#and at not batting an eye when confronted with unpleasant questions

[dmagedgoods]

△ Salvadore, tell me how you felt about your violin teacher

He has made a mistake.

The magic in this room isn’t a simple pretense to tease the weak-minded and be pushed aside with the barest minimum of willpower. Even his combination of unwavering self-discipline and knowledge about mental barricades doesn’t suffice to shake it off. And they have no intention to open the barrier behind the door until his time is up.

Salvadore straightens his posture in his seat.

My violin teacher was a remarkable man I regarded with the utmost respect, artistically and personally too.

Not true enough.

The smooth, well-considered answer doesn’t leave his lips. Certainly, it is not a lie, not at all. However, the magic won’t allow anything less than an unadulterated truth.

The unwelcome heat in his face contrasts with the icy threat in his stomach.

Looking at you in complete silence, keeping his every reaction in check to not give away the smallest thought, he considers to just stay this way until they will be forced to let him out of here.

But there is a push, an invisible pressure, pulling, dragging and …

“He shaped my whole life.” The words come out without his intention. He doesn’t have any control over them and the realization terrifies him just as much as the statements falling from his lips: “When I was a child, he protected me, he guided me, he listened to me when my family viewed me as a mere annoyance. He was the only one who loved me.”

His eyes widen in shock, his skin is burning and still the words keep coming:

“– A paradox, a feeling strictly forbidden in his philosophy, in his codex he taught me. And still …, despite his later betrayal, despite the incomparable pain of the loss it caused, a part of me holds on to the belief that it must have been more than one of his schemes. Throughout all of my childhood and later my teenage years, he has been there for me. His talent with words, his music, his intriguing knowledge, the mysteries surrounding him, his captivating lessons, his passion and tenderness, his voice, those golden eyes looking right into my very soul: Of course, I deeply admired everything he did, everything he was, of course, I loved him fiercely, of course, I developed a state of … infatuation, and the yearning urge to be more to him than a mere student, a mere apprentice, more to him than a naïve child.

In the eyes of a lonely boy – an outcast in his own home –, he became his mentor, his friend, his father, his first love.

I’m not entirely sure if he is aware of the more inappropriate parts of those dreamings. Knowing him, he recognized each and every last detail. But he never embarrassed me by showing it.”

Salvadore closes his eyes in humiliation. When he opens them again, they search yours with cold contempt. His voice is hard and sharp as a blade, his words only his own again: “Are you satisfied?”

[tswhiisftteedr]

ANYTHING Lute x Reader, i just need to see more of this perfect gal whose had like 3 minutes total of screentime

Girls ☆ One Shot

☆ Lute x Human Soul!Fem!Reader:

After having met you on your first day in heaven, your life and lute’s would change for the better as you had found your other half despite your original predicaments.

Words: 4228

Warnings: Mature Content, Explicit/Graphic Language, Honestly Nothing Kinky, It’s just plain girl on girl smut. Homophobia. Lute might be ooc. NOT PROOFREAD.

Notes: Okay right off the bat, some bullshit logic about angels being able to tell if someone is queer, also lute is gay but has some major internalized homophobia so for a good chunk of this she’s rude to the reader just because they’re gay.

☆ more under the cut. ☆

Frankly, the scenario felt weird, especially given the fact that both of you were, well, 'you.'

From a logical standpoint, it didn't add up, not in the slightest. However, in the grand scheme of things, ‘does love really need to make sense?’

The response to that question was unquestionably, no, when observing your relationship with Lute.

It all began when your seemingly stable life abruptly crumbled. While crossing the street, mind you, at a red light, fate took a dark turn as a truck with faulty brakes struck you, ending your life on the spot.

There was no reincarnation into another world after this encounter with truck-kun; you were flat out dead.

In the blink of an eye, you found yourself standing before the gates of Heaven, where Saint Peter meticulously inspected his book, akin to the VIP list of an exclusive nightclub – or so it seemed.

However, instead of the typical club scene with artificial lights, drugs, unpleasant odours, drunk individuals, and a sense of desperation, you were enveloped in a heavenly realm. Fluffy clouds, savoury food, sweet fragrances, joyful company, and an overwhelming sense of acceptance surrounded you.

This was truly paradise, and you were relieved that your life wasn't too problematic. After being shown your potential residence—a beautiful house with a spacious garden—and touring 'Heaven city' with a friendly Angel couple, you enjoyed exploring your surroundings.

However, the perfection took a turn when you accidentally encountered the first unfriendly 'individual' in Heaven.

"Watch it," the woman with white hair warned you, and after scanning you from head to toe (much like her golden-winged companion), she remarked, "I guess they really let anybody in these days, even people like you."

With those words, she walked away accompanied by the non-human-looking 'man,' which seemed to be the norm in this place. However, you couldn't shake off the unease caused by her reference to 'people like you.'

Soon, you discovered the meaning behind her comment. Apparently, angels here could distinguish between cis-straight and queer individuals.

The reason of ‘why?’ remained unknown to you, but what became clear was that, in her opinion, you didn't deserve Heaven—not based on your actions but solely due to your sexuality, ‘and that pissed you off.’

You had planned to confront her the next time your paths crossed, and that moment arrived three months later, long after you had moved on from the incident;

Now, you were patiently waiting in line to sample drinks at the recently opened smoothie bar. The atmosphere was serene and heavenly, as expected.

Just as it was about to be your turn to order, you were rudely jolted by the announcement, "Move it, bitches, Adam’s in the houuuse."

You found yourself pushed aside, forced to witness the obnoxious Angel now placing his order.

Midway through his order “Pineapple smoothie with extra pineapple, tapioca, grass jelly, make it an extra-large with extra sugar, then she’ll have-“ it suddenly dawned on you that he was the guy with the white-haired companion from last time. Before you could fully process it, you turned around to find the white-haired woman right beside you.

Upon noticing you, she shot a disgusted glare and 'tsk' your way. Frustrated, you thought, 'That rude bitch- Not only did she cut in line, but she also gave you a look like you were a turd on the incredibly clean streets of heaven!'

This time, you were determined to speak your mind to her;

"Whats your problem?" you question her with frustration evident in your tone.

"Excuse me?" she retorts, disdain dripping from her voice.

"I'm asking, what's your issue with me? Our first encounter, you flat out implied I didn't belong in heaven. Seriously, for what, for being gay? Firstly, that's bullshit because my worth as a person shouldn't be based on my sexuality. Secondly, it's just plain homophobic. Isn't heaven supposed to be all about accepting thy neighbour? So instead of treating me like I'm beneath you, how about an apology for our last interaction, Miss off-brand Kanade?" You lay it all out, determined not to let her disrespect slide this time. She was to blame before, but allowing it again would be on you, ‘and that wasn't going to happen.’

"Oooooh, cat fight!" remarked the golden-winged Angel, treating your dispute as some form of entertainment. Also 'cat fight', was he fucking serious?! That term left you thinking, 'misogynistic asshole!' in response to his words.

"Do you even know who you're speaking to?" the woman questioned, exuding a sense of superiority.

"Yeah, tear that bitch a new on, Lute!" the golden-winged Angel chimed in.

"I don't 'lute,' and if you were truly that significant, I would’ve. But it sure as hell doesn't seem to be the case!" you retorted with a touch of spite, placing extra emphasis on her name.

The shop as a hole gasped at the mention of the ‘H word’.

"I’ll have you on that I hold the title of Lieutenant of— in the Heavenly Army. And as one of God's warriors, I deserve respect from someone of your, let's say, slightly above dreadful mortal soul status," she declares, almost slipping up and inadvertently revealing the existence of exterminators.

"Sure thing, 'heaven warrior.' Firstly, when did we ever need an angel like you? It's been peaceful here. Secondly, I couldn't help but notice that slip-up. I don't know your real occupation, probably still military judging by your mannerisms, but certainly not some simple member of this 'heaven’s army,'" you respond, now sure that she's concealing her true job from most of Heaven's population.

"You insolent, miserable, lower life form! Consider yourself fortunate that your meager good deeds in your pathetic human life landed you here. Otherwise, I would have had the pleasure to—" she began, but was abruptly interrupted by her 'companion' or perhaps 'boss.' "Chill out, danger tits," he calmly stated in a tone vastly different from his earlier goofiness. The shift in his demeanor was genuinely unsettling.

And her attitude swiftly transformed; she composed herself and turned to face him. "I apologize, Adam, sir. I allowed my emotions to take over and stepped out of line," she said, directing her apology not to you but to her boss.

With that, the two individuals departed, leaving you to independently apologize to your fellow angels for the disturbance.

Was that the final occasion you heard or saw them? No, because not even a month later, here you were;

Another fun aspect of heaven was its schools, designed for souls who aspired to study on Earth but lacked the opportunity or had their lives cut too short to complete their educations.

Another facet of this scenario allowed the souls of teachers or individuals aspiring to aid in unfulfilled dreams to volunteer for assisting with the children's education.

That's why you found yourself present today, supporting Miss Asiimwe with her fourth-grade anglophone class during a spelling bee. Just as the classroom door swung open, an unmistakably loud and obnoxious voice rang out, "What up turds, big bro Adam's in the house!"

Your day took a turn from a wholesome one contributing to kids' education to a shitty one, because if that ‘pompous jerk Adam was here, she sure would also be—‘ "Oh, it's you again," Lute remarks to you, her voice less harsh than the last encounter but still carrying a hint of bitterness.

Truly, ‘It was a waste for her to be so beautiful with that kind of attitude’. Despite her rude remarks about your sexual orientation, you may or may not find her attractive—perhaps not the wisest choice, and you were aware of such. But hey, after all, dominatrix existed, and they get paid handsomely to insult people. So, ‘is it really that unconventional to be into her?’

Yes, it very much so was. However, before having the chance to delve into those thoughts, Lute abruptly snapped her fingers right in front of your face to divert your attention.

"What are you doing here?! And a quit staring at me like that!" she demanded, replacing her fingers with her face, now uncomfortably close, and you could feel her breath on your face.

"Um, well— I'm assisting this classroom's teacher, something I've been doing since week one in heaven, so you're not kicking me out," you replied with a defensive tone, slightly taken aback by her question but drawing from your previous interactions.

"I never claimed I would, chill out, mortal soul. You shouldn't project the stress of your inadequacy as an inferior being into this classroom's atmosphere. Stress spreads easily, and you wouldn't want it affecting the children," she declares with authority, though her tone and gaze had some gentleness in it.

Truth be told, she might have found herself drawn to you. It was a difficult pill to swallow, given her blatant homophobia and the fact she found the thought of ‘her’ being attracted to a woman absolutely absurd.

Upon initially glimpsing your figure and sensing a certain fire within her, her instinctive response was to be rude to you.

"You mentioned you've been assisting here since your first week. How frequently do you come by?" she inquires, attempting to initiate casual conversations with you. By now, she had acknowledged that you weren't to blame for her attraction. While you might be the source, her draw toward women wasn't dependent on whether she found you hot or not.

"Well, I try to stop by at least twice a week. I believe having familiar faces during learning helps children feel safer and more supported," you admitted, surprised that she's engaging in small talk.

"I completely agree. Having a trusted adult present during learning builds a strong foundation for children's education, especially for the younger ones," she adds, gazing ahead at the classroom where the children have transitioned from spelling to playing with Adam.

"Leave it to the man-child to get along with kids," you joke to yourself, watching how effortlessly Adam bonds with the children. They're engrossed in a game involving knights and kings, with Adam, of course, playing the role of the king.

To your surprise, Lute chuckles at your remark before quickly composing herself. "Well, he is the father of humanity," she states, a faint smile appearing at the corner of her lips.

"I guess I can't argue with facts," you reply, your own face lighting up with a smile at the sight of the joyful children.

After that day, your meetings with Lute became a regular occurrence. Whether it was the joyful atmosphere of children immersed in learning or something else, she grew quite friendly with you over the course of two months. Your interactions even extended beyond the school, evolving into outings to cafes and amusement parks.

Today was one of Lute's off-duty days. You weren't exactly sure why heaven required an army, but you refrained from probing too much, especially during your hangouts, which were focused on enjoying each other's company rather than discussing work.

Currently, you were at CheeLand, the largest amusement park in all of heaven, offering rides for both the faint-hearted and adrenaline junkies alike.

You leaned towards the gentler side when it came to this type of amusement, while Lute embraced the thrill. That's why you found yourself anxiously gripping your seat’s restrains as the cart ascended the rails, anticipating the impending drop.

Your white-haired friend had successfully egged you on, convincing you to join her on the ride. Despite calming yourself in line, once the ride began, all your anxiety rushed back;

Lute, growing excited as the carts continued to climb up, remarked, "This is going to be so fucking fun! Can't believe you were such a baby about it in line." Her teasing tone shifted as she noticed your terrified expression.

Softening, she grabbed your hand and reassured you, "Listen, you'll be alright. The rides are completely safe and secure. Plus, I'm here with you." Her last sentence was emphasized by a comforting squeeze of your hand, prompting you to turn and look at her. "And worst case scenario, you're already dead, so there's nothing to be truly afraid of," she joked, easing the tension slightly.

But then came her next words, reigniting panic. "Okay, get ready, we're almost there." Glancing forward, you realized, "Oh, shit." She was right, and in an instant, the drop arrived. Both of you screamed at the top of your lungs throughout the entire ride…

You emerged from the ride, your head still a bit foggy and your voice hoarse from screaming, with Lute holding your hand.

As you both walk towards a nearby bench for a moment of composure, she remarks, "See, wasn't so bad."

"The fuck it wasn't!" you retort. Just as she's about to tease you for your reaction, you abruptly pull her into a tight hug in a serge of emotions. "But thanks for being with me. I doubt I could have even mustered the courage to join the ride lineup if you weren't here. I'm really grateful you're with me," you whisper softly.

She was startled by the contact, causing her to freeze momentarily. Although her initial instinct was to pull away due to nervousness, she recognized this as a vulnerable moment for you. Awkwardly, she hugged you back and gradually melted into the embrace.

After 5 minutes, the reality of the position hit her, and nerves kicked in. "You're welcome, now get off me, you weirdo," she insists, pulling away from the hug. However, all you can do is smile at her. Despite her attempt to maintain a front, she can't help but crack a smile too. 'She actually enjoyed how close you just were,' but that was something she kept to herself.

At some point in time, you had even overheard her referring to you as her friend to her boss, Adam, who questioned her sudden shift from his side to yours. Her face turned beet red as she defended you—a sight you wouldn't have expected from her at all.

However, that flushed look she harbored became increasingly frequent over time. You had become accustomed to her mannerisms and the way she expressed emotions, often lashing out due to difficulty in self-expression.

You had grown familiar with what brought a smile to her face, what upset her, and especially what left her flustered. By then, you had realized she liked you based on her behaviours, yet it seemed she hadn't recognized the romantic nature of her feelings.

Aware of her confusion, especially considering her upbringing and training, you knew the absence of romance in her education left her clueless about such emotions. Despite this, you chose to let her navigate these feelings on her own. It wasn't your place to impose that you were better aware of her own emotions than she was.

Yet, you played a role in guiding her toward this realization by incorporating more physical gestures, of course, always within her comfort boundaries: holding her hand more often, offering more frequent hugs, ensuring there was some form of touch between you two.

A common occurrence was when you walked together, either with your arm around her or your pinkies linked.

Her flushed face became so habitual that seeing her without it seemed unusual; the red tint became her typical expression when spending time with you.

Take, for instance, that day when you visited the newly opened restaurant on 'Holy Avenue.';

Opting for a Caesar salad, Lute aimed to play it safe in case the other offered dish didn't appeal to her taste. However, as she munched on her food, her gaze kept wandering to your dish, which seemed quite appetizing.

She attempted to deny her desire for a bite, but after spending so much time together, you had become adept at reading her emotions.

Acknowledging her unspoken request, you picked up a small portion with your fork, gesturing for her to join in. Initially embarrassed, she hesitated to refuse, but a single pleading look and she relented.

Her face flushed from the intimate gesture, the question of ‘why was she getting so worked up over your friendly act’ lingered in her mind as she finally took the bite-size food portion. The fact that she found you visually pleasing wasn't the answer she sought. Her feelings were deeper than mere physical attraction.

This realization was further confirmed as she spent the entire night unable to sleep, her mind consumed by thoughts of your hangout and the fact that you had fed her.

Tossing and turning, she found herself questioning the nature of your relationship: were you friends? Yes, that was obvious. Were you a couple? No, definitely not. Did she want you to be more than friends, an item perhaps? "Uuh, fuck," she groaned into her pillow as the realization hit her that she had developed feelings for you.

By now, it seemed like everyone and their mothers were aware of Lute's feelings, evident in her actions toward you. Not only had she begun reciprocating your physical advances, but she also initiated some herself.

Whether it was greeting you with a warm hug after a week apart, including you in her imposed outings with Adam, or playfully wrapping an arm around your waist during these occasions, her actions spoke volumes.

She'd whisper sweet jabs about her boss into your ear, leading to fits of laughter. Adam, in response, would roll his eyes at your intimate gestures, teasing Lute for being too obvious about her affection.

Despite her embarrassment and denials of any romantic feelings, you knew better than to take those at face value.

Yet besides the deep connection you shared, she struggled to express her feelings toward you. Accepting that she liked you had already been a significant challenge. Therefore, the idea of asking you out was currently off the table.

She needed to communicate her sentiments without uttering a word, and that's where today came into play—Valentine's Day.

Lute had dedicated the entire previous day and night to baking the perfect sweet, chocolaty treat for you. Not being accustomed to baking, she faced numerous trials and errors before getting it just right. Now, the moment had arrived for her to present these treats to you.

Having texted you to meet her at 'Wings Caffe' around 10, she patiently occupied a table since 9:30 a.m. following your confirmation text.

Initially, her plan was to simply hand you the chocolate, letting you make assumptions and agreeing when you eventually concluded that she liked you. However, things didn't go as planned, and nerves took over;

"Aww, that's so sweet, Lute. Thank you, really. I didn't get anything today, since y’a know, single as a Pringle," you remarked, pointing to yourself. "These chocolates mean a lot. By the way, they look fantastic. Where did you get them? I'd love to buy more for a snack," you inquired, holding the heart-shaped box.

"Made them," she mumbled, visibly embarrassed by your compliments.

"Really? Wow, I didn't know you baked. Maybe I'll come over to your place more often and have you whip something up for me," you begin. The implication of spending more time together tugs at Lute's chest, but your last sentence hits her hard. "I'm so grateful to have a friend who's skilled at baking and willing to make me things," you say as you start munching on the treats.

'Friends'—that's right, nothing more. It appears she couldn't rely on the heart-shaped box or the chocolate with words of affirmation in pink sprinkles to convey her feelings. If she desired more than friendship, she would have to be honest about her feelings this time.

However, true to her defensive nature, instead of clarifying the true reason behind giving chocolate on the day of love, she merely went along with your characterization of it as a friendly gesture.

"Yeah, I guess you're lucky to have a friend like me, someone so good at everything," she boasted, her voice proud, yet her expression betraying a hint of sadness.

Noticing the inconsistency, you set the box down on the table to free your hands and gently took hers. Meeting her gaze directly, you squeezed her hands for reassurance. "I wanted to let you work things out at your own pace, but we're not making any progress," you began, and she looked at you wide-eyed.

"I like you, Lute, and I know you like me too," you stated frankly. Before she could employ her defense mechanism, you added, "I'm not saying we have to start dating right away. I understand if you're not ready for that. But please keep in mind, as long as you don't outright reject me, I'll keep trying to pursue a relationship with you."

Upon hearing those words, Lute sensed the release of all the built-up stress and fear of rejection.

A newfound confidence surged within her, making her bold enough to grab your face and plant a bold kiss in plain sight for everyone at the café to witness. "Fuck yes, I'll be your girlfriend," she declared as she pulled away.

With a simple "Now, let's get out of here," the two of you stood up from your seats, leaving the café behind as her apartment became your new destination.

Upon reaching her place, things escalated rapidly—like, really rapidly. Mere seconds after stepping through the door, she was all over you.

Passionate kisses, hands exploring every inch of your body, fingers grabbing at whatever they could find. Nails scratching and digging, teeth occasionally biting at your skin when her mouth left yours.

Given the speed with which she undressed you, it seemed like she had envisioned this scenario for quite some time.

Before you knew it, you were lying on her bed, completely devoid of clothing, and that's when she began to work her magic;

Squirming within her grasp, she held your thighs down while eating you out. Breathless, you questioned, "I thought you were a homophobe before we met. How are you so good at this??" The overwhelming sensation of her tongue left you in awe.

You can practically feel her grin against your lips as she responds, "Yep, I was. But after developing a crush on you, I did my homework. Figured it be useful at one point or another. Though, ‘didn't think I'd be that good on my first actual trial.”

"Please don’t stop" you croak out between pants.

“Don’t worry, I won’t." she promised, increasing her rhythm and pressure.

As she continued to please you, you couldn't help but wonder what changed in her. This was way different from her usual flustered self. ‘Was it the time spent together? Or maybe the touch? The combination of both?’

Regardless, you decided to focus solely on the present moment, losing yourself in the sensations coursing through your body. Lute showed no signs of slowing down, proving her dedication to satisfying you.

Eventually, you reached climax, shouting her name as you finally released, your wings fluttered and your essence coated her tongue. Her response? She swallowed it down greedily, moaning around your pussy. When you finally fell back onto the bed, panting heavily, she climbed up beside you, her breasts pressing against your chest.

"That was... intense," you managed to utter between breaths.

"Glad you enjoyed it," she whispered, nibbling on your earlobe.

As you settled down together, Lute traced gentle circles on your stomach before trailing her fingers along your inner thighs. Her thumb brushed against your sensitive folds again, teasingly circling your tight entrance. "Do you want more?" she asked softly, her voice husky with desire.

You nodded weakly, unable to speak coherently yet.

Without further delay, Lute positioned herself between your spread legs again, positioning her own pussy just inches away from where she had been earlier. Lowering herself slowly, she began to rub your clits together, creating a new wave of pleasure that reverberated throughout both of them.

With each thrust of her hips, she increased the pace until you were moving in sync, your moans growing louder as you neared another orgasmic peak.

Your bodies intertwined, united in shared ecstasy, leaving neither wanting nor regretting your decision to explore the concept of a sexual relationship together.

Lute's hands grabbed onto your hips, holding you steady as she picked up speed, driving them both closer to climax. Your nails dug into her shoulders, leaving shallow crescent marks in the soft flesh; evidence of your shared intensity.

You could feel the familiar buildup starting again, your entire body tensing up in anticipation. With one final powerful thrust, Lute groaned loudly, her orgasm crashing over both of you like waves crashing onto shore. In response, you let out a high-pitched cry, joining her in blissful release.

Breathing heavily, you stayed in the same position for several moments longer than necessary, savouring the afterglow of your passionate union.

Eventually, you separated, both panting heavily. Lute rolled off of you, lying next to you on the bed, her chest heaving rapidly.

"That was... incredible," she panted out, reaching over to grab a nearby water bottle and handing it to you.

"Yeah, it was... Although I have to admit, having sex on the first day of making it official is pretty needy," you playfully tease her.

"Oh, shut up," she retorts before planting a kiss on your lips once you've swallowed your sip of water.

This relationship was going to be wilder than what you had anticipated…

Thanks anon for requesting!

©tswhiisfttedr. dn translate, or plagiarize.

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Tag list for Lute: @sunflower-lilly @charlott30045 (I still used your request because it was one that fit with what I had already received)

Reblogs help!!! (Request Are On Pause)

[ddarker-dreams]

Readings. Yan Mona x Reader

Warnings: General yandere themes. Word count: 1.2k.

Synopsis: You seek out some answers on your unlucky love life.

It’s serene moments like these that Mona treasures more than the glittering constellations in the night sky.

You run your fingers through silky, midnight black hair, the leisurely action unexpectedly soothing. It takes every ounce of Mona’s waning self-control not to lean into your touch. Maybe it wasn’t a wise decision to let you braid her hair, but the way you pouted and batted your eyelashes when you asked was downright unfair. How could she turn her nose up and say no to such a cute—

“Hey, Mona. I have a question.” Your voice reminds her of a rushing stream. The sound is refreshing, yet always moving, never allowing the opportunity to steady herself when submerged in it. What she wouldn’t give to listen to you speak all hours of the day. Thoughts such as these used to trouble her, however, she’s long since come to accept her fixation with you. An astrologer would be a fool to deny fate’s designs for oneself, after all.

“Y-yes? What is it that troubles you?” She clears her throat, squaring her shoulders to appear more professional. The night’s cool breeze threatens to make her shiver, her outfit less than ideal for this weather, yet the warmth your body provides by being so near wards it off. You insisted that being in close proximity was necessary for you to style her hair. This endearing request garnered no complaints from her.

Mona’s mind all but shuts down when she feels your chest press against her back.

You let out a soft sigh that tickles her skin. “Lately, I… I’ve been wondering. Do you think I’m cursed or something?”

“Cursed?” Mona repeats the word, finding it unpleasant on her tongue.

“My luck has been almost as bad as Bennett’s lately,” you lament, putting your head on her shoulder. Mona swears her heart skips a beat. “I’ve tried taking your advice, but it hasn’t led to the results I expected. Am I doing something wrong?”

“I’m unsure why you surmised a curse to be the problem at play here, as there’s no such thing in this instance. Please refer back to what I said when you first came to me for help.” Mona hints, the answer of importance to you both. It’s what always defined her principles, that is, until she met you.

You contemplate on it for a few seconds.

“That ‘a fortune teller shouldn’t offer advice’, if I’m remembering correctly,” you frown, returning to your previous task of braiding her hair. “I wonder if that means I’m beyond help then.”

It’s not you that’s beyond help, she thinks. Mona’s fingers twitch by her side, an instinct to pull out her scryglass just barely being suppressed. Of course, you wouldn’t be able to make sense of the divination as she can, but she’s apprehensive about it regardless. She hasn’t gazed into anyone else’s future as much as she has yours. In times of uncertainty, when she longs for your presence by her side, she makes use of her gifts to study your destiny. Peering into nooks and crannies that she knows she shouldn’t, yet does all the same.

Mona turns herself around and crosses her arms over her chest. “Tell me. Do you doubt my abilities, [First]?”

“I-I would never! I’ve seen how accurate your predictions are before myself. It’s just… anything that has to do with relationship stuff isn’t going well. I don’t know how to explain it.” You put your hands up in defense at her knifelike accusation, not foolish enough to provoke a lecture from the haughty astrologer.

Mona wonders for a moment what that old woman would think of her now. Using her skills in hydromancy to benefit herself and no one else. It goes against her moral code, yet that’s never been enough to deter her when it’s related to you. How can she deny herself but this single respite? You’re looking at her now with stars practically shining in your eyes, your cheeks glowing from the sudden confrontation. Her stomach churns at how you sheepishly avert your gaze, at how painfully close the two of you are to one another. Yet a gap still remains.

As it always has.

Mona flicks your forehead and tuts. “Have a bit more faith in me. You should know that I always hold your best interest in heart.”

“Of course I know that!”

Ah, that bubbly yet blissfully ignorant personality of yours. How cute.

“Here, how about this,” she raises her hand, power flowing through her fingertips as she summons her watery scryglass. “I’ll gaze into your destiny once more to find the answers you seek.”

Your mouth gapes in amazement while Mona sets to work. You’ve never tried to hide how impressive you find her gifts in hydromancy to be, something that maybe strokes her ego. Just a little bit. The first time she read your fortune, a constant stream of compliments left your lips, flooding her with validation she never knew she needed. Of course, she’s no stranger to receiving praise, having heard almost every kind under the sun. What made you stand out was how earnest you were, without holding any hidden agendas. No, you weren’t trying to earn any favors with her, you just found her to be impressive and had no qualms in saying so.

Mona scrutinizes the information appearing before her with a serious air.

“There is indeed a special someone whose path you have crossed before.”

You lean closer, hanging on her every word.

“Yes, I believe… that this someone holds profound, uncontrollable feelings for you. However,” she adjusts her scryglass and narrows her eyes. “It appears they were not quite ready to tell you of these feelings for some time, but they’re coming close to doing so. That would explain why I couldn’t see this before.”

She dismisses her scryglass with a flick of her wrist and stares at you. “Was that satisfactory?”

At her question, you eagerly nod your head and wrap your arms around her shoulders giddily. Mona’s muscles stiffen at the unexpected physical contact, the rhythm increasing just as a crescendo would. She hesitantly returns your display of affection, grateful that you can’t see how her hands are starting to perspire in this intimate position.

“You’re the best friend I could’ve ever asked for,” you hum, rubbing your face against her cheek. “Alright! It’s decided. Looks like I won’t be giving up on love after all.”

Mona forces a laugh. “That’s, well… good to hear.”

Her eyelashes flutter shut, mind drifting elsewhere, lulled by the fragrant scent of your perfume. The image of your constellation reflected in the all-knowing water reappears. Indeed, it is true that your fate is deeply interwoven with that of another. So much so that even an amateur fortune teller would be able to tell. It was what haunted her every time she worked up the courage to look into your future, praying to any divine being that might hear that it’s changed since she last checked.

“So, who is it? Are you able to tell?” You tilt your head, expectantly waiting for Mona to impart her otherworldly wisdom.

She hopes you don’t notice how the color steadily drains from her face.

“I suppose the timing is right,” she places a shaky hand on your cheek and smiles. “[First], it’s…”

Her lips move and you gawk with wide, doe-like eyes.

[smolla-than-a-bug]

you’re definitely flirting with me

—jason todd x villain!reader

second and final part to are you flirting with me. can be read as a stand-alone tho

navi | bat boys m.list | are you flirting with me

content — language, blood, mentions of harassment, mildly suggestive (use of the word ‘daddy’ but ironically)

notes — i know that its literally been years and that i formerly posted a part two to are you flirting with me, but looking back, i didn't like how it turned out. i did find a fun drabble in my drafts with villain!reader as well, so i decided to rewrite it and use it as a continuation. i actually deleted the old parts personally, i prefer this version of the end!

"I'm in."

"Hot. You should be able to see–"

"Nothing?"

Silence.

"Is this your way of telling me you're visually impaired?"

"I will scoop your eyes out in your sleep."

"Please use an ice cream scooper. My eyeballs would fit so well, it would be so satisfying–"

"Harper."

"Okay, okay. What do you mean nothing?"

"By nothing I mean nothing, ball sack. The warehouse is fucking empty."

Frantic rustling of papers and violent knocking of objects could be heard on Roy's end of the line. Jason sighed, going to pinch the bridge of his nose before realizing he had a helmet on. 

The whole situation was throwing him off his rhythm — that much was evident. The intel they had collected on the gang of criminals seemed too obvious, too predictable. Jason had his suspicions, but Roy was quick to shut him down. 'Dude, trust me,' he said. Famous last words.

A crackle of static sounded in his earpiece. Roy's voice urgent and choppy before completely dying out. Jason could only attempt to call out to his partner in the hopes of a full response, but his efforts brought no avail. That's another thing that went wrong today.

"Hey, sexy."

What in the fuck.

"Your ass looks great from this angle. The party you're looking for is in a bar on the other side of the city, by the way."

You couldn't actually see him, but he doesn't need to know that. It's just your thing to mess with him, and by the sounds of him cussing you out for hacking into his means of communication, it was working. It was amusing. He kept you entertained.

That was all you had to say to him for now though, so you bid him goodbye. The roaring of his motorcycle over his colorful language directed at you was the last thing you heard before you cut off and allowed his partner to get back on the line.

"Jaybird? You there?"

"Ah, you're back. I'm never trusting you with getting intel again."

"Whatever. Anyway, was that...?"

"Yeah. Y/v/n."

"Hm. I don't know what she's on, but you have no ass like–"

"And yet I have more ass than you, so shut the fuck up, paddle board."

“That... That was a bit harsh, bro.”

Soft gushes of wind blew against your masked face. You shut your eyes, feeling the breeze and relishing in your little moment of peace. Lazily pacing, you hummed a random tune.

Your mischief and cunningness is something your alias was known for. Most often, it's a convenient trait to be able to slip around with ease and get the job done in a snap, but sometimes you get bored. It can be such a drag when nobody tries a confrontation with you. That's why you're so fond of the Red Hood. It's a shame that it's been a while since you've seen him around, so imagine your delight when you feel a familiar presence behind you.

You took a seat at the edge of the building. To anyone, you would've looked like you were having your main character moment, peacefully looking over the city if not for the small pile of bodies rotting away not too far from you. The dried blood on your attire and your fingers no longer irked you in the slightest. It's something you've gotten used to, which lead to your habit of picking the blood under your nails. Red gets annoyed when you do this — all the more reason to entertain your habit in front of him.

You let your legs dangle over the edge without a care. You didn't bother to greet the vigilante, who currently had a gun aimed at your back. Sigh.

“Oh, I do hate the sight of blood.”

“Well then, maybe — just maybe — you shouldn’t kill for a living.”

That got you to turn your head to face him. You cock an eyebrow — doesn’t he kill for a living too? Sure, his victims are usually criminals and thugs while yours are people you’re paid to target, usually business owners and the occasional politician, but you digress. Details. The point is, he kills people too.

A few seconds of staring and prolonging the tension passed, and Jason weighed his options before eventually putting down his gun. He then opted to join you on the ledge.

“So,” he started, “what’s your favorite color?”

Funny.

“Sweetheart, if you thought you’d be able to keep me entertained with small talk... I think I’d rather you shot me.”

You stood up from your spot on the ledge and leaned over the rooftop to examine your altitude. You grin to yourself.

“What are you doing?”

You don’t answer. You want to see something. Instead you turn your body to face Jason and mockingly salute him before leaping off the building, though not before you heard him call out your alias’ name and yell a panicked ‘Wait!’

Immediately after you, Jason followed. You chuckled when you saw him get closer. You enjoyed fooling him around almost as much as you enjoyed fooling around with him.

With no time to waste, he pulled out his grappling hook, yanked your body by the waist, and zipped to the rooftop of the nearest building — one different from the last one you were on.

Jason‘s heaving chest radiated distress.

“You’re fucking insane! You could have died!”

You stood in front of him, arms crossed and your stance relaxed. Nobody would’ve suspected that you literally jumped off a building just a few seconds ago. Aw, you pout, he cares about me.

“Would’ve made your job easier. You know, you heroes are supposed to get rid of the bad guys.”There’s humor in your eyes. Jason knows you’re enjoying this. He hates how much you enjoy this. “So, why’d you save me?”

“Why’d you help me with my mission last time?”

He’s deflecting. Cute.

“Hey, I asked you a question first.” You know he won’t budge til you give him an answer. He’s probably been asking himself that question since it happened. You mentally pout, aww he thinks of me. Sigh. Okay, fine.

“The gang you were after just so happened to have given me a job a little while ago.” You recall some of the gang members attempting to grope you. Some unpleasant memories you’d rather live without. “Pissed me off. Now your turn.”

Why’d you save me?

A pause. He shifted to look to the side. Oh, this is interesting.

“You could have died.” Ah, this again.

“Well, you’ve died,” you remind him. “Not that it really stuck.”

He says your name — your real name. You wonder when he discovered your identity, but then again, you’re not all that surprised. It’s him after all.

He can see your growing smile the longer he refuses to answer your question. He knows you’re already thinking of something, and still opts to ignore your question, allowing you to further indulge in your thoughts. He dreads you enlightening him; he knows it’s coming. Jason could not fathom how one woman could frustrate him so much.

“You like me.” There it is, he thinks. There’s your stupid smirk and your dumb air of arrogance.

“Come on, just admit it, hot shot. You can’t live without me.” Okay, maybe that one’s a bit of a stretch (just a bit), but you stand by it nonetheless.

You grin wide as you approach him. Leaning slightly forward to grab Jason by the collar and pull him down to meet your eyes, you repeat yourself.

“You like me.” Stated with more emphasis, like a significant fact that you try to drill into your head when studying for an exam.

“I’ll shoot you.”

“Please, daddy.”

© smolla-than-a-bug, 2021. please do not copy or repost my works. reblogs are appreciated!

tags — @iwriteaboutstuff @comicsgirlimagines @httpfandxms

[comebackbehere23]

Another part. Because why not?

Lena is so happy. The sister Quinn grew up with, so stoic and wandering around without self-esteem or an idea of who she is, has blossomed into someone so carefree. Quinn pokes at her salad while her sister playfully feeds fries to a woman who looks like she shits rainbows and cries diamonds. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she is forced to watch Alex trade quick kisses with a blonde who is one hundred percent high and is wearing a bomber jacket with the word ‘Legends’ stitched into it.

“So, what does that mean?”

The blonde glances up with glassy eyes, “Huh?”

“Legends.” Quinn mumbles. “What does it mean?”

“I’m in a gang.”

Quinn chokes on her salad, “What?”

“Sara,” Alex scoffs as she slams a gentle elbow into her side. “She’s kidding. She’s part of a jujitsu team on campus, they’re kind of a big deal.”

“Hence the Legends.” Sara smirks.

“Wow. Um, that’s cool.” Quinn nods.

Lena shoots her sister a smile, “Alex likes to think her girlfriend is so much better, but Kara is the president of the debate team and she’s the captain of an acappella group.”

“Not the Bellas though.” Kara sighs.

“You’re better off without them.” Sara assures her with a quick shrug. “Without Aubrey, they’re just a bunch of stuck up bitches who think they’re something because they make noises successfully with their mouths.”

“What about Chloe?” Alex teases.

“Chloe is perfect and precious, a gift to this world. No harm will come to her ginger head.” Sara declares. “The rest of them could be on fire and I’d barely bat an eye.”

Alex presses a kiss to Sara’s cheek, “So sweet.”

“Bad blood with these uh Bellas?” Quinn frowns.

“Aubrey was Sara’s best friend and when she left the Bellas kinda changed.” Kara explains. “They got a new captain, and they lost the tradition that Aubrey tried to keep.”

Quinn furrows her brow, “I swear I’ve heard of the Bellas before…”

“Well, they won Nationals.” Lena shrugs.

“No, no. That isn’t it.” Quinn mumbles.

And then it hits her. The colors of Barden plastered on a pink binder. A yellow and blue scarf wrapped around a tiny wrist. The obnoxious ringtone of ‘I Saw The Sign’ filling the air. The pictures plastered on the metal of their lockers. The afternoon where Quinn stumbled over a tiny form crying in the corner over her sister. The familiar voice of someone she wants to forget clouds her head, and she can hear her repeating the same words over and over again.

“Rachel Berry-Mitchell.”

Sara arches an eyebrow, “Their captain’s name is Beca Mitchell.”

“There’s no fucking way.” Quinn growls.

“Hey,” Lena hesitantly begins. “You okay?”

“Just fucking peachy.”

And yet, it’s clear she’s far from it. Because Quinn is cursed, she has been since the moment she had sex out of wedlock. Or at least that’s what her mother led her to believe. She’s cursed, doomed to forever have the worst of luck. And that bad luck brought her downfall right back into the future she is trying to build; that curse dropped the love of her life right in front of her, and once again out of reach.

*

“Emily likes Rachel.”

Beca shudders, “Nope.”

“She totes does. It’s aca-adorable.” Chloe giggles, and she immediately rolls her eyes as Beca gives a loud gag. “Beca, it’s cute. They’d actually make a really cute couple.”

“Legacy isn’t allowed to get anywhere near my sister. I know how relationships work.” Beca scoffs. “First comes dating, then sex, then marriage, and then my sister will be pregnant.”

Chloe tosses her head back with a laugh, “What?”

“Yeah. It’ll happen. Just watch.” Beca grumbles as she glares at her computer screen. “So, Legacy needs to keep a good five feet between herself and my baby sister.”

“Aw, you’re so protective.” Chloe coos.

“Rach and I have been through a lot together.” Beca admits. “Just because our parents got remarried and became a family doesn’t mean everything was a dream. Her dads were a pain in the ass.”

“Yeah?” Chloe frowns.

“They tried to fight for custody of Rachel.” Beca sighs. “Apparently, Shelby was only supposed to be an incubator for Rachel and then she was gonna hand her over to the Berry’s but then they talked it over and it changed. By the time she was three, they were in way over their heads and exhausted.”

Chloe tilts her head, “So, they gave her to Shelby?”

“Yeah. Shelby was having regular scheduled visitations until they switched it up and gave her custody. Once she got older, and tolerable, they wanted her back.” Beca shrugs. “And my dad and stepdrama said fuck no.”

“Stepdrama?” Chloe repeats.

“Like stepmama, but Shelby is like the queen of dramatics so I call her my stepdrama.” Beca explains. “Anyway, Rachel kinda became a toy that kept getting yanked back and forth so I protected her. I took care of her.”

Chloe nudges her shoulder against Beca’s with a smile, “That’s because you’re sweet and loving, whether you want to admit it or not.”

“Whatever. Damn your baby blues for making me spill my guts all the time.” Beca huffs as she extends her headphones. “Check this out.”

Chloe slides the headphones on, “New mix for the Bellas?”

“Nope. It’s a Chloe Beale special.” Beca chirps, and she presses play as soon as Chloe lights up in excitement. “Hope you like it.”

“I always do.”

Beca watches with a half-smile as Chloe nods her head along to the beat, “It isn’t much yet, but I think I’m onto something special.”

“You already are something special.” Chloe giggles as she tugs the headphones down. “It’s good, Beca. Seriously. I love my Chloe Beale specials. I use them when I workout.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, and everything else in between. I like listen to them all the time.” Chloe grins. “You should make a mix for Rachel…”

Beca shakes her head, “Rachel mixes her own stuff.”

“Aca-scuse me? We have two DJ’s in our group? We have been blessed by the aca-Gods.” Chloe declares. “Oh, and maybe Rachel can make Emily a mix. A little TLC mix.”

“Shut up.” Beca orders with a laugh.

“Rachel and Emily sitting in a tree…”

“Seriously? Are you five?”

“...k…”

Beca doesn’t let Chloe finish, she simply tackles her back on the bed. And as her laptop closes and her headphones clatter to the side, she realizes that she doesn’t care. It kinda scares her; she wonders when Chloe Beale became more important to her than music.

Two Weeks Later

Quinn doesn’t see Rachel around campus. It’s not like she’s looking for her...well, technically she is but only so she can confirm her deepest fears. And finally, the confirmation is thrown in her face in the worst way possible. Yes, she sees Rachel but she also sees a tall brunette smiling brightly as she extends half a chocolate chip cookie. From a distance, they look comfortable. Intimate. Safe. Like they’ve known each other forever. Everything Quinn doesn’t want to see. So, Quinn does the logical thing and approaches them.

“Berry.”

The cookie falls from Rachel’s grasp, “Q-Quinn?”

“What an unpleasant surprise this is.” Quinn snaps, and her eyes are quick to snap to the girl beside Rachel. “And who are you?”

“Um...Emily?”

“Is that a question or an answer?” Quinn demands.

“What’s going on over here?”

Quinn flexes her jaw as she turns her head to see a short brunette and a redhead approaching, “Nothing that concerns you, you Keebler elf. How about you and ginger snap take a walk?”

“Dear God.” The brunette breathes out. “Are you okay, dude? You seem to be holding onto a little bit of hostility.”

Rachel stands on shaking legs, “It’s my fault, Becs. I’ll get rid of her.”

“Whoa. No. I know that face.” The woman sneers, and Quinn actually takes a step back when sharp blue eyes cut to her. “Who the fuck are you and what do you want with my sister?”

“Back the hell off, Mitchell.”

“Well, this just got interesting.” The redhead sighs.

Lena appears at Quinn’s side with a scowl, “I’m not even going to bother asking any questions, I’m just going to tell you not to mess with my little sister. Is that clear, Beca?”

“Crystal.” Beca assures her, but Quinn can see the fire that rages in her gaze. “As long as your sister stays the fuck away from mine.”

“That won’t be a problem.” Lena sneers.

“Come on, Rach.”

Quinn watches with a stoic expression as Emily stands and reaches out to Rachel, her expression only falters when Rachel immediately intertwines their fingers. Rachel doesn’t even look at Quinn, her face just sinks in relief as soon as Emily gives her hand a protective squeeze to lead her away. Quinn stops breathing for a second and she has to close her eyes, anything to avoid what she sees in front of her. Beca is the last to part from the confrontation, and she walks backwards until the redhead yanks her along by her ear.

“Who were they?”

“The Bellas.” Lena mumbles. “Welcome to Barden.”

[minewako]

Heart of Stone - Chapter One

Summary: Following the events of The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, Sam and Bucky are accompanied by a new friend.

Warnings: None

Disclaimer: English isn't my first language. If there are any mistakes please tell me so I can fix it.

______________

Bucky was sick of it. Not all of it, of course. But sick of this feeling. Sick of the guilt. Sick of all the stuff he did. Being reminded of it again today was no exception. The food was great as always and he enjoyed the old man’s stories. He even got a date planned, first since 1943. And still… He would never get used to this feeling. He did not know what time it was, neither did he care. He was lost in his thoughts, asking himself how he should confront Yori about his son. About how he should explain what the Winter Soldier had done to him. He barely even registered his surroundings as he took the long route home, He thought that somehow the rain could wash away his guilt. It never worked, of course. A female scream pulled him out of his trance and he immediately jumped into action. Sometimes he thanked the serum for his enhanced hearing as he could easily locate the screams origin. He rounded a corner and saw a man that was forcibly holding a woman in his embrace. The woman struggled to get free and was about to do something when her eyes fell on Bucky and she stopped all of her actions. In complete contrast to her, Bucky lunged forward with such a speed that he was just a blur. He grabbed the man’s arm, twisted it into an angle arms shouldn’t be in and pushed him to the ground. The woman, now free, scurried a bit away and Bucky didn’t register the way her eyes went wide. “Hey man, ouch, hey, be a bit gentler!” the man screeched and it made Bucky wince. “Just as gentle as you were to the lady over there. I guess you didn’t intend to hurt her and were just messing around, right?” “Yes! Yes, of course!” the man was near to a panic attack as Bucky released his grip, pulled him upwards and pushed him away. He nodded with his head along the street, signalling the man to get lost, which he gladly did. As Bucky turned around to the woman, he mustered her for a second. She did not look injured or otherwise affected. Her green hair was a bit messy and her business costume wrinkled but otherwise than that nothing caught his eyes. Well, nothing besides her almost golden like eyes, that were staring straight up at him. “Are you alright” Bucky found himself saying, stepping closer to the woman and reaching out his hand as if to touch her arm in a comforting way. She just folded her arms and smiled, showing her rows of white teeth. “Yes, thanks to you I am now.” She either was not bothered by the situation at all or was just immensely good at hiding it. “You should not walk around alone at this time. There are many people that will get advantage of that.” As he said these words, he picked up the umbrella the woman must have dropped during her unpleasant encounter and hold it up to her. She muttered a quiet thank you and took the umbrella, quickly covering herself as if it would help anything with her already soaked up state. “I’m usually snuggled up in my blanket with a hot cocoa at this hour but, you know… business and all.” She laughed nervously and paused for a moment, looking along the street, her brows furrowing for a second, before she turned to Bucky again, beaming up at him. “Thanks again for your help. I didn’t know how it would have ended if you didn’t show up. So, uhm… yeah. Thanks.” She turned and began to walk away. Her heels clicked on the stone, barely audible due to the rain. As Bucky stood there, he watched the woman slowly getting away. He did not even make a conscious thought about his next move, just followed his instinct. In just a second, he was by her side, keeping a decent distance though, and fell into step with her. She chuckled and a smile spread across her face. “So, you’re my bodyguard now?” She turned her head to Bucky and found him already watching her. One of the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. “Told you, it isn’t safe to walk alone at this time.” He simply stated while shrugging his shoulders and focusing his gaze ahead the street again. “What are the chances that I encounter a thief twice at the same night? Or…” she stopped abruptly and brought her hand dramatically over her golden

necklace that was loosely hanging around her neck. “Are you trying to rob me as well?” Bucky whipped his head into her direction and his look must have been so confused that she just began to laugh. “Oh, I was just kidding. Please don’t take it too seriously. I have terrible humour, sorry.” Bucky huffed and a chuckle left his throat. The woman shifted a bit closer so that their shoulders were mere inches apart from touching. She just did that so she could hold the umbrella over his head as well, protecting at least some part of him from being rained on. They walked along one another for quite some time, rounding corners and passing streets. They finally arrived in a part that was familiar to Bucky and he immediately got annoyed because this was actually pretty near to were his therapist is. Luckily for him, they slowed down and stopped before an old building that was slightly towering over the others. He immediately checked the parameter and was surprised to find large windows to his side giving away the view of a gallery. The woman however did not turn to the door of the gallery but rather to the one that was probably a side door to the building. “Thank you for walking with me. I felt a lot safer.” The woman said while underlining her sentences with a genuine smile. Bucky returned the smile and nodded. Fumbling for her keys, she holds the umbrella to Bucky for him to hold. He took it hastily and did not even register how fast the woman had the door open and winked at him while saying: “Keep it, don’t want my saviour to get soaked. Or even more, that is. Good night.” Before he could protest, she gently shut the door and the faint sound of heels against floor was heard from inside. He stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, before he turned around and began his journey to his own home. He couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he met the woman before. But the longer he rummaged through his brain, the more it started to hurt. * * * Bucky zoned out. He was just so tired and the rambling of his therapist did not help with that. He had another nightmare. Nothing unusual but he definitely was not in the mood to talk about it. “So, did you make any progress with your list?” This question brought Bucky back to reality. He shook his head. “It’s a bit hard tracking down some of them or rather getting to them without breaking two of your rules-” “Not my rules, James. Your rules. Those rules are not for me, remember?” The brunette interrupted him. He just rolled his eyes and hummed in annoyance. Yeah, definitely helped him a lot. One hundred percent. “Any other progress? What about the trust thing we talked about earlier?” One of her eyebrows was raised as she watched every muscle on Bucky’s face. He knew that and he knew that even the tiniest twitch could make her interpret something into it. So, he just stared blankly, expressionless as so often. The therapist let out a resigned breath and grabbed her notebook a bit too annoyed. “Oh really? That again? C’mon Doc.” “You know the drill, James. You won’t talk so I write.” Bucky rolled his eyes again, a common thing for him now. “Okay.” He finally gave in and the scribbling sound immediately stops. “It has nothing to do with my list. Or my trust in other people, which is fine, thank you very much. It’s more like something that felt… right to do.” He paused and fumbled nervously. He was not used to talk about such things. It would be comedic if it wasn’t that sad how he could kill this woman in front of him in about 37 ways with just the things in this room and not bat an eye, but is not able to open his mouth. After what felt like too long, he cleared his throat. “There was this woman. She was in a… not so great situation. Without thinking about it I helped her. And she did not care about the way I handled the situation. I mean it was the right thing to do. But… seeing her not afraid after all that happened, it was… weird.” Bucky did not know how to describe the situation and he definitely did not want to tell how he accompanied the woman home. The brunette just stared at him, her

face not giving away anything. She just gave him this look, this calculating one that send shivers down his spine. “You rescued a damsel in distress and felt good about it.” She concluded and Bucky blinked a few times about her bluntness. “That is a very noble thing, James, and something you should be proud of. You did not hurt anyone though, did you?” “No, of course not.” Bucky lied and got an approving hum from the woman across from him. “Thank you for sharing that with me, James. Now we can focus on that feeling that you had.” Bucky just grunted. * * * He exited the building where his therapist trapped him so often and flexed his metal arm. He heard the hissing and whirring it made and closed his eyes for a moment. He hated it. His grip tightened around the umbrella he still caried with him every step he goes. He told him himself that he would return it to the woman every time he left his home. That didn’t work too well so far. He grinded his teeth and searched his brain for any excuse to not go and return the umbrella. To be fair, he did not even know her name, nor if she were at home this time around. And it would probably let him look like a stalker if he just turned up on the doorstep or even worse, waited there. While he was collecting those thoughts, he was already moving into the direction of where he left the woman. He tried to curl into himself, which was actually pretty hard considering his form. Passing some fancy stores and shops on his way, he finally arrived at the gallery he remembered. He looked inside and saw a light flooded room with several walls that had some paintings on it. Bucky wasn’t an art critic but even he saw immediately that the main focus of this gallery wasn’t the few paintings that were probably just decorations but the various sculptures that were highlighted by spotlights around them. The former assassin shook his head and sorted his thoughts. He wasn’t here to look at some art. Just as he wanted to move past the gallery and on to the door beside it, he saw a flash of green from the corner of his eyes. His head snapped in its direction and his assumptions were confirmed. Inside the gallery stood the woman, wearing another business costume, her green hair flowing over her shoulder. She was currently talking to a pair in front of a sculpture. Now or never soldier. With nervous steps he entered the gallery and looked for possible escape routes and threats. Old habits die hard. Light classical music played in the background emphasizing the fact that this was a higher ranged gallery. A look on one of the statues prices only confirmed that. How could someone pay half a fortune for such things, Bucky would never understand. He didn’t mean to, but he just tuned into the conversation that the group of three had. It was a business talk, of course, and the pair was about to lose half a fortune. “Thank you so very much! I guarantee you both this sculpture will just look lovely in your living room. I’ll contact you concerning a date for the delivery after this beauty here is packed and ready.” Her smile never faltered and her eyes lit up while speaking the words. Bucky feigned interest in one of the stony images as the woman tapped on her tablet and then accompanied the pair to the door. In the corner of his eyes, he could see that she glanced at him for just a millisecond, registering his presence. After another thank you to the customers and exchanging goodbyes there was silence for a long stretching second. Bucky did not know how to proceed, his mind going blank. “Took you long enough to finally make the way inside.” The woman declared with a smirk that was clearly audible in her voice. Bucky didn’t really know what to answer and as if she sensed his confused mind, she elaborated while turning to him. “I’ve seen you strolling around the gallery for quite some time. Was wondering if it was coincidence or if you were actually interested in art.” Her smirk turned into a smile and he scratched his neck. “Well, it’s actually on my way to… work.” No need for her to know that he was seeing a

therapist. Not that it mattered anyway. “So, what can I help you with, Mr…?” She slowly approached him, raising her eyebrows at the end of her question. “Bucky.” He simply stated. The woman furrowed her brows. “Mr. Bucky? Sorry to say, but I’ve never heard such a surname.” ”Oh, uhm… no, Bucky is my normal name. Well, it’s actually James Bucky Barnes. But Bucky is just fine. Just Bucky.” He rambled and a light chuckle left her throat. Man, he really lost his charm. “And I just wanted to return your umbrella. Thought you might need it back.” As he holds the umbrella out to the woman, he noticed the slight widening of her eyes when he saw his gloves. He actually expected a remark about it or something like that but the woman just pushed his outstretched hand back and quirked up a brow while smirking mischievously. “Keep it. I have a feeling that it’s going to rain today. Just return it the next time you come and grab your coffee.” Was she really doing what he thought she was doing? He must have misheard that last part. Or at least he tried to convince himself of that. The last date he had a few days back didn’t went too well. And he didn’t know if he was okay with another one going downhill in such a short amount of time. “Yeah, that sounds good.” One of the corners of his mouth raised upwards as he first watched his fingers and then up again into the golden eyes of the woman. She just smiled in approval and opened her mouth to say something as the door opened and an older man strutted inside. She immediately turned her attention to that man and told him that she would be there in just a minute. “It’s a promise then?” her eyes were wide and full of hope. Bucky just had to nod. Without another word she turned around and started to tend to her new client. He awkwardly waved at her as a goodbye which she returned and then felt the gallery. That went better than expected. As Bucky set off to his home, he felt a few droplets of water fall on his face. It was starting to rain. He smiled to himself as he opened the umbrella, a small business card falling out of it. He picked it up and observed it. On the one side was a head with snakes around it, shimmering golden. A twist of the card revealed white letters that formed a telephone number and a name. Althaia Laskaris.

[astro-break]

Quick first thoughts on the first ep of the Hypmic Anime. Spoilers beware (and im writing this as I watch so :p)

Otome’s speech is.... questionable from a persuasive point of view. Manga did a great job of introducing her (which you can read here) but they really cut out the more terrifying parts of her speech and how she uses force to show people that she's not to be messed with

Its cool seeing everyone in their respective environments though. thats cool. Though they could have added Sasara and Kuuko (shhh i know why they didn’t let me dream)

I love how poppy the typography is. Its amazing how the visuals just leap out at you. The OP does a great job of this. The first few seconds before the title really gives me Persona 4 OG OP vibes with the influx of information given. The rest is a clear concise and streamlined way that still gives character. Animation is sparse but still carries across a general idea of each character and shows off each character object. Rendering is really nice and pays a bit of homage to the posing artwork thats done for the MVs. They also do their division hand signals and thats cute

Love how the OP has blatant HifuDoppo and DRB matchup foreshadowing

so far I really like what theyre going for. BB is about brotherly familial bonds and they show the goods and the bads. Jiro and Saburo bickering right out the gate really cements the fact that they get along like cats and dogs but you can still see that they love each other, working together when the situation calls for it

Now the 3d models. Theyre... not great but usable if you don’t look too hard. They serve their purpose and don’t actively detract from the viewing experience.

Visual typography in the rap itself are fun and poppy but they dont.... speak to me? like theyre there yes and I appreciate them but the only ones that got me excited were from Ichiro’s rap

I take my words back the group portion was kickass and I apologize

I love how they interpret the Hypnosis Speakers though. Esp. Saburo’s organs. That was super creative and I love it! If there was one thing that I felt was missing from the franchise was a deeper exploration of the speakers but the anime puts a new and fresh spin on it! Love it, especially with their attack patterns!

If the production team ever feels inclined to, Id love to see those info sheets on Otome’s desk released. There seems to be very interesting info and stats written out about each member (like capabilities, personal status etc.) They all seem unique too so I really really really hope they release images of those sheets

OOOOOOOOKAY MTC. I have such a big biased for them so Im very torn to see what unfolds

Rio striking out on his own is interesting. Out of everyone in MTC hes the biggest team player yet here he trusts his teammates to go ahead. This either displays Rio’s willingness to trust his teammates or it becomes very OOC if the anime wants to set him up as a lone wolf like character

I love how they specify its a drug deal. It means that Jyuto surely will show up and it also shows that Samatoki knows Jyuto’s motives and willingly gives black market info that he knows aligns with Jyuto’s goal. Thats A+ detail writing there and a great establishing characteristic for both of them

OOohhhhhhhhhhhhh man Asunama-san’s voice acting is god tier his work as Samatoki is phenomenal. He pulls of Samatoki’s threatening voice so well with those almost calm words before his voice becomes loud and confrontational. Those rolling syllables in contrast to Komada-san’s almost lyrical and airy speech and Kamio-san’s strict and enunciated words is such a delight to hear. It just speaks to how amazing and great these Seiyuu’s are in order to pull of such amazing work

Im so biased but MTC has such a better rap than BB im so sorry. Just by watching Samatoki’s part, the imagery is amazing. Even the arrival of his Hypnosis Speaker was awesome and sent a shiver down my spine. using the lyrics to form blades and blood was such a great thing to do. Theres so much more variety that just him standing there and shots of his hypnosis speaker. The old fashioned vignette shots, the four panel spread, the nods to old Kurosawa era films are great and I love these small details. Even the typography looks better.

Again, the interpretations with the speakers is fresh and new. Its great and I love the different imagery and attack patterns. Each one is so unique but carries across each different style of rap.

The 3d modles aren’t any better tho lol

(Hi this is Astro who is reading over their assessment again and making a note. Yeah I’m a bit harsh on BB’s rap. I’m not going to change it since I still stand by it and this post is supposed to be a documentation of my first impressions. I think one of the reasons why I’m so harsh on BB is because of their dynamic as a trio of brothers. They Have to have a more uniform approach than the other divisions. Which in of itself isn’t a terrible thing, it just doesn’t catch my eye as much as MTC did. Thats all! I definitely don’t hate BB, they’re maybe my 3rd favorite division out of the current lineup [not including TDD era teams like Kujaku Posse, MCD, and Naughty Busters] its just that their rap was pretty meh)

Samatoki crouching like a real gangstar and the cigarette kiss killed me

sadjkhfjkasdghsadjkcsdjhsdfsjhf im dying i love these trio of dumbasses so uch oh y fod someone save me aaaaaaaa (Astro note here! yeah i died when the jyuto and samatoki’s stomach growled im weak please. Samatoki’s face is just so precious and funny I might set it as a profile pic somewhere)

But also my initial assessment of Rio possibly being characterized as a lone wolf is very much jossed and im very thankful for that. It seems that Rio was simply trusting his teammates to carry out their part of the plan while he carried out his own. I like that, it really shows how much of a team these three are and that they genuinely trust each other. He’s also comfortable enough around them to invite them to dinners after work casually and not just for special occasions.

I really love MTC guys

Oooh! we get Ramuda on his design process which is really cute. the inside of his studio is super cute and retro and i love it. the poppy old music you would hear in a cafe or 90′s resturaunt is also really cute (astro note: yeah i know that in ARB you see the interior of Ramuda’s office but its kinda different seeing it animated)

the translation i have has gentaro speaking in early modern english (Shakespearian english for those who aren’t english nerds like me) but from what I can hear, he doesn’t speak in a particularly old fashioned way? Its more formal than old? and hes speaking without any of his character persona lying thing that he likes to do (as he refers to himself as “Shousei” throughout the segment where hes in Ramuda’s office which is kind of his default pronoun of choice). so its kinda odd for the translation to go in that direction but im not complaining

Gendice banter is gold but it feels... flat? a little? it doesn’t have the same impact as in the drama cds or in the manga? i feel? Also Ramuda using gratuitous english is??? idk how to feel about that

kjshf thats against the rules Ramuda omgggg,,,,,,,, (astro note again: while watching i was under the assumption that using your hypmic for monetary gain such a as buskering [which is what FP is doing] is against the rules. May not be the case but whatever)

FP’s rap might be my favorite in terms of tune and lyrics though. It’s a nice laid back bop and really gives of chill vibes. the integration of 3d and 2d is really nice and i love how they play off each other in the rap. The wordplay is so fun with little nods here and there and the beat is poppy too so it really energizes me.

Ramuda’s rap concerns me slightly since he makes very subtle and small nods towards his past (being created in a laboratory, warfare, and his overall very unpleasant life experiences) but spins it into something cutesy. It could be a coping mechanism, it could be me overthinking it. But it does make me worry a bit. Gentaro and Dice’s rap really play off each other with Gentaro sticking to stories and Dice taking up the baton by carrying on that same imagery but putting his own spin on it.

the self awareness of how scattered they are as a team is interesting though. It doesn’t seem like something you’d speak about in a rap? but i guess since its not really a do or die situation they can afford to be looser on things like this.

Right off the bat, i don’t like how they handled Hifumi and Doppo in relation to Hifumi’s fear of women. Slug made a post once talking about this and I echo many of his sentiments. Hypmic has never been very tactful about tackling this particular issue and while I didn’t have high hopes that the anime would be any better it hurts to see Doppo take away the one thing that allows Hifumi to function within society.

Doppo’s breakdown mirrors a lot of my own mental state when I spiral though its shown a lot quicker than what happens to me oof. that hits close to home. though Jakurai’s advice is. Questionable. Its not the best advice to give to someone but we have no idea what kind of doctor Jakurai is so ill let it slide

Jakurai’s pose looks like hes going to do a mahou shoujou transformation lmao

I don’t have many thoughts about the rap though again. How they visualize the rap is interesting. the different imagery is quite interesting for each of them and the typography is nice a distinct but im still on the fence about the visuals here

The sound is in the same boat. The sound effects either drown out the rap or are too quet but some parts are nice at least. When they talk about Tokyo’s beating heart, the heartbeat sound is a but distracting especially since its only played once. But the imagery is at least nice

I wonder if for the eds they’re going to take a similar approach to what Enstars did and have a four different endings, one for each division. I love the blend of styles here and it really accentuates that although they’re different they mesh well together.

Ramuda’s silhouette though is hilarious. Love it.

:p and thats it. Uh not bad for a first episode. Established all 12 characters really nicely and their dynamics. I had some problems with it but then again nothing is perfect. I look forward to what they show us next week

[starsescape]

Jill saw two people, a blonde woman holding a baseball bat and a man head taller than her with a backpack, stand at the crossroad in the middle of the alley right beside the basement storage door. They talk quietly until they saw Jill approach. They look at her with interest.

“Well.. Hello there, beautiful.” The blonde smile as she gaze down at Jill’s feet and slowly, with a moment of lingering around Jill’s hips and chest, move their eyes up to meet hers. The man did the same and ask “You are that cop, right?” They propably recognize Jill from the newspapers back when they had announce her suspension from the police force. Jill wish they hadn’t, but there was a hint of self-doubt in their voice which made it clear they weren’t sure about that.

“The one who used to live around here, yeah.” Jill left it at that. If they knew her by name and past service record there was nothing she could do about it, but Jill not giving her name now would leave them unsure of it if they didn’t and instead imagine they recognize her from a passing on the street rather than from her being someone famous. “You should head to the police station where it is safe an-”

“Not doing a marvelous job of protecting us now are you, officer?” The man confront Jill of the fall of the police force and it made her think that maybe the station had been overrun already as well, after all no one answer the phone there. Maybe they knew more than she did. Jill kept calm and thought what to say until the woman leer at her “Guess she would serve us better than protect.” It got a chuckle out of the man too. It made Jill’s expression became cool. The way they look and spoke to her cause Jill to worry not just about herself, but about Rachel too. They were still hidden in the basement with its door right beside the spot where the unpleasant pair stood.

Keep them focused on me.. Jill sigh and shook her head. “What do you want from me?” The question had the two exchange a look before they stare back at her. The woman with the baseball bat start to walk towards her and the man wasn’t far behind her. “Dunno, some payback for you cops always looking down on us?” The question linger in the air until they were close enough for Jill to take a step back and reach for her revolver. “Don’t come any closer.” Their approach change once they notice she had a gun. The blonde stop and spit on the ground with distain for the policewoman, but the man stare at her for a moment before he made an offer. “You don’t look like someone carries a lot of stuff, so why don’t we make a deal?”

Jill still rest her arm on the revolver, but she allowed herself to relax just a bit. “What kind of deal?” He was quick to bring his backpack around to pull out a handful of bullets fit for the revolver and a green herb that look withered. If lucky it might still be of use if it wasn’t too old. It seem he had more items, but the man wasn’t willing to show more. The pair were scavengers who, if Jill had to guess, got most what they had by looting and stealing it. “We don’t have a gun nor use for this dried up thing, so we could make a trade.”

Jill thought of it for a moment, she didn’t have anything to trade with except- Wait, the shotgun shells... She didn’t show that she had them yet to not to give anything away, but it push her to answer. “What is the price then?” As she ask that a rusted rattle echo from behind her, the infected still tried to break through the locked gate. It had all three of them become more tense, but it also cause the blonde to grin. Before any price could be settled she pull on the man’s arm and had him lean low for her to whisper into his ear. They had a short discussion Jill couldn’t make out. It left her nervous until the pair had come up with an asking price. They leer at her again. Jill could see that they wish to see her demeaned.

“Alright, cop.” The man said “The price is non negotiable.”

[Vote for what they should ask from Jill]

[perditaalottachocolate-blog]

Spring Fever (17)

@adrinetteapril 2019 story

Chapter: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | art | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | art |  art  | 18 | 19 | 20 |

AO3 / fanfiction.net

A huge thank you to @goblin-alchemist for betareading this story! And thank you all for reading, liking, reblogging and for the comments. You make me very happy! <3

***

Chapter 17. Nightmare

In which Adrien is amazed

If Adrien had known her plan was to confront Nemesis and get attacked, he would never have agreed. This was by far the bravest and most reckless thing he’d seen Marinette attempt. Without batting an eyelash, with her chin high up, she faced the villain. The scene would feed Adrien's nightmares for years. His blood ran cold as he watched the love of his life challenging Nemesis.

'If you’re so sure I’m trying to use Adrien, why don’t you check it yourself?’ Marinette inquired. 'Is that because you’re afraid I’m telling the truth?’

'You’re not telling the truth,’ the villain shrugged, malicious grin on her marble face. 'See, I’ve been in this business all my life. I’ve seen it happening tens of times, I’ve heard of hundreds more. I know how it works.’

'You don’t know me.’

'Please, have you looked at yourself?’ Nemesis snorted out a laugh. 'What do you have that I don’t? What a girl like you could possibly offer to someone like Adrien?’

Marinette seemed to consider this for a moment. 'Talent?’ She offered. 'Honest friendship? Genuine affection? Baked goods? A killer partner in video games?’

Adrien saw a shadow of a smirk dancing on her lips. He couldn’t help but to think he liked this side of her very much and he wished he’d see it more often. Or maybe he just had a thing for strong women? She was playing with fire, demonstrating iron-clad confidence, a devil-may-care attitude and sass he had no idea she was capable of, clearly trying to vex Nemesis into making a mistake. And it looked as if her plan was working.

The akuma cackled. 'Baked goods?’ She parotted. 'Genuine affection? I think I’m going to give you what you’ve asked for, girl,’ she brandished the whip.

That was his cue. Adrien tensed, ready to intercept the weapon. He thought Marinette wanted to focus Nemesis’ attention so that he could sneak his way to her. He was wrong.

‘Show me what you got,’ the love of his life called out. She opened her arms, waiting for the crack. 

She didn’t have to wait long. With a banshee scream the akuma tugged at the whip. Marinette stared at her challengingly, not budging even one bit. The whip made contact with her skin. The crack was deafening in the narrow space of the underpass, masking Adrien’s frantic steps as he launched himself in their direction. Terrified he cast a look at his friend.

Marinette was still standing in her place, perfectly fine and unmarbleized. She raised a brow. ‘Your turn,’ she murmured.

Nemesis sent her a confused look. It only took a tiny fraction of a second and Adrien ripped the weapon out of her unresisting hand. Not thinking twice he threw it to Marinette, who caught it expertly and brandished it as if she’d been dealing with ropes her whole life.

‘Let’s see what you’re made of,’ she said.

Another crack thundered over the passage accompanied by Nemesis' cry of protest, both leaving an unpleasant ringing in Adrien’s ears. 

The space was suddenly short of villains. A stone statue appeared where Nemesis had been standing mere seconds ago. An outstretched hand, reaching for the whip. Lips opened in a silent shriek. Eyes blown wide and hair thrown back. Adrien was sure this was the least flattering image of Giselle he'd ever seen. 

Marinette limped to her. She weighed the weapon in her palm. 

'It's still dangerous, but if I break it and set the butterfly free while Ladybug is not here to purify it…,' she said.

Adrien shivered. 'The last thing this city needs is an army of Nemeses.'

'Despair not, civilians, who I see for the first time in my eternal life,' a familiar voice sounded from somewhere near the statue’s head. 'The cavalry has arrived! Well, metaphorically speaking.' 

Plagg's head popped from behind Nemesis' stone cold shoulder. Adrien suppressed a groan, while Marinette squeaked adorably in surprise.

'Sorry,' the kwami's ears dropped apologetically. 'I didn't mean to startle you.'

'What- who are you?'

Plagg tapped his nose. 'I'm Chat Noir's boss,' he announced with a toothy grin.

'Don't you mean "assistant"?' Adrien drawled. He had no idea why his kwami decided to show up to a civilian. Two civilians technically.

Marinette actually giggled at that, trying in vain to hide a smile.

The sprite sent him a flat look. 'I may be small in size, but I'm not some Santa's little helper,' he replied acidly. 'Anyway I'm here to offer my services as Chat Noir and Ladybug can't show up now,' he paid Marinette a deep bow.

'Your services?' The girl tilted her head, knitting her brows.

'I can relieve you of this cursed cargo,' he pointed at the whip, 'and take it to Ladybug for purification.'

'What are you going to do with it?' Adrien crossed his arms in front of his chest, his voice dripping with suspicion. First time he witnessed Plagg actually volunteering for anything.

The sprite looked between the two teens, then down at his belly and up at the ceiling. 

'You don't want to know,' he finally replied. 

'So you’ll get this to Ladybug?’ Marinette made sure. She passed him the whip.

'You bet,’ Plagg grinned. 'Cataclysm,’ he whispered and touched the weapon with a tip of his paw. The item turned to dust as the ground shook. A few cracks appeared where the whip lay on the ground, a few specks of dust fell from the ceiling. 

The akuma broke free. It fluttered its wings and took flight to sunlight. 

Plagg sighed. ‘Just think it tastes like camembert,’ he muttered barely audibly and leaped after the butterfly. Before Adrien could even ask what he wanted to do, the kwami swallowed the insect. He burped with an echo that should not be possible in such a small creature.

'Hey, since when can you-,’ Adrien started. 

Plagg sent him a warning look. 'I trust you two to keep quiet about this, okay? Now excuse me, but I have a Ladybug to catch.’ With one last grin he turned around and flew back into the metro.

Adrien watched until the kwami disappeared from sight. Marinette’s hiss of pain interrupted his plan to follow Plagg. 

‘Come on, I’ll help you,’ he offered, wrapping an arm around the girl’s shoulders and taking her weight. Once again he was stunned by her scent. He tried to ignore his spinning head and blood drumming in his ears. Ignoring the heat that ignited his skin proved to be more difficult.

‘Adrien, wait.’ Marinette stopped him. 

She put a hand on his chest. He wondered if she could feel the frantic beating of his heart.

‘F-for what?’ he stuttered, her proximity threatening to render him speechless. He squeezed his eyes shut and resolved to keeping his intakes of air in short, shallow breaths, not to get drunk on her essence. ‘Your leg is n-not going to get better until Ladybug finally arrives.’

‘The kiss,’ she simply said. ‘Before something or someone interrupts us again.’

‘The kiss,’ he echoed, the finality of it suddenly crashing on him. 

Adrien looked at her, for the first time in days seeing Marinette in an entirely new light. Not only was she a great classmate and a thoughtful friend. She was kind and accepting, loyal, sensitive and respectful. But also strong, determined, creative and resourceful. She was brave, fearless maybe, definitely selfless. 

And she loved him.

‘No, I- I can’t ask you to do that,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t want- Oh, this is a nightmare!’

‘A nightmare? Why?’ She frowned. ‘Don’t you want to break the curse?’

If she’d asked him that question the day before, he’d undoubtedly said yes. But now he was hesitant. Why didn’t he want her to kiss him? Why hadn’t he confessed the true nature of the curse earlier?

Because I don’t want this to end, he realized. I don’t want to stop loving her. Because I feel it in my bones I belong with her. Because she’s my soulmate. 

Was this the curse talking? Adrien no longer knew how he felt. Where did his original feelings end and the miraculous magic begin?

‘Adrien?’ 

‘Loving you… it’s not-,’ he murmured. ‘It’s the best thing that happened to me since-...,’ his hand went into his hair. He caught a fistful and tugged, hoping for the pain to give his mind back to him. ‘I love loving you,’ he ended lamely.

‘But you’re cursed,’ Marinette looked at him from under her long lashes, her gaze worried and kind. 

He could drown in her eyes. He wanted to be able to look into them every day. He wanted to worship her every day. The nausea and panic rose from the depths of his stomach.

‘That isn’t fair,’ she continued, unaware of his internal turmoil. ‘You need to - as you said - be your own man. You need to make your own choices, not have magic make those choices for you.’

‘I know.’

‘We need to do this,’ Marinette turned to face him. Adrien failed to remove the hand that rested on her shoulder. She blushed and smiled sweetly. ‘And I’m not saying that because I want a kiss from a cute boy.’

‘I know,’ he chuckled, despite his unease, blushing even more. ‘Just… let me have this…’ he ducked his head and pressed his forehead to hers. He wouldn’t have dared attempt such an intimate gesture, but he desperately wanted to savor those last moments. He wasn’t sure what he’d remember once the curse was removed. 

Marinette didn’t shy away, just like she hadn’t when they had been talking in her room. She leaned into him instead, wrapping her hands around his middle. ‘Whatever happens, you won’t lose me, Adrien. I promise.’

Each time Adrien thought she couldn’t be more perfect, she proved him wrong. How could she read him like an open book? How could she know him like this?

‘You’re wonderful, Marinette,’ he whispered, his voice cracking. ‘Thank you. For everything.’

She climbed to her toes and reached to his lips. The world fell still.

***

Author’s Note: If you like this story, please let me know!

[krumbine]

The Insufferable Silence in Apartment 616

There's something terrifying about being alone with your thoughts.

For Lizzie Stevenson, even five minutes is too long––that’s why she’s always chasing that next distraction.

But when a home invader ties her to a chair, Lizzie finds herself stuck between a rock and a crazy space, forced to confront a surprising darkness lurking in her past.

***The following story contains adult themes. Virgin eyes, beware! (I’m looking at you, mom.)***

###

The darkness wasn’t so bad. It was a black void, absent any light, a dizzying plunge into terrifying, absolute nothingness.

But even that paled in comparison to the silence.

It enveloped Lizzie, wrapping around her head like a winter blanket soaked in water. The weight was crushing.

Then came the thoughts, banging against her skull as if they were baseball bats wielded by some doped-up player in the middle of a roid rage.

You’re a failure.

He left because you’re broken.

No one loves you. No one likes you.

You’ll never finish that degree.

You’re fat.

He left because you’re fat.

That bitch. That fucking slut.

You’re not even out of your twenties and you’ve already peaked.

Why do you drink so much? Because you’re a fucking alcoholic, that’s why, and honestly you’re okay with that, nevermind the consequences.

You’re a fucking coward.

Why did you let him leave you?

Can your parents possibly think less of you? Yes, definitely. They only ever liked you because he was with you.

The darkness wasn’t so bad but the silence was a fucking cunt.

Lizzie Stevenson jolted violently as she awoke. Her head jerked forward and her feathery cinnamon hair splayed across her face in a mess. She drew sharp breaths in through her nose, attempting to pull her breath back from the panic attack that clawed at her tightened chest.

The first thing Lizzie noticed was the ticking of a vintage Mickey Mouse clock hanging on the wall of her apartment a few feet away.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The second thing Lizzie noticed was that her arms and legs were securely tied to the chair she was sitting on. A few extra lengths of rope crossed her chest, tying her to the back of the chair.

Lizzie’s cry was muffled by the gag in her mouth.

A muted exclamation came from the kitchen.

Lizzie craned her neck and saw someone pulling a can of soda from the fridge. It was a man. Maybe a little younger than her––no, maybe older? His dark eyes were wide with excitement, a smooth face split in what looked almost to be a manic grin. He wore a dark green hooded blazer––

––seaweed green, Lizzie thought randomly––

––a black t-shirt and dark jeans. And black leather boots with heavy soles. Doc Martens?

The ropes bit at her wrists. Lizzie twisted her legs, pulling at the bindings on her ankles, unconsciously pulling her knees together. The tightness in her chest grew warm.

Lizzie’s focus was pulled back to the intruder’s face as he approached her––

––Tick. Tick. Tick––

Pale. Narrow. Black hair swept effortlessly back. And those dark eyes. As he got closer, she could tell that they were brown, but they were the darkest shade of brown she had ever seen.

As the intruder sat down in front of her, crossing his legs and popping the top of the soda, Lizzie became acutely aware of the gag that he had no doubt shoved into her mouth. A feeling a helplessness gripped her.

And then there was that particularly not unpleasant tingle.

Fuck you, Lizzie.

The intruder’s eyes sparkled and the manic grin expanded as if he could hear her thoughts.

Lizzie gulped, attempting to stamp down the tingle. She tried to speak but was again muffled by the gag.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The intruder was unfazed.

“Hello, Lizzie,” he said.

The tingle swam back, a spreading warmth accompanied by a twitch.

Goddammit, you fucking cunt.

His voice was warm and welcoming and infinitely nourishing, as if it was the only voice she would ever need to hear for the rest of her life. At the same time, he spoke with exacting precision, his words carrying an edge that threatened to cut as efficiently as they could comfort.

Two words and you’re already wet. You’re a worthless bag of shit.

Lizzie tried to speak again, but her mouth was otherwise occupied.

The intruder sipped his soda.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Let’s make a deal, Lizzie,” he said. “Gag comes off, you answer a question, and we both go on with our lives.”

He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, inches from Lizzie’s face. She could smell him and that only served to set the tingle on fire. Her eyes watered and she realized it must look like she was silently begging him to take the gag out.

Take it out. And shove something else in.

“How does that sound?”

Lizzie swallowed hard and her head jerked in an abrupt nod. The intruder leaned back in his chair and considered Lizzie with a pensive––

––fucking hard throbbing––

––stare.

Electricity pricked its way across Lizzie’s skin, starting from her wetness and traveling across her bound extremities until a chill crept up her spine, causing an involuntary twitch to seize her body.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The intruder reached around Lizzie’s head and untied the gag. As he pulled it away, his fingers brushed her cheek.

Lizzie gasped as the gag fell from her mouth.

He sat back down, crossing his legs again. “What are you so afraid of, Lizzie?”

Lizzie’s insides were twisting. She could talk, although her body was demanding the other thing. She closed her eyes and worked her jaw, sore from the gag. Finally: “Who are you and what the fuck are you doing in my apartment?”

No reaction, no missed beat: “My name is Peter and I’m here asking you what you’re so afraid of, Lizzie.”

Never getting fucked again? Never feeling like you’re being split in two––

“Your boyfriend dumped you. It didn’t go well. Not that those things ever do. But you check his Instagram every day. Not to mention the new girl’s Instagram—” he leaned forward conspiratorially —“the fucking tits on that one! Honestly, he should enjoy it while it lasts because she’s grade-A fuckmeat that’s just gonna move onto the next thick dick that crosses her path, am I right?”

Lizzie blinked. His words were a cold shower to her repressed libido. Who the fuck was this guy and how did he know?

As if he could read her mind: “Again, my name is Peter,” he repeated, leaning back and dropping the melodrama, “and I’m here asking you what you’re so afraid of, Lizzie.”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“How about this? Fun World. You have an annual pass and go there once or twice after work every week. That’s on top of weekend visits,” Peter said. “Your patronage of this park is like clockwork.”

Lizzie didn’t understand why she had to defend her recreational activities to a home invader. “I have an annual pass. It’s a great value. A good way to kill a few hours.”

Peter leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Reading a book is a good way to kill a few hours and infinitely more affordable, not to mention a great way to expand those mental horizons. Spending more time at a theme park than one of its minimum wage hot dog slingers is a tacit––albeit desperate––exercise in avoiding something else altogether.”

Peter’s impossibly dark eyes penetrated Lizzie.

“Something that terrifies you,” he said quietly. “So again: what are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of anything!” Lizzie snapped.

“Ha!” Peter bounced to his feet so quickly his chair clattered to the floor behind him. “Everyone’s afraid of something. Everyone has that little voice inside their head pointing out all their failures. Maybe you’re afraid you were never good enough for your boyfriend, or anyone else for that matter. Maybe you’re afraid you won’t lose those few extra pounds. Or maybe you’re just afraid of the Big One.”

Peter grabbed Lizzie’s wrists and leaned in close, uncomfortable nose-to-nose. “The inevitable. The endless sleep. The darkness that comes for all of us. Tell me, Lizzie, are you so insufferably boring that you’re just afraid of death?”

Lizzie had no idea what was happening, but it was safe to say that all the sexual energy had evaporated. That tends to happen when someone calls you insufferably boring.

“Fuck you.”

Peter clicked his teeth and pulled away. “No … not death.”

He turned to the table and picked up a smartphone. Lizzie recognized her case. Peter tapped in a sequence of numbers and unlocked the device.

“Hey––!”

“Last I counted,” Peter said as he scrolled the device, “you were able to keep upwards of thirteen utterly random conversations going on social media. Concurrently. With complete strangers.”

Peter selected a thread and held the phone in front of Lizzie’s face. She couldn’t get her eyes to focus on the blue text bubbles.

“Why?” he asked with a half-shrug. “There’s absolutely nothing of importance in any of this—” he scrolled the thread of messages across the screen, “––no value, no purpose other than to keep your fingers busy––”

Peter paused and looked up, dark eyes glazed. The corner of his mouth quirked up.

“Oh. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Peter put the phone back on the table, picked up the fallen chair and placed it back in front of Lizzie. He sat down.

“You’re afraid of the quiet, aren’t you, Lizzie Stevenson?”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Fun Wold. Creeping on the boyfriend and his new fuck buddy. The endless scroll of social media.” Peter casually tossed a thumb over his shoulder at a day planner sitting on the kitchen counter. “A calendar so full it’s a wonder how you don’t have an assistant managing it all for you.”

Lizzie searched his eyes for some kind of plausible explanation for the home and psychological invasion, but there was nothing there. It was like the man was playing a role and he was wearing this ‘Peter’ character as a mask.

“You’re afraid that if you slow down, it might get a little too quiet,” Peter continued. “And if it gets too quiet, then maybe you’ll have to actually deal with that thing inside you. That emptiness. That blackness. Is that what you’re afraid of, Lizzie Stevenson?”

Fuck this shit.

“You’re a fucking lunatic.”

Peter shrugged dismissively. “There are worse things.”

“What the actual hell do you want from me?”

“I want you tell me what you’re afraid of, Lizzie,” Peter said again, as calm and patient as the first time he asked.

“And then what?”

“And then you let it go.”

“Fuck you.”

It was as if Peter had heard it a million times and was immune. Or maybe it was just because Lizzie was tied up and he wasn’t.

“I’m offering you freedom, Lizzie,” he said, that warm voice welcoming her into some unseen abyss, nourishing her and filling her with–– “I chose you, Lizzie. I chose you––of all the insipid, brainless shitbags in this city, you were the only one who mattered.”

Peter smiled. “I chose you, Lizzie Stevenson, to show the door to. You still have to choose to walk through it. Now tell me––”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“—what are you afraid of?”

Lizzie glanced at the shitty Mickey Mouse clock. This had been fun, at least for a little bit, but the time was up. Her shoulder’s slumped in defeat.

“… you’re not wrong.”

If Peter was surprised or satisfied or horny, he didn’t show it.

“… I’m afraid of sitting still,” Lizzie said softly. “I’m afraid of the quiet.”

She looked up and met Peter’s eyes.

“I am afraid of the darkness inside me.”

Peter shook his head compassionately. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Lizzie.”

“No, no,” she said, head rolling back and forth before slumping forward. “No—no. No.”

Peter’s hand rested on her thigh but she couldn’t feel it. He whispered: “You have to let it go. The fear. The anger. The loneliness. None of it matters. And once you let it go––”

“You don’t understand,” Lizzie said, keeping her head down to avoid Peter’s gaze.

A chuckle. “You cannot possibly comprehend the depths of my understanding,” Peter said softly.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“… it started a little over a year ago,” Lizzie finally said without looking up. Her shoulders quivered. “I was interning at Kelltech Labs. Doctor Jason Kell was an alum at my school––”

The first indication of genuine annoyance from Peter. “I’ve been over all of this already. Jason Edward Kell. Renowned Alzheimer’s researcher. And you, the bright young intern––”

Lizzie sobbed.

Fuck.

She couldn’t avoid it any longer. This mysterious home invader in the Doc Martens who had clearly done his homework––this asshole somehow knew the exact right buttons to mash.

How could he have been so right and yet so completely wrong?

Tick. Tic––

It’s time to end this.

“Stop crying,” Peter was saying in his bullshit hypnotic tone. “You need to accept the darkness and embrace the meaningless of it all––”

Snap!

The ropes binding Lizzie’s left hand fell to the floor and Peter scooted back in his chair in surprise.

“Whoa.”

Lizzie wasn’t sobbing. Her body was convulsing, muscles rippling and contorting under her flesh. Her right wrist bulged and strained at the rope, threads snapping and unraveling from pressure.

Finger bones cracked and twisted, lengthening as her nails darkened, hardened, and curved to a point.

When her right wrist broke free of the final strands, Peter shot to his feet and backed up. His eyes were wide but not with fear.

Peter was excited.

Lizzie Stevenson was far from insufferably boring.

Bones kept cracking and shifting as the violent transformation continued. Lizzie tore at the ropes straining across her chest and as the bindings on her ankles snapped. She rose up from the buckling chair. Her shoulders rippled as they gained an unseemly mass. They rolled backwards as she slowly straightened to her full height, head canted to avoid the apartment ceiling.

Peter looked up at Lizzie’s face. It was broader, flatter, but he could still see her features. That cinnamon hair cascaded all the way down her body, underneath her stretched and tearing clothes.

“… motherfucker.”

Peter’s mind raced, piecing together the missing bits of information that led to an abrupt end to Lizzie’s promising internship at the biotech company.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

Or at least, that was one way to look at it.

“You … are …” Peter searched for the right word. “… fascinating.”

Lizzie’s chest heaved as the convulsions of the transformation subsided. Peter cautiously approached her, raising a hand up to her head.

“… I knew there was darkness in you, but this … my dear, Lizzie, the things we’re going to do together—”

Lizzie bared fangs and growled a violent warning. When she spoke, it came out low and raspy, but without hesitation.

“How’s this for letting go?”

Lizzie smashed a bowling-ball sized fist into Peter’s face.

###

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jordan Krumbine is a professional video editor, digital artist, and creative wizard currently quarantined in Kissimmee, Florida. When not producing content for the likes of Visit Orlando, Orlando Sentinel, or AAA National, Jordan is probably yelling at a stubbornly defective Macbook keyboard, tracking creative projects in Trello, and animating quirky videos with LEGO and other various toys.

Leave a dollar in the Tip Jar: https://ko-fi.com/krumbine

Short stories: https://bit.ly/2XY5D7I Books on Amazon Kindle: https://amzn.to/3bsqK5Y YouTube: https://bit.ly/2W41nSG Twitter: https://bit.ly/2VH0Vbu Facebook: https://bit.ly/2VpnylZ LinkedIn: https://bit.ly/2xnmk1e

http://www.krumbco.com

[miraculouscontent]

Have you written anything about what specifically you dislike about Gigantitan? I tried searching for it on my own, but Tumblr Is Not A Functioning Website

I haven’t talked about it much at the time of posting, so don’t worry, you didn’t miss anything.

“Gigantitan” is my least favorite episode of Miraculous from a strict watchability standpoint, being the only episode that I wanted to quit watching outright (and would’ve had I not been watching with someone else). There are episodes that have worse writing from a plot/character view, but “Gigantitan” is the only episode that I firmly believe has no value whatsoever.

[Lolliplot]

I have no problem with filler in concept. Filler can actually be very important to a show’s runtime, letting shows rake in some more views for the more high-budget episodes by filling in story gaps with fun little snippets about nothing.

But this episode isn’t fun. It’s just nothing.

Let’s start with what this episode actually offers for future plot points. Firstly, it confirms JARM (Juleka, Alix, Rose, and Mylene) being already aware of the fact that Marinette has a crush on Adrien.

We didn’t need to know this. Everyone could’ve guessed that anyone in the class already knew. If I’d skipped this episode completely and seen “Frozer”, I wouldn’t have batted an eye at JARM already knowing and making suggestions about what Marinette should do about Adrien.

The other thing this episode does is show that an akuma can switch targets, which happens later in “Zombizou” anyway. Not only that, but I don’t know how genuine this moment even is, because it’s just a “comedic” ploy to get a reaction out of Hawk Moth. I can see the result in two ways: either this is relevant because this is going to happen later (actually making this episode pointless because it’s going to happen in a later episode) or this was a one-off and no one will ever know if it was a legitimate thing or a comedic detail.

It just leaves me confused.

Point being, I don’t want to hear brags from the writing staff about how this season has “no filler” because it’s a cheap way to generate hype when all they really did was sprinkle in crumbs of establishing plot into this particular episode. If one were to ask the question, “Why couldn’t it be established that they know about Marinette’s crush in a different episode?”, the only answer would’ve been, “Because this episode would’ve been filler otherwise.”

It’s lazy. Simple as that.

[Don’t Cry Me a River]

I don’t talk about myself often on my blog, but I’ll have to say a little bit to get my point across. See, some things I’ve never mentioned about myself before are that my ears are pretty sensitive, my eyes don’t like saturated colors, and I’m easily disgusted (not amused) by gross-out humor.

Already, my next problem with this episode is obvious.

I don’t like babies. I hate them, in fact. Don’t like looking at them, don’t like holding them, and every scream feels like sharp nails being jammed into my brain. They’re gross and loud and I have no maternal instincts whatsoever.

As a baby, August has no personality. He has no traits and his shtick is “he’s a baby.” That’s literally it. He cries, he screams, he’s easily distracted, and he’s completely unintelligent.

An akumatized person isn’t even supposed to be the same exact thing as the person they akumatize, but that’s exactly what Gigantitan is; August, but with powers.

And those colors blind me. The neon pink and green are hideous. One might say that it’s the idea because Hawk Moth akumatized a baby (and those akumatized might get to pick their looks), but that doesn’t change the facts that they didn’t have to akumatize a baby and that the design is still terrible to look at even if there’s a reason for it.

And the model is disgusting. I outright gagged at the scene with Adrien’s bodyguard and the saliva and just–EUGH, EW, GROSS!!

Once the timestamp hits the point where August turns into Gigantitan, it’s nothing by baby humor for eight straight minutes.

And Hawk Moth can’t just, y'know, release the akuma, because that would end the episode.

Hawk Moth’s even been shown to be able to torment his victims to some degree to get them to do what he wants but oh no we can’t have that because it’s a baby.

Personally, I would’ve drop kicked this obnoxious little menace into the Seine like a sack of rotten potatoes.

[Character Dos and Don'ts Except It’s Actually Just Don'ts]

No one has their head on straight in this episode. No one is safe from the “Gigantitan” go-with-what-the-script-says flu.

Alya setting up this huge elaborate plan instead of focusing on Marinette’s actual problems concerning Adrien.

Rose not understanding the flower naming theme despite being rarely shown as incompetent, which is also something no one does anything about because everyone’s so hooked on using codenames.

Adrien’s bodyguard calming down out of nowhere right when the akuma shows up.

Hawk Moth not just releasing the akuma and accepting that this was a bad idea.

Adrien brushing off all of Marinette’s stuttering despite this being a thing he should be concerned about by now and instead just being like “OKAY BYE YOU SEEM STABLE TODAY”

It’s all just set up so the episode goes exactly how the show wants it to and it drives me nuts.

Alya can’t be smart and realize that codenames aren’t a good idea (given Rose’s confusion) or the plan couldn’t mess up in “hilarious” ways.

Hawk Moth can’t do anything intelligent or the episode will just fall apart.

Even just the little things, like the fact that Alix brushes off Marinette’s fear that the boys know about her crush as “nah of course not because they’re boys.” That annoys me because I don’t like the suggestion that the boys are oblivious about love just because they’re boys. This escalates further in “Glaciator” with Ivan and I’m constantly frustrated about it because there’s already a logical, actually sensible reason for JARM to know and none of the boys to: them being closer friends with Marinette and thus seeing more of her than the boys do. I don’t mind specific characters gender-stereotyping, but not when it’s the show itself doing it and imprinting that on the characters themselves to make it true.

On another note, Adrien’s bodyguard is also extra infuriating because he has to get over his rage immediately or he’d be akumatized instead of the baby, which would’ve been actually fun. I’ve said it before, but one of the worst sins an episode can commit is presenting a more fun and/or interesting idea than what they actually go with.

Heck. Adrien’s bodyguard in general is pretty inconsistent. He gets upset about everything going wrong for him, then calms down almost instantly. You’d think the latter is because he sees Adrien, but when Marinette’s talking to him, Adrien’s bodyguard starts honking rudely at them instead of letting Adrien finish a freaking conversation. This is why I hate this guy so much; he’s so inconsistent and constantly swaps between caring about Adrien’s desires and just being irritating.

And, oh boy, that ending scene. I already complained about it in “Treatment of Marinette (Season 2)”, but it drives me up a wall.

Marinette stuttering was not her fault. It was the writing’s. It’s so blatantly obvious, especially on Marinette’s second attempt where she rejects riding home with Adrien.

Yet, the episode still has her friends get annoyed with her. There just comes a point where things stop being Marinette’s fault and start being the writers tripping her up and tugging at her pigtails because “No, bad Marinette, you’re not allowed to make progress even if it’s completely in character for you at this point.”

Marinette goes through this whole plan (and I frankly don’t care if the intention was to get Adrien’s bodyguard in trouble because screw him, honestly), even stopping at one point and almost ruining everything because she wanted to help a baby, and for what?

Nothing. Marinette embarrassed herself in front of her friends, embarrassed herself in front of Adrien, and she gets teased.

I don’t have to wonder why Marinette is constantly fumbling and afraid of screwing up, because her friends and others are always teasing her for being clumsy/stuttering/etc. Alya teases her at the end and Marinette looks so embarrassed at what she’d said, but then the end card just pops up as if we’re supposed to forget about Marinette’s issues and anxiety. They go completely unaddressed and this episode is the worst example I can think of when imagining episodes that try to brush off Marinette’s problems as “you just gotta get it right this time.”

And of course, Alix makes a comment about how Marinette knowing Adrien’s schedule is “creepy.” Like, ‘k, cool, so if she does believe that, what is she gonna do about it? Confront her? Just accept it because she’s her friend and saying anything would’ve forced this episode to not happen?

The is one of the few times Marinette’s schedule (that she has only ever used for purposes of confessing/taking a confession back/tracking down Adrien for crucial reasons) has been brought up, but the show doesn’t want to dwell on it. The show doesn’t seem to want anyone its audience to think about, but it still wants to crack jokes at Marinette’s expense.

And instead of addressing Marinette’s core issues, all five of her friends just waffle around them. If this was actually fun, I probably wouldn’t mind, but with this being the unpleasant experience that it is, I feel like the glaring flaws are constantly being shoved in my face.

[Predictakillity]

This is probably the fourth-ish time I’ve said this in my blog’s lifespan, but one way to send my interest into a downward spiral is when I can predict an episode. There are exceptions, like when I see a scene or hear a particular line and go “Yes! This is probably leading up to [x]”, but most of the time, it’s negative.

And, from start to finish, I could predict this episode. After every scene that happened, I could predict what was going to happen next.

The second I saw this elaborate plan, I knew it wasn’t going to work. Even more insulting was when they threw the fantasy sequence in, because that made it even more obvious. After all, why would they show us what’s going to happen later in the episode instead of building suspense and then having us see the happy moment when it’s actually real?

Not only that, but the fantasy sequence is doubly terrible because it was some top-tier Adrienette and it’s fake. It just brings down the next Adrienette scene that follows it in whatever future episode because now they have to beat “having ice cream together” or it becomes underwhelming.

And that’s exactly what it did, because “Glaciator” was the next episode with Adrienette in it and it had the gall to set up the exact same premise without even letting them have ice cream together. It tore me up too because I knew that’s what they’d do; I knew they weren’t going to show the audience what they wanted to see because the fantasy sequence in “Gigantitan” already showed it. I wanted to be wrong and I wasn’t.

Back to “Gigantitan” itself, most of the jokes and dialog are so drawn out that it felt impossible to not know where things were going to go. They hold on jokes for way too long and everything is so in your face that things become obvious.

The second Rose started messing up the codenames, I knew she was going to be a weak link in the plan.

The moment Juleka got stuck, I knew most of them were going to have to swap jobs and be stuck doing something they weren’t good at.

The instant August appeared on screen (with spoken dialog from the mom, no less), I immediately pointed and said, “That’s who’s getting akumatized.” No amount of Adrien’s bodyguard getting annoyed fooled me because I knew it would be a red herring.

At the very first mention of August wanting a lollipop, I knew that it was going to be important to take him down when he was akumatized.

When the akuma went into August’s bracelet, I knew Hawk Moth would just run with it and wouldn’t give it up.

Even with the lucky charm, which is typically one of my favorite moments in episodes because Ladybug always gets stuck with the most random stuff, I knew what it was for before Ladybug’s Lucky Vision even went off.

And at the final moments of the episode, where Marinette wanted to just get straight to the point, I knew; I knew she wasn’t going to be able to do it. I knew this episode wasn’t going to let her have her moment. I knew her friends would get irritated with her. I knew the writing would just brush it off.

When Marinette’s friends kept asking, “Is she going to do it?”, I was pleading for them to just be quiet because it made the outcome so obvious. Everything’s obvious. When I realized that August was the next akuma victim, I knew that this episode would be nothing but baby humor and gross-out.

I hated that I knew. I didn’t want to know. With every passing minute, I kept begging–hoping–that the episode would throw me some sort of twist.

One wrench in the predictability. One instance where something wasn’t what I expected. One nanosecond where all the characters just looked at each other and went, “Hey, maybe everything that’s going on right now is actually really contrived?”

I got nothing. Once the episode was over, I got into a three hour conversation on why it was the worst thing I’d seen out of Miraculous from an enjoyability standpoint.

And every time Gigantitan shows up as an akuma again, I feel all that annoyance come right back. A full 26 episodes haven’t even passed yet since his episode and Gigantitan has shown up three times.

I hate this episode so much. I hate it because it’s a combination of nearly everything I could hate in an episode.

Character destruction.

Gross-out.

Babies.

Obviousness.

Predictability.

And worst of all, the promise–the set-up–of progress that the protagonist deserves but doesn’t get in the end despite all the garbage they’ve been through and WILL go through.

I think back to this episode and I just find myself unbelievably frustrated. In a way, I feel like I should be glad about how pointless it is. After all, its pointlessness means that I have no reason to ever go back to it.

But also, it didn’t need to exist, and those 22 minutes could’ve been spent doing literally anything else that this season desperately needed.

Instead, it’s 22 minutes of nothing.

[avanneman]

A Social Call

(Another short story in the manner of Rex Stout, featuring Nero Wolfe.)

“I’m afraid that would be impossible.”

“I agree entirely. And it’s been my experience that when things are impossible, they don’t happen. Which means that we should just forget about this.”

She laughed.

“But that would be impossible as well.”

“I assure you it wouldn’t, Ms. Harris—nor, in fact, is it. If you understood what you are asking of me, you’d understand.”

I couldn’t help laughing myself. The notion of me getting Wolfe’s 4,000 ounces on an airplane—a device that actually left the ground and flew through the air like a bird—well, the idea was unimaginable and irresistible at the same time.

“You think well of yourself, don’t you, Mr. Goodwin?”

I laughed again. I was a riot, and so was she.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Harris. I’m enjoying this conversation for many reasons. But I couldn’t get my boss to hear Mr. Zauberberg out if he came to this office himself. Mr. Wolfe made so much money last year he’s taking this one off to translate Montaigne’s Essays into Serbian and Hungarian. As a result, he’s even less interested in running errands for twenty-something billionaires than usual.”

“Mr. Zauberberg is 32, and he is not requesting an errand. He is seeking the assistance of a man known for his devotion to the cause of freedom of speech.”

“Those are kind words, and Mr. Wolfe will appreciate them when I convey them to him. But the deal is still off. Mr. Wolfe is not working for Mr. Zauberberg or any one else, and he is certainly not getting on a plane. Now, I’m sure your boss isn’t used to taking ‘no’ for an answer. If you like, tell him that you found me irascible and unpleasant.”

There was silence for a beat. Then she came back at me.

“Mr. Zauberberg only speaks with principals.”

“Of course he does. I’m sorry, Ms. Harris, I don’t like to be rude, but sometimes that’s my job. I think you can understand that pretty well.”

There was another pause.

“I’ll get back to you, Mr. Goodwin,” she said. “Thank you for your time.”

“Thank you as well.”

I wished I could have done more for Ms. Harris—or Joan, as I could have called her—because I was looking at her FacetoFace page. She was three years out of Stanford, and, judging from her picture as the co-captain of the varsity tennis team, she had the best legs of any applied statistician I’d ever seen. The entire time we had been talking I’d been trying to figure out a way to suggest to her that if she and Mark could make their way to the brownstone and confront Wolfe in person things might go better, but there was just no way I could square that circle, because Wolfe really wasn’t working any more

Eight years ago, back in 2009, the SEC sued half the banks on Wall Street on charges of money laundering for the Russian mob. That’s not what the SEC called it, but that’s how the Gazette reported it. After three years, the government brought a proposed settlement before the judge with no criminal charges and no admission of wrong doing. She threw it back in their faces and said they’d been wasting her time and that of the people of the United States. A week later, a couple of government lawyers showed up at Wolfe’s door at one in the morning with 10,000 pages of transcripts and documents. Wolfe spent two months reading them and two weeks dictating a list of 250 questions for the SEC to ask. Once the SEC started asking those questions the banks put together a new settlement proposal, acknowledging what they called “serious errors in judgment and a pattern of culpable behavior,” and coughing up a billion each to prove they were sorry. Naturally, the award in the case was batted up to the Supreme Court and down again, twice, but when the dust finally cleared Wolfe’s share of the take was on the upside of $17 million. Wolfe threw a little party to celebrate, to which the SEC was not invited. Fritz hired three assistants and gave us a meal that he said duplicated the coronation dinner for Edward VII in 1901, which I appreciated, since I’d missed the first one.

At the dinner Wolfe told us that he’d be taking a leave of absence from the detecting business.

“I have profited from the excesses of Mammon, and now I must address the madness it has provoked. I may not prove more efficacious than Diogenes, but I shall be more industrious. And Montaigne shall be my barrel.”

It took me a week to unravel that one, but fortunately a professor I met at one of Lily Rowan’s parties explained it all to me. Diogenes was a philosopher living in ancient Athens, who it appears took an even dimmer view of society than Wolfe. But when Athens was threatened with invasion, Diogenes felt he had to do something, so he rolled around the streets in a barrel. As it turned out, Wolfe wanted to discourage what he called “feral recrudescence” by translating Montaigne into as many languages as he could. Serbian and Hungarian he could handle himself, and he wanted to hire someone to handle Arabic and Farsi.

“You would have been proud of me,” I told him, when he arrived at six on the dot, waiting until he had settled in the one chair that suits him and rung for beer.

“Indeed.”

“Yes. I informed Mark Zauberberg’s personal assistant that you would not be flying to San Francisco tomorrow morning to promote the cause of freedom of speech.”

Wolfe chuckled.

“If his billions cannot save him then no one can. Have you prepared my revisions?”

I handed him the pages and watched him open one of the half dozen dictionaries he had on his desk. I wanted to needle him, as I had in the old days, but there was nothing doing. In his own mind, he was working harder than he ever had, and who was I to disagree with him? I turned back to my computer—I could catch the second half of a double header between the Yanks and the Red Sox with my headphones until dinner.

Fritz started us off with celery consommé while Wolfe filled me in on the what he called the radical incongruities of spoken and written Hungarian. I tried to change the subject to Zauberberg, and the congressional hearing he was facing in two weeks, but Wolfe refused to be goaded. When Fritz brought in the shad roe with cream sauce and roasted vegetables, he slowed down a little until he had finished his third helping, but then he started in again and didn’t slow down much at all through the broiled grapefruit halves basted with wild thyme honey and cognac that Fritz gave us for dessert.

When we finished our grapefruit we adjourned to the office for some brandy and coffee, Wolfe still lecturing me on Hungarian lingo—the more he talked the further back in time he went—when the doorbell rang. I got erect and walked down the hall. I squinted through the peephole and walked back to the office.

“It’s him,” I said. “Shall I let him in?”

“Confound it,” he said. “Yes. A man without curiosity is no longer alive. I desire to look on his billions.”

The way Zauberberg bounded inside when I opened the door, if I hadn’t known he was in his early thirties, I would have guessed seventeen. He seemed that much of a kid. Fortunately for me, Joan was along for a ride as well, looking tall and fresh and outdoorsy and making me wish I had been working on my tan.

“I thought you were in San Francisco,” I said.

“I was,” she said.

Zauberberg made a bee-line for the big red chair in front of Wolfe’s desk like an Irish setter heading for a beefsteak, although naturally he went first to Wolfe’s desk to shake Wolfe’s hand.

“Nero Wolfe! You’re not easy to get a hold of!”

“You certainly have had no difficulty,” snapped Wolfe. “Please have a seat. I prefer eyes at a level. And your assistant as well, although I see Mr. Goodwin is attending to her.”

It was a cheap shot, of course, but I had to take it. I positioned one of the yellow chairs for Joan, so I could keep an eye on all three of them at once.

“Thank you,” Wolfe said, once Zauberberg had taken his seat. “Mr. Zauberberg, I bow before your wealth, but I warn you in advance that I am not available for hire, under any circumstances.”

I could gauge just how much Zauberberg wanted Wolfe’s services that he let Wolfe get the first word, sitting there in the big red chair and gripping the armrests like a little kid trying to wait for Christmas.

“But it’s crazy!” he exploded at last. “Congress! They make IBM look good! Those questions would have been dumb five years ago!”

“I am sure,” said Wolfe. “I pity anyone who must face a congressional committee. A pack of ululating jackals would display more courtesy, and more intelligence.”

“Yeah, well, jackals don’t really hunt in packs,” Zauberberg said. “I mean, opportunistic predation is an optimal strategy in a lot of cases.”

“If you view the world in Darwinist terms, then perhaps you should neither be surprised nor offended when these creatures seek to feed on you.”

“Okay, fine, I have a problem. And you make problems go away.”

“Indeed, I do not. I deal exclusively with those problems that do not go away. And, as I believe you have already been informed, my services are unavailable for at least one year.”

“Yeah. About that.”

As he spoke, Joan opened the leather briefcase she had with her and took out a sheaf of paper, which she passed to Zauberberg.

“Montaigne’s last two essays,” he said, handing them to Wolfe, “in damned good Hungarian.”

“I shall be the judge of that, of course,” said Wolfe.

Wolfe held open the old, leather-bound volume of Montaigne that he consulted and I watched his eyes jump back and forth between the French and the pages Zauberberg had given him.

“This is passable,” he allowed, “even competent. But it lacks élan.”

“Which you can supply,” said Joan, speaking for the first time.

“Ah, you are in charge of manners, I see. And your name, Miss?”

“Harris. Joan Harris.”

“Very good. And now, Mr. Zauberberg, explain your gift. There is no translation program that works at this level.”

Zauberberg was starting to get excited.

“Those assholes!” he exclaimed. ”Ogle is so full of shit. I mean, it’s Bayes meets Chomsky and you’re home. Well, pretty much. And you need a 250 K array.”

“Mr. Zauberberg is referring to an array of 250,000 linked high-speed parallel processors,” Joan explained, something I gather she did a lot. “We’ve been developing that array to replace our current system.”

“And we need to break it in,” Zauberberg interrupted. “I chose Hungarian because it’s tough, but we can do anything. We’ve got the data.”

“Really?” said Wolfe, raising his eyebrows. “How about Arabic and Farsi?”

“Sure. I mean, Arabic’s easier, except you have all those dialects. But sure. Sure. You help me, I help you. And this could be ongoing. We’ll always have downtime. Make a list. The sky’s the limit.”

Wolfe’s eyebrows stayed up. He was ready to bring Montaigne to the whole planet.

“So you say. Until you have a crisis, which you undoubtedly will. With all your billions, your soul is not your own, but rather your shareholders.”

“I believe,” said Joan, with surprising authority, “that when you are in full understanding of the matter, you will see that Mr. Zauberberg will have every reason to maintain his end of the bargain for the foreseeable future.”

Wolfe allowed himself a slight smile.

“Then are you going to apprise me of them without insisting on my prior commitment?” he asked.

“We rely on your discretion, of course,” said Joan, which amazed me. Zauberberg not only trusted her to do the talking, he could actually make himself shut up. So he must have really wanted it.

“I suppose with this bait I could offer it,” Wolfe said. “I try to value other’s privacy as I value my own. Whether you, Mr. Zauberberg are similarly generous I can reserve my opinion. But please give me no reason to regret my generosity.”

“Yeah, well,” Zauberberg began, “this isn’t really that big a deal,” though the way he said it didn’t convince me.

He hesitated again, and looked at Joan, but she kept a straight face, so he had to begin all on his own.

“Again, as I say, it’s not a big deal, but it’s the sort of thing that people would make into a big deal. Well, I’m married now, but I wasn’t, ten years ago, so I was in San Francisco. Well, I met this chick who did porno. I guess, anyway, well, I guess people are going to say that was wrong.”

“This is not confession, Mr. Zauberberg. Unless this youthful interlude can have real world consequences I desire to hear nothing more, and regret the little I have.”

“There’s no video,” said Zauberberg, “well, not of me. Just some photographs. You know, we were on a boat. People like to take pictures on a boat. It’s an interesting thing. People get out on the water and they lose all sense ….”

He pulled himself in.

“Anyway, what’s important is the Russian connection. See, that’s the big deal with Congress, the whole Russian thing, and that’s got the Democrats breathing down my neck. And the thing is, I’ve never had any dealing with the Russians, ever! I mean, there was that thing five years ago, some Canadian outfit was fronting for them, and there was real money involved, I admit that, but as soon as the link was publicized, nothing! It vanished like that!”

He snapped his fingers.

“And after that, nothing again. And I’ve always had great relations with the Democrats. But now, you know, they need a target, and they think I’m it. And now she’s, she’s resurfaced.”

“You never heard from her until now?”

“No.”

“And what does she want? I assume that mere money could be no object.”

“That’s the thing. I’m not sure what she wants. I’m not sure she’s sure what she wants. She says she wants what’s coming to her, but she goes back and forth. Sometimes it’s cash, sometimes she says she just wants to tell her story, that she doesn’t need me, that if she tells her story she’ll have all the cash she needs.”

“And what is her story? That you two had an affair ten years ago? Embarrassing, to be sure, but did you fly across the country to be here merely on this issue?”

“No. No. The thing is, like I said, the Russian connection. She had an affair, another affair, a longer affair, with this guy Dimitry Voroshilov, the one who set up most of the fake sites that ran on FacetoFace. So it’s going to look like, like I knew what was going on, that I was partying with the Russians, that I was taking money from them, like a lot of things.”

“And do you know him? Did you know him? Or anyone connected to him?”

“No! I’ve never met him! That’s solid!”

“What about this Canadian affair you alluded to. Some one was attempting to take control of FacetoFace?”

“Well, they were juicing the Van Winkles like nobody’s business. They never had a handle on that kind of cash. I mean, they were spending more than they were suing me for. So you explain that one. It was well coordinated, I’ll say that much. But there was no Dimitry involved. Really, it was very well hidden, in Cyprus, the Caymans, that sort of thing. And, of course, it just vanished overnight. Nothing, and nothing since.”

“Were there any Russians on this boat?”

“No! She—well, anyway, there is nothing, nothing that can connect me with this Dimitry guy. Except her. Well, the deal is, she wants to meet me. She wants to have it out, that’s what she keeps saying. What does that even mean?”

“Indeed. Perhaps she intends to assess your vulnerability.”

“Well, I’m plenty vulnerable. I can write a check bigger than she could cash, but she’s so vague. I’ve talked to her twice, and she just goes back and forth, like she says she could go on all the talk shows and then have her own talk show. She seems to like that idea.”

“Indeed.”

“But she says she has to see me. Which I think would be a terrible idea.”

“It is a terrible idea,” said Joan.

“No doubt,” said Wolfe. “So you wish me to intercede, to determine her price.”

“Determine it and pay it! I give you carte blanche.”

“The real thing is, Mr. Wolfe,” Joan interjected, “is to reach an agreement that will ensure she’ll stick to it.”

“That is the rub. She is in San Francisco?”

“No. New York. That was one reason why I wanted you to come to me.”

“A reasonable precaution. Mr. Zauberberg. Is there anything in particular I need to know about Miss, Miss …?

“She goes by the name of Sexy Caboose.”

“Of course she does. As if my digestion had not already endured sufficient distress. What is her real name?”

“That is her legal name, unfortunately,” said Joan.

“I see.”

“Her given name was Mary Hopkins.”

“That is helpful to know. Very well. It would be possible, no doubt, Mr. Goodwin will contact this woman and, if at all feasible, I shall determine her true motivation and contrive an arrangement to gratify it on terms congruent with your interests.”

“Terrific!” exclaimed Zauberberg, leaping out of his chair as though the whole thing were settled.

Wolfe raised a hand.

“I say it would be possible, not that it will happen. Even if the issues and circumstances at hand were vastly different, Mr. Zauberberg, I would be reluctant to enter into a contractual relation with you. Many men sell their souls. You have contrived to sell those of others.”

“We’re not selling! We’re, we’re bringing people together!”

At this point he was half out of his chair, waving his arms.

“Indeed,” said Wolfe. “Please restrain yourself. You did not garner your billions through altruism. My point is, if you will allow me to make it, that in order for us to reach an agreement you must first convince me that you will honor that agreement with exceptional fidelity. I often do business with men of limited virtue, as long as I have assurance that the balance is largely in my favor.”

“We need this,” said Zauberberg earnestly, gesturing with his hand. “I can’t let this, this, this …”

He gave up, in mid speech and mid gesture, not daring to put a label on whatever “this” was, as if that would make it too real.

“Your apprehension of your plight is real enough,” grunted Wolfe.

“We can license the software,” said Zauberberg abruptly, almost shouting. “We can make a contract for the availability of the hardware. Isn’t that enough?”

“You do business quickly. We must allow lawyers into the matter, and I must warn you I cannot guarantee the future beyond a certain point.”

“A year, certainly,” said Joan. “That’s at a minimum. In any event, you’ll be paid by then.”

“True,” said Wolfe. “If I am skeptical of your bona fides, you should surely return the favor. Very well. Do we need this in writing?”

“No,” said Joan, immediately. “I mean, regarding what we have discussed here. The contractual arrangements will of course make no mention of any of this.”

“Of course. Mr. Goodwin will supply you with the name of my attorney and perhaps you shall do the same.”

Joan and I swapped lawyers’ business cards. Zauberberg looked like he missed his keyboard while Wolfe was clearly thinking of beer, and Archie was wondering if Joan liked to dance.

“I’ll have Mr. Parker give them a call,” I said, once I had entered the information into my computer. “He doesn’t object to late hours when there’s money on the table. I guess we want this done quickly?”

I might have been jumping the gun with Wolfe on this, but I hadn’t gotten any sign that he wanted to stall, and I was right. A machine that could speak Hungarian had hit his sweet spot.

“Lawyers enjoy late hours, or at least enjoy talking about them,” Wolfe said. “I believe Mr. Parker will find the task engaging.”

“Then it’s done?” exclaimed Zauberberg, jumping entirely out of his chair this time.

“Indeed it is, Mr. Zauberberg. Congratulate yourself on a coup.”

Joan rose as well, and took a folder from her briefcase.

“This is everything we have on our common problem,” she said, handing it to me. “You should be able to reach her, one way or another. We haven’t told her anything.”

I was expecting Zauberberg to make a try for shaking Wolfe’s hand, but he didn’t. In fact, he didn’t seem to be thinking about anything but getting off the East Coast and get back to the real world. I’ve never even been to Silicon Valley, but you could tell that these two belonged there.

I accompanied them to the door, of course. You never know what people might do when left alone. Even a multi-billionaire might want to take a souvenir, just because he was paying the bills. When I got back to the office. I expected to see Wolfe flipping through what Joan had left but instead he was writing something down on a pad.

“Montaigne alone will not suffice,” he said, looking up at me. “There is a price to be paid even for the possibility of sitting in the same room as a woman named Sexy Caboose.”

“You think it will come to that.”

“You shall handle this matter exclusively if at all possible, but so often the worst eventuality is the most likely. I shall be prepared.”

“This may be a first for me, but do you really want to be working for this guy?”

“You mean why should I choose between Mr. Zauberberg and the jackals who pursue him? I confess I cannot establish a precedency between the blind greed of billionaires and the blind opportunism of politicians. But to give the world Montaigne is no small matter. And there will be additions.”

“Of course.”

“The Federalist Papers, certainly. The Wealth of Nations. Orwell’s essays. Often, the prettiest of truths are the most provincial. Furet’s Passing of an Illusion. And Camus, of course. The Rebel, certainly. And the essays. That shall do for a beginning. Inform Mr. Parker that I want the contract for this matter to be stringent and heavily in my favor.”

“You expect Zauberberg to be generous.”

“If I tame Miss Caboose he shall have every reason to be. You will contact her in the morning.”

I got on the phone to Nate who, though he sounded a little sleepy, perked up considerably when he learned the identity of Wolfe’s new client. While I was talking Wolfe went back to his dictionaries. However, when I hung up he caught my eye.

“Your skepticism provokes me, Archie,” he said. “Your thoughts on Mr. Zauberberg.”

“He is cute. But you don’t get that rich that fast by being cute.”

“Indeed. Gibbon remarked that it was two metals, iron and gold, that chiefly allow men to increase their desires beyond their mere bodily wants. To these two our age has added the silicon wafer. These young men see the entire world as their oyster and would swallow it whole.”

I was about to speak when the telephone rang. I answered it.

“Hello Mr. Goodwin,” a voice said, before I could speak.

I looked at Wolfe.

“To whom am I speaking?” I asked.

“Well, you know very well, don’t you, Mr. Goodwin? Can I call you Archie?”

“No.”

I cupped the phone.

“It’s her.”

“Confound it. This shall cost Mr. Zauberberg the Decline and Fall, in toto.”

“Archie, are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Archie, I know you’ve been talking with a friend of mine. I know all sorts of things. Would you like to hear about some of them? Say at twelve o’clock?”

“She’ll be here in two hours,” I told Wolfe.

He gave a wave of his hand, as futile a gesture as I’ve ever seen him make. Then he rang for beer.

“Confound it!” he said again.

When Fritz arrived Wolfe opened the bottle with the gold-plated opener and poured the beer until there was a quarter-inch of foam at the top of the glass. He drank from the glass and licked the foam from his upper lip. Then he looked at me.

‘We shall address this woman as Miss Hopkins,” he said, glaring hard enough so that I knew he meant it.

“Of course.”

Then he picked up, not the dossier that Joan had given me but the translation of Montaigne that Zauberberg had brought. He read through it, making notes as he went, but not a lot, which surprised me. Since he wasn’t bothering to prepare for Sexy, I thought I should, so I took the dossier from his desk and started looking through it. FacetoFace had hired some outfit in San Francisco that I knew of only by reputation to run a background check on Miss Caboose, and for a porn star she was pretty sedate—only two busts for possession and a D and D she picked up two years ago when she got in a shouting match with some guy in the lobby of the St. Francis in San Francisco at three in the morning, which at least showed some class. Anyway, how do you blackmail a porn star? She had been working in Vegas in some sort of porn star review for the past year. A month ago she took a leave of absence, which is exactly when she started pestering Zauberberg, so it was obvious the two were connected.

There was also a thumb drive in the folder so I loaded it into the computer and had a look. There were dozens of photographs from the little boat trip, with Zauberberg looking like he was about twelve. As for “Miss Hopkins”, well, she was definitely a porn star, but, very fortunately for Zauberberg, she managed to keep her top on the whole time, at least when people were taking pictures. There were five men and five women on the boat, and Zauberberg’s people had identified them all, and run a background check on all of them as well, and even interviews. None of them seemed very happy about reliving that little party, but with Zauberberg leaning on them, they’d all talked.

Once Sexy had started putting the bite on Zauberberg, his people had hired Bill Henderson’s outfit to keep an eye on her in New York. Henderson has fifty people working for him, so it wasn’t likely that they’d lose track of her. Sexy was holed up in a small, expensive hotel on the Upper East Side and walked her poodle in Central Park when the weather was nice. She hadn’t met anyone or gone anywhere since she arrived from Vegas.

At quarter after eleven Wolfe looked up from his manuscript.

“What have you learned?” he asked.

“Zauberberg’s story seems pretty straight, unless they’re hiding something from us.”

“If they are they deserve their fate. Tell me what struck you as in the least bit piquant.”

I gave him all the piquancies I had on hand until the doorbell rang, at five to eleven.

“I guess she couldn’t wait,” I said to Wolfe.

He grunted in reply and picked up his manuscript for one last look at Montaigne while I walked down the hallway to open the door.

I checked Sexy out through the peephole, just to be sure she didn’t have any company, but she was clean.

“I can call you Archie, can’t I?” she asked as she stepped inside.

“Not around my boss, Miss Hopkins,” I said.

She laughed.

“I haven’t heard that in a while.”

I wouldn’t say that Sexy was subdued, but, again, for a porn star I wouldn’t call her flashy. Wolfe wasn’t going to like the look of her hair, which was ash-blonde and swept well over her eyes, but her skirt wasn’t—well, it wasn’t the shortest skirt I’d seen in that hallway—and she was wearing a mink jacket that was almost respectable. Glamourous, yes, but she didn’t look like she was selling it. On the other hand, if she’d unbuttoned the one button on that jacket she’d be giving it away, because she had a lot to hide upstairs, and the little black dress she was wearing wasn’t even trying. I was tempted to tell her to keep that jacket buttoned if she wanted Wolfe to like her, but I didn’t want to be giving her ideas in case she didn’t want Wolfe to like her, so I kept my mouth shut.

“Well, Nero Wolfe!” she laughed as we came in the office. “I guess you’re not too happy to see me.”

“Whether I am or not is irrelevant,” said Wolfe. “I have a job to do and to do it I must suffer your presence.”

“Suffer my presence. Well, well. Such a pretty room! I’d like to live here!”

She took the big red chair. Wolfe hadn’t brought up the subject of refreshments, so I wasn’t sure what to say, but he saved me the trouble.

“The hour is late, Miss Hopkins, by my standards if not yours. However, if you desire or require alcohol my assistant Mr. Goodwin will be glad to oblige.”

She laughed again, a good way to get on Wolfe’s nerves.

“Well, yes, I will have a little something—white wine. Just a small glass. Nothing sweet.”

I joined her, to be polite. Wolfe had finished his beer long before and wasn’t in the mood for anything more.

“Now, Miss Hopkins,” Wolfe began, after I’d poured the wine, “what precisely is your purpose, and indeed your price, in this matter?”

“I don’t believe I have a price, Mr. Wolfe,” she replied. “I think I need a career change, I guess that’s my purpose. I think I’d make a good talk show host, Mr. Wolfe. I like to talk, and I like to hear other people talk. It would be a lot of fun to be on one of those shows, you know, like Conan O’Brien. They don’t let women do those shows, have you noticed that? And they should! They definitely should!”

“No doubt. Miss Hopkins, when did you make the acquaintance of Dimitry Voroshilov?”

“Dear Dimitry! He was so sweet! Well, he was on the boat, of course.”

“He was not,” snapped Wolfe. “There is no evidence to connect him with that boat, and much to deny his presence. To tell palpable lies in this matter is dangerous, no matter how many secrets you believe you possess. I assume to you intend to charge Mr. Zauberberg with more than just sexual intercourse, which is indeed your stock in trade.”

I could tell Sexy had been snapped at before, probably by one of Zauberberg’s lawyers, because it didn’t slow her down much, though it did make her more cautious.

“Well, maybe he was, and maybe he wasn’t. Anyway, it was a long time ago.”

“Indeed. When did you make Mr. Voroshilov’s acquaintance?”

“Well, a long time ago.”

“Can you be more specific?”

Sexy, or, as I guess I should call her, Mary, seemed to be feeling Wolfe out. The direct lie hadn’t gotten her anywhere. She bit her lip and paused.

“Some Russian mafia guys,” she said suddenly. “You know, I was at a party.”

“With members of the Russian mafia? Did they identify themselves as such?”

“No. They had, you know, Russian accents. Like on TV. And this guy, he came up to me and said, ‘I know you! I know you!’”

She laughed.

“They talk like little kids, like they get really excited. ‘You big porno star! You big porno star!’ I had just made my big picture, Back Door Brides. I was the only girl in the picture, you know, and it was the top-grossing porno of the year. I won best actress. So, you know, that was like in 2007 or 2008. 2008, probably. I guess that’s right.”

She counted on her fingers to come up with the date. Wolfe just grunted, as though getting into a conversation about a film titled Back Door Brides didn’t appeal to him.

Sexy drank from her wine, and swirled it a little in her glass, as if thinking about the good old days.

“Anyway,” she said, “Dimitry really took a liking to me. He didn’t give me his name back then. He called himself Mr. Smith.”

She laughed again.

“I meet a lot of guys named Smith. Also Jones. I met this guy Mr. Jones once who took me on a nice boat.”

“Another Russian mobster?”

“Well, you don’t have to say mobster. He was pretty shy, really. Dimitry told me to be nice to him. Shy guys, you know, they’re the easiest! And sweet! I only saw him once, though. He had a nice boat. Big! But Dimitry was really connected. The way he talked, the way other people treated him, you could tell. And he was rich. I mean, super rich. He used to fly me to his yacht in a helicopter! And a nice helicopter—leather seats, soundproofing, everything. You didn’t have to wear a helmet. I hate that! You can imagine.”

She stroked her hair.

“A lot of men say I have the best hair in the biz. What do you think? Archie, I’ll bet you’re an expert.”

I could tell Wolfe wasn’t liking the way the conversation was going, so I tried to keep it complimentary but brief.

“Your hair is terrific.”

She beamed. Sexy was a pro, in more ways than one, but she took a compliment like a teenager.

“I bet you’ve never ridden on a helicopter at all, have you, Mr. Wolfe?”

“Indeed not. What was his yacht like? I mean Mr. Voroshilov’s.”

“Incredible. Incredible. Some guys, they say it’s their yacht, but you know it isn’t. This was Dimitry’s, the way that crew treated him. He’d say it, and they’d do it. Bang!”

“And when did you first tell him that you knew Mr. Zauberberg?”

“Well, that’s a good question,” said Sexy, stretching it out. “I guess, well, we were in bed and the TV was on, and there was this big shot of Mark’s head and I said ‘Hey, I used to fuck that guy.’ I guess it’s okay to say ‘fuck’, isn’t it?”

“It’s acceptable in reported conversations, but not as expletive or a verb. Or an adjective,” said Wolfe, crisply. He has pretty clear rules about what you can say in his presence, and in his office.

“Did Mr. Voroshilov express an interest in this statement?” he asked.

“Yeah. He said ‘you did!’ and I’m like ‘Fuck yeah, I did!’ That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“It’s acceptable. How did your conversation continue?”

“Well, I told him about the boat. See, I didn’t know who Mark was back then. He was just some guy I had fucked.”

She laughed.

“Sorry. Guess I screwed up. See, I can be good. Anyway, well, after that was the first time he took me to his yacht.”

“Do you recall what film you had completed around this time?”

“Well, Inglorious Butt-Fuckers. It was just two years after Back Door Brides, but wow. I didn’t even have my own dressing room. Things change so fast. That’s why I was so glad to have Dimitry. These guys will tell you how generous they are, but Dimitry was generous. I mean, the best of everything, caviar for breakfast. Good caviar too! The best! And then he disappeared too. Goodbye Mr. Smith, right? I thought I’d never hear from him again, until about six months ago. No helicopter this time, but one of those fancy little hotels. That’s when he told me his real name. He was so sweet. He said he wanted to hear me call him Dimitry.”

She laughed.

“And have you seen him since?”

“Well, no, because of all this publicity. I just talked to him on the phone. He told me how he was a wanted man in the U.S. now, because Mark was so afraid that everything would come out.”

“What was there to come out? You can offer no testimony that the two men were ever together. You surely do not intend to testify that they were. You are, I may say, Miss Hopkins, an engaging personality, but you lack the self possession of an effective liar. Your weapon is your innocence. You cannot keep a secret.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. I like to talk, which is why I would be good on a talk show. And now I will be, because I will be famous. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“It doesn’t occur to you that you might be in danger?”

That got a real laugh out of her.

“Danger! Nice try, Mr. Wolfe. Dimitry would never let anything happen to me. Is Mr. Zauberberg going to have me killed? How would that look?”

“I was not suggesting that Mr. Zauberberg would resort to violence, but the Russians are not so squeamish. Describe Mr. Voroshilov to me.”

“Bald. Really bald. He told me Putin doesn’t like guys with hair.” She laughed. “He says stuff like that. He’s cute. Kinda short, but, you know, not where it counts.”

She laughed again.

“You said there were pictures from your encounter with Mr. Zauberberg. You have these pictures?”

“Yes. I like to keep things. People at parties can get kind of confused. There were no drugs, you know. Mark was really a boy scout like that. They all were. Men can be so funny, you know.”

“I agree with you entirely. My sex has always struck me as surpassingly ludicrous, far more so than yours. But these photographs, no doubt in digital format, you passed copies on to Mr. Voroshilov?”

“Well, I’m afraid I did, Mr. Wolfe. They were mine anyway, and I wasn’t even naked, so there. Anyway, that’s how I got this jacket. Do you like it?”

“I admire it exceedingly. Mr. Voroshilov possesses a fine eye. Do you possess photographs of yourself with him?”

“You are nosy, aren’t you? No, I don’t, but Dimitry has them. He does.”

She added that last part for emphasis.

“No doubt,” said Wolfe. “Miss Hopkins, you will no doubt reject my conclusions as to this matter, but nonetheless I offer them to you in good faith. You are in danger. Mr. Voroshilov has no interest in furthering your career. I suggest that there is a real possibility that he could have you killed, as a way of creating a scandal that would both blacken Mr. Zauberberg’s name and this colossus he has created, further damaging as well the state of political discourse in this country.”

Sexy just laughed at this one.

“Now, Mr. Wolfe, I’m afraid you’ve been watching too much TV. Anyway, I bet Mark just paid you to say that. I bet he did.”

“Very well. I will not waste my time, and yours, on this matter. The hour was late when you arrived, and now the morning approaches. Mr. Goodwin will show you the way out.”

As I rose, Sexy took my arm, as I knew she would, to get a rise out of Wolfe. It was the first time I’d touched a porn star, and I hope it’ll be the last, but it was also rather fun.

“You’re cute, Archie,” she said, as I walked her down the hall. “When I’m rich, you can come work for me. I can fix you up with a lot of girls.”

“I’m already fixed up.”

“You’ll see, Archie. You’ll see.”

There was a car and driver waiting for her, so Dimitry was really taking care of her. Around the corner I could see a sedan that didn’t belong there, so it looked like Henderson’s people had it covered.

“Henderson had a car out,” I told Wolfe when I came back to the office.

“Excellent. Call them and tell them to double their watch. Mr. Zauberberg will bear the expense. And then provide me with a chronology of Miss Hopkins’ films.”

I called Henderson’s office, which was naturally closed, so I had to get the emergency number and ended up waking Bill himself. While all this was going on I did a search for Sexy’s career and printed it out and handed to Wolfe. When I got everything straight with Henderson, convincing him that Wolfe was on the level, I ended the call and turned around to ask Wolfe why he was so sure Dimitry was out for blood, but the lips were already moving in and out, in and out. I just sat there for a good ten minutes. When he was done Wolfe closed his eyes and then opened them again.

“It’s late, Archie,” he said. “You should go to bed.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Why he was so sure he had this one, and why he had to cut me out of it completely, well, that was just Wolfe being Wolfe. I left the office and closed the door and went half way up the stairs and then came back down and crept down the hallway. I wasn’t listening at the door. I was just standing near it.

For about five minutes I got nothing for my pains, and then I heard Wolfe talking on the phone, not in English. When Wolfe dials a number on his own, it’s something. It’s my guess that he didn’t want me to know that number. There was a long silence, and then I heard him speaking again, this time in what was probably another language, and probably Russian. That went on for almost twenty minutes, Wolfe being pretty harsh sometimes, but also sometimes listening. Then I heard his chair creak, and I headed up the stairs. When he leaves the office he almost always fusses over something before turning off the lights, and by the time I heard his elevator I was already in my room.

I like to get my eight hours, but since it was already past two in the morning, I set the alarm for nine. I came down to the kitchen around nine-thirty, still a little sore from whatever game Wolfe was playing. Fritz greeted me with a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Drinking it made me realize that I could forget about Wolfe’s little game, whatever it was, for an hour or so and just eat the best breakfast in New York.

Fritz waited until I finished my juice before asking questions.

“Why are you so late, Archie?”

“It’s a long story, and I don’t know the end of it,” I told him. “We have a case, so that Mr. Wolfe can translate Montaigne into Persian.”

“Really? Would you like your omelet with speck or prosciutto?”

“Speck.”

Speck is a smoked prosciutto ham, which Fritz gets from a little town in the Italian Alps that he used to visit when he was a boy. It’s drier than fresh prosciutto but with more flavor. Fritz makes his omelets with speck and fresh-grated parmesan, and cooks them golden brown on the outside, and creamy and melting on the inside, accompanied by home fries and roasted tomatoes with bread crumbs, seasoned with fresh garlic, tarragon and chives. “A man who treats good food with less than the respect it deserves is less than a man,” Wolfe once told me when he thought I was eating too fast, and Fritz’s omelets deserve all the respect I can give them.

When I was finished, I took my coffee out into the office and switched on my computer. The Gazette’s home page popped up on the big 30-inch monitor I use. There was a lot of talk about Zauberberg’s impending testimony, but nothing hot. I had a half a mind to call Lon Cohen to ask him if he’d heard anything, but Russia wasn’t exactly Lon’s beat, and if I gave Lon any hint at all that Wolfe was working for Zauberberg I didn’t think I could quite trust him to keep it to himself.

I was about to head out to the kitchen to get another cup of coffee when I heard Wolfe’s elevator. It was almost eleven-thirty, so he’d been sleeping in too.

“Good morning, Archie,” he said, as he always does. “Did you sleep well?”

“Fine,” I said, wanting to ride him about last night, but not wanting to let him know that I’d been listening to his phone conversations. “Any orders?”

“No,” he said, removing the spray of Anacamptis lacteal from the day before and replacing it with a single Cypripedium reginae.

I waited to speak until he got himself settled in the one chair in the world that fits him and rang for beer. He knew I wanted answers and for once wasn’t going to be coy.

“Yes, Archie?”

I was about to say something—exactly what I’ve forgotten—when the “Breaking News” legend broke across the screen. “Top Russian Security Chiefs Killed in Accident”. Two pictures appeared, labeled Dimitry Voroshilov and Yury Sobchak. I stared for a moment as the crawl identified them as the chief and deputy chief of the Russian Federal Security Service, the successor to Putin’s old outfit, the KGB. I stared for a moment and then swung the monitor around so that he could see it.

“Do you know anything about this?” I demanded.

For once I saw him surprised.

“Good lord,” he said. “I thought to start a hare and instead dislodged an avalanche. This is extraordinary. Extraordinary.”

I was staring at the screen and noticed something.

“They’ve got the pictures wrong,” I said. “Dimitry’s the bald one.”

“No,” he said, “it was poor Miss Hopkins who was diddled. She was a pawn and is fortunate indeed that the fate Mr. Sobchak intended for her has been visited on him.”

“What? Sobchak was setting up his boss?”

“Precisely. During that SEC investigation that proved so profitable it was surmised but never publicly discussed that people linked with Sobchak were behind the mysterious bid for control of FacetoFace that Mr. Zauberberg alluded to, and that Voroshilov was the moving force behind its cancellation, though clearly Mr. Zauberberg had not himself learned of the matter. Mr. Putin has a history with both Voroshilov and Sobchak and seems to have placed them together as sort of a balancing act, favoring first the one and then the other. Mr. Sobchak apparently felt the humiliation dealt him by his superior keenly and contrived this extravagant stunt.”

Fritz arrived with Wolfe’s beer. I waited as he poured the glass and drank.

“Voroshilov was the hapless Mr. Jones. I have no doubt that Mr. Sobchak arranged for their tryst to be photographed. His original plan, I believe, was to lure Mr. Zauberberg into a meeting with Mlss Hopkins, after which she would die under mysterious circumstances. The photographs would surface. Mr. Zauberberg would be implicated, his creation defiled, and our entire political process brought into question.”

“Yeah, but suppose Zauberberg didn’t bite? Suppose he played it the way he played it.”

“Then Miss Hopkins would have been unleashed on the world. You can imagine what a stir she could generate. Both Zauberberg and Voroshilov would be exposed as fools and possible confederates. I suppose Sobchak imagined that his superior would be eased into retirement while he assumed command. I presume Mr. Zauberberg will be pleased with this outcome.”

“Which you didn’t expect.”

Wolfe raised his shoulders slightly and then lowered them.

“No, Archie, I did not. I informed certain people of Mr. Sobchak’s duplicity, with the intention of alerting Mr. Voroshilov to his subordinate’s intentions. I certainly did not intend for this information to reach Mr. Putin, but he obviously has resources that surpassed my expectations. Apparently, the machinations of both Voroshilov and Sobchak had exhausted his patience, and he resolved to make a clean sweep of the matter. Returning to Miss Hopkins, I believe these developments will make her more amenable to a private resolution of this affair. Most important of all, I am now free to concentrate on Montaigne.”

The look on his face when he had first seen the news about Dimitry and Yury was almost enough to convince me that he was on the level, that he hadn’t somehow planned the whole thing from the beginning, but I couldn’t let it go.

“So you had no idea it would go down like this?”

“Of course not, Archie. As Montaigne would have it ‘Que sçais-je?’ What do I know?”

[thestraggletag]

Sleeping Arrangements, a Rumbelle Fic

Rating: PG

Summary: Royce Gold finds himself suffering from sleep-deprivation following the departure of his son to college. Finding that his fear of abandonment is keeping him from a restful night of sleep he seeks out a fellow insomniac to share a bed with. Nothing romantic or complicated, merely a mutually-beneficial arrangement.

Strictly platonic, or so he tells himself. Over and over.

Based on this prompt because none of you meanies wrote it for me.

After Zelena Greene he'd given up on the whole idea, or so he'd thought. Insomnia might be deeply unpleasant, but it didn't come close to crazy redheads with abandonment issues and elbows like arrowheads. He had considered briefly going back to Hopper's office and making a weekly appointment, like the good doctor had suggested. Though timid he was competent enough... he'd certainly hit the nail on the head when it came to diagnosing the origin of his sleeplessness. Even though he prided himself on being observant it had completely escaped him that his restless nights had started roughly around the time Neal had gone off to college. And he certainly hadn't realised that he'd never lived alone. He'd gone from his papa's unloving arms to the warm home of his ants and from there to a dingy one-bedroom flat with Milah and later a spacious, sprawling Queen Anne, which he'd shared with his son when Milah up and left them. Left them like his father had, or his mother before him. Left him like Cora did afterwards, after a brief affair that did everything to advance her own agenda and little to make him feel wanted and loved.

So it was natural, Hopper said, to feel Neal's absence as his son abandoning him, even though on a rational, conscious level he knew it not to be true. And though at first Royce had refuted the idea- how dare Hopper blame his son- after a while he recalled suffering from insomnia as a child, right after his father had dumped him on his aunts's modest house in the middle of the night, while he'd still been asleep. The notion that it would happen again, that he'd close his eyes and be left alone again, terrified him. He'd been convinced that if he slept his aunts would be gone when he woke up so he didn't. Eventually they'd realised and to reassure him they took turns sleeping with him on his bed till he'd left the fear of abandonment behind. Or so he'd thought.

Hopper had been ecstatic after such a break through and, at first, so had Gold. Until the psychiatrist mentioned weekly appointments, a "long and arduous journey" and some nonsense about confronting his demons. Royce had no intention of opening the Pandora Box he'd carefully constructed inside his mind, not by a long shot. Reviving his childhood trauma appealed to him as much as taking a bath in acid. He'd attempted to have Hopper prescribe sleeping pills instead. Anything over the counter was a waste of time, as he'd found out the hard way, but surely hard drugs would do the trick. The good doctor, however, would not comply. Not even after a thin-veiled threat to raise his rent had made him cough up the necessary prescription.

With no other recourse he'd done some research on the Internet. After wading through a mountain of unhelpful-and in some instances incredibly unpleasant- information he'd found a forum for people suffering from insomnia because, like himself, they weren't used to sleeping alone. There he'd found a thread about an app called Bedbuds- he cringed at the rather unpleasant play on words- which worked as a dating app but instead of romantic partners it paired up sleeping partners, as in, people who wanted to literally sleep together. It seemed to be very popular with people with anxiety, people who'd moved far away from home, introverts and the like and to many people with insomnia, apparently, it worked like a charm. Reluctantly he set up a profile for himself, answering questions as innocuous as his height and weight and some others much more intrusive. In the end there had been very few people the app had found living near his area and, after much debate, he'd finally decided to take the plunge and match himself with "Greenie", a woman in her thirties living in a nearby town forty-five minutes away.

It had been an unmitigated disaster. Zelena Green was a nightmare. Chatty and brash, with a strident, nails-on-chalkboard laugh and no respect for personal space. She wore make-up to sleep, even though she made a show of pretending to wash it off in the bathroom every night, an array of dominatrix-style nighties in horrible shades of green and had elbows that could cut glass. She was all hard planes and painful angles, unpleasant to cuddle with or even lay next to- she drenched herself in perfume too, the kind that made his nose itch- and after a week he called it quits. Zelena didn't take it well, at all, and so he'd changed his phone number and had carefully threatened her to leave him alone. He'd sent Dove to do that. The man looked like the worst kind of thug, the sort that lugged dead bodies in the dead of the night without batting an eye. In reality he was depressingly soft-hearted and sensible, utterly incapable of hurting a fly. Thankfully no one would know by looking at him.

After that unpleasant experience he'd dismissed the idea altogether and had gone to a psychiatrist in Boston more than willing to prescribe him something for his problem. And though he slept, he didn't rest. He felt sluggish in the mornings, irritable and dazed. The medication gave left him nauseous most of the morning, reducing his breakfast to a simple cup of tea and some dry toast. He lasted a month like that before he flushed the pills down the drain. At Dove's behest he tried homeopathic medicine but, though a much more pleasant medicine, it had little to no effect.

It was when he found himself considering going back to Hopper's office and passive-aggressively taking his suggestion that he remembered Bedbuds. Though Zelena had been an unmitigated disaster Royce acknowledged that the idea itself appealed to him the most out of everything he'd tried. He'd hated most of what came with being married to Milah but it had been wonderful to cuddle up to her at night, to lose himself in the embrace of another. Besides there was little he wouldn't do to keep himself from sitting in front of the ever-jumpy Hopper and spilling his guts about his uncaring parents and his failed love-life.

There was a new profile in his area. Someone in Storybrooke in fact. A young woman in her early thirties, a bit shorter than him who preferred the opposite side of the bed, loved to read and watch period dramas and like soft, plush beds. A spinster in the making, it sounded, but it didn't much matter. Not willing to waste time or talk himself out of it he arranged for a public meeting at the local park, taking the precaution to ask Dove to linger nearby in case there was any need. Dove loved feeding the ducks anyway.

He'd expected a mousy brunette with a skirt past her knees and a demure cardigan. Belle French was indeed a brunette, though her hair was glossy and had a red tint to it when the light hit it at just the right angle, and when he met her she was indeed wearing a skirt and a cardigan. But the skirt, a lovely tweet flare number very expensive-looking, was just shy of indecent and the open tweed blazer she'd paired it up with was offset by a sheer floral blouse, making her look both prim and risque. And she was lovely, from an entirely objective point of view. Her body had pleasing, gentle curves, and her features were delicate, almost elfin. None of it mattered, though he imagined it was better that he not find his potential bed mate too scary to look at.

Remembering his past experience with Zelena he gave short, perfunctory answers to Miss French's questions and made it clear that all he was interested at the moment was a one-time trial run. Thankfully she seemed to consider it a great idea and so they made arrangements for Thursday night. He let Dove know, just in case, and made sure to have the linens changed and a fresh set of pyjamas ready. Miss French was refreshingly punctual and indulged in a bit of small talk and a glass of wine before suggesting they retire for the night. He gave her free use of a guest bathroom and was pleased to notice when she met him in his room that she had scrubbed her face free of make-up- though with a complexion like hers no woman would mind going bare-faced- and had donned an old college t-shirt- Columbia, he was dully impressed- and some comfortable shorts.

It was stiff at first, sharing a bed with her, a virtual stranger. Zelena had all but pounced on him the moment she delved under the sheets but Miss French kept to her side of the bed, looking at him in an open, welcoming way. As if she'd sensed his misgivings and his naturally prickly exterior and was waiting him out, allowing him to set the pace. He thought at first to simply stay on his side but he didn't particularly feel the reassurance he was supposed to be feeling. In the end he scooted closer to the middle and slowly, so slowly, he snaked an arm around her waist. Miss French- Belle- smiled and turned around, scooting back till her back was pressing against his front. And it was... wonderful. She was soft in all the right places, sweet-smelling and warm, so warm. His arm tightened around her, his legs seeking to tangle with hers, to bask in the abundance of human contact. She was lose and pliant in his arms, no hint of tension or revulsion, not an ounce of rejection to be felt. She wiggled slightly and when she was finally fitted perfectly in his arms made a low, humming sound of satisfaction that he echoed, moving his head to be able to bury his nose in her hair. Gradually he found himself matching his breathing to hers, feeling his entire body slowly relax as his mind cleared and his eyes closed of their own accord.

He woke up to the sound of Love of my Life coming from Belle's cellphone. Unwillingly he cracked his eyes open, taking stock of his limbs. Sometime during the night they'd shifted positions, with Belle moving to lie on her back, her body curved slightly towards Royce. His head was resting gently on her chest, one hand flung over her waist to keep her there. Both her arms were cradling him close, the perfect sort of morning cuddle to start the day. Belle was as good a pillow as she was a teddy bear and, since she made no motion to push him away, he allowed himself to linger a few minutes on top of her, enjoying the way she absent-minded combed the ends of his long hair.

With great reluctance he disentangled himself from her, his loose limbs barely cooperating as he made his way to the bathroom. His overworked body was demanding more sleep, nowhere near caught up, but he had a busy day ahead of him and so did Belle, he imagined. By the time he was fully dressed so was she, donning jogging pants and an old Ziggy Stardust t-shirt. A woman wearing yesterday's clothes and walking home early in the morning was bound to make people suspicious, but a woman on her way home from a morning run in the woods was perfectly respectable.

"This was lovely, Mr Gold. Best sleep I've had in months."

He envied her casual, easy attitude. Even though they'd spent a lovely night together in bed he found himself awkward and shy outside it.

"Yes, indeed. Have a good day, Miss French."

He smile dimmed a bit, her eyes loosing a bit of their lovely shine, but she said her good-byes politely and stepped out into the backyard, peaking from the fence door to make sure no one was about. He stayed inside the house, struggling to make himself talk, to take action.

"And perhaps we can do this again on Sunday?"

She turned around, her lips curling into a relieved, radiant smile.

"I'd like that very much. See you Sunday, Mr Gold."

She darted out, trotting in the direction of the forest trail before he could tell her to call him Royce.