram. Blue lights danced over his features and you observed the muted wonderment in his gaze, the raw satisfaction practically radiating off him. You smirked innocently, pulling a mock joking expression with a shrug of your shoulders. 

For once, his answering smile actually resembled something close to genuine joy. 

. . .

“Okay, so I could lie and tell you the traffic was really bad but honestly I just felt like—”

You froze, your words dying in your throat and the grip on your coffee cup tightening slightly. There was that all too familiar spike in your pulse, and you inhaled deeply, quietly, rearranging your features into something neutral as you observed the stranger in your lab. 

The man stood dressed in a white, crisp shirt and khaki pants that only accented his tallness. He stood with his back to you, arms crossed over his chest as he observed the floating dolphins in front of him. 

Upon hearing you, he turned in your direction, a smile breaking out across his face. His grin was near blinding, his eyes crinkling behind his designer glasses as he peered at you with open interest. 

“Can I help you, sir?” you asked politely, approaching him few steady steps at the time. 

“Ahh, you may be able to,” the man said, turning to face you. “You won’t happen to be the (Name) I’ve been hearing so much about?”

Oh, something about this didn’t sit right with you at all. Starting with the fact that this stranger shouldn’t be in your and Beck’s lab when no one from your team was here. 

“That would be me, sir,” you answered with a faint, awkward smile, “And you are?”

The man blinked before releasing a brief—forced, oh he was pretty good—laugh, his gaze briefly sweeping down the length of you as if weighting your worth.  

“Where are my manners, honestly,” he exclaimed, still grinning but it was an empty, contrived thing. “My name is Patrick Hodge. I work in the Visionary department as well, just a different team. I’m its leader.”

Ah yes. Competition. You had meant to check out what projects you were up against eventually—poke around for some weak spots, see if there was anything to exploit. His name also rang a bell. This man was not only in a position of power but also well-liked and respected around the Engineering & Innovation division. 

Looking at him, you could see why. 

A cold-blooded opportunist who was good at playing the charming sucker. 

“It’s very nice to meet you, sir,” you responded respectfully, taking his hand when he stretched it out in your direction. “I would introduce myself, but it seems like you already know of me.”

“Indeed I do,” he said silkily, still holding your hand for longer than would be considered appropriate. “I’ve heard nothing but good things about you. Always smiling, always willing to help out. Quentin Beck’s new miracle right hand. I just had to meet you for myself. Some are even attributing his latest breakthrough solely to you.”

Oh?

You smiled faintly, playing at bashful, and lowered your gaze to the floor while your fingertips tapped against your coffee cup. “Not at all, sir,” you demurred with a chuckle. “That was all Mr Beck’s work. He figured it out. Holography is hardly my area of expertise. I can only advise, perhaps suggest ideas, but ultimately it’s not my field or invention.” 

“What is it you specialise in then? If you don’t mind me asking?”

You most certainly minded, but this was information you could give him easily enough. For two reasons: first, you needed to know why he wanted to know so badly, and two, fulfilling his first request for information would psychologically leave a good impression of you. An impression that you were obedient and possibly a source of information. All things that could draw him back to you, ultimately working out in your favour.  

“In AI construction and development, sir.”

And just like that, you felt your instincts screech at the pleased, almost haughty, sheen in Patrick’s eyes he did a very good job of hiding. If you hadn’t been watching him as carefully as you were, you would have easily missed it. 

He had a look of a man who just received the best news in his life. 

“May I ask—”

“Patrick. Whatever brings you here?”

The man in front of you stiffened, his fake grin wavering for a moment before he finally released your fingers, glancing over your shoulder. 

It was odd. 

You almost felt relieved to have Beck back in the room with you. 

His sharp edges you liked. Patrick, on the other hand, left a rotten aftertaste in your mouth.

“Quentin,” Patrick greeted smoothly, stretching his hands out for another shake. “Congratulations on your progress. The whole Visionary program department—hell, the entire division—is buzzing about it.”

Beck came to stop right beside you—unusually close even for him—and your arms almost brushed against each other when he took Patrick’s hand in his own. 

“Thank you,” he replied with that charming, crooked grin of his. “I couldn’t have done it without my hardworking team. We still have a lot of work to do though.”

It was impossible to miss the way the two men were eyeing each other up behind those pleasant smiles and honeyed words. Whatever they had between them wasn’t nice or pleasant, and you felt your interest arouse as you glanced at Beck from the corner of your eye. 

“I’m sorry but I’m afraid I’ll have to cut your conversation short,” Beck continued, not sounding very sorry at all, “Still lots of work to do and the demo week is just around the corner. If you would excuse us,” he finished pointedly, smiling pleasantly. 

“Of course,” Patrick voiced calmly, but you didn’t miss the slight, irritated narrowing of his eyes. “You need to use this momentum of success while you still can after all. I look forward to seeing you more around the industries (Name). If you ever want to drop by and have a look at my project, you can find my team and myself at lab 38. I think it will be to your liking. Good day to you both.”

And with that, he strutted out of the room like he owned the place and deemed it no longer up to his standard. 

. . .

“That absolute imbecile Daniel must have blabbed.”

Beck’s words were soaked with simmering sort of rage, everything he touched being held in a white-knuckle grip. You observed him intently, resting your chin on your palm as your eyes tracked his erratic movements. He was angry, and he looked like he was having a hard time keeping still because of it.

“No one was supposed to know,” he explained bitterly, his tone pinching vehemently around every syllable. “Our progress would have been our biggest advantage.”

His eyes turned to you, narrowed, and he blinked like he was suddenly coming back to himself. You wondered if he realized just how unguarded he’d been just a moment ago—how easily it had come, and how you were still in your spot simply gazing at him calmly despite it. 

“Okay, first of all,” you spoke blandly, lifting your chin from your palm and folding your hands on the table before slouching in your seat. “Cut the theatrics and tell me who the hell he is and why I should care. I know he’s a big shot around here but clearly you have some personal shit going on between you.”

Beck’s jaw tightened minutely, sharpening his features in a way that made you regard him with more interest. Oh, this one was personal alright. 

“Last year,” Beck began, his voice icy, “He sabotaged me. Made sure I wasn’t able to present my technology because he knew that what I had was better than his work.”

Eyebrows jumping upwards, you pulled a mock shocked face, your lips parting, “Your proof? Or did you just get a special little boy feeling that it was him?” you wondered cheerfully.

Beck’s expression flickered and he chuckled coldly, giving you an equally mocking shrug, “Gee, I don’t know, honey. Maybe the fact that he told me straight to my face? He’s an arrogant prick and couldn’t resist gloating. Of course, I had no way to prove it. He covered his tracks well.”

“Are we still talking about Patrick or…”

His stare was cutting, “Funny.”

Your eyes rolled and you shook your head, sighing, “Look, I’m sorry but can you get any more cliched? A rival? Really? What’s next? Oh, I know: you’re a superhero now.” 

“What did he ask you?” Beck suddenly demanded, changing the subject completely. “Did he ask you about the illusion tech?”

Staring at him vacantly, you forced a shaky, “Yes, he did. And I told him everything,” was your terrified whisper before your features cleared with a blink, and you shot him an exasperated look. “No, he didn’t ask. And even if he had, I would have fed him a cork of shit. I’m not an idiot. I know he’s competition. He wanted to know what I specialised in.”

“And?”

“And it’s AIs. Happy?”

But Beck didn’t look happy at all. With his shoulders hunched—tense—and his knuckles white, he looked ferocious at he stared at you for a long moment without blinking. 

“Shit,” he muttered breathlessly, rising abruptly, “Shit, shit, shit. That fucker.”

Shooting an odd look his way, you tracked his tightly coiled figure as he moved around the table. “Okay. Am I missing something here?”

Beck’s wide-eyed stare swung back to you, blazing, “His own project is AI. That asshole is hoping to manipulate you to his side. He saw that your interference was helping me. He can’t take that chance. He wants to use you against me.”

“That’s cute.”

“I’m not joking, honey.”

Rising to your feet, you closed the distance between you in a few steps. “No, that’s really cute,” you shot back bitterly, pure acid dripping from your words. “Cute that you think I’m going to allow some desperate, arrogant prick to just shove me around like some pawn in your little pissing contest. I know men like him. If he wants to play games, that’s fine. I can play, but I will play to win.” 

Oh, there was something enjoyable about the guttering severity of his regard.

Something enjoyable about the way he was looking at you like he wanted—

“Hey, I’m back—”

You blinked, almost disoriented, your head turning sharply towards Victoria who stood in the doorway. She appeared frozen, her almond eyes taking in the image in front of her with a subdued frown. 

You’d been so lost in the moment—in the heat of the argument—you hadn’t even realised that you and Beck were practically chest-to-chest. Taking a step back, you shot the older woman a smile. 

“You brought doughnuts? You shouldn’t have!”

Victoria’s smile was genuine but stilted, her gaze focused on Beck. When you glanced at him too, you were forced to swallow heavily when you found him still staring at you. It was like he hadn’t bothered acknowledging Victoria’s presence at all, something indescribable gleaming in his eyes while he stared at you. 

The moment passed, and he turned away from you without a word. 

Suffice to say, Daniel did not escape the storm that was Beck’s rage when he came back from lunch. 

. . .

“So are you guys coming to the party on Friday?”

Victoria didn’t hesitate, “It’s not just any party, Dan,” she explained flatly. “It’s a mandatory company gathering, and as a team that’s going to be presenting our work in two weeks time, we have to attend. So yes.”

Daniel presented her with what he no doubt believed to be an endearing grin, “Be my platonic plus one?”

Victoria finished typing whatever she was working on before peering at the blonde from beneath her glasses, “I’m taking Salma, Dan. Duh.”

Daniel blinked, momentarily speechless, “Wait, right, sorry. How about you (Name)?”

Drowning a mouthful of coffee, you glanced up from your work with a noncommittal hum, “Me? Someone already asked.”

Victoria shot a not-so-subtle look Beck’s way but the man in question was frowning at his screen, turning his head slightly in your direction as if confused.

“Really? Who?” Daniel questioned, a little put out and a bit too demanding for your taste.

Giving them both a blank stare and pointedly ignoring Beck, you simply said, “Patrick Hodge.” 

“What?”

Daniel and Victoria both exclaimed almost simultaneously, and from the corner of your eye, you saw Beck’s head snap in your direction. 

“He asked, and I said yes,” you told them impassively, calmly taking another sip of your coffee. “Stop acting like it’s some big thing because it isn’t.”  

“Of course it’s a big—”

“Could you two give us a moment?”

Beck’s voice sliced through the room like a bolt of lightning despite how soft and calm it was. Daniel’s expression fell, and he glanced from you to Beck, and then back again. Victoria’s attention was solely on Beck, her eyebrows furrowed as she stood, nudging the still Daniel beside her.  

“C’mon, you,” she prompted, giving you a discreet look you couldn’t quite pinpoint. “Let’s have an early lunch.”

Daniel looked like he was going to protest, but Victoria grabbed his forearm, giving it a squeeze of warning.

You remained silent while the two gathered their things, not giving Beck the time of day while his attention remained focused solely on you. Unnerving. 

The door to the lab barely closed before he was already up and on his feet, approaching you with that dangerous gait that originally caught your attention. 

“What were you thinking?”

Exhaling wearily, you tilted your head lazily to look up at him when he came to a stop beside your desk. “Why wouldn’t I say yes?”

His eyes flashed; a silent, awful storm brimming behind that calm facade. “Because I told you what he wants. Because he’s using you to get to me.”

“Whatever is going on between you two is irrelevant to me,” you threw back at him without hesitation, and noticed the way his jaw tensed at your words. “He’s one of the most prominent figures in this company. I would be a fool to not use this chance to pave my own way.”

Beck moved closer, your legs almost touching, “You don’t need Patrick to pave your way. Once I get the lead project—”

“Well that’s just it, isn’t it, handsome?” you interrupted coldly, a sarcastic tilt of your voice giving him a pause. “Your lead project, not mine. I need to think about myself because when you get the project—rejoice!—but what about me?” 

“You will be my project co-leader.”

Oh.

To be the project co-leader would place you right at the top of the food chain. More than that, if the project did well and ended up bringing company success it would open all the doors for you and then some. You wouldn’t need to wait for opportunities—they would come to you and in abundance. 

Lethal sort of calmness slackened your face, and you rose to your feet slowly, practically face-to-face with Beck as you stared into his eyes. 

“I would encourage you to think very carefully about the words you use around me,” you whispered, your voice like a sharpened blade against his throat. “I’m not your puppet. I’m not a pawn you can use however you please. You ever lie to me and I will make you regret ever meeting me, Beck. That, I can promise you.”

“I’m not tricking you,” was his hushed response as he stared at you unblinkingly, something hungry warping his features when you leaned closer. 

A fleeting smile danced across your face and your hand lifted, brushing against the lean curve of his shoulders before your fingers came to a rest against the back of his neck. The soft material of his black turtleneck tickled your fingertips, and from this close you could scent the faint whiff of his expensive cologne.  

“Hodge can give me everything I need,” you told him quietly, lightly running your fingers across his neck, and biting back a smug grin when you felt his pulse jump just so. 

Beck’s own lips twitched into a sly, almost cruel smirk as he leaned into your touch with a knowing expression. “Perhaps,” he agreed, his hot breath fanning against your lips from how close your bodies were. “But I can give you everything you want, honey.”

A genuine, sensual sort of laugh slipped free from you, and you glanced up at him from under your lashes, grinning. 

Your eyes locked onto his lips and you leaned closer, your bodies touching and the pad of your thumb gently stroking his jaw. Your breaths mingled and you breathed him in deeply, enjoying the moment for what it was.

He was looking at you like wanted to devour you, and you have never denied yourself the little things in life. 

You paused just before your mouths touched, however; enjoying the closeness and the heat of him so near. 

What a wonderful, treacherous thing he was. And oh, how he made your blood sing. 

“We shall see about that,” you breathed with a playful laugh. His eyes snapped open when you pulled back, and for a moment you were sure he was going to grab you and kiss you anyway. 

Taking another few steps back, you shot him a wink, licking your lips. “We shall see.” 

. . .

“Oh hey, you’re still here.”

Victoria didn’t reply right away, and you felt a small frown tug your lips down as you watched her hurriedly moving her equipment around. She liked her work area clean and tidy but something about this felt...final.  

“Vic? You okay?”

Her hands trembled before she splayed them across the workbench, a shuddering breath escaping her. 

“I’m transferring after the party,” she told you bluntly, still not looking your way. “I haven’t told Beck yet and...I rather you didn’t either. But I wanted you to know. I mean—I—we’ve sort of become friends in these last few months, right? The only two girls on the team.”

You hurried towards her, cautiously touching her shoulder, “Of course we’re friends,” you assured her softly, your expression creasing with confusion. “But transferring? Why? Did something happen? Did Beck say something—”

“It wasn’t him,” she cut you off, but her following chuckle was bitter. “I finally got approached by another team leader. Dominique. I’m having a hard time believing someone like her wants me on her team.”  

Indeed. 

You knew of Dominique. Or, more accurately, knew how close her and Patrick worked together. 

My, my, Patrick was indeed good. Trying to manipulate you to his side and taking Victoria from Beck—effectively eliminating two most valuable members of the team in one swoop. He must be feeling pretty confident he would be able to charm you to his side if he was trying to pull something like this with only two weeks left till the demos. Interesting. 

“Wow, congratulations, you deserve this,” you told her, giving her shoulder a pat. “Don’t give me that look, you really do deserve it.”

“You’re not...mad? Not going to call me a traitor or something?” she mumbled, fiddling with folders in front of her. “I thought you would be angry.”

“What? No, of course not. If this helps you excel that’s all that matters,” you replied with a slight laugh. “Besides you’re an adult, I can’t exactly make these decisions for you. I will miss you. But I also wish you luck.”

Victoria exhaled in obvious relief, giving you the widest smile you’d seen from her yet. You both stayed like this for a few seconds, content, before you saw the happy smile on her face crumble away piece by piece. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Victoria gave you a long, searching look before shaking her head. “If I tell you,” she began, hesitation twisting her voice. “Promise me you won’t get upset.”

Curiosity bubbled in the pit of your stomach and you nodded slowly. “Promise. I always keep an open mind. Or I try.”

Her features twisted into a grimace and she glanced around the lab—almost like she had to confirm to herself that you really were alone. 

“I’ve seen how you are with Beck,” she whispered, cautious, awkward. “I know you think it will be different with you. I know you hope it will be love one day, but a man like him...”

She hesitated, staring at her hands, and everything inside you went incredibly still at her words.

“He’s the most dangerous man I’ve ever met,” she admitted tersely, still not meeting your stare. “He will destroy everything in his path to get what he wants. I’ve seen it. So leave. Please run now while you still can. Love from a man like him will only bring you pain. If you let him, he will be the death of you. He will love you to ruin.”

The silence that fell around you after she finished was peaceful, the buzz of technology around you a familiar symphony. 

When Victoria finally looked up at you warily, you felt her muscles stiffen under the palm of your hand.

“Oh Vic,” you told her with a gleaming, cold smile, “Who said anything about falling in love?”

. . .

“You look beautiful tonight.”

A lie.

But he was damn good at it.

“Thank you.”

Patrick spun you in a respectful, comfortable circle, minding the other couples on the dancefloor. You had no choice but to accept his request for a dance, letting the soothing jazz number wash over you as the rich and the wealthy danced all around you.  

Majority of the faces were familiar to you from the company. And it was impossible to miss how more than one pair of leering eyes drilled holes into you when Patrick spun you around with another glowing smile. 

“You still haven’t shared your thoughts on my project,” he prompted rather bluntly and your eyes swung to him, feigning startled surprise. “I was rather anxious to hear your professional opinion of it.”

“It’s rather impressive, sir,” you told him with a slight, polite smile.

But not as impressive as Beck’s work—not if he got it to work at its full capacity like intended. And you would make sure he would.  

Patrick’s own smile was sharper, more annoyed, “Nothing else to add?”

You blinked innocently, forcing another embarrassed laugh, curving your shoulders somewhat. “Sorry, sir, you make me rather nervous.” 

“Nonsense, dear—”

“Mind if I cut in?” 

Patrick came to a stop, you with him, and your eyes flew to your right only to find Beck standing in front of you. He looked…

Good.

Better than good.

Clad in all black and his hair slicked back neatly, he looked more like a sinful, dark promise than a man. While he usually preferred a clean-shaven face unless he was stuck in the lab for days, today his stubble was heavy. It framed his face in a more roguish way that made your pulse jumps slightly when his piercing blue eyes met yours. 

“Quentin, I was just—”

“Come now, Patrick, surely I’m allowed to steal my own right hand for one dance?” Quentin wondered, a pleasant chuckle escaping him. “Or am I wrong?”

He glanced around the crowd in a rather obvious and telling manner. A showcase that he knew full well that people were watching you all right now. Patrick’s smile was stiff, bordering on resentful, but he released you all the same, taking your hand in his and pressing a kiss on top of it. 

“I see you very soon, dear,” he promised you, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. He gave Beck a dazzling, deride smile that almost made you bristle on his behalf when he brushed past him. 

Beck didn’t waste time, stepping closer and taking your hand in his just as a new song started playing. His other hand settled on the small of your back, the two of you swaying from side to side wordlessly.

“I don’t think I need to tell you how breathtaking you look tonight,” he stated calmly after another minute of silence. “But you do.”

“Oh, you’re getting good,” you snapped, controlling your tone and trying to smile through your clenched teeth. “I almost believed you this time. Better yet, tell me what the hell you’re doing right now?”

His grip on you tightened slightly, and he gave you a mock surprised look, eyes widening, “I do believe we’re dancing, (Name).” 

Seeing your hard stare, he cleared his expression, peering at you for a moment longer before finally giving you a flat, “Saving you.”

“Did I look like I needed to be saved?” you scoffed, glancing around to make sure no one was eavesdropping on your conversation. It was already proving to be a challenge to keep your expression calm. “I was laughing just moments ago.”

Beck hummed, a slight smirk twitching his mouth upwards, “Yes, you were laughing. But not with him but rather at him—there’s a difference. He was boring you to tears.”

“Can for once,” you hissed under your breath, your gazes clashing, “Just once, you think of something other than your ego? Can’t you leave your dick-measuring contest till a later date? Don’t ruin this for me.”    

His gaze was frigid as he spun you around, carefully bringing you back into his embrace. “I told you, you don’t need him.”

“And I suppose I need you instead. Is that it?”

You didn’t bother holding back on your bitterness this time, your words like a barbed-wire tightening around you both. 

It was difficult to interpret the long, lingering look Beck gave you in reply to your words. Swaying silently for a few more moments, you forced your expression to relax, hoping that he was going to let this moment pass. 

“No, you don’t need anything from anyone,” he finally admitted, his words frustrated but it didn’t feel like the frustration was directed at you. “That’s why I like you.”

Biting on the inside of your cheek, you cut another look his way. “I told you that doesn’t—”

“I’m not saying it for the sake of saying it,” he rebuked, his expression hardening like it was difficult for him to admit that. “I don’t use my words lightly, sweetheart. But I had hoped you would know why I cut in.”

“Well, I don’t.”

His irritation was hard to miss this time, and his attention dropped back to you from the crowd he was observing only moments ago. “He wants to take you to his bed, use you once, and then throw you away like a used toy. All so he can have the satisfaction of rubbing it in my face.”

“So?”

A breath—sharp and disbelieving—whistled past his parted lips and his grip on your hand tightened for a second before he relaxed. “So? So, you would take him to your bed?”

Your smile was more of a snarl as you leaned in closer, “First of all, who I do and do not take to my bed is none of your goddamn business. Second, let him think with his ego. As far as I’m concerned that just puts me in a stronger position.”

Beck leaned in too, his gaze firm, insistent, “If you make him desire you but not give him what he wants, he will grow to resent you.”

You pushed away with a sigh, and he twirled you in a sweeping circle before tugging you back, his arm like a shackle around your waist. It was becoming increasingly more difficult for him not to show his anger, and the cracks made you more curious than you would care to admit. Did he truly care so much about his ego that the mere thought of you sleeping with Patrick frayed his edges this badly? Or was there more to this? More than he won’t admit to. 

“That doesn’t matter, I don’t need him to like me long term,” you muttered, trying to force calmness into your tone. “Besides since when are you such an expert on wants and desires of other people?” you wondered with a slight tilt of your chin as you regarded him oddly.

He didn’t reply, his eyes flickering over your features unhurriedly, gaze inscrutable. His continued silence only made you bolder, and you leaned closer, your lips almost brushing against the curve of his ear, “I do wonder, what is it that the great Quentin Beck wants?”  

Something burned in the endless abyss that was his eyes when you leaned back. The heat of his palm sank into yours, and you had to hold back a shiver when the arm resting at the small of your back slid around your waist purposefully. He pressed you close, gaze fervent, and the contours of his body melted against yours when his lips parted to respond— 

“Ah, sorry, if I could have your attention please!” 

You pulled back from Beck with an unsteady breath, his hand flexing around yours like he wasn’t going to let go before his grip loosened. For a moment you stared at each other before your eyes turned to locate the source of the voice. The music faded into a gentle stop, lights dimming till the only thing illuminated was the small stage where Patrick now stood. He beamed at the crowd; his white suit almost blinding as his eyes swept over everyone, watching as people turned their attention to him. 

“Hi, everyone, sorry to pause the festivities,” he began with a chuckle. “Just a few announcements before I let some of my other distinguished colleagues take the stage. Firstly, thank you, everyone, for coming tonight. It’s wonderful to see so many talented individuals here in one room. While unfortunately, Mr Stark could not attend the party himself—probably off saving the world somewhere—his spirit is truly with us here tonight. So let us make him proud! Secondly, I would like to make a more personal announcement but for that, I would like to invite someone else to join me on this stage. (Name) would you be so kind?”

You felt Beck stiffen beside you, and had to take a moment to force your own fluttering heart to calm down. Patrick’s eyes finally spotted you in the crowd, smile widening into something almost predatory when he gestured for you with his hand. Swallowing, you took a step towards the stage, your mind scrambling for an explanation as to what exactly he was planning. 

Beck’s fingers enclosed around your wrist swiftly, skin burning, and your head snapped in his direction as you paused. Something wild and dangerous twisted his expression before he allowed his face to smoothen. You waited—just a second, just the one—to see if he was going to say anything but he remained silent. His heavy stare didn’t waver though, and whatever he was trying to convey through his silence you chose to ignore. 

Tugging on your wrist, you broke free, heading towards the stage without so much as a backwards glance, carefully climbing the steps to the platform. Patrick was already waiting for you, taking your hand in his the moment you came face-to-face. Your skin crawled when his cool, dry lips pressed against the top of your hand again, his attention shifting back towards the expectant crowd. 

“This young lady,” Patrick explained, pausing for effect, “This lady right here took me by a complete surprise. I admit I was late to learn of the talent we were housing in our company. Everyone I talked with, everyone I approached, had nothing but good things to say. It almost seemed too good to be true. But then I met her, and well, suffice to say I was wrong to doubt my colleagues.” 

Patrick grinned at you, and something about the too happy gleam of it unsettled you more than you would care to admit. Despite your unease, you forced your lips into a faint smile. 

“And then I learn that this talented, kind, hard working-individual was unutilized daily,” he continued, his voice full of mock disbelief and you felt something close to dread starting to creep into your veins. “Well, I don’t believe that anyone at Stark Industries should be made to feel undervalued. For that reason, from this moment on, I’m appointing (Name) as my personal consultant on the AI project I’m currently working on.”

Ice sliced through your body, collecting right at the base of your heart as your eyes flew through the crowd. 

But Beck wasn’t looking at you. No—his dark, vicious stare was focused entirely on the animated Patrick who was still talking, talking, talking— 

He had planned this. 

The bastard had planned to simply take you. Perhaps he couldn’t be bothered to play, or perhaps he knew it would take too long to recruit you to his side. 

He knew. 

And had chosen to remove you from the team—from Beck—by pulling all the strings available to him. 

You were simply his instrument of control. A puppet, a pawn, for him to use in order to lessen Beck’s chances of winning. 

“Come, dear,” his sickly sweet voice registered over the loud applause, his fingers lingering between your shoulder blades. “I would very much like to enjoy my victory now.”

Victory. 

Victory? 

The word echoed, splintering inside your mind—

Something savage and scorching boiled in the pit of your stomach and—

Patrick stepped down the steps, extending his hand for you to take and you bit your tongue till you could feel the sharp sting of blood in your mouth—

You placed your hand in his.

Victory? I’ll show you victory.

. . .

an:.....PHEW! Thank you so much for reading. Hope you all liked the cliffhanger lol. Not gonna lie, I’m nervous about this series so any feedback is always appreciated! Love you all and see you on the flip side!! tagging: @angeli-fucking-cat @calypsolotus @ssskeletonsoffun @galactic-magick @antisocialshipper (thank you guys, hope you liked it!)

[blumenwrites]

Day Five: Magic

a03

mage! Viktor trying to whoo chubby! Yuuri at an art gallery, shenanigans ensue

Viktor had been criticised before for being over dramatic but he swore this time he was justified, because really, anyone would swoon if they had seen him. Unsuspecting of the cupid's arrow that was to be shot through his art, Viktor had entered the art exhibition. He had planned to fawn at some nice pieces, drink some wine, and possibly buy some junk food afterwards to reach equilibrium. Nowhere had he planned to meet what had to be the love of his life, because surely coming across someone that beautiful had to be a sign. 

The man was slightly above average height with medium-length brown hair that looked so soft it resembled cat fur. Atop his head was a simple black beanie with cat ears that were so cute Viktor almost choked on his saliva. His clothing was simple, basic black shirt and jeans, but well-fitted to his round figure. Currently, he was gazing at an abstract piece, his posture slumped but his wide-eyed wonder alluring nonetheless. His skin looked soft, Viktor thought with a wistful sigh. The blemishes and unevenness in tone did nothing to placate Viktor's thoughts that he belonged in a face-wash advert, because was this man glowing or was Viktor that gone already? It was something in the shyness in which he held himself like he didn't even know how gorgeous he was that meant Viktor had to talk to him lest he spend the rest of eternity alone.

“It's a beautiful piece, isn't it?” Viktor said, joining the man's side. He made sure that the angle he approached caught the lighting in the most flattering way.

The other man's eyes widened, and Viktor noticed they were a deep brown, like dark coffee. Viktor bit his lip to contain what would sound like strangled moose noises.

“A-ah, yes, the colours are s-stunning,” he replied, eyes returning to the artwork, a light blush dusting his chubby cheeks. Surely, he couldn't get any cuter?

“I agree,” Viktor concurred, and shot his winning smile. The man's blush flared and Viktor swallowed an unbecoming squeal. “I'm Viktor,” he greeted and held out his hand.

“Uh-Yuuri,” he responded, touch delicate but firm. When he let go Viktor fought the urge to retake his hand and trace the ridges of his knuckles.

“Come here often?” Viktor asked and then immediately fought the urge to throw himself out of a window. Do you come here often, what was I thinking? Viktor screamed internally. I am far more charming than that cliché!

Yuuri, bless him, either didn't notice or decided not to comment.

“Um, well...this isn't really my scene. I'm not massively into art but my friend's the, uh, artist and I wanted to support him, so” Yuuri made a movement that was a mix between a shrug and a sweeping motion.

“Interesting,” Viktor replied. “I've been following his work for quite a while now.”

“I-I can introduce you...If you want?”

“That would be lovely if you don't mind.”

“N-no, uh, of course I don't.”

“Perfect.”

Somehow, without even having to swish his fringe, they fell into a natural rhythm, walking side by side and making occasional comments about works that caught their eye. Whilst Viktor was far too distracted by the man next to him to truly appreciate the works around him, he couldn't find it within himself to care. The art gallery was unfortunately small, consisting of only one floor, meaning they returned to the beginning all too quickly.

“What did you think?” Viktor asked as they hovered near the exit.

“It was surprisingly good-not that I expected it to be bad! It's just that Phichit is a bit of a goof-ball so I didn't expect him to make something so...well, serious.”

Viktor made an affirmative sound in reply.

Both were silent for a moment.

“Can I show you something?” Viktor asked, a daring smile tickling the corners of his lips.

Yuuri pondered for a moment before answering “yes.”

“You're going to love this,” he promised, and grasped Yuuri's hand to drag him around the corner where no one would see them.

“Viktor?” Yuuri said but he received no response.

“What is your favourite type of flower?” Viktor asked with Yuuri's hand still in his grasp. He hoped his palms weren't sweaty.

“Um...Tulips?” Yuuri replied, clearly confused but he didn't let go either so Viktor saw it as a positive.

“What colour?”

“...Pink.”

Viktor smiled to his ears and clicked his fingers to produce a full bouquet of pink tulips fully in bloom.

“For you,” Viktor offered, handing them over to Yuuri whose eyebrows shot up so high they disappeared into his hairline.

“What the...how did you even...what the fuck?”

Okay, so Yuuri hadn't been charmed off his feet like Viktor had imagined but Yuuri hadn't ran away yet either which was something.

“Are you a magician or something?”

Typically, Viktor was an expert at hiding his emotions but he couldn't help but pout.

“No! This isn't some trick; I'm the real deal!”

“Wait...so you're,” Yuuri paused, scrunching up his face, answering Viktor's earlier question with a yes, he could get cuter, “Magic?”

“Well, that's one way to put it.”

Yuuri was silent for a moment.

“Well, you're the first wizard I've ever met, Viktor. I guess I should feel privileged. Wait, why are you laughing?”

“I'm sorry,” Viktor wheezed. “It's just that when you said wizard I was picturing myself as being 300 years old with a long beard and I couldn't.”

“I guess that is quite a funny image,” and Yuuri smiled directly at him, inducing fatal damage and yep, he checked his pulse, Viktor was now dead.

As he was about to invite Yuuri to drinks, he felt a tingling around his nostrils. No no no no no nonono-

“Viktor, are you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, just about to sneeze.”

With an explosion that could wake someone from a coma, Viktor sneezed like a Dad, and with it, turned blue. Great. This doesn't compliment the tone of my hair at all!

“Oh my god!”

“Don't-”

“You're blue!”

“Yes, that does appear to be true.”

“What? I'm-how?”

Yuuri's reaction to the flowers was mostly confusion but now his expression could only be described as what the fuck?!?!?!?! dramatic punctuation included.

“It's my allergies. It'll go away I swear,” Viktor promised, although the desperation in his tone wasn't particularly comforting.

“Your allergies...during winter...make you turn blue?”

“My powers change whenever I sneeze,” Viktor explained, almost bored of it at this point. “I should go back to normal soon.” So many of his magical peers got such cool powers. Super strength, invisibility, mind reading, and more importantly, these were permanent. Viktor had an embarrassing quirk whereby the result of his new power was simply a lottery of what would come next. At least he hadn't turned into an ant this time...

“I don't really know how to help. How do you induce a sneeze?” Yuuri quaked, pitch rising.

“Wait, I feel one coming on,” Viktor said, the horridly uncomfortable feeling returning as he waited to sneeze. Finally, it came, and Viktor's skin returned to its normal colour.

“What a relief,” Viktor commented and added an uncomfortable giggle. He was never going to get Yuuri's number at this rate. “Let's see what we have this time,” he said, clicking his fingers once more. The art gallery promptly burst into flames.

“Shit,” Viktor hissed and quickly took Yuuri's hand as they ran to the exit. Yakov was going to kill him. If the flames didn't get there first.

“What did you do?” Yuuri yelled above the commotion of rushing civilians.

“I didn't mean to!” Viktor weakly defended, heart pounding within the confines of his ribcage.

Thankfully, they quickly reached the entrance. The fresh air was a relief to the acrid smoke inside. Distantly, a baby was screaming. An official looking man in a suit, who Viktor recognised as a leader of the Institute, shot him a glare so sharp it cut before entering the building. No one stopped him; in fact, the employees of the exhibition didn't even notice him. Viktor had escaped the fire but he was dead.

By some miracle, no one was hurt.

“So,” Viktor panted, turning to look at Yuuri. Horrified would be one way to describe his face. “I don't suppose you'd be up to getting some drinks after this?”

Yuuri stared at him, mouth agape, before bursting into laughter. He was still holding his bouquet.

“Am I crazy for saying yes?” Yuuri chuckled at himself. “I suppose I need a drink after all of this.”

Viktor's mouth burst into a smile. He'd probably get yelled at and fined by the Institute (...again) but it'd be worth it. After all, he might even be able to get a second date out of this.

[the-empires-blog]

Different

Summary: Major Edrington met Lieutenant Archie Kennedy aboard the minesweeper, HMS Renown as he and his battalion were being rescued from the danger of impending Nazis. They had an exchange and, now that the war is over, Edrington hasn't been able to get the Lieutenant out of his mind. Feeling lost and missing the man he had only known for a night, he invites him to his home. Edrington soon comes to find the importance of an ally in the peacetime, which is, perhaps, an even greater battle than war.

tw: nazis, the holocaust, ptsd, depression, smoking, alcohol

There was much for Major Lawrence Bram Edrington to blame such a foolish idea on. Shellshock, for example, or perhaps a mite too much brandy to celebrate, or even the wild jollity that accompanied the end of the war, or perhaps the tidal wave of melancholia that set in deep in his veins before he knew what was happening. Confetti still blew down the streets with the fallen leaves, caked in dirt and misshapen with footsteps. Major Edrington didn’t know what to make of it, and his boot ground a soggy remnant of the “V.E Day” newspaper into the mud between cobblestones. The letter in hand, however, was pristine.

He had fought to locate the ginger - haired lieutenant aboard Renown , the minesweeper that had rescued him and his battalion from the misery of Dunkirk. Archie Kennedy was his name, and his eyes sparkled like sapphires in the wake of Hell. You can share my bunk . It was a fine trade for being coerced back into the metal depths of what very well might have been Edrington’s grave. It was only proper for a Lieutenant to surrender his berth to a Major, but both men knew that was not the primary drive behind such generosity.

They shagged like animals.

Major Edrington regretted the letter he penned to Archie Kennedy once he placed it in the mailbox. Edrington Manor was a quiet perch in Berwick - Upon - Tweed, a ghost of what it had been back in the 19th century in the age of high nobility. It was just Bram Edrington and his mother, Mary, that resided there now. The mansion was ancient and out of style, sporting the elaboracy of the Victorian Era, with long running rugs and great portraits of family members long passed hung on the great corridors. Was it too gaudy, too old - fashioned? Or would it be overwhelming? Bram hardly cared whether or not when he brought back old partners and lovers from university or otherwise. Archie Kennedy was different, he figured.

He watched the Lieutenant walk down the steps of the huffing train that dropped him off at the small station ( nothing more than a raised wooden platform and lamppost beside a wheat field ). Had it not been for the breeze running across the lowlands, Bram might have thought Kennedy’s locks of auburn hair were rays of sunlight brushing across his brow.

The seaman had little with him, just a rolled up newspaper and brown canvas duffle bag in one hand, the other holding onto the metal railing as he stepped down onto the platform.

It was then that Bram realised he had given no thought to what he would say, what he would do, when he saw the subject of his dreams, from both day and night, before him once more.

“You look different,” Archie said pointedly, dropping his bag by his side. The train gave a metallic groan and the smoke puffed once, twice, loud and dictated, and the wheels began to slowly turn.

“What’s that mean?”

He shrugged. “You just look different. How do I look?”

Bram drank him in. “Different.”

Archie’s lips quirked. “What’s that mean?”

He shrugged. “You changed your clothes.”

Archie’s smile grew into a grin and he closed the gap between them in a single stride. Instinctively, Bram tensed, nearly flinched, and a terse remark crossed his mind. Archie would never understand the plagues that ransacked every facet of Bram’s life, and nor would Bram to Archie.

Archie enveloped him in a hug, though. It was not joyous or bittersweet or sensual, but rather a grasp for life. Archie’s fingers curled at the nape of Bram’s neck, kneading through the curls of blonde hair that sprouted there. His body was warm and solid and human. Bram let out a shuddering breath, trying to still it to no avail. They were not inches from death any longer. They stood a fair distance away from war, but wasn’t that what they fought for? A false semblance of peacetime and Britain? From Bram’s pessimistic experience, peacetime was simply a handful of years from war to war to let the human supplies replenish before they could be thrown away again. But now, for however long, they had life and they had Britain, as damaged and fatigued as they were.

They pulled away. A thrush rustled and a fox screamed somewhere in the field, and it sounded nearly human.

“I parked the car just a ways away. Do you care to drive, or shall I?” Bram asked, directing them to where his Standard Nine rested along the boundary of the field.

“You drive,” Archie said with a grin. His gaze cast ahead, the Lieutenant was handsome, auburn hair spilling over his forehead and the corner of his mouth twitching again like he was thinking of something funny. He looks different , Bram decided. But again, this kind of different was not the same as before or even when they had first cast their eyes upon the other.

The drive was uneventful, as most things in Berwick - Upon - Tweed were. Children walked along the side of the street, worn footballs just a kick away from their feet. Sheep grazed in the fields worn down by the harvest. A half destroyed sentinel of a windmill stood upon a hill still burnt black. The rumble of the car engine could have been an incoming bomber. His forearms cramped and he realised he was gripping the steering wheel with such a great intensity, his knuckles were white. Self - consciously, he glanced at Archie, whose blue eyes looked away as he did. The seaman had enough respect for the soldier to not say anything of it.

They turned at the unbecoming mailbox with a fraying yellow ribbon wrapped around the wooden post. “Isn’t that what the Yanks do?”

“My mother finds America admirable,” Edrington said.

“I’m going to meet your mother?” Archie exclaimed.

The car slowed at the turn just in front of the mansion. Bram took the key out of the ignition and turned to Archie. “She’ll be impressed by you, I promise.”

“I don’t know,” Archie swallowed, “if I am the right sort of person for this.”

“Nonsense. We are more than prepared to welcome unfashionable company,” he said, and waited for his reward to manifest itself into a smile on Archie’s lips. It never came. Bram let them into the house, just as his mother came around the corridor from the kitchen, a platter of finger sandwiches propped against her hip.

“I made some treats before supper; I didn’t know if you boys would be hungry!” Mary Edrington was a grey haired woman with little spectacles perched on the little bridge of her nose. She was fond of argyle and paisley and a great equestrian, as well as financial wizard and master gardener: a widow with too much energy. She was much more sensible than a woman of her station would be, limiting herself to cotton dresses and shoes she had worn for years.

Bram cracked a smile and, instinctively, he glanced at Archie to see that he was smiling as well. It seemed so silly to be reduced to nothing but a target, an animal, a survivor, and return to finger sandwiches with cucumber and apples slices. It seemed silly to murder and destroy and still be referred to as a boy.

“Oh, now, what’s so funny?” Mary protested.

“Mother, you’ve no need to stoop.”

“I’ll have you know I do . I sent Mafalda and Jerry home early, and I didn’t want to see our guest ,” she said pointedly, “to be neglected.”

“I’m quite fine, ma’am, but your hospitality is refreshing,” Archie assured politely. “And your home is more beautiful than I could have imagined.”

Mary glowed. “Don’t flatter me or me house, Mister...?”

“Fourth Lieutenant Archie Kennedy, ma’am,” he took her hand and shook it vigorously.

“Sit down, both of you, and I’ll pour out.” For a moment, as they both went to the sitting room and reclined on newly upholstered seats, Bram thought maybe the expression had been nothing more than an empty expression of goodwill, that she would set them a pot of tea and go about her business. Mary stayed, however, and asked how Archie’s journey in was. It was fine, ma’am, but you get used to one form of transport or another in the navy. If it’s not a B-52, it’s a minesweeper, and if it’s not that, it’s a transport truck or destroyer. I was tempted to ask to borrow a carrier and sail her round the backside of the lowlands instead of taking a train . Mary gave a great snort of a laugh at that. Archie poured her another cup of tea with a wink and she took to him even more. He had that way with women, with people in general. He’s different , Bram thought again as he sunk into the loveseat and spectated.

Archie told stories of the war as the day drained into night. They were lighthearted and thoroughly watered down, of course. They were the versions for children and parents and civilians and bartenders and even other veterans. Bram only talked about what happened when he was with Archie. He tried with his mother, once, but she only wished to discuss the broken fence or the bitter weather or the business in town, as if he was on some weekend holiday in France. She seemed to take well to Archie’s tales, however, but she knew her son was safe, and Bram had never been a great storyteller.

“ … we were firing at the U - boats and Nazi destroyers from the promontory like we were throwing darts! The other Lieutenants and I would discuss our shots, running back and forth, perfecting the angles as if we were all three sitting here in this parlour. Sitting ducks, they were…”

“Stop going on so much about the war,” Bram reprimanded gently.

“I don’t mind it one bit,” Mary assured before Archie could get a word in. “I don’t mind being entertained, anyway. As long as you don’t go on about military tactics and makes of aeroplanes and German cars, and oh , those terrible camps .”

A note of tension as tangible as barbed wire and concrete walls stung the room and simmered low. Genuine anger bubbled in Bram’s chest. Or perhaps it felt like anger. Maybe it was guilt, pain, upset, disturbance, and the selfish realisation that he would eternally be ostracised for what he knew and saw, forever misunderstood and misjudged and hailed as a hero when he felt like nothing more than a man responsible . Skeletons haunted his mind.

“Sounds like Bram,” Archie smiled, but, as he glanced back at the major, he might have taken his hand and pulled him onto the Renown and offered his cabin.

“Oh?” Mary giggled, knowingly. Bram light a fag and puffed to himself.

…

A pot roast was served for dinner. A large cut of roast beef was arranged on a great orange platter and placed in the middle of the long wooden table, ornamented with bowls and plates of potatoes, gravy boats, rolls, and a large carafe of ale. The grandfather clock struck seven as Mary said grace. The pearl handled silverware felt strange in hand. Bram thought he would grow accustomed once more to it after a few days of being home again, but days turned into months and they felt just as foreign.

He forced himself to eat slowly. Paranoia seemed to creep up on him when he ate, if for no other reason than to remind him that his sense of security was false. Bram put his fork down between bites and sipped at the alcohol with deliberation.

Mid - meal, Archie spied the well tempered clavichord hiding beneath the black cover in the corner of the dining room. Without excusing himself, he went to it and tapped at the keys.

“Can you play?” Mary asked.

In response, he began tapping out a tune from Gilbert and Sullivan’s HMS Pinafore . “Things are seldom what they seem,” he sang, “skim milk masquerades as cream, highlows pass as patent leathers; jackdaws strut in peacock's feathers.” His voice was adequate, though whatever talent Archie might have possessed was marred by his attempts to roll ever ‘r’ in the gaudy, operatic way whilst doing the bass and soprano parts of the duet and play the right notes on the well tempered clavichord. “Though I'm anything but clever,” he went on, “I could talk like that for - ever, once a cat was killed by care, only brave deserve the fair.” The Lieutenant went on to finish the song and Mary clapped enthusiastically.

It was almost embarrassing to Bram that Archie thought he needed to earn his keep somehow within the house; he was a guest. As Bram was determining whether to tell him now before he could neglect his dinner for a show, or later that night, he faced a realisation. Archie stood and gave a flourishing bow, pantomiming the removal of a hat, sweeping it across his body as he bowed deeply. He’s an entertainer , Bram thought. None of this was for them, but rather for Archie to be liked, to be seen and heard, to be adored, and to be laughed with and at. To be remembered.

Bram retired later that night, though a great deal earlier than he usually did. He had not gotten adequate sleep the night before, yes, but he was eager to hole away in his room.

“That is terribly rude to your guest, Lawrence,” Mary insisted. Archie looked uncomfortable, as he always seemed to be when mother chided son. Bram was well into his twenties, but Mary would only relent when she herself was dead and gone. Archie would have to get used to it.

“Believe me, I’ve been far ruder to Archie,” he said, beginning up the stairs.

“Then we shall see you tomorrow,” Mary said. She turned to Archie. “Is he so awful to you, Lieutenant Kennedy?”

“It’s nothing I haven’t grown to like.”

…

Sleep evaded him. The curtains blew back and forth with the cold night air drifting in through the window thrown agape. Mary would have a fit if she knew the power from the furnace was being wasted. Bram snuggled beneath the covers, feeling much younger amongst the relics of his adolescence. Photographs from university, letters from his secondary school mates, medals from mathematics competitions all littered his bedroom. He might have been a child again. His eyelids drifted low and his breathing slowed.

Bram jerked atop his bed, eyes flying open and turning quickly to see who was at the door. Nothing but shadows. He wished he had his rifle to cradle; stuffed animals no longer gave him security.

He sat up and lit another cigarette. The moonlight gleamed in through the open window, pale rays almost making the smoke dissipate into nothing. His lips pursed and he tried to blow a smoke ring.

Bram threw the covers back and stood. His limbs were sore with fatigue. His skin prickled with gooseflesh and he abandoned his room and quietly snuck down the hallway. Light bled into the corridor from one of the rooms. He entered without knocking and saw Archie sitting on the floor, back to the bed, reading a book by flashlight.

“I hoped you would be asleep,” he said, not looking up from the dimly lit pages.

Bram took a long drag on his cigarette. “Me too.” He padded to the four poster bed and curled on the side closest to Archie, looking down and reading over his shoulder just to find that he couldn’t. “What book is that?”

“Hamlet,” Archie said as he closed it and looked back at Bram. “By Shakespeare. Have you heard of him?” Edrington wondered if this was how Archie survived the leftover hardships of the war when he wasn’t performing.

“I missed you,” he said sincerely.

Archie turned fully and rested his elbows on the side of the mattress. His hand ran through Bram’s hair. “I know.”

“I missed you so much,” Bram’s voice dropped to a whisper as it broke.

“You daft bastard, why didn’t you write me sooner?” Archie queried, pressing kisses to any bare flesh he could find. Bram leaned forward and kissed his lips softly, tenderly. Between horrifying dreams of shrapnel and fire and walking skeletons was the rare feeling of Archie Kennedy’s lips upon his, moving slow as hands grabbed and bodies pressed.

Archie climbed on the bed and straddled Bram, whose hands settled on his waist beneath his shirt. Archie abandoned his post at Bram’s lips and settled at the crook of his neck, nibbling and biting there and breaking capillaries. It would bruise, no doubt, and Bram thought as much. Archie’s hand went to the hem of Bram’s pyjama pant, but the Major caught him. “Wait, Archie, I don’t want - ”

“Tell me what you want, then,” breathed the seaman as he kissed Bram’s cheek, close to his mouth.

“I want to sleep.” Archie slid off of him and reclined beside him. He knew what he meant.

“Okay,” he said, and Bram noticed his lips were swollen. Bram’s arm rested on Archie’s waist as he turned, fitting his own body with Bram’s. He was warm and solid, heart beating just as unsteadily as Bram’s. The major wondered how long it had been since Archie had sleep. He might have asked, but a yawn overcame him. Archie pulled the hand that rested on his hip over and laced his fingers in it. Their cold legs intertwined and Bram smiled into Archie’s hair.

Bram had dosed on the battlefield, longing for the stillness, the regularity, that home would grant him. It was a strange thing to go from the coddled state of adolescence to the animalistic desperation for survival, and back to normal life. For some reason, he thought that once he smelled the marigolds in the garden and wandered through the streets of the township, it would come to him. Bram was never to return to that life again, and he was alone in that knowledge. He was different.

Well, almost alone.

Perhaps the closest he would come to that sense of innocence was with Archie Kennedy by his side, in his arms. The man that tells war stories as if they were naught but tall tales. The man that made light wherever he went. The man that sacrificed himself again and again. The man he chose. The man that chose him. The man that was different. They both were.

“Goodnight, Bram.”

“Goodnight, Archie.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

[hemsworths-chris]

crack shot - drarry

for sarah (@oikawanotes); the mafia au you asked for! happy birthday, my fave bowl of soup ♥♥

“he’s here, sir.”

the voice is a familiar one, thin and sharp, coming from the doorway. he doesn’t look up at first, instead continuing to sign his name onto the sheet of paper before him. the fountain pen - dark green, almost emerald, rimmed with gold - catches on a groove on the table, leaving an unsteady impression on the surname.

a trifling matter, he supposes. after all, the name itself is worth its weight in gold, regardless of appearance.

(and the fact that the groove in the otherwise gleaming mahogany is the remnant of the point of a knife being thrust into the table to emphasize a point - just a hair short of where a man’s finger was - doesn’t hurt, either).

he signs his name with a flourish, before slowly placing the pen back onto the table. the name stares unflinchingly back at him, emphasized against the crisp white.

draco malfoy.

steepling his hands, he finally cast his gaze upwards at the man standing patiently before him.

“send him in.”

it isn’t often that he accepts new - recruits, he supposes the word would be.

their organization (if one can call it that), hadn’t been intended, hadn’t ever been meticulously planned out piece by piece, but it had fallen together like it had been. a chain of dominoes, each component more lethal than the last - encountered in dark alleyways and the back of auditoriums. not friends, never friends. henchmen. assets. pawns.

and at the very top of the chain, the last piece to fall should it all come crumbling down, is the son of one of london’s most dignified philanthropists.

(and in the process, one of london’s most powerful political players).

lucius malfoy was a name you only knew if you were allowed to. immeasurably wealthy, uncaring of the unsavory rumors abounding about how he’d acquired his coin (god knows too many are true), able to afford his son (or rather, force onto his son) an oxford education, and a moderately inspirational father figure.

the time when draco was twelve years old and had accidentally walked in on what he’d assumed to be their butler of sorts forcing a man onto his knees and his father putting a bullet between the man’s eyes had been especially - ah, enlightening.

even at oxford, he’d never really been considering a life of organized crime - organized political scheming was more of what he’d expected. and yet, here he is.

life works out like that, sometimes.

it’s turned out well enough for him, though. he has men willing to fall on their swords - turn their semiautomatic pistols on themselves, technically - at his beck and call, and london’s his to command or burn. really, things could have ended up worse for him.

just look at harry potter.

similar roots - dignified family, old money, oxford education. he supposed that potter’s legacy is a far more reputable one, but one significantly less amusing, as he calls it. once or twice he’d met the boy (a man, now, but he’d never quite grown out of that lanky and gawky stage he’d hit around year eight so - a boy, still) at some government function or gala, but really there was nothing to see there. just a wallflower of a kid with hair quite unbecoming for the son of the founder of a company for hair products. exceedingly ordinary, by draco’s standards.

less ordinary, perhaps, when he’d made his way onto the national news after the murder of his parents. the spotlight of countless interviews and constant recognition fell on him, and even years after the incident, he’s never quite been able to escape its shadow.

(that meant, of course, that when you were connected with the right people, you’d know the right things. especially about potter.)

and when draco had heard that the name harry potter was making its way through the ranks as a potential asset - well, needless to say, his attention had been piqued.

it’s a well-known that potter has never really been the same after the grisly deaths of his parents. what’s less well-known to most that he’s been hunting for a means of revenge ever since.

least-known of all is the fact that the potter heir is standing right outside the door of the head of one of london’s most effectively notorious (and notoriously effective) crime syndicates, waiting to be let in.

at draco’s assent, the man motions to the person outside the door, and harry potter sweeps - stumbles, really - inside the room.

strangely enough, the first thing draco notices is: he hadn’t bloody changed.

same idiotic blue v-neck sweater, same preposterous glasses almost falling off his crooked nose, same laughable hair that looks like it’s been hit by a hurricane, an earthquake, and a storm all at the same time. outwardly, he’s the exact same fucking person as the dork he’d left behind at his college graduation.

but. draco’s gaze is sharp, and there’s no way he can miss the way potter’s eyes scan the room, the way his posture straightens when he sees and recognizes the man sitting at the desk, the way his gaze, once unsteady and carefree, now has a certain focus about them reminiscent of shattered glass.

draco cocks an eyebrow.

“fancy seeing you here, potter.”

“funny, i could say the same.”

you would.

potter makes to pull up a chair, but a glare from draco nips that action in the bud.

“so. what do you think you’re doing here?” an invitation, a rejection, an interrogation, a loaded gun.

“haven’t the slightest idea.” the safety of a gun being flicked off.

there’s a note in potter’s breast pocket, a telltale sign that he does, in fact, have the slightest idea. probably slipped discreetly to him on the sidewalk, or left with belongings that he probably wouldn’t recall ever leaving unattended, maybe even accompanied by a tip of a hat from across the street. signs of an extended offer he hasn’t rejected.

he stands then, getting to his feet leisurely like he has all the time in the world. and he does, technically. potter’s gaze runs up his neatly pressed and well-tailored suit (and for all the world, draco has no idea why the notion of potter’s gaze on him makes him want to fidget), before meeting draco’s own.

(his eyes are the exact same fucking shade of emerald as they’d ever been.)

“well, in that case, allow me to ask you why there’s a pistol tucked in your waistband.”

there are many qualities one could say draco malfoy lacks, but let it never be said that he isn’t observant.

potter’s eyes widen minutely - as if he’d hoped that draco wouldn’t notice - and his hand twitches towards his torso.

“er -”

“that isn’t a problem,” says draco smoothly. frankly, watching potter squirm is almost enjoyable for him, and he doesn’t bother to hide his smirk. “in fact, i’d like you to take it out.” by no means is he asking.

potter does so slowly, but with more ease than draco had expected. judging by the way he holds it - carefully, but not gingerly - he’s done so before, and the gun currently between his thin fingers appears to be loaded. hm. he isn’t a total idiot, after all.

“close your eyes,” he says blandly. after a moment’s hesitation, potter does so - or tries to pretend to. it’s obvious that he’s squinting. when he notices draco looking, his eyes finally close tightly.

“now, i’d like you to shoot the target on the wall.”

his fingers tense against the handle of the gun, but the action isn’t one of fear. it’s one of anticipation.

for the first time today, potter smiles.

“sure.”

he pivots on his left foot, more rapidly than draco could have ever expected of the scrawny oxford business major, so he faces the the ringed target not quite below him. quick as a flash, he raises the pistol, not even bothering to adjust his angle, and pulls the trigger.

the report of the pistol is a familiar sound, one draco has heard more times than he’d like to admit. but the sight before him is one he never imagined.

harry potter holding a semiautomatic pistol, bright green eyes triumphantly fixed on a target ring. and a clean hole, slightly smoking, right through the crimson center of the target.

it takes everything draco has to not let his surprise - his awe, really - to show on his face.

he’s a crack shot.

he’s a fucking crack shot.

“well.” it’s potter’s turn to smirk, now. “i do believe that’s a hit.”

half an hour later, potter leaves the meeting with a spring in his step and orders to remain where he is until further instructions.

draco watches him leave, and wonders how the hell all that happened.

[kaoruyogi]

Oh Give Me a Home (Ch. 1)

Banner by the incredible (bestie) @ladydracarysao3!!! 

Rating: E for Explicit/NSFW Content (Eventually)

Check it out on AO3.

Sheriff Cullen Rutherford is a man of simple needs. He desires only a roof over his head, a bed to sleep in, food to eat, and a job to do. All of these needs are met in Val Sable in the Western Approach. That is, until a murder brings fledgeling druffalo rancher, Miss Dahlia Trevelyan, into town on the one o'clock stagecoach. Educated, beautiful, and as ladylike as they come, her presence turns his needs on their ear.

With the fate of an entire town twisted up in the mess that brought Dahlia into his life, Cullen wonders if he can become the man everyone needs. He prays he can become the man Dahlia Trevelyan needs.

Welcome, fair reader, to my Old West/Wild West AU!!! I've had this one stuck in my head for a while now, and now seemed as good a time as any to put the first bit of it out there for @cullenappreciationweek‘s Day 6! I hope you have as much fun reading this as I have writing it!!! <3

Chapter 1:

The weight of the six-shooter on Cullen’s hip grounded him. He rested his right hand on his belt, fingertips brushing against that dark metal and ivory handle. A part of him hated standing out in the heat and the dust waiting for the daily stagecoach, though he did it every afternoon like clockwork.

He stood there, sweating under his hat, the wide brim of which bore the small mercy of keeping the sun from his amber eyes. He could feel more sweat beading under his arms, and he shuffled his stance to prevent the moisture from touching the smaller pistol tucked against his ribcage. The windless heat bore down on him like an old corpse, rank and heavy and stale. His office would not be much better when he returned. It would have even less airflow, if that was possible. He could not voice these complaints, however. Such was the nature of Solace in the Western Approach. Such was the nature of midday in the summer months. Such was the nature of his position as Sheriff of Val Sable, a small city named for its expanse of sand. Fitting.

Cullen waited for the clock to strike one. Sera’s stagecoach was never late. He suspected that had something to do with the five shot pistols on either side of her hips and the repeaters on either side of the driver’s seat. He never did ask her, though. He also never asked about the full to bursting satchels she took to and from the general store each trip. He suspected she would be evasive, and was certain Dorian would fop him off with some flippant remark or another. Cullen was content not to know. No harm was being done by the contents of those satchels, so he did not need to know.

A bead of sweat dripped into his eye just as the clock tower began to ring out the hour. Bing bong, bing bong. Bing bong, bing bong. BONG. One in the afternoon. With his left hand he rubbed the sting of the sweat from his eye. The rumble of the stage, still several hundred yards away, shook tiny tremors beneath his boots. Right on time.

With his eyes clear, Cullen squinted into the distance in the direction from which the stage always approached. He could see the dark outline of the wooden passenger compartment and the blonde hair and white teeth of the driver. Sera always grinned like a madwoman while she drove into town, another fact about which Cullen had never seen fit to ask her. As the coach drew closer, he could make out Sera’s auburn-haired partner, Dagna, seated beside her, smiling just as widely. The pair of them made for an unnerving sight.

Dust whirled about the wheels and billowed out behind the stagecoach as it passed through the edge of town. That dust hovered in the air for a long while before dissipating in some direction or another. The stop was about twenty feet from where Cullen was standing, between the Iron Bull’s saloon and boarding house and his husband, Dorian’s, general store. They were the most moneyed couple in town, which was not to say they had the most money in town. Miss Montilyet wore that title with ease and a surprising amount of humility. She had made her fortune in the oil fields in the Hissing Wastes, and she employed many of the townsfolk in various positions. She was, in a way, the lifeblood of Val Sable.

Sera let out a final few “yips” and “yahs” before calling out a “woah” to slow her four-horse team. More dust whipped up and swirled about in the vacuum of the coach’s rapid halt. It floated into Cullen’s eyes and into his nose and into his lungs as he approached to greet everyone inside and outside the dark cabin. He fought the urge to cough. It would have made him seem weak in front of the new arrivals, a way he could not afford to seem, outnumbered as he was by his citizenry.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” said Sera as she hopped off, kicking up more brown dust and dirt with her sloppy landing.

Cullen tipped the front of his wide brim as he nodded. “Good afternoon, Miss Sera. Miss Dagna.” The chipper dwarf waved, only her hand visible across the driver’s box.

He moved to stand in front of the door, as was his routine. He waited for that stage every day in order to greet its passengers. Most of them would be people he knew, and it was just the polite thing to do as Sheriff. Some people, however, would be newcomers. Those, he had to assess. He had to let them know who the Sheriff was as much as he had to let them know the Sheriff knew who they were. Not one nameless soul existed in Val Sable in Cullen’s eyes. They all had names attached to faces attached to bodies attached to personalities, and he knew every one of them. He’d made it his business to know every one of them. It made sussing out the liars and the criminals easier.

When the door opened, local after local poured out of the passenger compartment. Older ladies who had gone to visit their “other sons’” children in Val Royeaux, young men and women who had gone back to see friends or family or to bring money to or from the cities. All were familiar to him. The very last passenger to exit was the very first he did not recognize.

She was dressed all in black, wearing a dress that was in fashion, as fashion had once been described to him by Madame de Fer. The frock had layers and lace and a large bustle, and was buttoned up high on the young woman’s pale neck. Her hat was also black, a curved sort of derby adorned with a large black bow and an equally large black feather. It was fastened over a bundle of dark and wavy hair, nearly black in its own right. Only when she stepped out of the carriage and into the sun in full could he see that it was a deep shade of brown.

The lady dusted off the front of her dress and stood straight to face him. Her features were severe and soft all at once. Her jaw and her nose were all angles, but her lips and her eyes were rounded and plush, though the corners of her mouth were turned down a bit. Her eyes, however, were piercing. They were tinted a blue so vibrant they all but glowed under the afternoon sun. They were blue like lyrium was blue, and his chest ached the moment he saw them.

She stared at him for a long while before his wits returned to him. He tipped his hat again and took her gloved hand as a man takes a woman’s hand when he first meets her. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I am Sheriff Cullen Rutherford, and I would like to officially welcome you to Val Sable, Missus…”

“Miss,” she said. Her voice was not as light as he had suspected. There was a sharpness to it. “Trevelyan. Dahlia Trevelyan. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sheriff Rutherford.” He would not have known it from her tone. Her accent was Ferelden, though it was tinged and muddled with any number of others she had picked up in her travels. It was distinct and dignified, despite its amalgamation.

“Likewise, Miss Trevelyan.” He released her hand. “Forgive me, but are you related to Donal Trevelyan?”

“My father,” she said, raising her chin just a bit. That explained the black dress.

“I am sorry, Miss Trevelyan. His passing was…regretful.”

“His passing? His murder, Sheriff Rutherford. I believe you meant to say his murder was regretful. And that is saying the least of it.” Her blue eyes bored their anger into him, though none of it was meant for him. The thud of her trunk hitting the dirt tore their gazes from one another for a moment, allowing them the opportunity to reaffix their eyes with a touch more civility.

“I apologize, Miss Trevelyan. I did not mean to imply—”

“You didn’t imply anything, Sheriff. I’m sorry for my response. One would think that after having had more than a month to come to terms with all this, I might actually have come to terms with it.” She pulled a small white handkerchief from the drawstring satchel he had not noticed until just then, and she dabbed at the corner of her eye.

“The death of a parent is not such an easy thing.” Maker’s breath, this conversation had gotten out of his depth in naught but a few words. His hand reached for the back of his neck against his better judgment.

“That it is not.” She folded the handkerchief into a tidy little triangle before placing it back in the small satchel. “Not to change the subject away from untimely parental demise—it is such a pleasant topic of conversation, after all—but might you know where I could hire a carriage to take me the rest of the way to my father’s property? As you can see, I have my belongings with me, and they are too numerous to simply hire a horse.”

“Will you not be staying in town?” There was a disappointment in the idea.

She puffed out a laugh that she seemed to find unbecoming and stifled it right away. “Well, Sheriff Rutherford, that would be rather impractical. I cannot very well run my father’s ranch and business from miles away in town now, can I?”

Cullen adjusted his stance, kicking up a bit of dirt in the process. He had forgotten all his good manners in the span of a few moments. He did his best to chase the dubiousness from his expression. “Ma’am, do you inte—”

“Miss.”

“I’m sorry. Miss, do you intend to run your father’s druffalo ranch on your own?”

Her expression went unchanged, as though she thought the question without merit. “Not at all. I intend to run my father’s druffalo ranch with the assistance of the ranch hands who have worked with him for the past several years. As for the business—the accounting and such—I do intend to run that on my own.”

Cullen reached for the back of his neck again. His forearm brushed the brim of his hat. It was a telling habit. Something he needed to quit if he was meant to be around such civil ladies as Dahlia Trevelyan. “Ma’am—”

“Miss, Sheriff Rutherford. I may be of a rather matronly age, but I have never been married.” She wrung her hands for a moment so brief, he thought he imagined it. She could not have been more than twenty-eight years old, and that was older than he assumed she was before she mentioned it.

“I apologize, Miss Trevelyan. It’s just that I’m a bit…flummoxed at the moment. I meant no disrespect. You do not appear—Your age is not—I—” He looked away from her lyrium blue eyes and let out a sigh. Her composure was confounding.

“It’s perfectly alright, Sheriff. We were discussing a carriage for hire.”

Miss Trevelyan was the picture of equanimity in the face of Cullen’s stammering. Her confidence came with a measured ease. He had little doubt that she had been forced to contend with his befuddled ilk more times than she would care to recall. Unimpressed with his continued silence, she turned her head, exposing just a sliver of her pale neck. “Excuse me,” she said with a flutter of her outstretched hand. “Miss? Miss—I’m terribly sorry, I did not get your name.”

Sera turned from the carriage, where she was packing up the full satchels she had just collected from Dorian. Cullen peered over in a vain attempt to spy the contents. “Name’s Sera.” She poked her thumb out behind her. “This is Dagna.” With no amount of discretion, she spat a gob of chaw-browned saliva into the dirt, sucked her teeth, and smiled.

Miss Trevelyan’s delicate gloved fingers recoiled a bit in in air. “Ah.” Her poise wavered. “A pleasure to meet you. Would you, perchance, be amenable to taking me as far as the Trevelyan Ranch about a mile west of town?”

The small blonde elf leaned back against her coach, hands in the pockets of her britches that always sat just a bit wrong on her hips. A fresh bead of sweat perched on Cullen’s eyebrow.

“Don’t go west of town. Nothing there. We stop in town, rest the horses so we can go back to Val Royeaux before dawn. We run on time, so no extra rides, yeah? Besides, the horses are knackered. Wouldn’t get you there anyway.”

“Oh.” Miss Trevelyan paused for a moment. The wheels in Cullen’s mind began to turn as he watched her. “Would you happen to know who might be willing to take me west? I understand the inconvenience, and I’m willing to pay—”

“Dennett’s your man. Owns a stable near the Chantry, that way.” Sera poked her thumb out again to point the way. “Got the Chantry smelling like straw and shit, but his horses are good and he keeps his barley wagon in good shape. His wife makes a mean ram chili, too. Sticks to your bones. But he’ll take you, for a price. You got a horse there to get you back, or what?” The corner of her lower lip jutted out a bit where her tobacco sat.

“According to my father’s will, there are three strong horses at the ranch. I suppose that means yes. You said Mister Dennett’s stable is this way?” Miss Trevelyan leaned and stepped twice toward Dennett’s.

Cullen was overwhelmed. He was not prepared to stop talking to the newcomer for an as yet undetermined amount of days or weeks. There was something unusual about her. He shuffled toward her and kicked more dirt into the air, and it stuck to his perspiration and to the hem of his jeans.

“I can take you,” he said before he knew he was saying it.

Miss Trevelyan’s head turned back toward him. “I’m sorry?”

The small Remington under his left arm thumped through his vest and his cotton shirt and against his ribs when he reached up to wipe the moisture from between his sweatband and his forehead. “I can take you your father’s ranch, Miss Trevelyan. I have a wagon that my deputy and I use to haul prisoners and arms. I am certain it will keep your things in neat order. I can show you the town while we walk to my station house.”

Her lips parted just so before she said, “That’s very generous of you, Sheriff. I appreciate the offer, but I would hate to keep you from your duties for such a time.”

“That is very generous of you, Sheriff,” said Sera with too easy a smile. Easy enough to make him uneasy.

“It’s no trouble. Deputy Barris is quite capable. He can manage without me for an hour or so. It will give me a chance to speak with my brother, at any rate.”

Her dark brows pinched together. “Your brother?”

“Yes, Branson Rutherford. He is the Cow Boss on your father’s ranch. Have you not been corresponding with him?”

Those dark brows separated once more and rose high. Their pointed corners vanished under the near-black waves surrounding her face. “I have not. I have only discussed my plans with the cowman, Cole. He was the one to tell me of my father’s death.” She said “cowman” as if it were a newly learned word of a foreign language. She cringed a bit.

“I suppose that makes sense, seeing as Branson did not mention your impending arrival when last we spoke.”

Cullen’s gunbelt had begun to feel weighty at his hip. He could not abide idleness, and his body struggled with his prolonged inactivity. A dull ache spread from the base of his neck and the bridge of his nose. It coated the inside of his skull like oil, thick and opaque. Miss Trevelyan was still as she contemplated his proposal, the shallow rise and fall of her chest and the occasional blink her only signs of life. Even the ebony feathers on her ornate derby seemed to freeze in the dead air.

“Alright,” she finally said. “I’ll take you up on your offer. But, Sheriff, if it would be agreeable to you, might we have a glass or two of water before we make our way? It is…warmer here than it was in Val Royeaux.” Her tact was admirable.

“Of course. This way, Miss Trevelyan.” Cullen held his arm out behind him, and she lifted the front of her skirt to follow his gesture. “Sera, would you please see Miss Trevelyan’s trunk to the station house?”

“Of course,” said Sera, rolling her shoulders against her coach and tilting her head back. It worried him when she repeated after him. “Even load it for you.” She had a habit of making a game of his disquiet.

With his gut churning and cold, he turned to lead Miss Trevelyan into the Herald’s Rest. The slatted and swinging shingles that passed for doors squeaked as he pushed them open for her to enter. She stopped just inside, the feathers on her head swaying about slowly as she took in the sights and sounds around her.

The bulk of the saloon was contained in a single, large room. It was tall and wide, built with sturdy pinewood planks and bricks of desert clay. Only a few of the windows were clean enough to let in proper daylight, the rest left coated with enough dirt and sand to obscure any debauchery inside. At the far end of the room was a stairwell, worn from use, that led up to the rooms belonging to Madame Vivienne and her ladies. They were far from the kind of lady Miss Trevelyan was, but they were every bit as deserving of respect. The Iron Bull ensured that they were shown such respect under his roof. As the newcomer surveyed the space, Bull stood behind the mahogany bar, pouring drinks and grinning. The broad-shouldered and broad-horned Qunari had a roar of a laugh, and it vied with Miss Maryden’s piano playing as both sounded through the room. One or two of the men and women at the many tables spread about the place glanced toward the proprietor before turning back to their conversations and games of Wicked Grace.

Iron Bull’s one good eye caught sight of the Sheriff and their new guest, and his toothy grin expanded. “Cullen!” he said with a beckoning wave. “Come on over to my bar and sit a spell. Bring your lovely new friend.”

“We’ve only come in for a glass of water, and unless Miss Trevelyan desires a meal as well, we will not be staying long.”

Bull held out his massive hand as they approached, and took her silk clad fingers delicately. “Trevelyan, eh?” Their hands appeared to nod to one another. “The prodigal daughter appears.”

Her blue eyes took the man in, appraising his wide horns and his hulking form. “You also knew my father, then?”

“He was one of our regulars.”

Miss Trevelyan glanced at the stairs. “Oh.”

Iron Bull chuckled deep and hearty as he reached under the bar and brought out two clean glasses. “Not that kind of regular.” He reached under the bar again and brought out a pitcher coated in a thick layer of condensation. The product of one of Dagna’s ice runes, no doubt. “He came in a couple times a week for a meal. He liked Cabot’s cooking.”

“Oh.” The second sound was rife with relief.

“What brings you to Val Sable, Miss?” Of course he could remember to call her Miss. “Are you selling your father’s ranch?”

She looked perplexed. “Selling? I was not aware there were any interested buyers.”

“No one told you? Coryph—”

“Bull,” said a velvet voice from the base of the stairs. Their conversation was lost to the utterance, and all attention turned to see Vivienne de Fer crossing to the bar. She wore white, as she always did. Her corset was cinched up tighter than Miss Trevelyan’s, and Cullen regularly wondered how she breathed. Her skirt fell in long ruffled lines around her oft exposed calves. “Would you be a dear and have a bottle of champagne brought to Gabrielle’s room? Nothing too expensive, just something with bubbles.”

Bull’s grin shifted. “Yes, ma’am. Have you met Miss Trevelyan?”

Madame Vivienne’s responding smile had a serpentine quality to it. It came on slow and smooth. “I have not.” The women bowed their heads to one another in the smallest form of curtsy deemed appropriate between ladies of such standing. “You must be Donal’s daughter. A pleasure.”

“It seems everyone here knew my father. Perhaps better than I did, in more recent years.”

“He was a lovely man, my dear.” Bull set out a tumbler of clear liquor. The Madame lifted it, and the glass frosted over in her hand. It was the very least of her power. Cullen had once threatened her with arrest for freezing a man, though she was absolved of any wrongdoing when he discovered that the man had struck one of her ladies. “Always respectful.”

“I’m glad to hear that, especially since he had a bit of an aversion to my skills when they first manifested.”

Miss Trevelyan snapped her fingers with a muffled thump, and a small spark cracked in the air. A mage. She was a mage. Unwanted fear bit at Cullen’s subconscious. He knew not to be afraid. He knew there were mages he could trust. He knew there were mages he did trust. He tried to remember the lessons he’d learned after the Civil War, and he tried to stop the hand near his pistol from trembling.

Madame Vivienne looked pleased at the development. “How old?”

“Eight.”

“Very young. You must be quite skilled by now.”

The two women exchanged a look that must have communicated a great deal. They each appeared both satisfied and wary of one another just as a small ruckus turned attention to the stairwell once again.

Bull’s waitress, Flissa, yelped and nearly dropped the bottle of cheap champagne she was carrying when she almost collided with two people descending the stairs. She cried out an overzealous apology before running past them, her boots pounding on each stair. Unfazed and unscathed, Solas continued on his way down. One of Madame Vivienne’s ladies clung to his arm. She was a diminutive Dalish woman with deep indigo facial tattoos like branches, her straight blonde hair tangled and wild and the loose straps of her dress dangling about her shoulders. Her expression was painted over with a lethargic kind of satedness. A lazy smile turned her lips.

Cullen watched the two murmur their farewells. Behind him, he heard Miss Trevelyan say, “There is a Dalish woman here?” Her tone was more enthusiastic than most. She sounded delighted at the prospect.

“Myriani? Yes, she has lived in Val Sable for years. A band of brigands attacked her clan and absconded with her when she was a girl. She managed to escape before anything untoward happened, but her clan was gone. Another clan with whom we trade, Clan Lavellan, took her in for a time—reared her. She came to me some time ago, out of place among her people, and I provided her with an alternative.”

Myriani let go of Solas’s arm, brimming with obvious reluctance. He kissed her once on the cheek before parting from her. She watched him walk away, brown eyes wistful. She loved him.

“Sheriff,” he said in greeting as he passed.

“Doctor,” said Cullen in answer.

“I do hope to meet more of the Dalish. All of these unfounded rumors of their brutality…It is a shame what Thedas is doing to them,” said Miss Trevelyan. It was a sentiment Cullen shared.

After a moment, she spoke again. “Shall we make our way, then, Sheriff Rutherford?”

“Yes, of course, Miss Trevelyan.” He remembered this time.

They left the saloon, and Cullen showed her the town as they walked the wooden boardwalk toward the station house. Opposite the direction they were headed, he directed her attention to the town’s Chantry, Dennett’s stables, and a number of houses and apartments. He pointed across the dust and dirt road from where they stood to Dorian’s general store, Haven. Beside that was the bank Varric ran. Attached to the bank—but not on the side containing the vault, Varric assured everyone—was the school at which Varric taught. He fancied himself a jack of all trades, and the work gave him access to the goings on of the entire town, which he documented with agonizing detail. Across from the school and the bank sat Harritt’s smithy. Harritt never would admit it, but Cullen knew the man relished the idea of waking the drunken patrons of Bull’s saloon just after dawn with the clangs of his family hammer.

Harritt also woke Cullen every morning with those clangs. Cullen lived in a windowed room above the jail in the station house next door to the forge. He minded the raucous awakening less than Madame Vivienne’s ladies or the drunks laying with them did. Harritt was steady as a ticking clock, and it put Cullen at ease to know the day had begun without a second thought.

Inside the station house, Delrin was sifting through the new warrants and wanted posters delivered on Sera’s stagecoach. It was his ritual to sort them in piles of known citizens, known criminals and marauders, and unknown criminals and marauders. His task seemed near completion when Cullen and Miss Trevelyan entered.

Delrin only glanced up for a moment, and nodded his head to Cullen. Embarrassed at his deputy’s inappropriate greeting in the presence of a lady, Cullen cleared his throat. Delrin looked up again, and this time he noticed her. His boots scrabbled about on the floorboards until he found his footing and leapt to his feet, green eyes wide, hat in hand.

“Good afternoon, Miss,” he said. Why was it that every other soul in this town remembered to call her Miss?

“Good afternoon.”

Sweat beaded on the man’s umber skin as he stood at attention. His eyes flicked back and forth between Cullen and Miss Trevelyan, and Cullen realized that he had forgotten his manners yet again. “Deputy Delrin Barris, this is Miss Dahlia Trevelyan.”

Delrin stepped forward and took Miss Trevelyan’s hand in the same way Cullen had done. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Trevelyan.”

“And you, Deputy.”

“Welcome to Val Sable. I’m very sorry about what happened to your father.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Trevelyan. A loaded silence fell over them, bloating the room. She sighed through her nose and smiled just a bit. “Well then, would you gentlemen mind escorting me to your wagon so the Sheriff and I might be on our way?”

Both men said, “Of course,” in near perfect unison. It was no wonder, Cullen thought as they made their way to the back of the station house, that they worked so well together. They were such similar men with such similar experience and such similar inexperience, as their fumbling response to the presence of Miss Trevelyan demonstrated.

Sera, true to her word, had loaded the newcomer’s trunk onto the back of the wagon. Both men made their apologies for the quality of the cart and the lack of a proper carriage in town. Miss Trevelyan was calm and dignified in her kind reply that she did not mind the cart, so long as it took her where she needed to go. Cullen held her hand as she climbed atop the driver’s box and watched for a moment when she pushed her bustle out behind her to sit. Only her low-heeled and expensive boots stopped her ankles being seen.

The mile and a quarter journey to the Trevelyan Ranch was quiet, save for the clunks and clacks and creaks and groans of the wagon and the rattle of Cullen’s sidearm against the driver’s box. Miss Trevelyan surveyed the land along the way. Her eyes lingered over buttes and rock formations and unusual plants. She looked up, revealing a sliver of her pale neck once more, and watched a few small clouds drift across the sky. The feathers on her hat bounced and swayed with the rocking of the cart, though she seemed unperturbed by the rough ride.

The bronze sign over the entryway appeared first. “TREVELYAN RANCH,” it read in bold letters. It was weatherworn, but stood strong and high. Miss Trevelyan’s shoulders and back straightened and stiffened at the sight. Her jaw clenched tight, and Cullen might have heard her swallow. He could not be certain over the sounds of the wagon.

The ranch sat near enough to the Forbidden Oasis to be somewhat lush. It was perfect land for druffalo, if druffalo had to be raised outside of Ferelden. Grass and weeds sprouted from the ground on this patch of land and that, and a heap of spare straw and barley was strewn about over the front pasture for grazing. Several members of the herd ambled about near the fence along the entryway, only to be startled off by the wagon as it rolled past. They grunted and huffed as they ran. Miss Trevelyan’s lyrium blue eyes watched the beasts with what might have been intense fascination or intense fear.

Near the homestead, Cullen caught sight of the broad swing of a waving arm. The cowman, Cole, greeted and beckoned them from under his enormous sombrero. Cullen recalled the day Donal Trevelyan brought that hat into town from Antiva. He was so eager to give it to the pallid young man. Cole had not taken the thing off since, as far as Cullen could tell.

The brim of the sombrero flopped about as Cole ran up to the wagon once the horse stopped. “You’re Dahlia,” he said, more excited than Cullen had ever heard him. “I’m Cole.”

Miss Trevelyan’s even expression broke for the first time, a genuine smile parting her lips. It was as odd a sight at it was a beautiful one. She was a different woman when she smiled like that. A woman Cullen hoped to meet someday.

“It is so nice to finally meet you, Cole,” she said.

The boy helped her off the wagon before Cullen could round the back. He also hoisted her trunk up and away with more ease than a boy that size should have managed and carried it to the porch. He brought a cool glass of water back with him, thrusting it into Cullen’s hand so forcefully that it nearly spilled onto the dirt.

“Branson’s mending a fence in the back pasture,” said Cole. His voice was so strange, like the sound of wind through the dry brush. “Not back until sundown. Said to say, ‘hello,’ if I saw you. Hello.”

Cullen reached for the back of his neck yet again, only to be met with sweat-soaked skin. “I—Ah—Thank you, Cole. Please tell him I asked after him.” He took a long gulp of the cold water and felt it wash down his throat and pool in his stomach.

“I’ll tell him to come to town for supper soon. You want him to. He would like that.”

“Uh—Thank you.” It was unnerving when he did that. Cullen had yet to discern how he always seemed to know people’s hearts with such clarity.

“Sheriff Rutherford,” said Miss Trevelyan, “thank you so very much for your assistance in bringing me to my new home. Would you care to come inside to rest for a moment before you depart?”

He wanted to go inside. He longed for the solace of the shade and the time to speak further. It seemed untoward, however, to accept her invitation, to enter her home so soon after meeting her and so long before she had the chance to learn the intricacies of the house for herself. “Thank you for the offer, Miss Trevelyan, but I have been away from town for too long already. I should start back.”

Her composure might have slipped for a moment, or Cullen might have been sun-scorched delusional, but he could have sworn she looked disappointed. “I understand. I am sorry for keeping you from your duties, and thank you again for your gracious welcome and assistance. I hope you have a pleasant evening.”

“You, as well, Miss Trevelyan.”

She did not wait for him to leave before she turned to make her way into the house. Her walk was purposeful, her black skirt kicking up dust as it dragged along behind her. Cole took the glass from Cullen’s hand.

“Alright,” said the boy. It was not meant as an affront or as a demand, but as a kind of consolation. He would ensure the lady’s comfort until Cullen saw her next. Branson would be back before nightfall to keep her safe. All would be well in his absence, not that he should have cared as much as he did.

Cullen climbed onto the wagon to ride back home. He clicked his tongue against his back teeth and tugged the reins to circle the horse and leave the ranch the same way he had entered. As the bold bronze sign fell back below the horizon, he wondered at what Miss Trevelyan’s arrival meant for the town. The impending turmoil that could usurp the peace and property of everyone there felt as though it rested on his shoulders, and now he had one more soul weighing on his conscience. He pondered what could become of everyone if he failed, if Corypheus’s plans succeeded.

What would happen to Dahlia Trevelyan if he could not protect her from the man who murdered her father?

*****

Notes: Thanks for joining me for this first chapter!!! With life how it is (if this still only has one chapter when you're reading this postscript), the next chapter may not be uploaded for a bit, but I do plan to devote my full attention to it soon! So stay tuned!!!

<3

[eirlithad]

Calling on Song//Chapter Thirty

Rating: M (subject to change)

Relationship: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan

Summary: Kasde Rhiannon Trevelyan was promised to the Chantry. Fate found her at the Conclave. The Maker saw her through it. As the world falls down around her, she decides to take a stand. With a little determination, and a fair amount of snark, she just might make a difference.

// Previous // Next //

Chapter Thirty: Short Tempers, Long Threads

          If there had been even the smallest chance that bellyaching would get her out of a meeting, Kasde would have pounced on it. Unbecoming as it was, nothing filled her with more anxious dread that standing in a room full of people that hated her, shouting criticisms down her throat. Again. That alone made her uncomfortable, not to mention a certain someone’s cold, dead eyes still floated at the forefront of her memory.

           Groaning, she rubbed at her temples. She had been pacing the width of the Chantry hall for far longer than was strictly acceptable, trying to keep her frayed wits from snapping. Maker, she prayed, give me the serenity to accept what I cannot change. She took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

          Patience, however, was not one Kasde Trevelyan’s better traits.

          Almost immediately, Cassandra’s eyes shot to her, and she nearly fled right then. She had expected the Seeker’s wrath, but had clearly underestimated the frightening power of a pointed glare. To her merit, Cassandra neither moved nor spoke, likely awaiting an adequate explanation.

          The spymaster and ambassador tittered quietly to one another at the far end of the table, the latter casting nervous glances about the room. Whatever Josephine’s stance on the matter, she was evidently more concerned about bloodshed in the war room. Leliana, on the other hand, was nonplussed, lightly fingering a lose thread on the embroidery of her glove.

          Kasde swallowed the growing lump in her throat awkwardly. She began to turn – began to look – but jerked her chin forward and cleared her throat. Serenity, she reminded herself. Serenity, serenity, patience…

          “I’m sure you’ve all heard the news,” she started, slowly. “The rebel mages have agreed to an alliance, and to help us seal the Breach. Josephine?”

          “First Enchanter Fiona has been most grateful,” the Antivan replied. “Likely, she sees this arrangement as an opportunity to redeem the mages in a…rather public display.”

          Kasde snorted wryly. “She can have all the ulterior motives she likes, so long as she helps.”

          “And if her motivation is less than innocent?” Leliana pried. “What then?”

          “I will deal with it, when it comes to it.”

          Cassandra made a disgusted sound. “That is exactly the sort of narrow thinking that put us in this situation to begin with!” she shouted. “Your lack of foresight cost us any chance at an alliance with the Templars!”

          “My sort of thinking kept a Tevinter magister off our doorstep!” the Herald fired back. “Or had you forgotten that discussion? Foreign power, potential disaster, send the Herald… Am I ringing any bells?”

          The Seeker’s lip curled. “Regardless, your actions have put the Inquisition in a very trying position. We tipped our hand sending you to Redcliffe. Clearly, you were not ready.”

          “Now, that’s hardly polite.”

          Dorian leaned his shoulder casually against the doorframe, observing the argument with an expression of dry amusement. The smile, however was an obvious lie.

          Cullen’s voice boomed in the small room. “You,” he barked. “You have no business here. Get out.”

          “Is this the kind of treatment the Inquisition offers its mage allies?” Kasde snapped. “Helluva start, Commander.”

          He flushed. “He has failed to prove his loyalty either way!”

          “He proved it to me! In Redcliffe! Satisfied?”

          “No!”

          “Tough!” Kasde squared off with the tall Ferelden, who – despite his distinct height advantage – seemed to shrink under her gaze.

          Jospehine cleared her throat politely, as though scolding two children, rather than the Herald of Andraste and the Commander of the Inquisition. Silently, she made a note on her clipboard. “If we rescind the offer of an alliance,” she stated, “it makes the Inquisition appear incompetent at best, tyrannical at worst. We must make do with what we have.”

          Cullen ignored her and plowed ever forward. “What were you thinking, turning mages loose with no oversight? The Veil is torn open!”

          “They’re people, not farm animals, you ass!” Kasde thundered. “If you have a problem with my judgement, we can settle this in the training yard. Otherwise, keep your opinions to yourself.”

          “I wouldn’t be much of an advisor if I did that, now would I?” Cullen sneered.

          “You’re not an advisor!” she bellowed, shoving against his breastplate. “You’re a bigoted ex-Templar with a mage complex!”

          “Herald!”

          The last thread of her patience gave way, and Kasde launched herself at the Commander. Dorian, for all his preening and bravado, was quicker than a spooked nug. He caught the Herald about the waist, and her fist cut through empty air, just short of Cullen’s nose.

          “Now, now, solira,” he crooned. “We don’t want to hit the nice Commander now, do we?”

          “Yes, we do!” she growled. “We really do!” She thrashed in his tight grip, fingers clawing at exposed skin to break his hold.

          Dorian clapped a hand over her mouth, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. Smiling brightly at the others, he said, “Excuse us a moment,” and hauled the Herald bodily from the war room.

          His palm muffled her enraged cries, but did nothing to stop them. Furious grunts and high-pitched, angry squeals echoed through the main hall, which was blessedly empty. Dodging wild limbs, Dorian toed the door to the advisor’s quarters open, and deposited his load within.

          Once his hand left her mouth, Kasde’s ranting resumed in full. “—dog-humping bastard!” she roared. “Fereldens!” She kicked over a nearby stool with a disgusted shriek. “Uncultured, undereducated backwater…jackboot! Too busy waving his sword around like a Chasind lunatic to see what’s in front of him! I swear if I had one—”

          The mage let out a loud, defeated sigh. “One day, you’ll thank me for this.”

          His hand cracked across her cheek with enough force to daze her momentarily, effectively ending her verbal onslaught. Kasde blinked rapidly, as though waking from a deep, deep sleep.

          Dorian observed her curiously. “Better?”

          “Better,” she agreed, still somewhat stunned. “Thanks for that.” She dragged a hand across her face. “What am I doing, Dorian? How do I even fix this?”

          “I hear apologies are all the rage of late. You might try that,” he offered thoughtfully.

          “Apologize. Right. I can do that.” She let out a pitiful whimper. “I don’t think I can do that.”

          Chuckling quietly to himself, Dorian took her by the shoulders and angled her at the door. “Oh,” he said, “I think you can. The trick is to avoid eye contact. That way, no one can tell you’re embarrassed.”

          “You seem quite the expert.”

          “Quiet, you. Now, chin up, and off you go.”

          Kasde whined.

          “None of that. Shoo.”

          It proved agonizingly difficult to keep her eyes off the floor. Her noble birth did nothing to curb the shame in her belly. Nobles felt shame; they were merely experts at hiding it.

          The war room was silent. Kasde would have preferred shouting and ridicule. The only sound was that of creaking leather as Cullen wrung his hand about the hilt of his blade. She met his eyes briefly.

He was very, very angry.

          “I apologize for my temper,” she began, voice calm and diplomatic. “What I said to you, Cullen, was completely out of line, and I am deeply sorry for it.”

          He blinked, startled by her humility. “Apology accepted,” he grumbled.

          Lifting her head, the Herald continued on, “I will not, however, apologize for my decisions. None of you were there, and none of you know what happened inside the castle.” Josephine moved to ask, but she raised her hand for silence. “And I will not tell you. For me – for Dorian – the horrors witnessed are still too fresh. I’ll not have them paraded before you to soothe your sore feelings.”

          Leliana nodded. “That is fair.”

          “The situation at Redcliffe was already tenuous,” Kasde stated. “I could not have predicted that Alexius would throw me into the future – none of us could have. But we can use it to our advantage.” She turned to Josephine. “Send word to Empress Celene. In the future, the Elder One had her assassinated. Say whatever you have to, but make her listen.”

          “A vague warning from an upstart organ—”

          Kasde slapped her palm against the table. “Try!” she barked. “You’re giving up before even starting. How can you expect the people to have faith in us, when we don’t have it in ourselves?”

Josephine nodded primly. “It will be done.”

          “I will inform my scouts to keep their eyes and ears open,” Leliana purred, a bit too cheerfully. “If there is a plot to kill the Empress, I will know it.”

          “Cullen, how many Templars do we have effectively?”

          He scratched the back of his head thoughtfully. “Several dozen, by my last count, more than half of which were green recruits when they left the Order.”

          “Spread them out,” Kasde ordered. “I want all of our men trained and ready to combat demons.”

          “Demons?”

          She nodded. “The Elder Once swept across Thedas with an army of them. No one fights a demon quite like a Templar. You know them best; make it so.”

          “As you command.” With a bow, he moved to leave.

          “Not so fast,” Kasde said, stopping him with a hand on his chest. “I need you to work with the mages.”

          Cullen bristled visibly, a tight snarl tugging severely at his scarred lip. Varric’s words came back to her, that he hated mages. She had a moment to wonder – to doubt – but his reluctant nod stilled her.

          “Not you personally,” Kasde explained, “but they may have insight standard Templar training does not. Strengths, weaknesses, something we can exploit.”

          “Understood.”

          “My mark makes me resilient somehow, and allows me to close rifts. Our soldiers don’t have that luxury. I need to know they are prepared to hold until I can reach them.”

          A light chuckle rumbled in his chest, vibrating up her arm and toward completely unrelated areas. “As I said, it shall be done. I have your leave?”

          She started. “You do.”

          As he left, Kasde found her eyes following him. He was a baffling man, prone to quick anger and even quicker forgiveness. A man of conviction and loyalty, but also filled with fear and doubt. Some small thread in her was connected to him, and the further away he moved, the more it tugged at her to follow. She wondered, idly, if it had always been there, or if she, herself, had tied the knot during her time in the future. Was this feeling, so jarring and new, tainted by what she had seen? If not tainted, molded? More frighteningly, was it something she even wanted?

          She shook her head, certain she looked quite the fool. What kind of woman – what kind of leader – allowed herself such idle distractions?

          “Leliana, give me your reports on any recent rift activity,” she snapped. “I need to hit something.”

          The spymaster shook her head, tutting disapprovingly. “Not until a healer has seen to you.”

          Before the Herald could fabricate a believable excuse, Dorian was tugging at her shoulders, saying, “I take full responsibility. Healing’s not exactly an artform in Tevinter, but I know a thing or two. I’ll have your Herald back in fighting shape in no time.”

          Despite Josephine’s panicked sputtering – or, likely, in spite of it – they made for the door, Kasde mouthing a silent ‘thank you.’

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[modellingagenciesmumbai-blog]

Get to know how to avoid common mistakes in

jewellery photography

and make your

jewellery product photos

shine in just 10 simple steps listed below.

When you are talking about jewellery, it’s all about the details. Beautiful, high quality photos to showcase these details are essential for a professional, consistent, and reputable site. True representation of your product is key important thing, because customers need to be able to learn as much about your product as they possibly can, before they can make a decision about whether or not to purchase it. With that in mind, let’s discuss how to avoid the ten most common snags that jewellery product photographers often fall into, while photographing their products.

1.   Unsystematic Preparation

Most imperfections and extraneous details can be removed from your product in post-production, that type of advanced editing is time-consuming and requires a fair amount of technical skill. Instead, remember to remove all tags, strings, and stickers from your product before you photograph it.

Next, you might want to inspect your product and repair any imperfections that you find; sometimes jewellery comes in missing stones or gems, and it can be a bummer not to notice those hand-fixable details until you pull up the image in Photoshop, because cloning isn’t as easy as it looks, and re-shooting requires time that could be spent elsewhere. After repairing damages, it’s time to give the product a thorough cleaning and dusting. Even the smallest spot of dust will be visible to viewers if you execute the photographs with the correct amount of sharpness, and in jewellery product photography, the shinier a product is, the better!

2.   Inconsistency

Inconsistency is never a good thing, even when it comes to jewellery images. When your images change too often in relation to your other product photos, the lack of consistency confuses and distracts customers, and lowers the professional appearance of your website and business. Instead of cropping and sizing each photo differently or varying other settings, such as lighting or background colors, you should create a “template” of guidelines to ensure that each image is taken and edited the same way.

For example: you don’t have to use a white background, although that’s what we recommend. What you need to do is choose one “style” for your jewellery photos and stick with it!

3. Busy Backgrounds

The best way to keep your images modest and clean in order to provide your customers with a unified shopping experience, is to photograph your products against a white background. Light background colors like white and grey will give your jewellery a “timeless” feel, and avoid possible distractions that might be brought on by a patterned backdrop. As mentioned earlier, you’ll need to pick a style and use only that style throughout your product images.

All three of these product image styles are appropriately clean and uncluttered. Choose one and go with it.

4.  Unnecessary Props

You won’t need to worry about locating props or mannequins or live models for your jewellery photography, because props tend only to distract from the product and spoil the “clean” and professional look you should be going for in your product photos. In fact, it’s actually best not to hang the jewellery from anything at all, but rather to lay it flat on the white backdrop.

Keep everything in the frame simple and clean so that your jewellery really shines. Here the mannequin is only a distraction, because it impedes the viewer’s ability to see the entire necklace.

“Light background colors like white and grey give jewellery a timeless feel and prevents distractions”.

5.  Inaccurate white balance

These two images have neither clean backgrounds nor appropriate white balance.

Believe it or not, the two images above portray the same exact necklace, but in different lighting states. The metal in the image on the left appears golden yellow, while the metal in the image on the right appears to be a gradient of colors with blue as the defining color. Had the photographer selected the proper white balance settings for each individual image, the colors would have been the same in both frames. You can set the white balance manually, but we recommend simply setting your camera to “automatic” white balance mode; this will allow your camera to recognize the type of light source (natural sunlight, light bulb, flash, etc.) and capture colors as close to how they actually appear in real life as possible.

The white balance menu in your camera usually looks something like this.

6.  Reflections

Let’s face it, jewellery is shiny, and while sparkle is great, camera lens reflections and white highlight spots visible on your jewellery is not. Take great care not to create these distractions on your jewellery while photographing them. If you’re having trouble with reflections, try changing the jewellery’s position, or yours, in relation to the light source. You will possibly need to zoom in to closely examine the product to ensure that you haven’t captured any reflections.

7.  Soft focus

Keep everything in focus by shooting with an aperture of f/11 or greater. In order to really capture your customers’ affections, your jewellery product images need to be as sharp and crisp as possible. The more “fall-off” or soft focus you have, the less the customer will be able to see your product, as shown in the two images below.

As you can see, the left image has a short depth of field and the focus “falls off” fairly fast, the further the product is to the camera. The image on the right keeps all of the product in relatively sharp focus, even the areas that are farthest away from the camera. Soft focus can be artsy, but in jewellery photography, it tends to fail because the human eye values sharpness above everything.

Create a “template” of guidelines to ensure that each image is taken and edited the same way.

8.  Contrast Light

Harsh lighting is a big mistake in jewellery product photography. Direct, “contrast” light is notorious for exposing imperfections in products, adding unbecoming shadows, creating unavoidable reflections, and other nuisances that may or may not be able to be fixed in post. Instead of dealing with harsh lighting, photograph your jewellery in soft, natural sunlight streaming in from a window or in soft, artificial studio lighting. As an added lighting side note, we recommend that you learn your camera’s manual mode, so that you are able to control how much or how little light your camera pulls in to make your pictures.

9.  Wishy-washy cropping and sizing

Remember when we mentioned consistency? It’s very important that you crop and size all of your jewellery product images in the same way. Multiple crops and sizes will only confuse customers and reduce the professional “look” of your website and offerings. Develop a template to help you crop and size with accuracy. Many online channels require certain web standards.

Try changing jewellery’s position, or yours, in relation to the light source if reflections appear.

10.  Some angles

As we’ve said before, your customers want and need to be able to see your product from all angles, as if they’re examining it and turning it over in their hands, while standing in a physical storefront. The more angles and images you create to endorse your product, the better is your sale. We recommend shooting at least a straight-on image from the front, an angled image from the front, a close-up detail shot and a top view, as shown above. There are many other angles that you could photograph—just remember to stay consistent! Embracing these principles in jewellery product photography, can really help boost the professional “look” of your website and hopefully, boost your product sales! We also assume that you start getting some great customer response about how your outstanding photos, improved their shopping experiences.

Image source: pixelz

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